The year 1738
Decimus walked through the dank corridor, careful not to stumble over the dead. The strong smell of iron from spilled blood churned his stomach. He saw his father, Cyrus, at the far entrance to the corridor. What sort of evil could cross the barrier to the corridor? Whose soul is this dark? Decimus, in shock from the horrific scene, wiped the sweat off his forehead. He peered into the dark end of the tunnel, and then he heard his father call to him.
“Decimus, come here. Don’t go any farther.”
While walking toward his father, he noticed cracks in the walls. He didn’t remember them in his past treks through the corridor. He stood next to Cyrus and looked down the slope to the valley. The massacred bodies of humans and animals in every direction made him choke—the scene would evoke nightmares in him for the rest of his life.
“Father? What sort of entity hates life so much that it would destroy everything in its path? Who would allow it to enter our world?”
“Son, evil exists in this world, and war is not new to us. There are those among us who would seek out the darkest of warlords to accomplish their evil deeds. They will do this even if it means seeking those from other worlds. The need for power drives them—it corrupts them.”
“But, father, how can we stop this from happening again?”
Cyrus didn’t want to reveal his thoughts to his young son yet. He put his hand on Decimus’s shoulder, “We’ll figure something out soon, son.”
Father and son joined the rest of the horrified townsfolk farther down the hill. Mothers of those who died cried and screamed in sorrow. The town and its people would recover, but not without trepidation. As Decimus walked beside his father down the cobbled street to their home, he glanced at the doorways to each home as they passed. Atop each door hung a cluster of acorns to bring good luck and encourage prosperity. We need to put the Triquetra over our doors instead, he thought.
Cyrus gathered the town’s council of wizards. It would take a culmination of their magic and powers to accomplish what he would propose. After hours of planning, Cyrus and 16 wizards marched to the corridor of souls.
Cyrus asked eight warlocks to line one side of the corridor and the other eight to line the other side. Cyrus stood at the exit, which still gave off oppressive vibes.
Cyrus’s voice remained calm as he spoke, “The goal of applying this binding spell is to ensure that no one can invite a foreign entity back into our world. Only those who leave our world to enter another can return through this corridor. Now, please face the wall and place your hands upon it.”
Cyrus turned to face the exit and shouted, “Let us begin.”
They chanted for close to thirty minutes while each burned the Triquetra rune of protection into the walls. Cyrus turned to face the council, content that they had composed the ritual to its completion.
He felt an immediate change to the air—tranquility entered the corridor. “It is done,” Cyrus whispered.
Later that evening, Cyrus made his way back to the corridor and etched four words into the entrance—it reads your soul. Below those words, he etched—beware whosoever enters. The mountain that housed the corridor was called Morrigan Mountain, but would later be called Fateful Mountain.
Soul Corridor – Brendan and Cara will publish soon, so be sure to check back often.