Do not doubt the craftiness of the Eight or their zealots. While one might want to avoid dramatic overestimation of their plans (one student of mine was thoroughly convinced that the entirety of Alberion was under sway of either Yazhara or Calcifrax), some careful prudence or paranoia would not go amiss.
-The Necromancer's Notes, Personal Files, Author Unknown
***
There were few things that Kazalibad wanted, which he thought quite ironic, seeing how the superstitious considered him the incarnation of avarice.
He walked through Lord Cydari's manor, (well, it wasn't a manor, really, more of a modest palace), and walked past piles of wealth. There were priceless artifacts on display, no doubt thaumaturgically warded, but still shown off in arrogance, the way a male peacock rears his tail. Tapestries of sumptuous cloth adorned the stone walls, in between canvas paintings, portraits crafted by fine masters, or landscapes so realistic they appeared to be windows. Even the drapes were silk.
But they were nothing compared to the treasure Kazalibad had Haema Rin working tirelessly to deliver to him.
Lady Cydari stepped out of a door, and frowned when she saw him. Kazalibad wore a skin, and an ill-fitting dress (the previous owner of the skin was another servant woman Lord Cydari didn't want hollering about his 'indecent' behavior), but the skin was starting to get old. "You again," she muttered. While Lord Cydari was a lecher, he still had a sort of charm to him that made it easier to forget his proclivities. His wife had none of that.
She was a creature of lust too, but not the same kind as her husband. He lusted after women, lusted after the pleasures of the flesh. She lusted after power, lusted after crowns and thrones and dozens of men and women kneeling before her. Kazalibad had turned his eye upon her, and saw the price of her soul, the price of unflinching loyalty.
It was a rusted, tarnished crown, a crumbling circlet of a thing, jewels covered in dust. The crown of the first of the Caeldari kings, before the cold nation was conquered by Alberion in ages past, and long before Caeldar's rich lords seceded from the kingdom to the south. Most lords wanted riches, but Lady Cydari wanted dominion.
"Yes, me again." Kazalibad let his true voice ring out, a deep rumble that utterly clashed with the woman's thin frame. Though it was beginning to stretch. "Have your servants draw me a bath."
"Of course." She didn't call him Master like the rest of the acolytes did, but that was out of necessity. While hiding in someone's skin was a very effective disguise, it could be undone.
"And call up Rin afterwards. Go find him if you don't immediately see him." Part of him enjoyed bossing her around. She scowled, a look that seemed as at home on her face as a rat in the sewer, and went off to issue the orders. "And tell him to bring me a change." She stopped, shuddered, and continued on.
Kazalibad took his time getting up to the bathchamber, but when he did, he found the water drawn and a veil of steam rising from the thing. Like most Caeldari furniture, it was oversized, fit for a bullish Kai'Draen tuskborn, and not a small human. It was perfect for him, however. Satisfied, he locked the doors.
He undid the dress and looked at himself in the mirror. Occasionally, when wearing a skin, especially a fresher one, from the prime of life, he felt a stirring inside him. Those carnal urges, however, were a pale shadow to the desire he used to feel, back when he was mortal. Ishta'ana had seduced him a few times when he had bound himself in skin again, but once he shed it, and embraced immortality, embraced godhood, her lust had no power over him.
The skin he wore, as he studied it, might have been a woman he would have wanted in his former, limited life. However, her fair form was rather tarnished by her sallow skin, limp and lusterless hair, and unseemly bulges around her stomach and legs where his compact form had stretched her. Either way, it would be nice to be rid of her.
Her fair face, with dead eyes, bulged and ripped as he tore free of her, the way a cicada tears free of its shell. He stood, eight feet of stony skin, eyes on his arms staring in the mirror. It felt nice, the hot air, the steam on his true skin.
He kicked the skin off his leg, stepping out of the woman as if she was a pair of discarded trousers, and threw her husk to the side, before stepping into the bathtub. Ah, bliss! It was one thing to know luxury, another to truly enjoy its fruits.
The door opened. "Master," Haema Rin said, carrying a large sack over his shoulder. "I come with your change in vestment." He undid the burlap sack, revealing an unremarkable man, unconscious. "Do you wish privacy?"
"No." Kazalibad pointed at a chair with a soapsuds-covered claw. "Sit. We have matters to discuss."
His sorcerer sat down, leaning the burlap sack against a washstand. "You wish to know how it is coming?"
Kazalibad leaned back and enjoyed the water soaking into his muscles, sore from being kept wrapped up in that accursed skin. He didn't relish getting back into one. "On second thought, keep the man for a later change, and cast a veil upon me. I rather like wearing my own skin."
"Of course." Haema Rin paused. "I will need your assistance with the matter you've been having me seek into."
"Assistance?" Kazalibad asked.
"I need the Cydari's to hire a composer. The more mentally unsound, the better." Haema Rin shrugged. "You understand the artistic type. They seek their vision, romanticizing madness as the necessary price."
"Usually that 'madness' comes from a bottle," Kazalibad said dismissively, "and an inflated ego."
"Yes, well, I plan to have him off himself," Haema Rin said. "But not until he serves our purpose."
"And that purpose is?" Kazalibad asked.
"Write me a viola song." Kazalibad blinked. Haema Rin's hobbies, he knew, included torturing people and torturing Kazalibad with that devil of an instrument. "You remember the name given to the object of your lust, correct?"
"It's the one thing I've wanted and cannot have," Kazalibad snarled. "My magic gave me immortality. Blood gives me invincibility. And soon, irresistibility." He was incapable of being slain. Soon, he would be incapable of being denied victory. "Dragon magic. Bloodsinging." Kazalibad lifted himself out of the tub and dried off with one of the Cydari's soft linen towels. They would be disgusted by his presence polluting their linens and their washroom, but Kazalibad didn't care for their comforts."Though to call the screams and roars of dragonkind lyrical is a bit of a stretch." He wrapped the towel around his waist, not to conceal anything (for there wasn't anything to conceal), just out of sensibility.
"It is not called singing because of their roars," Haema Rin said.
"Explain then."
"It would be easier if I showed you."
***
The air was too cold.
Angror stared out into the distance. His body wanted to shiver, or, rather, the weak part of his body. The cold air made the rings pierced through his nose burn, the same way the ones through his lips burned.
That filthy Red Claw was inside, and Angror could taste that rank halfling freak's pollution in the air. The shamans behind him, more skilled in the art of Soulsplitting than Angror was fit to know. They were whole persons, after all, with purer souls than Angror. All he knew was how to fight the foul abominations this one might summon. The Tuskborn warriors behind them, oblivious to the senses of the abomination's filthy soul.
One of the shamans stirred from his spot, spying over the city. "I can sense him," he said to Angror. Unlike Angror, this shaman hailed from Red Claw, and shared their target's crimson skin. The swamp dwellers disgusted him, but their chief paid handsomely. Well, handsomely enough for Angror's chief to lend the Red Claws his strongest warrior.
"Good. The cold disgusts me." Angror didn't hail from the wet, spiritsforsaken swamp that the Claw tribes did. He came from the warm plains, where daily he walked out in a sea of grass, a sea that had its own waves and swells.
"We find lodging first, then hunt him down," Angror said. "I'll be the one to dispatch him. And his whore." That blasted girl had given him a pain, and the shamans had to waste their soulpower upon his ruined form. She'd pay. Oh, how she'd pay.
Angror frowned as they neared the ship. They had reached an agreement with the ship captain, where the sailors would launch a boat. Their arrival would be discreet, as discreet as a bunch of strong warriors could be amidst a city of soft men and the vermin they called Vesperati. The ship they had hired was not one of good repute, and a little smuggling wasn't beneath them.
"Sirs." One of the sailors, who barely came up to Angror's chest, walked up to him. "The boat is ready." Angror followed him, down to a more secluded part of the deck. There, a rope ladder led down to a small boat, bouncing gently against the ship's hull.
It was a quick climb down, but unlike the massive ship, this small boat rocked whenever they stepped in it. The sailors stared at them, before a menacing look from Angror got them nervously avoiding eye contact. Good.
They got moving soon, and Angror yanked the fur cloak up closer around his face. For once, he was glad of the extra fur. It was one thing to garb oneself, but to go about like the soft men who lived behind walls, wearing another beast's skin over yours? It was unnatural. Angror liked the feel of the sun on his skin, the wind on his chest, the rain on his back, and the grass around his legs. Wrapping one's body like that was downright strange, but in these cold climes it was necessity.
Their boat didn't go to the docks, but instead their boat mingled with other fishing vessels, moving closer and closer to the grey cliff face. The Tuskborn stared off, holding onto their spears, their bows, and their knives.
As the sailors navigated out of sight of the city, Angror saw where they were headed. A great crack in the cliff face, a cave, like a chasm opening into the stone, instead of underneath them. Slowly, they paddled in.
Cold sunlight narrowed, then dimmed into a faint illumination, and all Angror could see was the shine of sun on black water. "Almost there," the sailor said. Good.
They arrived.
The pier was a thing constructed out of old wood by someone who only had a faint idea of what carpentry was. Lanterns cast eerie illumination over fellow smugglers.
Angror stepped off the boat, glad to be on dry, firm land. One of the shamans began to dole out coins to the soft, weak men, and Angror moved onward. "This way," one of the smugglers said.
He led Angror to a door, knocked three times, and stepped back. The door opened, and the shamans filed out.
They had arrived at Saefel Caeld. And soon, their prey would die.
***
The prisoner wore a pair of filthy trousers, and, at the moment, seemed unconscious. His hands were shackled with alchemically-forged steel manacles, and in the depths of the Cydari dungeon, no less than a dozen of Kazalibad's acolytes kept watch.
He was in incredible shape, despite his current malnutrition. His body, though beginning to waste away, was still powerfully built. His head was covered in stubble, the result of his head being shaved, and now beginning to grow hair. His arms, where not bleeding or covered in dried blood, had elaborate tattoos, dragon tattoos.
"He's from... well, it is similar to a monastic order," Haema Rin said. "Though without the requirement of abstinence."
"Oh?" Kazalibad asked.
"Well, it's quite the opposite. Each member of the order has several partners, to ensure they pass on offspring. Celibacy is forbidden, for they need to produce more of their blood."
"I see," Kazalibad said. "And why, per se?"
Haema Rin stepped over to the table at the side, and picked up what appeared to be a plain stick. Knowing the sorcerer, however, it could be anything, though probably nasty. Alas, it turned out to be a mundane stick. Haema Rin jabbed the prisoner in the head, prodding him until he awoke.
The prisoner snarled something in a language, and Haema Rin smiled. "There. Now he's awake. And now, time for the show."
The man kept screaming his curses. But as he did so, a curious thing happened. His flesh began to glow, as if lit with an inner fire. The closest thing it resembled was a paper lantern, the kind strung up in those garish festivals in the Qin empire.
"Dragon blood. He has dragon blood." Kazalibad turned to Haema Rin. "And, what does this have to do with anything?"
"This." Haema Rin picked up a spear and another stick, this time with a plate affixed to the end of it. "First, we bleed our prisoner," he said. Taking up the spear, he jabbed the man, giving a shallow cut across the man's arm. The next stick collected some of the glowing blood on the plate, which shone like molten metal.
He set the plate on the table and detached the stick from the plate. Kazalibad stared at the curls of smoke pouring out over the rim. It was burning the table.
Haema Rin waved his hand over it, and a strange sound filled the room. It was like the sound of wind whistling through rocks and crevices, but it was an alien song, one sung by no earthly instrument. Still, Kazalibad could hear a melody to it.
Then, Haema Rin hummed the melody. The blood lit up with almost blinding light. "You can control it?" he asked.
"Yes." Haema Rin smiled. "I can control it, enhance it, and more importantly, I can stop it. Unfortunately, I don't know the whole melody, and I'm terrible at transcribing music. Thus, a court musician." He smiled. "It works on the same principle as resonance. That's what it is, really. If I can make someone's blood resonate with my song, I control them.
Kazalibad nodded. "I'll need the replacement skin, and then I'll secure one for you."
Haema Rin smiled. "Very well. I'll get him for you." He smiled. This would give him the thorn in the Ranger's side. It would neuter his power, and render him useless.
And then, his power would be Kazalibad's.
***
Angror stalked through the town, keeping the hood down over his face, the cowl wrapped around his jaw high enough to cover his tusks. The cold air made the rings that pierced them burn with a cold fire.
He saw them all, sickly thin men and women, weak and soft from their time behind stone walls. Worse, they consorted with the vermin, the Vesperati. He didn't see any of the walking weeds, the Calixa, but that was no doubt because of the cold clime, and not the sensibilities of these city-bred men. Calixa were abominations, neither tree nor beast. Such was known. Vesperati were beasts, and liars as well. Such was known.
They arrived at the inn the smugglers spoke of, and Angror didn't bother to wait. He barged in, shoved aside a man sitting at the counter, and glared down at the innkeeper. "Three rooms."
"Excuse me," the man he had just shoved over said indignantly, "I was standing there, and you have no right to push me! That is assault! All I need to do is tell the guards-"
Angror turned and faced the man. "Pig, that would only be if you lived that long." He gave a growl of annoyance, and turned back to the unfortunate innkeeper. The man, very wisely, hurried away.
Angror dropped a few coins on the counter. A few of the inn's patrons, over at a table to his left, watched. They didn't interfere; no one with any sense would. There were stories that a Kai'Draen, fueled by rage, could rip a man's arm off. And judging by the size of Angror's arm, there was probably truth to that claim.
"That's... I'm afraid that's not enough for one room."
Angror leaned down into the pale man's face. "I think it is." His tone dared the man to disagree, and promised bloody results to that course of action. The other Tuskborn, who had come into the inn, stared at him menacingly.
"V...very well. I'll show you to it." The man fetched a few keys hanging off the pegboard behind him, and led them through a hallway. Very soon, Angror sat in his room, with a fire burning in the hearth.
He had tossed the fur cloak off, and had removed the stifling garment, exposing his chest. Slowly, the room heated up from the fire. Angror didn't really notice that. He was preparing himself.
To kill an abomination, one had to go through several rituals. Purity must be maintained, and even approaching an abomination was dangerous. Angror, though his blood was tainted, had gone through several trials, several ordeals, purifying his soul. Now, he was almost like a whole man.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, as the rest of the shamans stepped in. There had to be other rites done, other spirits invoked, before they could rid the world of the beast that had been mistakenly given a name.
"Arise, Angror," one of the shamans, a Kai'Draen named Harag'ai. Angror, who had been kneeling, rose to his full height. "You must be marked, so the gods and spirits may see your deeds and find you worthy."
Angror nodded. "A full marking? Or partial?"
"This scourge is crafty. Thus, we have decided upon a full marking. Prepare yourself." Angror nodded, and quickly stepped out of his trousers, leaving him clad only in his loincloth. All of his body had to be sanctified, gifted with the boons of the spirits.
"Kneel, and let us anoint you." Angror knelt again. He could feel the rough floorboards beneath his knees, his toes. It was nice to be able to feel again, and not have the body wrapped up in another beast's fur.
The other Tuskborn would be similarly anointed, but as Angror's very soul was filthy, that couldn't happen here. The other room would do.
Harag'ai withdrew a jar made out of some sort of gourd, decorated with paint and beads. Opening the jar, he withdrew a fine powder. To the uninitiated, it would be ash, but it wasn't. It was bone dust. Specifically, bone dust from a former abomination, captured and, most likely, given a sky burial. Vultures would pick at the unclean flesh, and strip it away, and then, after the bones dried, they were ground into powder.
Harag'ai motioned, and another shaman (Angror believed his name to be Yigrad'ah) withdrew a knife, made from sharpened flint. He raised his hand over the warrior's head, and deftly sliced across his palm.
Hot blood dripped down onto his face, down his head, a few drops hitting his chest. "See blood, blood spilled for blood," the shamans intoned. "See blood, blood spilled for death." Harag'ai sprinkled the bone dust over Angror. "See blood, blood spilled for purity."
That was the preliminary anointing. Now, the real marking began.
Harag'ai grabbed a cloth from inside his pack and wiped all but a small bit of the blood-and-bone-dust mixture off Angror's face. Now, they would invoke the spirits.
First, they withdrew the pastes. Several bowls, each containing paste, clattered as Harag'ai set them down. Red, indigo, gold, white, and black; they really were going to have a full marking. But first, his soul must be strengthened. They withdrew a bottle, made of a whole skull, with all the holes plugged by some hide that had been shrunken on. The soul oil.
"For mind," Harag'ai said, "that you might know, and have understanding." He undid the lid of the bottle, put some on his fingertip, and smeared a line on Angror's forehead. Immediately, it had an effect. His vision swam as his soul began to awaken. That oil, he learned, was made from several plants, including sacred mushrooms some of the elder shamans consumed to see visions.
"For force," Haragai intoned, "that you may be, and have purpose." He smeared some on the hollow at the base of Angror's neck, where his collarbone met. A warmth spread through his chest, a powerful vigor. Force, or aether as foreigners called it, gave him vitality.
"For void," Yigrad'ah said behind him, as Harag'ai passed him the oil, "that you may empty, and have openness." He smeared it at the base of Angror's spine, just above the waistcord of his loincloth. His balance fluctuated, and dizziness overtook him, but only for a moment. Angror knew what was coming next. He moved his waistcord down an inch or two, making sure he was still modestly covered, but exposing the handswidth of flesh below his navel.
"For life," Harag'ai said, "that you may feel, and have sensation." A warmth spread through his lower body, down to his knees, creeping up to his , and emotions stirred inside him, primal urges demanding release. Lust and bloodlust, twin emotions, joined together in an atavistic impulse that thundered through his bones. Every nerve of his body tingled, as if being jabbed and pricked by tiny needles, as his senses came alive. He adjusted his loincloth.
"For fire," Yigrad'ah said, "that you may fight, and have victory." Angror held his palms forth, and two small swipes of the soul oil made his hands feel like they were on fire.
"For earth," he said again, "that you may walk, and have strength." He rubbed the soles of Angror's feet, causing him to flex his toes, which quickly went numb.
"For water," Harag'ai said, "that you may beat, and have vitality." He made an X over Angror's heart. The muscles in Angror's chest quivered as more strange sensation rippled through him.
"For air," Yigrad'ah finished, "that you may speak, and have willpower." Angror raised his chin, and received two swipes of oil on his neck. His soul awoke.
"Now, receive our marks," the shamans intoned.
Harag'ai knelt down. "I give you the mark of the war-drinker," he said, "that you may taste battle and savor it, that your heart may thirst for it." He drew on Angror's chest, a crescent opening downward, in white paste.
Yigrad'ah knelt down. "I give you the mark of the harvester of spears," he said, "that your enemies' weapons be like chaff to you." He drew out the indigo paste. This was a more complicated mark. First, he made circles of the dark around Angror's nipples. Then, straight across, he connected the two circles with a line. He drew, from the center of Angror's chest, a vertical line capped with an arrowhead. He added two more spears, one on each side of the first, parallel to the first.
"I give you the mark of the swampborn treader," said one of the other shamans. It must have been a Claw original mark, for Angror had never heard of that one, much less received it. "Rise."
Angror rose, and the shaman marked him with black paste. IT consisted of two bands wrapping around his lower calf, one in the middle of his calf, the other just above his ankles. Dots, spaced equidistant, ringed right between the upper and lower line.
"I give you the mark of the unbreaking strength," another shaman said. That was one mark Angror knew well. First, they outlined his pectorals in black. Then, using the red paste, they painted red dots inside, tracing a second outline within the first. These dots continued to his bicep, where they became red bands encircling his whole upper arm, making the feathers that traced their way up his arm stick to his skin. Finally, vertical lines led down to his wrist in black.
"I give you the mark of the fathomless depths," Harag'ai said. He drew all the pastes out, but mostly used the golden paste. He made an arc, tracing the flare of Angror's ribcage, before outlining the muscles of Angror's abdomen, and inscribing multicolored symbols in each drawn compartment.
"I give you the mark of the hog-wolf, beast of the Tuskborn." One of the nameless shamans said. He must be well-versed in the mysteries, to call upon such ancient spirits. He moved around, drawing intricate designs of many colors Angror's back, before tracing the designs over the Kai'Draen's broad shoulders, down his chest.
"And I give you the mark of the hawk, beast of the Featherborn," that same shaman said. He took all the colors again, and painted over Angror's face. Black went over his eyes, white on his nose, indigo on the hollow of his cheekbones. A crown design, still not disturbing the bone dust and blood, traced his hairline. Red colored his jaw.
"See marks, marks for power," they intoned. "See marks, marks for spirit. See marks, marks for gifts."
Angror sank down, kneeling.
He was ready.
The abomination named Karik'ar was ready to die.
***
Sergio Tallemici gawked at the opulence of the Cydari manor. "Please," the young man said, "this way." Sergio had a few drinks, but even so, he could still follow the man.
"I am very honored to be here," Sergio said. "Finally, someone recognizes my genius." Having been tossed out of the Solstael household, and the Kansfael household, and the Jessamin household taught him the valuable lesson that those who didn't want to suffer genius didn't deserve it's fruits.
So what if he drank a little bit? So what if he was a flirt? Ladies liked poets, and there was nothing wrong with that. But there was something wrong with the way they were headed. "Shouldn't we be going the other way?" This area wasn't dirty, per se, but definitely less refined than other parts of the manor, the kind of place where servants were housed. Not someone who was an eminent genius like himself.
"You'll be lodged down here," the man said.
"I am not some piece of servant trash you can boss around!" Sergio said. "I am a respectable musician, and a respectable composer!" Had the Academy of Music been able to see his genius, he would have been able to make it official, with a degree and the coveted lyre medallion.
The man stared at him. His eyes glazed over for a second, but Sergio had a startling sensation, the feeling that the man wasn't looking at him, but looking into him, and very suddenly, he felt exposed beneath those dull eyes.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. "I think you misunderstand me." The man smiled. "These are the finest quarters we can offer you, as many an esteemed lord and lady have arrived to hear your work."
Sergio was stunned. He knew he was a genius, but, finally, people are recognizing it? "Well then," he said, "I best get to work."
"We've supplied you with staff paper. Whatever you feel like writing," he said. Sergio nodded, and stepped into the room.
It was quite austere, with a small lantern on one side of a large table, a chair, and a bed. Sergio settled down, staring at the stack of paper in front of him. Hmm.
A melody was already forming in his head, something fast-paced, that inspired feelings of warmth and heat, carrying complex harmonies, counter-melodies, and other tricks. It was as if he could hear it playing through his head.
He started writing it, maniacally, a man possessed. And, after he got through the general thrust of the melody down, he started thinking of a title. Something blood. Something to do with blood. It was describing the blood, the lifeblood.
Something hot. Not fire, no. Fire blood didn't have the right sound, but it was close. Aha! In his feverish excitement, he figured it out.
Sergio wrote, in spidery characters at the top, the name of this piece. Fever Blood.
Then, he continued to write.