A Grim Tapestry
I
“Careful you fool” Yarlae hissed. She took a step back from the precipice from which she had very nearly just tumbled, trying not to show the panic that was coursing through her. Far below, wicked, jagged rocks jutted out from the river Tryn’s cold dark waters, a fall would mean certain death.
Thankfully that had not been her fate, her elven born agility and poise saving her. She shot Markas a look of pure venom, masking the flush of fear. In her mind she felt like she was actually falling. Were her tremors borne of terror or anger? Likely both, she realised.
For his part Markas shot her a half apologetic look and a shrug. Markas Weiss was a boorish man of few words which suited her just fine. The man was a dullard anyway and they were here for money not conversation.
The company consisted of her, Markas, a mercurial old warrior who had only ever been known as Wulf and at the rear of the group, Vasilya, a young quiet mage dressed in flowing robes that were entirely impractical for their current endeavour.
And that endeavour was treasure. Responding to a tip from one of Wulf’s many dubious associates, they now found themselves in North Arbora traversing the gully that lead to the Manse de Poulian. The manse was now long abandoned and decrepit but if their source was to be believed, it was also the resting place of a hidden sizable cache of valuables, the ill gotten gains of a band of brigands who’s despicable deeds had finally caught up with them in a very terminal way. She only hoped that the information was worth the price they had paid, their last two leads had been less than lucrative.
****
“It was Burgetts lots base you see” the scrawny individual who had only identified himself as ‘Red’ had explained, between swigs of Golden Best. Of course anything served in the Tattered Fox was far from the best of anything but it did taste slightly better than the urine it so strongly resembled. That night the inn was full of heady aromas and bawdy banter, all the better to conduct clandestine conversations. The attendees of this impromptu meeting were well used to tuning out the background activities of the Tattered Fox and Wulf bade ‘Red’ continue with a curt gesture.
“Yep, Burgetts lot” the informant continued, his reddish mop hung lank and filthy round his temples, framing what seemed to be a permanent scowl. Every now and then his head jerked involuntarily, doubtless the mark of some substance abuse. The tic sent drops of sweat flying with every motion and Yarlae surreptitiously covered her drink with her hand.
“They had quite the stash from what I understand, ‘course that lot committed many a misdeed over the years as you well know”, he shot a knowing look at Wulf and drained his pint. Wulf grunted noncommittally and gestured for a serving wench to bring another round.
“And then of course they were bought low at Halgen’s Hill, the whole sorry lot of them, and all that loot has been just waiting there, at their hideout. Hidden away I've no doubt but I imagine it’s well worth a look at any rate. Just so happens I have the key to the tower where it’s held, taken off Burgett’s very corpse no less! Yours for the right price, if you’re interested that is'', he added, with a sly look. He spasmed again, thankfully before accepting his drink from the maid. He took a long draught from the stein, spilling ale down his front as he jerked uncontrollably once again. He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand and waited expectantly.
Markas stopped picking his teeth with a dirk, planting the blade point down in the dark oak table before sneering unpleasantly.
“An’ why you not gone after this great prize yourself eh?” his rasping voice low and spiteful. “Seems just too good to be true, lest you trying to trick us? Eh?” He jerked the dirk from the table top, waving it accusingly.
Red lowered his half empty stein to the table and raised his hands placatingly. He was missing half his ring finger on his left hand Yarlae noticed. No doubt there was some grim story to be told there, she idly mused.
“Do I look like an adventurer, friend?” he retorted. “I’m not like to go off into the mountains on my own, treasure or no treasure. I’m no warrior, as you can plainly see, I'd not last a minute in a fight. No, no I'm not capable of this task, you mark my words, but you lot…” He lowered his hands, reaching for his drink again. “Besides” he added, with a sideways glance, “I only came into possession of the key and the location of the hideout recently didn’t I?”
Something about the way that he said ‘possession’ jolted Yarlae from her half-reverie. A warrior he most certainly was not but she could imagine him quite capable of a cowardly murder, skulking in the shadows. For her part she believed the man's tale, Wulf wasn’t the kind of man you deceived, not unless you had a death wish.
Negotiations had been made, more alcohol quaffed and coin parted with. The unkempt informant had stuffed his gains into a torn and stained jerkin before slinking off into the night, a wretch returning to his natural habitat.
Now Wulf stood, his face impassive, the key hanging from his belt, his warhammer slung over one shoulder. A two handed weapon, Wulf swung it with a disciplined, practised, ease such that Yarlae suspected him to be a Knight of the Realm. Still, they didn't talk of such things. They didn't really talk at all, strictly business, always.
It had taken a week to reach Blackvale. The nearest town to Manse De Poulain, Blackvale was nearly desolate, not uncommon in Arbora where predation from ghouls and worse could ravage populations. The people who were still there were sullen, drawn, but they had been able to provide some accommodation and supplies. When pressed about the nearby Manse they had only said it was a place of horrors. Monsters dwelled within, they said. No one went near the place. Yarlae had been glad to leave the bleak location, though the road ahead was no less inhospitable. Rising above the dark forests of Arbora, their winding path took them into the hills. Through treacherous crags and climbs they had journeyed and now the more dangerous terrain lay behind them. There was now but a short ascent before them to the manse above. They would be there soon.
“Take point” Wulf said to Yarlae, with the natural authority that had made him de facto leader of the company and once again belied his probable military background. Much about him fit that assumption Yarlae realised, from his neat grey beard to the immaculate condition of his armour and weapon. She moved swiftly to the head of the group, shooting Markas a dirty look as she passed. She received a nasty sneer in return though she didn’t see it. Unslinging her bow, she adopted a low crouch and drew an arrow.
“Use those half elven eyes of yours” Wulf instructed. “Scout ahead, thirty feet, we’ll follow. Come back once you have checked the path ahead and the gate.” He held up a hand, signalling those behind him. The brigand and mage drew to a halt. Vasilya looked around nervously whilst Markas took the opportunity to scrape filth from his boots with his blade, proceeding to wipe the blade clean on his trousers.
Yarlae moved off quickly, even crouched; she moved almost as fast as her normal gait; there was a smoothness and elegance to her motion, a boon of her mongrel heritage, as were her preternatural senses. She was the company’s scout, seeing dangers and foes long before her cohorts. She had never known her father. He had been absent at her birth and ever since. Her mother had refused to speak of him, and the look on her face, the rare occasion that Yarlae might broach the subject combined with the scars that marked her, suggested that her conception had been far from a loving affair. Yarlae soon learned to stop asking.
Her mother was taken from her on her 13th Birthday. A simple black fletched arrow through her throat, a simple and swift death that went unnoticed and unremarked. Yarlae had been on her own ever since and had ever since been doing whatever she needed to survive, no matter how unpleasant.
She caught herself again. She had a tendency to drift, often at inopportune times. Sometimes she even fancied she could see things that hadn’t happened yet, Though she couldn’t do it on command. It came unbidden, uncalled, premonitions through daydreams. They didn’t always come true, but often she would find her mind slipping, imagining future events that would then sometimes come to pass. Always minor, and often dismissable as coincidence. Was it just a personality trait? Or another mark of her mixed blood? Either way, it irritated her, almost as much as her ears, too misshapen to be human yet lacking the natural elegance and point of the fey folk.
Still, those ears had their advantages and she strained them now to hear any activity ahead as she neared the outer walls of the Manse. Nothing. Her acute vision also betrayed no presence. Stayed for a moment, scanning the building, picking out points of interest and checking for any sounds or movement, but there was only silence. Happy enough that she was alone she carried out a quick but thorough close inspection of the gate and wall, noting a possible point of ingress. She looked back behind her, true to his word Wulf and the remainder of the company were about thirty feet behind. They would be hidden to most but Yarlae picked them out with little difficulty. She made her way back down the slope, rejoining them;
“Nothing, '' she confirmed. “It’s quiet as the grave up there. The main gate is barred but there is a small door higher up above the wall that we should be able to reach with that.” she pointed at the coiled rope at Markas’s waist. The main tower seems to be at the back of the complex, I couldn't see if it was easily reachable from outside. I imagine we’ll be able to determine that from the top of the wall.”
Wulf nodded. “Let's get to it then”.
II
Gaining access had been as easy as Yarlae had indicated. Scaling the wall with the aid of Markas’ hook and rope they soon found themselves atop the outer wall standing by the door that Yarlae had spied. Her keen eyes could make out another door on the opposite wall that was closer to the tower. Surprisingly there was no apparent access to the tower from the ground level, a barren courtyard littered with debris but no doors that could be seen, no way of gaining access to the manse proper. Only this door and its twin on the other side. With few other options and no apparent path they proceeded. The door was no match for Wulf’s warhammer, stoved in after a few mighty swings. Silence and darkness lay on the other side. It was growing darker outside too, the sun dipping behind the mountains. They stepped inside and Vasilya muttered an incantation. A sconce nearby sparked into flame from which Markas lit an oil soaked torch.
The passageway ahead was empty save a few hangings and an empty weapons rack, presumably for defending the fort. For a fort it seemed to be, no mere domicile. A chill wind whistled past and the hanging banners fluttered even as the burning torch sputtered. Markas moved the torch in front of him, shielding it from the elements as they moved deeper inside Manse De Poulain.
They proceeded down the corridor cautiously. Wulf and Markas at the fore, Yarlae and Vasilya behind. Presently they came to a staircase descending, it appeared that the path to the tower would be anything but straightforward.
Descending the winding staircase they still encountered no resistance. No horrors launched themselves at the company, there was no apparent threat. Everything was still, even the wind had died down, though the torch still sputtered occasionally as though the very darkness was trying to smother the flame. Only their breathing belied any life at all. At the bottom of the stairs was an unlocked door to a room beyond which another short passage led to another set of descending steps. Wulf stopped, raising his hand in a fist out of habit.
“This isn't right, he growled. If we go down again we will be under the fort. We shall turn back, retrace our steps. See if we can find another path to the tower”. There was no argument, there never was with Wulf. They turned around and retrod their path. However, at the door to the previous staircase a magical barrier fizzed and sparked.
“I knew it”, Markas hissed. “A trap!”
He was not wrong, it was then that they struck.
Over a dozen in number, they emerged from the shadows, ambushing the company from behind. Yet the quartet were not unprepared. They had been on guard since entering the Manse and whirled to meet the horrors head on. Their attackers were fast, blurs of cloth and flesh that struck at a blinding speed in the gloom. Markas fended one off with his torch scorching its flesh and setting its garb alight. It howled as it burned, becoming fully alight unnaturally quickly, ablaze like dry tinder. A flailing flaming figure that illuminated the rest of its brethren.
They were abominations, patchwork monstrosities, deformed and mangled and grotesque. But for all that, they were horribly, identifiably, human. They were amalgamations of several individuals sewn and melded together into new monstrous forms by some unseen twisted architect. Yet they WERE human, men and women, and although their forms were monstrous their faces still carried a very obvious fear. They were scared of the fire. The wretch on the floor had stopped screaming and flailing. The flame was guttering, dying out and turning a mysterious violet as it waned. Soon the only light was again Markas' torch. Emboldened once more by the darkness the horrors attacked again.
In the gloom the company fought for their lives. Markas loosed a trio of throwing knives, yet, although all struck true, none of his targets fell. Within moments they were on him and though he tried to strike them with the torch he was overwhelmed, the brand was struck from his hand and fell to the floor, still burning. He grappled with two of the constructs, managing to gain space enough to draw his short sword.
Wulf bellowed as he swung his warhammer in wide irresistible arcs, caving in the head of one foe and crushing the chest of another. Though they fell, they rose once more, mangled face and concave torso closing in on the mighty warrior as he retreated, all the while still swinging his weapon. Though they looked human, they recovered from what would normally be mortal wounds, their ravaged forms continuing to attack. They could be slowed but only the most destructive of blows could stop them. He lashed out once more and fairly split the abomination in two such was the force of his strike. The creature spasmed on the floor, broken limbs trying to gain purchase and rise. These things did not bleed, he noticed. Instead their wounds drew forth a viscous tar-like ichor.
Markas had gained the upper hand. For all his brutishness and lack of charm he was a formidable warrior and he hewed and chopped with his blade, striking limbs from bodies and cleaving his foes apart. More than once though, his blade would lodge in the torso of an enemy, the thick sludge preventing clean strikes.
Yarlae also fared well, innate and honed fighting skills coming to the fore. Graceful compared to Markas’ direct approach she fended off foes with her gilded short bow even as she dispatched others with a curved elvish long dagger, it had belonged to her mother and she had lost count of the lives it had ended in her hands. The blade flashed and flickered in the gloom as she sliced and slashed, her half elven eyes affording her superior eyesight in the dark. Yet, for all her prowess and elan, the foes she struck down rose once more. The weapon unsuited to the brutal dismemberment that this enemy required.
Vasilya desperately defended herself against no less than four of the patchwork horrors. Pressed into a corner, she had thrown up a kinetic barrier to protect herself but the strain on her face made it apparent that she had no power spare to mount any kind of attack. Thankfully Markas soon came to her aid, decapitating two of the foe with heavy swings before running the other two through and bisecting them. Wulf, having obliterated his opponents, moved over to assist Yarlae, crushing her opponents with mighty overhead swings.
Presently all of the monstrosities were down, smashed or cut to pieces, hacked apart and torn asunder. Bodies and limbs lay all around. Markas picked up the sputtering torch, carefully coaxing the lambent flame back to life.
“What the hell was that?” he scowled, holding the torch low and peering at the vanquished adversaries. He screwed his face up in distaste and spat on the piles of flesh. He tried to clear his sword of the sticky tar like ichor but it clung to the blade, stubbornly refusing to wipe clean. He used the torch to burn the residue off instead, grunting with satisfaction as the blade flared brightly with that strange violet hue. Whatever these horrors had in place of blood, it was highly combustible.
“Monsters” Vasilya whispered, visibly shaken by the experience. “But they had human faces, were these… people?”
Wulf prodded one with his warhammer. “Maybe once, not now. Look, stitched, these things were made, not born” He turned, his face set.
“They seemed to be afraid of fire. We should make more torches lest we encounter more. Their blood burns well enough, we’ll take their wrappings and soak them in it. Find staves for the torches. To it, now!” He barked at Yarlae and Markas. Without another word the half-elf and brigand set to their grim task. Wulf turned his attention to the young mage;
“Vasilya” She turned, a haunted look in her eyes.
“Can you do anything about this door? I’d just as soon not venture further into the depths.” She shut her eyes and held a hand to the door. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The seal on the door grew brighter and thrummed but after a moment she dropped her hand.
“It is beyond me”, she replied, shakily. “Even were I at full power I suspect that these magicks would be too much for me to overcome. Whoever set these wards is mightier than me by far.” She shuddered as the effort took its toll.
“So be it,” muttered Wulf. “Deeper then, into the trap.”
III
The path was long and winding and they were tested several times more as they ventured into the depths. Each time, the monsters were beaten back at minimal cost, the torches holding the foes at bay even as each force increased in number. Vasilya in particular, proved instrumental in their success, conjuring walls of flame to repel the attackers. Still, every encounter took its toll and the fire wall became less potent with every assault as her power waned.
It was Vasilya that was the first to fall. Just as, after what seemed an interminable succession of chambers and passageways in the depths, the path began to ascend. Half way up a mighty set of steps seemingly carved into the very walls, they took her.
From darkened alcoves they sprang, leaping onto the mage and the mage alone. Her screams faded and then halted abruptly as she fell from the steps and plunged into the depths. Though the remaining constructs were swiftly dispatched by the remainder of the company there was no sign of Vasilya amongst the twisted and crumpled forms at the bottom of the shaft. A brief search was conducted but they found no trace of the young mage, and returned to their original path. Yarlae had wanted to expand the search for Vasilya but Wulf wished not to tarry any longer and said as much. No one argued with Wulf. They abandoned the mage and continued.
After a long and perturbingly eventless ascent Wulf judged that they were at around ground level once more. Still they ascended, with no way to leave the winding upward procession of steps and passageways, till finally the path levelled off. Ahead stretched another short corridor, lined once again with tapestries and hangings leading to another exterior door. Once outside, it became apparent that they were on the opposite side of the courtyard, atop the far side of the walls they had gained entry by. Yarlae’s keen eyes could see the barred gate in the gloom some distance away. She could also see a door leading to the Tower, invisible before, hidden behind a rising parapet. She communicated this information to the group before checking the outside of the wall. A sheer drop greeted her. Even her enhanced visual acuity could not detect anything below. There was to be no escape there. She returned to the group;
Wulf was silent, deep in thought, weighing up the options. They had already lost one of their number and he was greatly perturbed by the exactness of the enemy's strike. They had purposely targeted and eliminated the company's strongest defensive asset, suggesting a tactical acumen far beyond that of mindless monsters. He ruminated, resting on his Warhammer, running one hand through his beard whilst his eyes continued to monitor vigilantly for threats.
“Bugger this for a fool's errand” Markas snarled. He hurled his burning torch into the courtyard. It fell to the ground, still ablaze, the light betraying no sign of activity, triggering no response. It was a drop of about two dozen feet, far from impossible but not without risk of injury.
“I’ll get that gate unbarred, let’s get out of here. Yarlae, cover me just in case”. He had the grace to look at Wulf, who paused a moment before assenting with a grim nod, Without another word Markas went over the edge. Hanging onto the wall and bracing himself he leapt away, tucking himself into a roll to mitigate the impact. Nonetheless he landed awkwardly, gingerly getting to his feet before retrieving the torch. He drew his sword and moved off toward the gate unsteadily.
He took perhaps a dozen steps.
They erupted from the ground, seizing him on all sides. He screamed and struck out with both brand and blade but they were swiftly knocked from his grasp and he was overwhelmed in moments. He disappeared under a mound of monstrous forms and was dragged into the shadows, his cries fading into the gloom.
Yarlae lowered her bow. She had not even had time to loose an arrow.
Nor did they have time to process. The door behind them burst open, a horde of abominations spilling out, grasping and clawing.
Yarlae recoiled in horror; she bought her bow back up and fired an arrow almost point blank through the eye of one of the constructs. Wulf roared and swung his warhammer one handed, best as he could, the other brandishing the torch, waving the flame in front of them to try to keep the horde at bay.
With no other recourse, they fell back, inexorably, along the wall towards the tower.
“We’re being herded!” Yarlae realised.
“Aye” Wulf shouted back “dark forces are at work here child. Still, we have no other choice. “
At pace, they retreated along the wall, falling back towards the tower. Pressed by the horde. The door looked sturdy but the key at Wulf’s belt performed it’s promised purpose and they hurriedly made to bolt and bar the door behind them. Within moments, however, the door started to shake and rock on its hinges as monstrous bodies slammed against it.
“That’ll not hold long. We need to move” Wulf said. “Come, this way”
The only way was up.
IV
The tower was massive. The first level consisted of several rooms and Wulf and Yarlae made quick improvised barricades with the hope of buying more time. Manoeuvring cabinets and tables into makeshift barriers, anything that might slow the mass of flesh behind them. As they made it to the second floor they heard the door below break. They had run out of time. The barricades became more basic, more hastily constructed, soon, the horde reached them, and once more they were in a fighting retreat, toppling furniture behind them and trying to ensure they were not encircled.
“There are dozens of them,” Yarlae cried, “we cannot hold!”
So they fled, fighting from behind cover when they were reached and beating the horde back, before retreating again, the horrors pursuing. Then, fatefully, on the second level they tarried a moment too long and a splintered spar of wood from an upturned table, speared through Wulf, digging deep into his side. It was a vicious wound. The big man grimaced, it was the first time that Yarlae had ever seen him show pain and the sight unnerved her more than she had thought possible. He pulled the spar free and launched it into the nearest foe. Black ichor erupting as the improvised weapon smashed into the fiend’s face. An unsteady retreat followed.
After that, there was little thought of fighting. Wulf’s strength waned, he was losing blood, growing weaker, his torso slicked with gore. With his prodigious might gone they could no longer try to barricade the way. Their flight became headlong, doors would have to hold the foe back best they could. Yarlae half dragged him up to the third floor, though she knew this was not something that she could continue to do, Wulf was just too big. Wulf had come to the same realisation. As they got to the second room on the third floor he stumbled, coughing violently. Yarlae reached for him but he warded her off with a hand, looking up at her with a beard flecked with bright blood.
"Leave me, girl, I am done." He leaned heavily on his warhammer and coughed again. The sound of splintering wood came from below. The constructs would be on them again soon.
"Go! Fear not lass, they’ll not take me easily. There is life in this old dog yet!" He rose unsteadily and picked up his weapon in one hand. The strain showed on his face as he hefted the hammer.
“Begone! Grant me this end I beseech thee. Mark my words, I'll give a good account of myself. They’ll not pass me unbloodied. I task you, hunt down the puppet master of this evil. Put one of your arrows through the fiend’s eye." Yarlae didn’t point out that she had no arrows left. Her gilded bow had been nothing but a cudgel for some time.
Wulf turned, breathing raggedly. A warrior making his last stand.
There was nothing else to say. Yarlae left the man to his inevitable death.
****
Wulf was true to his word. By the time his bellows had ceased, Yarlae had reached the fifth level. Loathe as she was to admit it, she moved a lot faster without the old wounded warrior slowing her down. She swiftly outpaced her pursuers, her lithe form vaulting and leaping, darting from room to room. As she ascended she fancied she could FEEL the dark magics at work. There was an oppressive aura that increased as she negotiated the floors of the tower, getting closer and closer to the pinnacle. At the eighth level it was overbearing and actually painful, a pressure that assaulted her mind. She must be close.
And indeed, it was on the ninth floor that a faint green glow could be seen, emanating from the outline of a closed door. Apprehensively she edged the door open, tensing every muscle, ready to respond to whatever threat lay in wait.
There was nothing. The glow was actually coming from above. There was a small hole in the ceiling with a ladder leading up to the green luminescence. Her superior hearing picked up feminine muttering. For sure her quarry. Her bow was battered and bent, the fine elven gilding tarnished and dull. Though it pained her to discard the weapon she set it quietly on the floor, drawing her dagger instead. Silently she ascended the ladder, peeking above the upper floor.
The room was dark, oppressively so. Where the previous levels of the tower had been lit to at least some degree, this level had but one source of illumination. A green orb floating above a stooped figure some eight feet away. The figure was the source of the muttering.
"Yes, this one will be mighty indeed. Much better than the last lot, mind you, we will need more stock soon, another town perhaps, the last was disappointing, the next will be better, always better. Improved, superior yes. We take the best parts, make something better from the sum of the parts. Assembly, yes, so many options, so many choices! Need more, hmmm. This leg, no, this one. Yes, that looks good."
The muttering continued, she rambled without pause, without breath, making little observations, remarking, commenting ceaselessly. Yarlae listened to the woman for a moment but it soon became clear that nothing of use would be gleaned by further observation. She stealthily left the ladder, crouching low, shadows all around. Half dozen steps and a quick strike, that was all it would take. She strained her ears to try to detect the sounds of her pursuers below but there was nothing. This was disconcerting but she couldn’t worry about that right now. Her target was just ahead. Four steps away, three…
“Bah, some of these parts are too old, too used. Barely usable at all, need more fresh meat, hmm maybe this arm? Yes, that will fit. No, that’s too burnt, that one is too mangled. Hmm this one? No, not that one. Need more stock, need more parts, aaah how about this one, how about… YOU?“
Yarlae was but a step away, suddenly the green orb flared, momentarily blinding her. She made to strike but was somehow stuck in place, unable to move a muscle. The mysterious figure turned to face her would be assassin, displaying a wolfish grin. She was stunningly beautiful. Fresh faced and with pale grey eyes which flashed with malice.
‘Yes, you. Young, powerful. Imagine what we could make with you my dear.’ Her grey eyes flashed again as she beheld Yarlae’s rising form. She assessed the half elf predatorily. Yarlae matched her gaze. There was something familiar about that face…
Yarlae was stuck fast, no matter how much she strained, her muscles taut. She fought the magic, the charm on her breast flared as it tried to combat and dispel the sorcery being used on her, a scream formed on her lips but she could not give voice to it. . The spell broke and there was a moment of surprise on the Fleshmancer’s face as the dagger plunged toward her heart.
Yarlae’s strike was arrested, a hand wrapping around her wrist, slowly forcing the dagger back. She yelped as her arm was bent unnaturally, forcing her to drop the weapon. She looked up into a snarling face, suddenly she understood why the sorcerer had seemed so familiar.
Markas regarded her balefully from the shadows. There was none of his smarm or trademark sneer. His features were slack, expressionless. It was his face but it wasn’t him, or his body. His head had been grafted onto a hulking torso, with huge arms and disproportionately small legs. He had been turned into an abomination, just like the rest. And the woman… a tear ran down Yarlae’s face as realisation took hold.
It was Vasilya. Not entirely, the features were merged, morphed with someone else's, but there was enough of the young mage there to be sure. The sorcerer had stolen her flesh.
“Yes“ purred the fleshmancer, her purloined features lit by the orb, green as emerald. “Your young friend was not much use as a warrior I am afraid, and her meagre magics were far inferior to those that I wield. But her youth was… pleasing and my work does take its toll upon my...flesh.”
“You, on the other hand….. “
She reached forward and yanked the charm from Yarlae’s breast.
“Well, you won't be needing this at least.”
Yarlae winced as the totem was taken from her, then at a nod from the Fleshmancer the monster wearing Markas’ face struck her a savage blow and she knew no more.
V
She awoke to the same green glow but she was lying down. More than that, she was strapped down. Her head throbbed. She tried to move but her bonds were too tight. They chafed against her, she grimaced.
‘Aah ah’ came a voice from somewhere around her head. She twisted trying to see the speaker.
‘Don’t damage yourself my dear. I need you intact. I have plans for you after all.’
Yarlae didn’t need to ask what those plans were. None of the possible options that she could think of were palatable in the slightest. She became aware of another presence lying near her. Turning her head she could just about make out a large frame and white beard. It was Wulf. Blood pooled around his body, covering the table.
The Fleshmancer came into view. Vasilya's visage was noticeably older, clearly the young mages body was not going to last.
"Yes" , she confessed softly. "This one has not lasted as long as i had hoped. It’s my own fault I suppose, I have been working far too hard."
She motioned and Wulf jerked twice and sat bolt upright.
"A truly amazing specimen,’ she continued. ‘He needed little enhancing at all, just repair and replacement of damaged parts. I fear my pets were a little too savage. He must have put up quite the fight."
Yarlae lay, wide eyed in terror as the being she had known so recently as Wulf swung its great head round and regarded her coldly. The damage wrought upon his form had indeed been savage. She could see patchwork skin across his left cheek and down the neck and shoulder. Swathes of repurposed flesh covered his torso, testament to the wounds he had sustained. For all that, structurally at least, it was still Wulf’s body as far as she could see. Some muscle mass had been added to his upper torso but Wulf had never been a small man and his already impressive physique had merely been enhanced not grotesquely deformed and altered.
“Yes, a fine example of physicality despite his age. Why, I almost considered wearing him myself, after all, I have been a man before, many a time. But his spirit, his will, that was something special, I strove hard to bend that to my domination. It was… taxing.“ Yarlae noticed the weary pause.
“But“ the Fleshmancer continued labouredly, still out of sight. “The result is worth it I think. This one will be in my vanguard when I attack my next target. My champion,“ she demurred.
At her words the Wulf-thing stood. Towering over the bound half-elf. Yarale tensed involuntarily and felt the restraint on her right wrist give slightly. Hope flared within her breast.
“Why though?" she asked as she continued to test her bonds. The two leg straps around her shins were still tight, as was the restraint on her left wrist, but the right was definitely loose in comparison. She called upon techniques she had learned as a child, channelling her energies and strength to the muscles in her lower right arm, straining against it. The leather strap flexed once again and she felt the buckle give. She needed more time.
“I mean, what can you possibly hope to achieve?" As she spoke she slowed her heartbeat, entering a semi meditative state. Slower, more powerful pulses were what was needed here. She strained her wrist against the bond, every sinew and tendon striving to weaken the fabric of the strap. She was careful to keep her efforts subtle, even though the strap was on the far side of both Wulf-Thing and the Fleshmancer.
"Why, domination of course," The tone of the Fleshmancers voice made it quite clear that the concept was as natural to her as breathing. "I will continue to grow my army of followers, each an improvement over their original form. I’ll enhance the population of town after town" ; she gestured vaguely at the tower's walls, indicating outside. "I will build an empire. As time continues I shall continue to perfect my servants. Iteration upon iteration, a masterwork of flesh wrought from sheer will and power!" She had reached a noticeable crescendo and now lowered her voice before continuing.
"However, for that, I will need your power my dear. AND your flesh." She moved into view as Yarlae continued to work the restraint. "Yet i tire now. My assimilation of all that you are will require much preparation, and research. I shall leave you here for now with your friend." She stressed the word with a nasty smile before gesturing to Wulf-thing.
"Your brethren are out collecting parts, they will return soon. Watch her, do not let her leave."
Wulf-Thing made a strange kind of gurgle that may have been assent before moving to the far wall where it could monitor its charge. It stood there staring at the bound half-elf impassively with dead eyes. The fleshmancer looked down at Yarlae.
" Farewell my dear, be you soon." She departed, chuckling softly at her own joke. Yarlae heard a door open and close somewhere behind her head, out of sight. She focused her gaze on Wulf-Thing and made a show of attempting to break free of her bonds.
Wulf-Thing grunted in a way far too reminiscent of when he (no, it, Yarlae reminded herself) was still alive but otherwise didn’t move. Satisfied that her pantomime had convinced her captor that she was secure, she refocused her efforts on the weak restraint.
This technique had never come naturally to Yarlae, thanks to her mongrel heritage, but her mother had been a good teacher and Yarlae an attentive student. Soon the bond was loosened enough to extract her hand, albeit at the cost of some skin. Now free, she flexed the hand and then surreptitiously slid it down to a hidden pouch on her thigh, extracting a small, sharp, sliver of metal.
She calculated that it would take around three seconds to cut through each remaining bond. Too long. Wulf-Thing could easily reach and incapacitate her within nine seconds, putting to an end any hopes of escape from the tower. She would need to be faster. Much faster.
Once again she called upon her elven side. She began to channel her energy and strength once more, but rather than directing everything to one area she now readied every muscle in her body for one powerful burst of lightning quick action. Elven speed reactions and strength far in excess of what she would normally be able to access.
It would take a little time. A couple of minutes maybe. She would have to hope she had that long before the Fleshmancer wearing Vasilya’s face returned and started to work her foul magics. She felt her body tense, like a coiled spring. Every sinew every muscle, ready to explode into action, tensing, tensing…
Suddenly, unbidden, images and scenes flooded into her mind-eye. They came in a kaleidoscopic torrent, overwhelming her.
She was straddling Wulf-Things back, plunging her dagger into his (No, its) chest over and over.
She was slitting the Fleshmancers throat. A crimson spray erupted from the slash, covering Yarale’s snarling face.
She was ducking Wulf-Thing’s blows, weaving in and out of its defence.
She was falling through a window, glass shattering and falling around her in glittering slow motion, tumblng into an infinite abyss.
She was being flayed alive by dark energies. Screaming in agony as she was ripped apart, layer by layer.
She was being torn assunder by the patchwork creatures, the body of the Fleshmancer lying nearby, twisted and broken.
She was lying unconscious in an unfamiliar bed, covered in bloody bandages, being tended to by a strange woman. She opened her eyes.
She opened her eyes.
She moved.
Yarlae was a blur. In one swift motion she swept the shiv down her body, severing the bonds on her left side before arcing back to free her right leg. Within a single heartbeat she had freed herself and rolled off the table, landing in a crouch on the floor.
She stayed there a moment, waiting to see what Wulf-Thing would do while willing her racing heart to slow.
She did not have to wait long. Within moments she heard that grunt and a rapid but heavy tread. She rolled away from the noise before gaining her feet and risking a look at her foe.
Wulf-Thing’s face didn’t change but it quickly moved toward her. She was caught by surprise by its speed and leapt backward to escape its grasp. She spied her possessions lying on a table behind Wulf-Thing. She vaulted from the wall behind her, leaping first to one nearby bench and then again, evading Wulf-Thing’s grasping arms and landing lightly on the target table. She scooped up the dagger and charm deftly in one hand, pocketing the latter. After a moment's analysis she abandoned the gilded bow one more with no small degree of regret. It was bent and battered beyond repair and she had no arrows to fire.
Besides, she had no time. Wulf-Thing was already upon her. It was fast, much faster than it had been in life. She jumped again, maintaining distance and looking for a way to escape. There only seemed to be only one door, the one through which the Fleshmancer had departed. So be it. But she had no time to think. Once again Wulf-Thing came for her.
She timed her leap to give herself the best chance of clearing the lunging creature but again she underestimated her opponents speed. Lightning fast, Wulf-Thing reached up and grabbed her right ankle mid air.
Her flight arrested, Yarlae used what momentum she had to land on and cling to Wulf-Thing’s back. She plunged her dagger into its chest in desperation and stabbed over and over with the blade. Wulf-Thing roared and, Yarlae’s ankle still firmly in his grasp, yanked hard to try to dislodge its attacker. Yarlae screamed as her leg was wrenched in directions it was ill designed for. She desperately stabbed again with her weapon, already covered in sticky tar like ichor, straight into the beast’s left eye.
Wulf-thing howled deafeningly and released its hold on Yarlae’s ankle. The half-elf wasted no time in vaulting from Wulf-Thing’s back, sumersalting and landing as gracefully as she could behind the wailing beast. Her weakened leg instantly gave from under her as she contacted the floor and it took all her resolve to not cry aloud, letting little more than a grimace and a whimper escape as pain jolted through her.
Wulf-Thing was still thrashing and howling and Yarlae made sure to stay on its blind side as she made for the door. Still, she caught a glancing blow from the flailing monster and felt her cheek fracture from the impact, barely remaining conscious. She crawled the last few feet to the door and scraped it open. Wulf-Thing whirled at the noise as she crept through.
Yarlae only just managed to close and bar the door before Wulf-Thing’s bulk crashed against it. The bar held but likely wouldn’t for long. It heaved again as she leant against it and took in her new surroundings, grateful to have a respite, no matter how brief.
She was in a much smaller room. It was dark, but there appeared to be hangings, racks. Food storage maybe. Her half-elf eyes began to adjust to the gloom.
No, not food. Ingredients maybe. But not food.
They were body parts. She could see them clearly now and her eyes widened in terror.
Hung upon meat hooks there were limbs, torsos, parts of both. Scraps of flesh, gibbets of meat, bloody yet not bleeding, preserved by dark magics that prickled her skin.
Yet that wasn’t the worst of it.
Among the body parts were heads. Severed heads. They were of varied ages, some old, some young. She wept as she beheld that some of them were but babes.
But it was the faces that truly horrified her. Some held the aspect of surprise, others a piteous expression. Still others were mid scream. Some even seemed to be peacefully asleep.
Yarlae slowly became aware of the pounding on the door behind her. Jolted back to reality as her immediate peril asserted itself upon her once more. She looked about her before coming to a sickening conclusion;
The only way out was through.
Step by agonising step, she made her way through the nightmare larder. Long dead fingers groped at her hair and she kept her gaze averted lest she see accusing stares from above.
After a torturous interminable passage she arrived at the far door. The pounding had continued unabated and she slipped through as quickly as she could. There was no lock or bar so she dragged a nearby cabinet across the door though she held little hope that it would prove much of an impedance.
Spiral steps stretched both above and below. She started heading downward, slowly, painfully, hoping to escape the way she had entered. Fleeing was her only thought, injured and with only a black stained blade to defend herself she would be lucky to survive this night.
Once again though, fate was to turn against her. Halfway down the steps she felt faint and stumbled, her weak leg failed and she tumbled several metres. She landed at the bottom of the stairs, battered, bruised and bleeding. Her head rang as she rolled over and despite the echoing banging from upstairs, her enhanced half-elven hearing picked up something that instantly made her heart sink. Multiple individuals, at least a dozen, maybe more, the floor below, at best the one below that. It appeared that the retrieval party had returned. She was too late.
Instinct warred with indecision in her mind. She doubted she would be able to successfully hide from the horde and if discovered she would have no chance at all in her current condition. She crawled back up the stairs, step by agonising step, all too conscious of both the hammering on the door (and it appeared to be the closest door judging by the juddering cabinet) and the approaching enemies from below.
The only option left was to continue her ascent.
Gingerly, painfully, yet with all the alacrity she could muster, she continued up the dark steps to whatever end.
VI
It took longer than she had hoped but eventually Yarlae reached the summit. There was but one door ahead of her and she opened it, slowly stepping through and closing it behind her, though there was no bolt or bar to secure it this time. her body was agony, her senses dull.
Wan Moonlight shone onto a rough stone floor. A window!
She scanned the room, looking for rope, or something from which one could be made, though inwardly she knew that she wouldn’t have time for such an endeavour. It was then that she realised she was not alone.
Sat in a corner with low burning candles either side of her was the Fleshmancer.
She appeared to be in some kind of trance. Her hands moved rapidly over a great book laid out in front of her, her fingers tracing the pages and flicking to pages seemingly at random. She seemed quite unaware of Yarlae’s presence.
Yarlae stole only a moment to hobble over to the window and sneak a look below. There was nothing but an inky blackness. Even the threat of a distant dawn failed to provide anything more than a certain oblivion.
So be it then. Just revenge.
She crept over to the oblivious Fleshmancer. Waves of pain swept through her, her vision became as little more than a tunnelled gaze. She saw the haggard face, Vasilya’s face, eyes open but clouded. Yarlae could see now that her fingers were tracing runes and glyphs in the book, flickers of sorcerous energy arcing between her roving digits and the paper. If paper it was, in the low light Yarlae could not be sure that it wasn’t something more terrible. It seemed to Yarlae that faint screams issued from the book but in her dazed and impaired state she could not be sure. She knew her strength was fading fast, she was at the limits of her endurance.
It was now or never.
Yarlae stabbed down with her dagger, aiming for the carotid artery. It was a swift, clean strike, although torturously slow by her normal standards to her eye. Bright arterial blood fountained as she ripped the blade out through the sorcerers neck in a geyser of gore. The Fleshmancer's head fell back and the body toppled into a spreading pile of blood. Yarlae stood, exhausted, fading, above the laughing corpse.
She frowned. Why was it laughing?
A blink.
The Fleshmancers clouded eyes were looking straight at her, her throat was quite uncut and she was indeed laughing.
Yarlae confusedly looked at her weapon arm. It was held in a vice like grip by a meaty pale paw. Wulf-Thing looked down at her, one eye blazing yet dead, the other a black gooey ruin.
“No,” she gasped.
“You know, they say that attempting the same thing while expecting a different action is the sign of a diseased and troubled mind.” The fleshmancer’s eyes cleared; “Your mind is certainly troubled, but diseased? Either way, it is mine.”
“And, thanks to a new rite i have been learning, it will not matter if you are alive, as long as you are not TOO damaged. Besides, more will follow you soon enough. I have many thralls out there, each with tales of treasures and a key to draw would be adventurers and heroes here to become new subjects for my work.” She smiled nastily.
“You, my dear, have sadly become more trouble than you are worth.” she looked at Wulf Thing;
“Kill her”, she snarled. “Snap her neck”
Yarlae braced as Wulf-Thing’s other hand clamped onto the nape of her neck. The hand that was gripping her wrist shifted slightly whilst still maintaining its hold. She prepared for the end.
But the end did not come.
“Do it!” the fleshmancer screamed. Her eyes flashed.
Yarlae somehow found the strength to look up. Wulf-Thing was still looking down at her, but the one remaining eye…
It was human.
It was Wulf.
The eye shifted and she followed the gaze and was that Wulf-Thing (no, Wulf) had twisted it's (no, his) arm so that the wrist had been sliced open on the dagger's blade, black viscous fluid running afresh from the wound across the weapon. Seeing her understanding, Wulf’s eye moved once again, this time in the direction of the Fleshmancer who was getting to her feet.
“KILL HER” the sorceror howled, she started to conjure dark energies in her palms, clearly preparing to strike down the half-elf herself.
Wulf released Yarlae’s wrist.
With every last ounce of strength she had left Yarlae thrust the ichor covered dagger into the Fleshmancer's heart, splashing Wulf’s converted lifesblood across the floor. She sank to the ground, barely conscious as the Fleshmancer gasped and staggered, clutching at the wound, her hands covered in her own blood.
She was dimly aware of the candles flaring into a wall of flame as the stinking black liquid splashed across them. At the same time, the door crashed open and she heard multiple bodies tear into the room. As awareness left her she felt herself be lifted in huge arms before being hurled into the air. She managed to partly open her eyes and saw grappling bodies wreathed in flame as she crashed through the window and fell into the gaping void below.
****
The inferno was visible for miles around as the tower became a blazing conflagration. Burning debris tumbled and ignited other parts of the Manse and before long the entire structure was aflame. It would burn for days before becoming a smoking desolate ruin.
Mikael Renniger was watching the blaze whilst fishing. The fire was clearly too far away for him to render any assistance but he kept staring at it regardless as the sun rose in a red early morning sky. His rod jerked nearby, quite forgotten. He didn’t notice the body in the water till it washed ashore practically in front of him. Spell broken, he rushed to the slight, bedraggled form.
It was an female Elf, at least he thought it was, he couldn’t be sure and wasn’t overly familiar with the fey folk. She was slumped over a large piece of driftwood, unmoving. One hand gripped a tarnished dagger that was embedded into the wood. Kneeling by her side he was able to see that she still lived, though barely. She was unconscious, bedraggled, battered and bruised, bleeding from dozens of cuts. But she lived.
Gently prising the dagger from her grip, Mikael scooped Yarlae’s limp form into his arms and bore her back to his village.
