The Chosen Few

Turning off his web-cam, their leader turned in his chair. It swung around soundlessly to face the door. He arose from his chair, but did not leave the room. He was pleased. Everything was drawing to a close. His journey had lasted centuries, but now it was near its end. Glancing into the decorative, polished-bronze mirror, the leader of The Chosen studied his reflection. He looked younger now than he had when he last gazed into the shimmering surface. Closing his eyes, he summoned the memories he had of that bygone era when The Chosen began. In his mind’s eye, he was there, fulfilling his role as the Aztec’s high priest by honouring the gods- gods like Quetzalcoatl, the god of wind and resurrection- with blood sacrifices. Feeling the past rising within him, he cast himself back- back to that ancient civilisation…





Flourishing the sacrificial knife, Nomec chanted an old verse praising the gods. Snapping an order to his priests, he bade them restrain the young man. They tied him to the raised stone platform, rendering him defenceless against what was to come. Faster than any mortal eye could follow, he drove the obsidian blade half its length into the victim’s chest, as the young man kicked out against those who restrained him and screamed with what he knew was his last breath. Scoring a deep line through flesh and sinew, Nomec cut open the victim’s chest, then reached inside and plucked out the still beating heart. He held it to the heavens for all to see, then kicked the twitching and bloody body down the gore-stained steps of the a pyramidal temple. Suddenly, breaking all sacred rites, he lowered it to his lips and bit deeply into it. While the priesthood looked on in collective horror, Nomec devoured the heart, pledging his very spirit to his ethereal masters. All of a sudden, within him awoke two very different feelings and one that revealed truth. He felt both a sense of power so intense he had never suspected its existence, and a gnawing contempt for all humanity. The truth was worse. Before, he had merely believed in the gods. Now he knew they existed. He also knew that the power within him was their gift to him. He had an abrupt revelation. What was the point in worshipping unseen deities, when their powers were inside him?



Suddenly Nomec was wracked with lightning bolts of pain. They concentrated around his face and chest. Sinking to his knees, he cried out. The assembled priests fell back in fear as his eyes filled with blood and turned black. They all knew that the eyes were the gateways to the soul. Nomec’s had either been deeply corrupted-or else torn from his body. Nomec arose and fixed them with his dead stare. All the priests fancied they saw things, evil things, crawling in the dark recesses of his mind. Insane with fear, they all ran from the temple summit and threw themselves down the steps in a blind panic. All save one. The youngest priest recognised that Nomec was the true leader, and fell to his knees in adulation.



From the sides of the temple came sickening crunches and screams as the priests’ bodies finally hit the ground. When the screams ceased, Nomec saw a dark cloud rise above the altar. The tortured faces of the dead priests pushed against the smoke, silently screaming. Fast as an arrow, the cloud of spirits hurled into Nomec- knocking him senseless against the temple wall. Taking on a more liquid aspect, the souls flowed over his robes, towards his face. Tendrils of tarry liquid extended into his mouth and nostrils. Unconsciously, Nomec inhaled and the souls entered his prone body. Again, the power filled him and dissipated throughout his being. Rising, Nomec looked at the young priest.



‘Your name?’ he asked



‘Marak.’



‘Why have all the others gone?’



‘Th…they looked into your eyes. They feared you.’



‘Good. I must be feared. Do you not fear me?’



‘No Lord, you are truth. I will abandon the gods to follow you.’



‘Then come, for you have truly been chosen. Gather others, all that you can. Bring them to me. Tell them… tell them to fear.’



The newly indoctrinated follower descended the temple steps and ran into the town. The knowledge of his master’s power was more than enough to drive him onward. Every person he passed, he spoke to. He told them about the powers Nomec had, of the powers that could be theirs if they followed him. As time went on the number of believers grew. As one, the crowd then turned to follow Marak to the temple. As they mounted the steps, he warned them not to look into Nomec’s eyes. Reaching the summit, Marak dropped to his knees. After praising his new leader, he looked up and saw him smiling



‘Marak, welcome. You have done well.’



‘I exist only to serve you, Lord.’



Nomec sauntered past the prostrate priest and looked over his newly formed congregation. As he watched, he saw their feelings within them. They were all afraid. He could almost taste their fear. One of the congregation was led up to the summit, then sacrificed. He went peacefully. As the man died, Nomec felt the pain again. However, it was not as intense as it was before - perhaps his body was acclimatizing itself to the experience. The Chosen looked up at him, calling for him to speak; and speak he did. He told them of many things: The feeling of his power, the power of death, and death yet to come. As he spoke, a yearning awoke within everyone present. Nomec instilled in them a lust for death and power. Now they were his, they would do his bidding without question; and so he commanded them.



Generations later, his will was done. His Chosen had built his sanctum. A vast network of caves and tunnels - the blood of countless followers spilt to ensure its creation - extended far beneath the town. The centre of the catacombs was underneath the temple. Never had their faith in him wavered, never had they asked why they were digging. They simply dug, without any thought of reward, because of their devotion to him and his cause. Now, only one task remained. The altar from the temple above was to be taken and placed in the caverns below. Even now, it was approaching down the rock-hewn steps into the caves.



Nomec stepped out of his private quarters and picked up his staff. Embossed with arcane markings, it drove fear into the hearts of all who didn’t have faith in him. His ceremonial robe billowing around him, Nomec climbed the stairs that would bring him out between two enormous pillars, behind the space set aside for the altar. His timing was impeccable. No sooner had he stepped into the chamber, than the altar began its procession through the sanctum. Moments later, it was settled in its designated niche - fitting perfectly. Another procession made its way through the crowd - this one carrying a bier. Marak was lying on it. Though Nomec had not aged since his gift from the gods, Marak was old and frail. As the most powerful and respected of The Chosen, his was to be the first soul released in the new temple. As he passed the congregation, heads turned to (and away) from him. Nomec saw this and realised its meaning. Not only did many fear Marak - for he had killed many for the cause over the years - but some hated him also. It became apparent they were not what they seemed and claimed to be. They didn’t believe. Something would have to be done. But not yet. First, he had to join his flesh with the spirit of his first disciple.



Placing the bier atop the altar, he helped Marak to roll off. Casting the board aside, Nomec knelt and whispered into Marak’s ear. After thanking him for his aid and assistance over the years, he stood back and signalled to his priests. They lifted a mesh of fine wires and then placed over Marak. After connecting the grid to the ropes leading out of the floor, they retreated. Raising his arms, Nomec stepped forward.



‘Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Take now your power in death and become one with your master.’



At the edges of the chamber, followers began to slowly turn the large windlasses, which were connected to the mesh. As the ropes were wound in, the grid cut into Marak’s flesh. Rather than screaming in pain, Marak simply lay there, a peaceful look on his face, and let the wires cut him open. When he died, black vapours flooded out of his mouth and nose. Visible only to Nomec, they tangled together and flew at him, and were instantly absorbed.



Then Nomec turned his attention to those who had no faith. He could see it so clearly now. Before, he had thought that all those that followed him had total loyalty. Nevertheless, he had been wrong. He could see it in their eyes, their distrust, and their fear. He found within himself a power he had not known he had possessed. Perhaps he had only just become aware of it, or else it had only arisen when he had the combined strength from both himself and Marak. He projected images in front of his entire congregation. Images of the old gods; the sun god, the rain god, and the god of wind and resurrection. When they saw the vision, most of his followers stood firm, refusing to believe in them because of their devotion to Nomec. But not all. Five men fell to the ground and praised the gods. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the apparitions vanished.



The men, realising that they had been duped, looked at Nomec, and pleaded with him for mercy, but they soon realised it was useless. Though Nomec’s face showed no emotion, his eyes had a burning intensity behind them so great, that the men could not bear to look. Instead, they implored the crowd to see sense, to forgive them, but the crowd moved away. They were loyal to Nomec, and knew that whatever punishment the men were to receive for their betrayal; they didn’t want to suffer with them.



Suddenly, a thick black liquid appeared on one of men’s legs. It was similar to the energy Nomec received when he had released Marak, but this was much thicker, tarry even. The five men watched as the viscous material began to slide up the man’s leg, and disappear under his clothes. The rest of the crowd watched, amazed, as they could not see what the traitors saw. The black substance suddenly appeared again, under his clothing, now on his neck, and went over his scalp, then poured over his face, completely covering it. He shrieked, and attempted to pull the material from him. The rest of the crowd moved forward in morbid fascination as they saw the man suddenly claw his eyes out, and start to tear the skin off his face. As he weakened, he fell to the floor, his arm brushing against two other men as he did so. The substance passed to them, and they acted as he had, tearing madly at their own skin, trying to get rid of the thick blackness that oozed over their bodies. Their fear was so strong that they barely felt any pain as they tore at their flesh, and what they did feel, they believed it to be caused by the substance, which only served to heighten their fear and they continued their frenzied attack. The next man to die did so when his heart stopped. The adrenalin had raced through him for several minutes unabated, and combined with his great fear, his heart could no longer continue. Almost straight away the third man died. As they did so, the blackness jumped from them to the remaining two men. They would have run away as their saw their friends attacked, but the more loyal followers of Nomec had surrounded them, preventing their escape.



Both men shrieked hysterically as the substance began to climb up their bodies. They did not know what it would do to them, but Nomec had placed a few suggestions in their minds - as he had with the others - of what it could do to them, and they knew they didn’t want it to go inside them. One of the men dashed his brains out with a rock; fearful of the pain he might suffer if he didn’t. The last man began to slash at himself with a copper spear, to scrape the material from his body. This went on till he collapsed in a pool of his own blood after several minutes.



Nomec walked forwards, till he stood over their mutilated bodies. ‘Take them away.’ He said, calmly. ‘Bury them far away.’ Several men scrambled to obey him. Nomec went and sat down at the head of the chamber and thought. At that time, the Aztecs were too isolated; there was no way for them to spread their message, to gain new followers, to continue their cause. They would need to disperse so they could establish themselves in the major parts of this world. They needed to bide their time, to grow stronger till the world was united so his aims could easily be accomplished. He needed to send many of his followers away if this was to happen. However, that would leave both him and them weakened. Now he would fulfil the promise of power he had made to them many decades ago. He retired to his chambers, and for many days, he worked tirelessly without sleep to concoct a way for his plan to work. On the sixth day, he knew the answers. He didn’t know how he had stumbled across it, but, all of a sudden, he knew all the incantations and rituals he needed.



He gathered all of his devoted followers around the temple, and they all performed the same rites, all chanted the same invocations, and he explained what had now happened, what they were all able to do. Now, when they killed in his name, the energy of their victim would go into them, strengthening them, and large accumulations of energy would even delay certain signs of aging, if only slightly. When they died, the energy from both them and their numerous victims would leave them. Most of the energy would go to Nomec, and the rest to the Chosen Few.



Nomec knew that he needed a strong hold on the world before he could truly be powerful. He was going to rest for several centuries, the energy from his devoted followers keeping him alive. All of his followers would leave to set up chapters all over the world, to get many more to join with the rest of The Chosen. All save for nine who would remain with him after the entrances to the catacombs had been sealed, and they would tend to him as he slept for hundreds of years. They were his Chosen Few. They would be the ones by his side through all his victories and failures, and through him, they would have eternal life. The incantations said by every member of The Chosen not only affected them, but the Chosen Few also. When they received life energies, they would react as he did, and they would grow younger. Not by vast amounts, otherwise they would be but children when they emerged. No, just enough so they could stay roughly their current age forever. The energy was their elixir of youth.


Once all except the Chosen Few had left, Nomec went to his chamber to sleep. He had no worries, for he knew he would be well looked after by his followers. He lay down, closed his eyes, and slept, his dreams filled with visions of what he could do when he awoke. He stayed that way for centuries.