Youngblood

Prologue

The necromancer hurriedly trotted up the cold, stone staircase toward his master’s chamber. He had been summoned with great haste; a report was due. The clattering of his hooves against the hard floor echoed throughout the tower, ominously lit by a series of candles suspended in the air like orange, glowing spirits of the dead.

Draped along the walls like tanned leather, great banners of black and jade lined the staircase, each one bearing the symbol of Necrodoria; the darkest place known to Ponykind. The harsh wind carried through the hollow structure, arousing the banners from their state of idleness. His presence, The Dark Lord, glided like a liquid shadow across the walls.

The necromancer looked up at the fluttering banners, noticing their eerily flowing movements. He froze in place, the sound of the wind penetrating his ears as the presence slipped its way up the tower. His face turned pale beneath his mottled coat of light brown, his brow became sodden with a heavy sweat, and his hooves failed him at the last few steps.

The unicorn tripped up, jaw coming into swift contact with the floor. He was completely stiff, unable to cry out in pain. The icy-cold floor stabbed through his fur and implanted itself within his bones, the feeling locking him in place for a few seconds.

He rose to his hooves groggily, his mind filled with daemonic laughter and whisperings from the many voices that haunted him. Then he looked up, straight into the eyes of a rigid guard. Suddenly, he jerked back. The necromancer lost his hoofing, yielding a few of the stone steps to his own fear. His blood was frozen and his eyes were locked onto the once-pony.

It kept a rigid face; it being the focus of that observation. The conjuration was staring out into the distance through its glowing green voids, not shifting in the slightest at this newcomer. The necromancer managed to regain his composure; he had seen worse.

His black cloak was caught in a second flowing of wind, sending it sailing aside. He quivered at this, the unexpected gust catching him with his guard down. This was not the first time that he had ascended the stairs to his master, but this time he knew exactly why he was here.

He struggled to open his mouth; the muscles had become a solid ice in his terrific fear. He managed to speak, his jaw not quite moving as well as intended and his voice a feeble whimper in the wake of the silently screaming guard.

“By the… honoured spirits that guide us all, the one I seek is behind yonder door. My request is… is humble and my intentions are well, I request to be guest of the Lord of Hell.” The guard did not move, its black, metallic cladding shining in the faint orange glow of the many candles. It never blinked nor moved and its mouth remained sealed by the two stakes driven through its jaw, each wound encrusted with partially-dried ichor.

Seconds passed like minutes as the necromancer shifted uncomfortably, eyes hesitantly scanning the guard. Had he done something wrong? He decided to repeat his words.

“By the hon-,” he was cut off. A great voice filled his skull, the vibrations stirring his soul like the ferocious roar of an elder dragon.

“SERVANT, BE SILENT IN THE PRESENCE OF THE DARK LORD! HE IS PRESENT WITHIN HIS CHAMBER AND BENEVOLENTLY GRANTS YOU ACCESS. GUARD!” At once the statuette guard rose from its sitting position, hooves smoking gently as it stood up.

The necromancer watched as the guard began walking up to the great wooden doors behind it. The oak wood was of old age and bore signs of much wear and tear. Adorning it like savage teeth, great iron hinges and trusses held onto the door with a seemingly forced grip and in the centre, a two-foot wide figure-head protruded with a frightful life-likeness.

The figure head was distinguishable as pony-like, though its unicorn horn seemed slightly serrated and draping over it, the heavy hood sank over its brow. The guard approached it, the only sounds being its glass-on-slate hoofsteps and the gentle hissing of its smoking horseshoes. The smoke seemed unnatural; as if painted by an artist on a canvas made solely of water, curling up at its legs and lingering for an eternity before dissipating into nothing.

Placing itself beneath the ten-foot door, the guard lowered its head. It bowed before the iron bust, eyes flaring brighter as it lowered its shadow-like head. The stone floor trembled, sending shards of fear racing up the necromancer’s spine, each one punctuated with a lingering feeling of awe.

The figure-head animated itself, bowing toward the guard before resting its horn upon the conjuration. At once the air ignited, exploding in flames of un-earthly green and yellow. The flames burned not of heat, but of a cold, dry emotion and they enveloped the guard.

Its hide now non-existent and its armour now a mere vapour in the liquid air, the guard ceased to exist. What physical form it once held now gases within the necromancer’s lungs. This quickly became apparent to the unicorn, resulting in a flurry of violent spluttering. The smell of ozone, dust and smoke became a solid form within the tower, preventing easy breathing.

Once the dust had settled, the necromancer peered fourth. The door still locked in place, unchanged with the bust now returned to its original form. It all seemed to be mocking the unicorn’s attempts at even considering a presence with his master.

Then a groan sounded from behind the great wooden structure. It’s tone deep yet hollow, echoed throughout the tower. Then the groan was replaced with a mechanical click. Then another. The door shifted backward a few inches before returning and from the centre, it began to fold inward.

As if it had been pre-folded by an ethereal origami artist, sections of equally-sized squares began folding behind the door. The odd click became lost in a sea of them, impersonating a clockwork device as square upon square folded and disappeared. The unicorn instantly became mesmerised, transpired by the ominous clicking and folding. Once the silence returned, the door had gone.

Beyond the gaping mouth of the doorframe, a void stretched for seven eternities, the darkness swallowing any attempts to light the way. Despite the familiarity he had of this, the necromancer could only imagine what lurked on the other side of the shadows. They whispered out to him, beckoning him into their midst; the shadows, The Dark Lord.

“ENTER!”

The necromancer complied purely out of fear, sparing only a second glance at the place where the guard once stood. The ground there was charred, with the exception of four circular clearings where its hooves had once been.

He trotted through the opening, the wooden frame engulfing the unicorn in its shadow. Five steps in, nothing but darkness; ten steps in, still nothing but darkness; fifteen steps, again only darkness; twenty steps, still… wait no.

The darkness spanning the room began dissolving. The treacly thick shadows started draining away into the corners of a small chamber. The pony glanced behind him; the doorframe had lost its definition as it dissolved too into the walls of the new room.

After a mere ten seconds, the darkness had been replaced with a gothic throne room-style chamber. Lit by the same candles from the staircase, the room had an eerie, orange glow. Each of the five walls was made from the same stone as the tower, each bearing the same banners of Nercrodoria and sporting years of candlewax. The ceiling was made entirely of sandstone, reaching up in the centre to form a spire, decorated with scenes of daemons chasing ponies of all races.

At the far corner, a podium stood looking over the chamber, much like an altar in a church. However, there were no seats. In the centre of the room, a four foot stone goblet glowed an ethereal orange, its contents appearing to cast the light from the candles upward into the ceiling, causing the images to dance.

There was silence, the wind was unheard and the single window of the room showed nothing but the twisted purple clouds of the night sky. There was no movement, the clouds appeared frozen in time and the dancing of the images was much too subtle to notice.

Normally, The Dark Lord would have been waiting here for his servant, in plain view. This disturbed the pony greatly, where was he? His voice had spoken of his presence here.

Then a flash of lightning enveloped the room, its potency causing the unicorn to back-peddle. The crack of thunder shook the room, and its volume swirled the water in its goblet.

The Necromancer stopped. He stopped not through his own will; not because he had recovered from his shock. He had stopped because he had nowhere to move. It could not have been the wall, that was much too far behind him. It was as cold as the wall, but it had a strange…

He laughed, not the necromancer, but the mysterious figure behind him. His laugh echoed through the air and vibrated the walls, causing the dust on each stone to fall to the ground. The necromancer gasped, throwing himself forward and turning about. It was him.

“Greatest apologies, My Lord!” he gasped.

“Accepted, Servant. Come, you must be thirsty from your ascending.” The Dark Lord approached the goblet, using his magic to raise two golden cups from the wide rim of the great container.

“You are most benevolent, My Lord.” The Dark pony smirked, facing away from his servant, yet his sly smile could have been heard a mile away.

“I know, I know. Here, enjoy,” he was relishing his power of the situation, he always did. After all, he was The Lord of Hell. “What brings you here?” he paused, allowing the servant to hold his glass in his telekinesis and begin talking. But he cut in, answering his own question, “Ah, yes! The report,” he dragged the last word out for many yards.

The servant was taken aback, startled slightly by his master’s way of words. As The Dark Lord turned to face him, the unicorn got his first proper sight of his master from the front.

He was the same size as the necromancer, but held a certain quality which created an illusion, granting him extra volume. He wore a great flowing robe, black as night and as liquid as the shadows that once lined the room; his hooves were hidden beneath. His hood, much like the unicorn’s but hung much lower over his brow obscured the entirety of his face, the only visible features being the tip of his lean muzzle and the candle-glow of his eyes, green and bright. At the edges of his cloak, the torn ends flayed up into the heavens, casting warped, pointed shadows as they flowed similarly to the manes of the two princesses. And from under each turned-up piece of fabric, small spiral wisps of black smoke curled up and followed the contours of the fabric, caressing the shape of its owner. And protruding from the being, the serrated horn of the dark lord creased the fabric of the hood, the edges of the raises set alight by the orange light.

The necromancer quickly composed himself, taking a semi-confident sip of the strong liquid, “Must be that absinthe,” he thought.

“Yes, Sire. Lord Capital’s forces at Point Redrock have been totally annihilated. As expected, we met little resistance, just the odd militia of rookie imperial guards. As a result, the entire keep is under our control and defences are currently being erected as ordered.”

The dark pony raised his glass in a suggestive manner, “Excellent! And the Stone of Silverlight?”

“Secured, My Lord.” He joined his master in the raising of glasses, before the duo indulged in another sip of the potent liquid.

“You have impressed me, Archimedes. Your commitment has shown me that even the lowest of vagabonds can in fact, be of great use and aptitude.” The Dark Lord’s tone had become much lower and personal.

“My thanks, Lord.” He took another sip, savouring the burning sensation inflicted by the alcohol.

The Dark Lord continued, “And you have also given me a rather nice opportunity to… trial… one of my new dark powers…”

The unicorn was taken aback. It was not expected that one should come close to any of The Dark Lord’s studies. He took them very seriously, spending weeks upon weeks alone in his arcane chambers.

“Trial, Sire?” He questioned between mouthfuls of the absinthe. It was not like anything the unicorn had consumed before; it was intoxicating (in every way possible).

The Dark Lord gave a grin, gesturing toward the podium. He turned around and began float toward it, carried by his deathly cloak. The necromancer followed, though taking the more traditional route across the floor. His robe was, sadly not quite so equipped.

The Dark Lord continued facing the window just beyond the podium, his gaze fixated upon the twisted clouds that clung to the dark skies. To the ordinary folk, they would appear both evil and blood-freezing; to him, they were a fantastic display of beauty. Noticing his fixation, the necromancer stopped and took to his cup again, it was empty. He stared for a second, lost in amazement. Had it really been that good?

“Here, my trusted friend.” Friend? What was this? An honour? A threat? A sarcastic attempt to throw him off? The unicorn’s empty cup was carried away by the sickly-green aura of The Lord’s telekinesis, when it returned it bore more of the liquid. It glinted in the orange light, the shining as fiery as its effect.

He took the cup and with a quick word of thanks, drank deeply. His vision, surprisingly, remained quite stable.

“Your service over the years of your life has proven loyal, useful and above all, very commendable.” He turned to face the heartily drinking pony, who instantly looked up at him from his indulgence, eyes wide with embarrassment. The Dark Lord merely chuckled, “Worry not, I wish for you to take pleasure.” He continued, “You are well aware that I do not wish to plague the minds of… senior… citizens of Necrodoria with the added stress of stewardship?”

The pony nodded a little too enthusiastically, small splashes of liquid leaving his mouth as his head rose and fell. He quickly finished the drink in one swift gulp.

“Do help yourself to anymore,” the dark pony invited, breaking tone.

The pony needed no more encouragement, leaping for the great goblet. He hit the floor a yard short but quickly jumped to his hooves and plunged his head straight into the bowl of beverage. He began snorting at the substance, addicted to its taste and burning sensation like a… crazed drunk.

The Lord of Hell continued as he ravaged at the absinthe, “Therefore, I wish for you to live out the rest of your days well away from the hassle of a servant’s life.” Said pony did not hear any of it, for the liquid was well above his ears as he drank greedily, not even considering the need for oxygen. “Arise!” He commanded.

The drinking pony froze, raised his head and looked toward the dark splodge, his cheeks flustered with red beneath his coat, dripping with liquid. His vision had finally blurred, The Dark Lord appearing even more as a shadow than previous, his glowing eyes reaching out to him through the orange haze of the room.

“You are hereby graced with the title of Elder, wear it with pride and live the rest of your life as merrily as you please. You have deserved it, friend.”

The drunken pony smiled pathetically before realising the pictures adorning the ceiling were much closer than they were a few seconds ago. He was right above the goblet, held high by the telekinesis of The Dark Lord. He remained there for a few seconds, the arcane mad-pony chanting words up to him that did not register through the alcoholic barricade across his mind.

Without warning, he was thrown downward. He plummeted down toward the goblet as it erupted in the same green flame that destroyed the guardpony. He hit the inferno, the flames engulfing him.

Then the shadows returned.