The Eight are vicious, all in their own way. Yazhara's hunger has an animalistic quality to it no predator we know of has matched. Calcifrax was calm at first, but anger quickly overcame him, and he became a terror. Worse, together, they created societies and organizations hellbent on debauchery, destruction, and butchery.
-The Necromancer's Notes, Codex Argentis VII, Page 62
***
Nine Years Ago
***
The servant grunted when Skaria punched him in the gut. "You thought I was joking?" she asked. "Karik'ar, hold him up. I think he needs a few more lessons." She smiled cruelly, and yanked a set of knuckledusters out of her pocket. "Hold him still, Karik'ar."
The first blow hit flesh. The second cracked something. He groaned, and Karik'ar gave her a look. For a Kai'Draeni brute, a savage warrior, he was kind of squeamish. It surprised her. She had heard dozens of stories about Kai'Draen, an in all of them, they were fearsome warriors, cruel and barbaric. Karik'ar didn't seem like that at all.
"Let him go," she said. Karik'ar dropped the servant, and he dropped to the ground, spitting up blood. "You're going to talk now," Skaria said. "You're going to tell me where your lord goes every other day, when he sneaks out in his cloak in the middle of the night."
"No," the servant said through painful breaths. So Skaria kicked his other side, feeling the rib give. Good, now he had two broken ribs.
"Let's try that again," she said. "You are going to bloody tell us. Or I'll break more ribs. Understand?" The servant nodded and spat a glob of blood against the pavement. "Good. Now, where does he go?"
"Some sewer passage," the servant said. "He asked me to come once, and have me carry something back to the manor. I don't know what it was, but it was wet, and smelled like metal."
"Blood," Karik'ar said. "Probably one of his 'experiments' he didn't finish up with there." He paused. "And which entrance to the sewers was it?" He leaned down and picked the battered man up by the scruff of his neck. His hand made the man look puny. "Don't think of lying. I can tell if you are." The man whimpered. "Well? I'm waiting!" Karik'ar growled.
"Port district. The one on the edge of the city, by the pier, between Stenton Street and the Fishersway." Skaria knew that entrance well enough. While the Fishersway and Stenton Street were raised up, out of the sea, the sewer system entrance was a large pipe, at sea level. "Go in at low tide, really easy. I only went five steps in, so I don't know where the rest of it went."
Karik'ar dropped him. "Go. Sucrry back to whatever little rat-hole you climbed out of," Skaria snapped. The man rushed back, away from the two of them, down the twisted alleyway, running as best he could with two broken ribs. "Just remember," Skaria said. The man stopped and turned back, eyes wide, "if you tell anyone, you're dead." He scurried away. Not that he'd tell anyone. He was too proud to tell anyone a twenty-one year old woman broke his ribs. He fell, he'd probably say.
"Alright," Skaria said, "shall we check out the sewers?"
"Let's go home first," Karik'ar said. "I think I need to talk to you about something before we go anywhere."
"Oh?" Skaria asked. "What is it?" She walked out of the alleyway, out the other way. The drops of blood down the path the servant had taken had frozen over, small, dark lumps of ice that traced a small trail out of the alleyway.
"I... well, I feel very uncomfortable with you having me beat up innocent people," Karik'ar said. He seemed uneasy, tense. Normally, such cues would be subtle on a normal person, but Karik'ar was a Kai'Draen, and a big one at that. Subtle for a man was obvious for a Kai'Draen.
"You get why it's necessary," Skaria said. Karik'ar frowned. He didn't get it, did he? He didn't understand what it was like to see a friend die in front of her, didn't understand that she knew who the people were, the ones with the blood on their hands. He didn't understand what it was like to be so close to revenge, to stabbing the ones who murdered Amshara and watching them suffer.
"I understand," Karik'ar said, "but he was innocent. In the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn't deserve to get his ribs cracked."
"He's an acceptable casualty," Skaria said flatly. Honestly, she hadn't been thinking of that. The servant was simply an obstacle to her path, an obstacle to her vengeance. He didn't matter. So what if he went home hurt? It would help her take down the Corpus Veritorum. They'd suffer by her hands. They'd suffer, and anyone in her way. "He was working with the enemy. That makes him the enemy as well."
"Do you hear yourself?" Karik'ar asked. "You're sounding like a monster. Like a tyrant. You're acting as if he is worthless. Like your friend. He was innocent, just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He frowned. "You're turning into them. The ones you're fighting. Convinced that the lives they're taking are of no consequence."
She glared at him. "You... you have no idea what you're saying!" she snarled. "If you don't want to help me, fine! Go back home, and stay there," she said. He went to leave, face twisted in what looked like sorrow. "Some bloody help you are. You know, every story I heard about Kai'Draen mentioned how strong they were. They never mentioned their cowardice." She spat the last word out like a curse.
Karik'ar whirled around. "Take that back!"
"No!" Skaria said. "You're a coward! A sniveling coward who's too afraid of a little blood and hurt to be any good!" His face twisted in anger, and Skaria saw something in his eyes, something dangerous that, for a moment, scared her. Then it was gone, replaced by hurt. She didn't know what he was going to do. Was he going to snap? Attack her? Or bawl?
Instead, he stalked away, cloak whipping about in the wind. "Fine," Skaria said. She made a face at him, though he couldn't see. "I'll do it without you," she said.
***
It was a short trip to the entrance the servant had described. The Fishersway was a winding street that ran right alongside the shore, and Stenton Street intersected it at a perpendicular angle. Right where Stenton Street ended, right on the edge of the sea, the sewer entrance jutted out, a semicircle of stone brick with rusty old steel bars. A small path led down to a little platform in front of it, and here Skaria stood, picking the lock, waiting for it to open.
After a few minutes of her fingers struggling in the cold, where the lockpick burned when it touched her skin, she heard the click of the lock, and the door, made of the same iron bars with bands of similarly rusted iron, swung open. She was in. Perfect.
Skaria stepped through the door, out of the biting wind. The sewer didn't stink or reek of human waste; it must have been an intake shaft, designed to take in seawater Both sides of it had a small path, with the majority of the sewer tunnel taken up by a canal of water. For what purpose the water flowed in, Skaria didn't know. She hadn't designed the sewers of Saefel Caeld. That was some stuffy academic in a time long gone, when they felt too sophisticated to use a simple chamber pot and-
She heard scurrying. Immediately, Skaria unsheathed her sword. It was dark in the sewer, the only light from the entrance that was far behind. Why hadn't she brought a torch? Normally, it was Karik'ar who remembered these things. It was Karik'ar who planned ahead.
She head something move, something like claw on stone. Her blade ready, she listened, and prayed to whoever was up there that whatever was with her couldn't see, like she couldn't. It was closer, closer, and Skaria had no clue what it was.
She heard a hiss, a squawk, and the scratch of claws. Her viper blade swung upward, as if by reflex. Almost immediately, an earsplitting screech ripped its way through the dark, cramped confines of the sewer, and something wet and hot splattered against Skaria's face. Blood.
Whatever it was, it scurried away, screeching. The scream became an echo as it went down a shadowed tunnel, and the only sight that Skaria saw of that thing was a hunched form that loped off, heading down an even darker tunnel. Steeling herself, she followed it.
Whatever it was, it must have heard her follow it. Skaria heard a splash. The thing must have swam away, in frigid brine. They couldn't be people, or Kai'Draen, or Vesperati; any dip longer than three minutes was almost certain death. The water was freezing, thanks to the Coldspire, and fatally so.
There was another splash, and Skaria backed up. Something was here with her, and she couldn't see anything in the dark. She backstepped, sword at the ready. There was more scurrying, and the tunnel filled with the sound of claw on stone. Maybe it was an echo, or maybe it was a multitude of the things.
She backpedaled faster, and that was where it went wrong. Her foot caught on a brick, and for one terrifying moment, she fell, balance gone, pitching backwards in the black void of the sewer tunnels. She couldn't see anything, she couldn't orient herself at all.
So when she fell into the water, it hit her extra hard.
The water surged around her, soaking through her gambeson and cloak in an instant, so cold it burned when it touched her skin.She couldn't see anything, couldn't orient herself, but she knew which way was up. Her hand broke the surface of the water, and she pushed towards it, ignoring the seawater that felt like the touch of death around her.
Her head broke the surface, and she gasped for air, sucking every frigid breath she could into her lungs. She could taste the salt as seawater ran into her mouth, and the faint taste of blood as it ashed off. She reached around, groping in the dark, before finding the ledge. Did she see light? Yes! She saw torchlight, warm and flickering, far down the path.
Something grabbed her. A claw, digging into her ankle, pulling her back. With one hand in a frozen fist around her sword, she tried to swing, tried to hack the arm of whatever held her down off, but the water pushed against her, slapping her face with freezing brine, slowing her sword down. Another claw pulled at her thigh, the top of her boot. Fortunately, she hadn't worn her other armor, otherwise she would have sunk by now.
A scream tore out of some hideous monster's throat as it jumped in, splashing Skaria with more of the frozen water. She saw the light get closer, the flickering torchlight spreading across the stone brick arches of the sewer, shadows cast on the wall.
And then the beast that jumped in pulled Skaria under.
She inhaled a mouthful of brine as claws tore at her armor. She felt, dimly through her numb skin, the piercing pain of teeth biting into her. She tried to struggle, but there were too many of the things that wrapped around her legs, too many claws and sinuous and bony arms wrapping around her feet like a net.
This was her death, then. Fitting, really. It was the dark place, black as a tomb, and filled with something. They'd find her skeleton, maybe, or she'd end her miserable existence as a pile of bones to remain undiscovered under the water.
And then a hand reached down and yanked her free.
Skaria gasped, coughed up a few lungfuls of water, shivering violently. She saw a flash of firelight, the shine of a sword, before crimson, reeking blood stained the blade. The claws and biting teeth were ripped off, and she was alive. Shivering, close to death, but alive.
She saw the beasts, illuminated in the firelight. Like grey, hunched over, emaciated forms, they prowled and snarled, human shaped, but with a gaping mouth and a solitary eye. Ghouls.
And she saw her savior, saw his large form, a tomahawk in one hand, a broadsword in the other hand. For a second, he stood, cloak aside on one shoulder, face twisted in a snarl. She saw the anger, the rage, the sheer brutality, savage fury kept under fierce discipline. As the light seemed to fade, she managed to weakly whisper out, "Karik'ar?"
Darkness fell as the first ghoul leaped towards him.
***
She sat back at the Yishraena home, dressed in a loose, warm tunic and dry trousers, swaddled in a large blanket, sitting right in front of the fire in the main room. Her hair was loose, around her shoulders, and still wet.
She had shivered violently as Karik'ar had carried her through the streets. But worse was when she relaxed. She had gone to sleep, and had dimly thought that it would be the final sleep, the last time she'd open her eyes. That was how one died from freezing.
But she had opened her eyes again. She had been stripped of her armor, her frozen garments, and awoke in a steaming bath, so hot that it burned. But it had warmed her up, kept her alive. Quickly after that, exhaustion set in and she slept
Now, she sat by the fire, a bandage around her arm. Apparently, Hasaema had stitched her wound together while she slept. Her sleep was deep, Hasaema said. One of her sons had helped, and he had agreed.
Karik'ar was behind her, grunting as Hasaema sewed his wounds shut. He had two dozen cuts all over his chest and arms, and only one of them needed catgut to close it. Worse, however, were the bites. Ghoul teeth curved in such a way that the bites needed stitches, and whatever pestilence was in their mouth- doubtless from all the fetid meat and offal they devoured- often spelled fever and death for those bitten, if left untreated. Hasaema had assured her that she had treated her with several ointments and salves. Skaria knew she told the truth; her arm reeked of something that smelled like rotten leaves and fruit.
Karik'ar had gotten six bites. Four of them were on his arm, one at the crook of his neck, and one on his leg. The one on his leg, and three of the ones on his arms had been stitched shut, and Hasaema was at work on the other at his arm. "You're lucky," she muttered. "Ghoul bites usually tear out chunks of flesh." She was tiny compared to the Kai'Draen, barely over half his height. She needed to stand on a stool to reach his arm as he sat in a chair that he had bought, the only furniture in the house large enough for him.
"Well, I cut off its head. Or half of its head." Karik'ar shrugged.
"Don't shrug. It makes my job harder, and your wound up on your neck might tear more. That one doesn't seem too deep, though." It overlapped against his scars and shone, a deeper red than his skin.
"I crushed that one against the wall before it bit me," Karik'ar said. "I think I drove its teeth into me." Hasaema winced at that.
There was a few more minutes of wincing as Hasaema finally finished sewing the wound together, and she opened a jar. Immediately, a foul-smelling stench filled the room, like the smell from Skaria's arm, only more pungent and powerful. She reached in, grabbed a clawful of the paste, and started smearing it on Karik'ar's thigh, arms, and neck.
He grimaced. "It burns a bit," he said.
"It goes away once it numbs the wound." Skaria didn't feel any burning underneath her bandages, just the dull ache of a wound. She'd have scars for sure.
After a minute or so of that, Hasaema put the jar away and pulled out her linen bandages. "It's lucky Karik'ar came back for you," she said as she wrapped the Kai'Draen with the help of her son. "You wouldn't have survived the walk home that wet. When you got here, your clothes had frozen hard as rock. We had to snap them open." She had seen that before. Some unlucky sap had fallen into the ocean, and when they fished him out, his shirt had hardened in minutes. It had crusted over with hoarfrost, and was almost as hard as armor, it seemed. Saefel Caeld definitely lived up to its name as the City of Cold.
Karik'ar limped over to her, sitting next to her. "You alright?" he asked.
"I thought I was going to die," she said. "I resigned myself to it."
"Well, you're not dead," he said, putting an arm around her. "Just... don't do anything without me, alright?" She nodded hollowly.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I got mad. I didn't mean what I said."
Karik'ar nodded. "I understand. Anger can rule us very easily. It doesn't take a lot to let it rule, to lose control for a moment." He sighed. "And I'm sorry. I could have stopped the man who killed your friend."
He could have. He could have intervened sooner, and saved her friend. "He was friendly to me. He wasn't mean like some of the other slave owners. He taught me to read. He fed me well. And after a while, I thought of him as a friend. And then he killed your friend. I didn't know what to do. I hesitated, and she died because of it. Please forgive me," he said.
Part of her wanted to hate him for that hesitation.
But the rest of hr couldn't hate him. "I forgive you." She looked at him. "I never want anyone else to end like that," she said. "I'll kill the rest of the Corpus Veritorum, if it's the last thing I do," she said.
"Alright," Karik'ar said. "We can go in once the wounds heal, and I have something to help us with it." He pulled out a book. "In here, it says that ghouls have developed a warning system. They're averse to the smell of their own blood. Tells them that a predator is near."
"They only attacked me once I got into the water, once the ghoul blood washed off," Skaria said.
"Yeah," Karik'ar said. "I think that if we can grab some ghoul guts, we can disguise ourselves. They're sold on the black market -apparently you can bake them into all sorts of nasty poisons- and it shouldn't be too hard to make some ghoul-warding fabrics." He sighed. "But tonight, rest."
Skaria nodded, leaned against him, and did just that. It felt good to be warm.