Chapter 7
"Something is coming. I can feel it in my aching bones, have felt it since the day my grandson unleashed the Excoriating Web. Its magic still echoes throughout the world in the most curious of ways. The Wailing Forest of Tamarang and the dangerous beasts that lurk within was only the beginning. The tear in the boundary to Westland that now must be guarded to protect the people there from those who would unscrupulously use magic against those sheltered souls is but one. The rise in the number of children suddenly showing magical ability I suspect is another. The hot springs at Fedreth that freezes over at Summer Solstice and now the ever increasing numbers of these hideously warped wolves that now stalk the Midlands and beyond leave little doubt for me.
As to these wolves, barren wolves the D'Harans call them, they are creatures of magical origin to be certain but from whence, I do not know.
All these events and encounters have one unifying thread I dread not reveal: bones. Richard's bones. At every encounter, ever location, fragments of bones are gathered and returned to me. I fear my grandson's hidden legacy may well bring ruin upon us all. I can feel it in the wind, the sun, the land. Something is coming."
- Journal of Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, Wizard of the First Order.
Rannith Skaald shifted uneasily on his feet, a trickle of doubt entering his heart at the sight before him. Glancing towards the other eleven men he could easily see their own unease through the swirls, whorls, and striping of their facial woads that marked their battle commendations, their rank, and their prowess as protectors of their people, the Fulani.
Like he, they wore baggy worsted wool trousers each with twill patterns and subdued colors of red, yellow, and blue denoting their house or affiliation tucked into heavy calf length leather boots. Many of the boots were lined with an assortment of furs: fox, ermine, and more rarely wolf. Over simple deerskin tunics could be seen more wool and fur over tunics, those of greater wealth sporting metal brocaded bands on the arms. Over all this was an eclectic mix of armors of many types: unadorned woven leather, chain mail, and heavy plate; but each were bearing the red nine pointed star prominently over their heart: the symbol of the Fulani nation. Some wore helmets or fur caps but most heads were unadorned with their uniformly black hair in a variety of styles: cropped, shaggy, and even long knotted braids twined with bits of metal, wood, bone, and other tokens.
They were the pride of the twelve huntlands that made up the Fulani, each chosen by their leaders in this time of need to defeat the enemy that had swept in from the icy wastes overrunning their lands and threatened their very existence. Already half the huntlands had been lost to the savages that wore nothing but furs over their tanned skin. They seemed immune to the cold and painted their faces like demons. Some rode large lumbering beasts with protruding bone teeth and thick long haired hides. Worse they called forth ancient sky creatures the eldest of elders heard called drakons that made the icy earth burn as if on fire. They were many, they were fearless, they were relentless, and they killed all, no mercy for even the most innocent.
The Fulani has named their enemy after the mythical ice beasts that mysteriously claimed men when the blizzards came: the Laguia.
And as was done according to the old stories of the Laguia, the elders had called upon the people's most powerful wielder of magic: the necromancer Melantha, a woman from a long line of spirit women who had protected their people for generations.
Melantha was not dressed like the rest of their people and aside from her strange ice blue eyes she bore the same dark hair and pale skin common to them all. She wore a simple silk shift of pale yellow with strange symbols around the banded edge over her skeletal frame and simple leather sandals over rabbit fur wrapped feet. Were it not for her reputed power, Rannith would have feared his gaze alone would knock her frail figure over; the same power she was exhibiting before them at this very moment as she summoned the protector she had promised the elders. A hero who would sweep aside all those who threatened the Fulani.
Before him in the cave carved into the Kerljaarg, the sacred granite mountains, Melantha chanted holding a long leg bone above her head as a young girl similarly dressed awaited nearby with a collection of bowls, herbs, bottles, and a small fire. The torches around the chamber cast the symbols, emblems, and drawings on the dark granite into an orange cast. But more importantly, the flames added an eerie glow to the Grace drawn upon the raised portion of the floor.
He watched Melantha carefully place the bone in the center of the Grace, fascinated as she spoke softly as her hands caressed the air around the bone, but never touched it. Shortly a soft glow came from the glyph even as sickly greenish wisps of smoke began to rise from it. Stepping away, Melantha reached for the jar her assistant had ready.
Her chanting grew as she began to circle the boundaries of the Grace, pouring a dark thick liquid from the jar as she went. As the liquid that touched the lines of the grace hissed and flared into a blue-white flame, he realized she was pouring blood. Fear trembled through him at remembering terrible stories told of those who invoked blood magic with a Grace but he held firm, trusting that the necromancer knew what she was doing. She had never failed the Fulani before and he saw no reason for her to do so now despite his trepidation.
His resolve wavered as a terrible rumbling echoed through the chamber, the ground trembling in a way he associated with the mountains of fire south of his homeland that spewed forth rivers of melted earth and made the air smell of rotten eggs. It soon passed as Melantha's reed thin voice grew louder and stronger. By the time she was shouting the once glowing bone was engulfed in a mass of swirling blue flames and green mist, lighting seeming to crackle where the two touched. A shrieking sound was slowly building as the mass itself grew in size.
So focused on the growing torrent before him, he startled at the scream of agony from Melantha. At her feet lay a bloodied bone knife, blood pouring from arms she had slashed from elbow to wrist. Recognizing a call for the Creator's benevolence he was stunned as she thrust her mutilated arms into the flames. Once more she shrieked in agony as her skin crisped, then blackened, and was stripped away in the terrible torrent.
A sudden flash of light blinded them and silence fell over the room. Rannith blinked his eyes clear of the after effects, and could not stop his gasp of surprise.
Melantha stood within the grace unharmed, a small smile upon her face as she looked down. Following her gaze, it took him some time to realize what his eyes saw: a creature with scarred flesh stretched over a skeletal frame, flesh missing in many areas to reveal muscle, tendon, and organs. It wasn't until Melantha turned the poor creature onto its back that he realized it was a man, horribly disfigured with injuries, but clearly a man. He could see the poor man's chest rising and falling as if screaming, mouth of broken teeth and jaw stretched so wide Rannith wondered if the tendons there would snap, yet no sound escaped.
He watched in silent horror as Melantha took a silver pin from her assistant and kneeled down chanting softly before ruthlessly driving the pin through the unfortunate creature's skull, pinning it to the ground. The symbol on the pin head flared to life as silently the man writhed on the ground, his lone remaining eye opening to reveal terror, shock and pain.
At a strangled choking sound from the man Rannith felt his unease grow, the feeling that what was being done here was wrong, even evil. But still he did not move; could not make himself look away even as he heard the sounds of retching from some of the other men.
Melantha took another pin, grasping the man's right hand and facing the palm down to the ground. Rannith noted the hand missing two fingers as Melantha chanted before driving the pin through the hand and into the ground. Like before it too glowed, and a whine now erupted from the man who otherwise remained immobile. Upon repeating the procedure for his left hand, the whine had become an inarticulate cry. Rannith's fears and outrage grew as she adjusted the man, the victim now in Rannith's mind, so that his foot lay flat to the cave floor mangled leg twisted in an awkward angle to accommodate the position and again drove a pin into the flesh. As she finished the victims left leg, he drew his blade, having seen enough of this evil as the man's tortured screams now relentless echoed through the chamber.
"Enough, Melantha! I don't know what evil you are spawning, but I'll not have it," Rannith growled. Murmurs of agreement from the gathered men echoed in the chamber, some of whom also drew their weapons.
Melantha's strange eyes flared, magic evident, and she stood slowly with a sneer. "You would presume to tell me my work, Rannith of the Skaald?"
"This is not the work of necromancy, of calling the spirits of our ancestors. This is the work of the Keeper," Rannith shouted, "I would rather our people die than be tainted by the Master of the Underworld."
He was dismayed as Melantha laughed, a sound disconcertingly like that of a young girl. "Oh, this is not the Keeper's work. I assure you. This is necessary to protect our people. "
Another tormented scream furthered his resolve. "I don't care. Release this poor spirit back to the Underworld where he belongs."
"Or what?"
Rannith looked at the other three who had drawn their weapons getting their nods of support. "We will release him," he stated evenly.
Without a word Melantha waved her hand casually dismissively. Rannith felt himself thrown back slamming painfully into the granite face. He was thankful to have worn his fur liner under his armor as he actually felt the heavier plates crack and buckle, pain searing into him as he felt shard of metal bite into his back. He shook his head and looked up. Two of the men were barely recognizable as such, just twisted masses of flesh, looking as if they had been skinned. The third man stood shuddering, choking sounds coming from his throat at he seem to be slowly torn apart from the inside.
Rannith knew there was nothing more he could against Melantha so his did all that could: he ran for his life. Without looking back he fled down the long entrance to chamber, ignored the group of men huddled around a fire at the mouth of cave looking worried at the sounds emanating from the cave's depths, and ran into the blizzard that had arisen during the time in the cave. He had to inform the elders of what Melantha was doing.
He never saw the glowing eyes watching him as he ran by, a pair peeling off from the group stalking the land, breath silently swept away in the roar of the storm. The largest of the forms sniffed the man's tracks, whining once. As a whole the pack started back down the path he had come. Their prey awaited them. The hunt would begin.
"Should I go after him?" The young girl asked of Melantha, who had finished sliding the last pin into the man's right foot.
"No, Helana. His escape is unimportant and the storm will take him soon," Melantha replied, turning her attention to the remaining eight men who were visibly trembling in fear.
"I see now which of you are brave enough and worthy enough to protect our people," Melantha spoke soothingly. "Men who realize we can not let old ways lead us to our doom."
An older warrior by the name of Olsan stepped forward, eyes briefly glancing to poor wretch whose cries had tampered off into a constant droning moan. "What is it you wish of us, Melantha? Are we to become like that."
Melantha shook her head solemnly, seemingly shocked. "How could crippling our best warriors save our people? No, I wish to bind your strength to this great warrior spirit so that he may be strong and determined to protect us."
"Rannith Skaald claims this is dark magic," Olsan said, gesturing. "And you have just said you brought forth a spirit."
"Yes! A good spirit," Melantha grinned, "Would the Creator allow me to call forth one of the great warrior spirits if She did not approve? If I have stolen him from his rest in the Underworld then where are the Keeper's minions to punish me for my audacity?"
Olsan looked troubled as he glanced at the corpses. "But you killed these men."
"Cowards who put their ignorant fears above the welfare of our people!" the necromancer declared. "You eight have shown you think before you act. Learn the reasons for the actions before committing to them. That too is qualities that will assist our new protector."
She looked down as if worried. "I only desire to help our people. I am our people's necromancer, our spirit caller. I have much power, but in this I need you, all of you, to do what is needed to save our people. Am I wrong in this desire?"
Melantha seemed surprised when Olsan stepped forward and gently touched her shoulder. "Of course not, Melantha, there is no dishonor is asking our assistance. It is we who are honored to be the ones that will ensure our people's victory over the Laguia."
"Come then," Melantha gestured towards her assistant who came forward with a small steaming pot filled with a bubbling black substance. "Let us call forth the four winds and the four elements so that we may bind your strength, you spirits, and your wisdom."
In turn, Melantha painted a mark on each man, chanting anew with each new symbol calling forth their properties into the men before guiding them to stand at a point within the Grace. Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Followed by the winds: North, East, South, West. With each new element added the Grace flared and the moans of the body at the center lessened until there was only the sound of his ragged breathing underlying Melantha's whispered chants.
Melantha stripped the shift from her body, exposing her naked flesh to the chill air. She blackened her hands with paste and stepped into the grace, ignoring the shocked looks of the men. She chanted prayers to the Creator: life bringer, healer, of fertility, and virility, as she straddled the man. Giving one last beseechment, she placed her hands over his heart, staining his chest as she drew another symbol: infinity. When done she leaned over him, meeting the one brown dazed eye with her own and gave a gently, reassuring smile before leaning in to kiss him.
Melantha howled in pleasure as the magic lashed out, rending, tearing, and stripping the eight men of their flesh, blood, bones. Of their life, memories, their very existence. Her eyes glittered as each man died in gruesome manners determined by their marks.
Olsan marked with fire, seemed burn from with his, blood like lave burning through his skin as he screamed. The man marked with water seemed to melt before her, drowning in his own fluids and blood flowed from his eyes, ears, nose, and throat. The man of earth's flesh dried, cracked, hair withered, until collapsing to dust. The man of air was perhaps the most fortunate, for the air merely left his lung and never returned as he suffocated. The four men marked by the winds were not so fortunate each torn apart, limb from limb by unseen forces, their blood spraying Melantha and the man with a fine red mist.
In a painful flash it ended, and Melantha's lungs burning for need of air. Limbs trembled weakly as she collapsed over the man. She could already feel the once broken flesh beneath her was smoother, feel the strength of magic start to emanate from the man. Lifting her head tiredly, her eyelids drooping with weariness, she felt a frisson of passion as she saw the man's scarred face was nearly whole. Through the patina of red she admired the handsome face and strangely blank eyes watching her.
Unable to resist, she kissed him chastely before quickly pulling away as she felt him start to sit up. She smiled as she pushed him down gently; his frame easily complying in its weakened state. She yearned for the time when the body would be truly whole. But for now she would wait, there was still much to do.
She whispered to him softly as she gently traced the remains of the dark stain into patterns on his chin, neck, and shoulders.
"Be still my Skinflayer. Soon your spirit's task will be complete, your flesh whole, and my master will release your from your worldly prison so that he may take back what was stolen by the Usurpers. I regret using one such as you, but it only one such as you with the blood in your bones that can allow my master to enter this realm. When he is done he shall grant you your greatest wish: the end of this painful existence."
"Release me."
Melantha was startled at the words. It felt like they echoed through the room, through her mind, through every fiber of her being. It was an order demanding obedience, obedience that would be rewarded. She wanted to obey, to please. She barely was able to stop herself from doing as commanded. She stood quickly breaking the physical contact between them, shuddering at the loss. She scrambled backwards until she was outside the Grace.
In wonder, she saw magic flaring powerfully in the brown eyes, followed a moment later by the glyphs on head, chest, hands, and feet flaring as well. As he slowly rose, first sitting, then rolling over and kneeling, before finally standing, Melantha felt herself fall to her knees in wonder, ignoring the fearful whimpers of her assistant as her master inhaled sharply, deeply, before releasing a deep tenor of a growl.
"Release me."
Protected by the grace, she never the less felt the power, the demand, of the words sweep through her, very nearly becoming the most single important thing she could possibly do in her life. But she remembered and girded herself, though she was puzzled at His early arrival. She had expected many men to be sacrificed to reach this point.
"I cannot, Master. The ritual is not finished."
A displeased growl emanated forth once more, causing Helana to cry out behind her. Melantha prostrated herself before the man, fervently hoping her words would quell his ire. "Please, great Eternal! The flesh is still too weak. You may damage it if you join with it too quickly."
She trembled as she waited, almost sensing his consideration of her words and the body. After a long time, she felt the magic receded ever so slightly. "Yes, not all is ready. The bones are missing."
Melantha looked up in confusion. "Bones, Master?"
Ignoring her question his eyes glowered at her as he spoke, thankfully the compulsion behind it muted. "Complete the ritual."
"Yes, Master." Melantha snapped her fingers at Helana who quickly scurried away to fetch the next batch of men.
The man watched her, face expressionless. "What is your name, Fleshweaver?"
"Melantha, Master."
"What is your desire?" She could feel the promise behind the question, promises of dark power and fulfillment.
"Nothingness," Melantha found herself whispering her deepest secret aloud.
The man lifted a hand toward her, flesh still scarred and fingers missing. "Then release the binds and I shall grant your wish."
Shaking herself from the strange hypnotic state she had allowed herself to slip into she tore her gaze from his. "I cannot, the flesh is too weak. I will complete the ritual but ask one favor."
"Name it."
She was surprised at the command, expecting more demands from him. "I fear an enemy, the Laguia, has come to stop your entrance into this domain. I have not the ability to defeat them on my own. Perhaps there is something you can do."
Wordless, the Skinflayer looked at each body in the chamber, and smiled mirthlessly before clapping his hands together. In moments the bodies disintegrated shadowy forms arising in their place vaguely resembling the men they had once been.
"Master." It sounded as if a hundred whispers spoke at once, the air chilling as three shadowy figures joined the eight that had arisen around the grace.
"Destroy the Laguia."
"Yes, Master." With that the apparitions disappeared.
Melantha bowed her head low. "Thank you, Master."
"Gather the bones and the instrument of truth."
"I don't understand," Melantha asked confused.
"I can not be fully unbound until the bones of this flesh are gathered. The spirit cannot be dispelled until the instrument of truth is in its possession. Gather them." He ordered.
Melantha nodded wordlessly, fearful to admit she wasn't entirely sure what the Skinflayer wanted. After a moment she shook her head, feeling foolish. What did it matter? She had her ambitions to attend to, the Skinflayer but one path to attaining her goals.
Melantha smiled at hearing Helana's bright voice telling the men she escorted through the cave to the main chamber that they must be wholly committed to the ritual, which any that balked would be cut down as cowards and traitors to their people. Her words had the desired effect as the men voiced their enthusiastic support for the ritual they would be partaking in.
As Melantha rose and turned to the men, the group the twelve halted. Their eyes widened in shock at the tableau before them noting blood splashing the walls and floors and the few scraps of tattered cloth and ash not knowing it was where men once stood. She noted some of the men's eyes flare with lust at the sight of her naked formed, even bloodstained as it was, before cooling into wariness at the sight of the naked man standing within the glyph.
"By the spirits, what have you done?" A young man asked his eyes staring in horror at them.
Melantha chuckled merrily. "Raised a Skinflayer."
The young man screamed in terror, turning to flee from the chamber. Three others chased after him, though whether to catch him or join him was unclear. Regardless, none got more than five steps before their bodies were shredded within moments by an unseen force.
"Join me."
Melantha cringed as she felt the Skinflayer's words sweep over her, the magic of the words flowing over the men. She watched as the remaining eight men's eyes fill with fear even as they silently approached the Grace. Melantha scrambled to block them from crossing the magical boundary.
"Wait, Master. I must mark them and you properly."
His dark eyes watched her for a moment, before nodding. "Do as the Fleshweaver commands."
"Yes, Master." The men intoned in unison.
As before Melantha went through the ritual inserting silver pins with glyphs though the man's shoulders, knees, elbows, and side of the neck. Unlike previously he never once spoke nor flinched nor showed any sign of discomfort even as blood trickled from the punctures.
She had just finished placing the eight marked men around the grace when a growl came from the entrance of the chamber, shadowy amorphous figures accompanied by dozens of glowing eyes. Melantha quailed as she felt their gaze settle on her. Before she could call out in warning, the attackers leapt forth in a sea of fur and fang, snapping teeth and fearsome howls.
The ancient hunters of the Fleshweavers had come. The Lodi Pack, eaters of flesh and bone.
Melantha recognized the pack leader, Nokai, as she leapt forth, pushing a man through the barrier of the Grace. He shrieked as his formed instantly twisted bones and limbs splintering back into unnatural angles as his flesh became the deathly gray of a long dead corpse. The other men fought back viciously, needing no commands or magical imperative to defend against the enraged wolf pack. Never the less fell quickly to the onslaught.
Melantha felt her lips rise in a sneer as the wolves turned on her, preparing her magic to be used against them. A rolling crackle of lightning streaked out from the Grace, or more properly, the Skinflayer's new right hand with its missing finger. The wolves howled in pain and anger. Roaring as one the pack turned to deal with their new enemy. Melantha grinned as another stream of lightning cut through the wolves, slicing cleanly through some, tossing others back to the entrance with such force their bones were heard to crack.
Melantha's grin grew as Nokai, the pack leader slowly rose from where the Skinflayer's force had thrown her, blood matting the wolf's fur. The wolf with the strange blue and brown eyes whined at the sight of her pack now lying dead and gutted. Magic flared in those eyes as they stared at the Skinflayer, the sight bringing a jolt of concern to Melantha who had never heard of a Lodi with magic. The stories only said the Lodi hunted magic, consumed it, not that they used it. After a moment the wolf slunk off into the cave and out into the storm.
"Hunt."
Melantha flinched as a twisted creature that had been the man to cross the grace without the proper incantation let out a frightful screech and scrambled after the wolf. Melantha laughed in joy as she realized Nokai would soon be dead thanks to the Skinflayer.
"Thank you, master," she giggled.
Curious when she received no reply she turned and gasped to see the bodies of the Lodi Pack begin to twitch and rise from where they lay and drag themselves to the Fleshweaver who stood with his head raised upward, arms held out with palms down, the glyphs on his body glowing brightly. She watched in amazement as the wolves passed through the barrier unharmed to accept the man's touches.
Only under the Skinflayer's caress did their flesh char, rend, and bony protrusion twist and pierce the flesh from within. In moments, twenty hideous perversions of the Lodi Pack circled the Fleshweaver making strange gurgles and yips as their eyes burned a glowing blue each bearing a symbol Melantha did not recognize on their misshapen heads.
"My barren wolves," The Fleshweaver whispered in pleasure. "Go my friends. Hunt. Find the bones and the instrument of truth."
And with a howl that Melantha suspected could be heard in the Underworld, the wolves sprinted for the entrance. Melantha gasped in surprise as some of the twisted creatures seemed to disappear into wisps of smoke before they even left the chamber.
"Will these be sufficient?"
The sudden question startled her. She was surprised to find eleven more copies of the twisted minion that had been sent to hunt Nokai, each warped and perverted visages of their former selves, all with gray leathery skin, empty black eyes, and a number of rends, tears, and fearsome protrusion of bones. She suddenly understood the Skinflayer's meaning and forced her self to not smile, silently thanking the Lodi Pack for securing his trust in their instinctual drive to hunt people such as she.
She bowed low and long to ensure he did not see her smile. "For now, my lord, there are many enemies that will try to stop your emergence. I may need more of your servants."
"You shall have what is required."
"Thank you, Master."
Once arisen, she approached the Grace, noting his flesh seemed to be nearly fully healed save the odd injury here and there: the scarred half of his face and a missing fingers for example. She knew by the feel of his magic that he was ready for the next stage, the next step in unleashing his power.
"Is the flesh strong enough, Master?" She asked, earning a silent nod.
"By the rules of this world, where is the equal of this flesh?" He asked, apparently of similar thought.
Melantha gestured to her young protege, who approached meekly, nervously glancing at her mentor for reassurance before looking to the Skinflayer.
"She is your equal," Melantha announced. "Her name is Helana. Her flesh in untainted and pure. If she pleases you she is yours."
"You give yourself willingly?"
Helana nodded eagerly, hands clasped together. "Yes, Master."
The man held out his hand. Helana eagerly climbed the small step onto the platform and crossed over the Grace. The moment her hand touched his, the young woman screamed and fell dead, body now withered and aged.
"She is not the equal," he noted without apparent anger or concern. He simply turned his dark eyes on Melantha. "I require the equal of this flesh to unify the spirit."
"It will be done, Master, I'll see to it immediately," Melantha assured him. She was now worried, franticly trying to think of how she could accomplish her search, to figure out who she should even be searching for.
With sudden understanding, she smiled. There were only two possibilities that came to mind and both would come of their own accord given the proper motivation.
"I know who your equal is now, Master," she told him with a small smile. "She will come."
"You have until the first dawn of the midnight sun for it to be so." He warned her ominously.
Nine months.
Melantha repressed her snort of derision. The Laguia was surely be defeated by the army she would have the Skinflayer lead by then and she would have no more need to pretend to bow and scrape to him.
