Chapter One
The Haunting Weir
Anticipation is always thick, like the flavor of dark wine. It stays on your tongue, in your breath until you cannot swallow without tasting all that is infused into its meaning. The weight of anticipation is always directly proportionate to the amount of time invested in the thing being anticipated and Art Storygrove had devoted six intense years to this very moment. The weight was almost palatable.
Waiting outside the great old doors of the observation hall, he knew this would be the test of every moment of those six years of training. Not many were even able to apply to become a Weirimen but Art had been taken in by a great one. As one of the few acts of kindness he could remember in his short, bleak life, it had been a very profound victory when he started to show a talent for the rare occupation his guardian was so apt at performing. Knowledge of the dark trade had always been a part of his life.
Most would not even want to venture into such a profession as dangerous and unpredictable as it was. Needing to be something of a warrior, exorcist, and demonologist, but also born with rare gifts and the ability to rescue one’s self from the darkest, most pervasive forces of evil was a mix seemingly against all odds. Yet, there Art stood, before the doors of the observation hall of the Seminary of Weirimen, where his last and final test would take place, and he would finally be declared one of their ranks.
The single most important thing a Weiriman had to understand was a Haunting Weir. Everyone and everything thing had one. This inner barrier, inside the soul, kept true evil out of a natural pure life force. It was the primary task of a Weiriman to exorcise evil from within someone should that wall be breeched and then close the Weir. In natural succession with this responsibility, a Weiriman had to control their own Weir. The final exam would test the strength of this very ability. Of the things he had learned, all the trials he had faced and evil he had been exposed through classes and in the training field, the opening of his own Weir was the most basic of abilities. Allowing evil inside to do both physical and spiritual combat with was a foundational ability in a Weiriman’s arsenal, but it was also the most dangerous.
If Art could not cleanse his own soul of whatever demonic force invaded him, he would become fully possessed. The evil would burrow inside him, seek to devour, torment, and ultimately annihilate him, claiming his soul and adding to its own power. That was not the worst of it, however. Though the danger was real, a powerful demon could do him permanent damage should he be unable to turn it back and close his Weir, though the likelihood of that occurring was minimal. His instructors and professor would be present would intervene should it appear Art was losing the battle. The real tragic conclusion of failure would mean Art would never be a Weiriman. The final was a once in a lifetime trial. Fail this test and the trainee would be turned away from the guild, unlicensed and forbidden to practice. Everything would be lost, and Art knew nothing else to do with his life; there was nothing he wanted more than to be a Weiriman.
The doors were opening and his breath caught sharply. Lifting his head, Art tried to pull his shoulders back, feeling stronger and more confident. He had worked hard to build a strong frame, though he felt little more than average in height and weight. His weapon of choice did not require the great bulk of muscle some of his fellow students had acquired by swinging a great axe or long broadsword. His muscle tone was, however, still good. He felt confident that if he could exorcise the demon from inside him and it took to a physical form as it always did, he would be ready to face it.
Tracing the cold metal of the long knives fastened to each hip and at his waist, the sheathed lethal presence brought him a measure of comfort as his name was called. The leather of his tall boots whispered a slight creak as the click of his heels echoed in the dark chamber. It was not an unfamiliar room, but it seemed entirely alien with only low candlelight casting a yellow haze onto the panel of professors who would act as his judge, jury, and possibly, professional executioners.
“Art Storygrove,” an elegant woman with silver-white hair and eyes so blue they almost glowed in the dim lighting announced his name tonelessly. “You stand before the Guild now to face your final trial. Should you succeed, you will become one of the few to bear the title Weiriman. You know your fate should you fail.”
Art tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Having worked with Professor Cindervail often, he knew the coldness of her words perfectly conveyed the severity of the situation. He steadied himself.
The doors of the observation Hall closed behind him with a great bang of their heaviness. There would be no spectators but the judgment panel, Art had no one who would come to such an event; no family, no friends. The only person that had ever cared for Art had passed away recently. The life of a Weiriman was dangerous and though Art could not get the details of how she had passed and on what assignment, as the Guild was very secretive, he knew his guardian, Evendale, had perished doing what he was hoping to one day die doing as well. He would accomplish this for her. He would make her proud, pay back her kindness to him, and he would become a great Weiriman.
Confidence renewed, Art squared himself. Running a hand through his long dark blond bangs, he announced, “I am ready, Grandmaster.”
There was nothing but silent acknowledgment as the judges seemed to sink even further into their huge, tall-backed chairs, with the light in the room dimming to almost nothing. Eyes straining, Art widened them and drew a deep, controlled breath. Many did not understand the Haunting Weir. How could there exist a barrier inside one’s mind, deep within their soul that could keep evil out? And if something like that existed, how could it be controlled?
Classes had taught Art all about the doors in and out of the mind. Those born with the ability to work the mysteries of a psychic mind were able to do things others could not. Some could perform acts of telepathy, telekinesis, mind reading and other skills not so easily categorized. Art had many of these, and he knew he would likely need all of them in this final test. The cleansing of one’s own Weir was a far more dangerous and difficult trial than exorcising another’s. Having the evil within meant it was far closer, far stronger and could easily trick, mislead and confuse a Weiriman. But working with evil all the time and running the risk of being possessed themselves, Weirimen had to have the skills to both protect and heal themselves. This was necessary.
The Haunting Weir was not physical, though a part of the mind did control it. A Weir existed in the space between the soul and the body. But Art knew this place and his training had brought him there many times: the mind’s eye. He could feel it now, and he closed his eyes as he entered his own inner mind. He had often wondered what each person’s psychic space looked like. He imagined they would all be different based on the person.
Art’s psychic space always started out with an old archway, stone aged and slightly crumbling. Around it hung the richest red velvet curtains like something seen at the grand theaters. Beyond the arch it was even stranger, like an old chapel, carved out by time. Huge half walls rising into the black of his mind, draped in crawling ivy and other thick foliage. The lighting was always dim and misty, as if eons had passed with no breeze, no rain, only a haunting cloud of shadow. It made him shiver. Why did his own mind look like this? Should he have a dilapidated half castle, like an abandoned temple of a time long past lurking inside him?
The place never made him feel welcome. It was always eerie, as if eyes were on him, as if his whole mind had gathered to observe his entrance. Art tried to put that aside for now, knowing he had a task to accomplish. While some novices were skilled with their mind’s eye, Art tried to avoid it. The lack of connection he felt to the creepy place kept him from both practicing there as well as and sharing his discomfort with his instructors. He worried it would hold him back from becoming a Weiriman but, he was sure he was not the first person not to like their own inner mind.
Walking through the archway, he was now in the broken temple. A strange river ran through it, flowing through t
he floor’s tiles as if the world had just cracked and the water bubbled up to run through it. His eyes followed the water, but it disappeared into the black edges of the space, reminding him once again he was not in a real place but inside his own mind; even though it felt like he was standing there and everything was real. Not wanting to dally, he ignored most of the details of the place he had explored during exercises, going straight to the door at the back of the broken chapel.
It looked like a door. Wide, old, metal tooled at its edges and reaching across its whole plane to make designs Art did not recognize. But he knew this was not a door. This was his Haunting Weir. This kept his mind safe from everything evil that wanted to get in to make a home inside his mind, eventually consuming his soul. Moving the Weir aside would invite something in. Art squared his jaw, amber rimmed green eyes on the center where he was taught to place both hands and push with all his force. This would jar the thing and if the right strength of mind was applied, the Weir would move aside as if it were floating. Should he grow skilled enough, one day he would be able to could command the movement of this Weir with his thoughts alone.
Art did as he was taught, placing both hands on the wood he started to push. Even through the leather gloves he wore, he could feel the strange texture of the door as if the wood was ancient, tired and battered. Frowning, but trying to push back the horrible feeling coiling up inside his stomach, he felt the Weir suddenly give way and its heavy weight changed, lifting free and moving away. Art leaned back, lifted off the thing as it floated into a gathering darkness behind it. He was starting to feel more like he was in a dream now.
He was told he might have to wait a while, that something would have to smell the life’s air wafting from his open Weir. It would come crawling in and he would have to battle whatever it did to his mind. Yet, that was not what happened to him. The Weir had just disappeared from Art’s sight when something was suddenly in his face. It had rushed him so fast the scream that issued from him was swallowed up by his fall backward onto the broken floor of the ever-darkening temple.
Wild with confusion, Art snapped his head up, trying to scramble to his feet. But he does so as a huge, massive form loomed over him in black clouds. Eyes huge, Art watched as the thing wrestled with its own form, spinning and wrapping the blackness about itself until it took the shape of a tall, slender thing, more bone than flesh. Its skin a shinning onyx, long arms and finger-like claws extending to impressive length. Darkness moved around it like a cloak. But Art’s eyes were not on the strangeness of its smoky form. He was staring at the massive horns, almost too heavy for its head crowning its gaunt face, a maw full of teeth, a skeletal fused face and empty black eyes that bore into him despite the lack of actual eyeballs.
This was unlike anything Art had learned about or encountered. Demons, with many horrible forms, typically had to be called out and forced to be seen. This thing was in Art’s face. It was grinning at him, an expression somehow clearly discerned through its grotesque, ebony colored skull. Fearsome as its form was, that was not truly the thing that set it apart. Demons could be felta; their presence to a Weiriman was like hearing a voice or touching with something cold. Art had done it many times. But the feeling coming off this thing was oppressive, malevolent, and so overwhelming that Art felt all the breath sucked out of him.
“Well,” the thing’s voice spilled over his skin like cold, wet slime, “this is unexpected. You are unexpected indeed.”
Art knew he had to fight back, but the thing was on top of him so fast he felt his whole body turn cold. A cry caught in his throat and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The thing was devouring him, he was dying and it was so powerful, so ancient, so evil there was nothing the young novice could do to stop it from consuming his whole soul. He had failed.