Zargatoh O’ Galith

Charred Old Bones

Never throw away the bones, if you don’t want them found

A construct's eyes won't notice their own

—

The Elders of the Aken

(Unknown date, presumably First Era)

It’ll hatch… it’ll grow…

and thy plans… this Realm…

…shall burn

—

Found written on the wall of a collapsed building in Rida

Circa 190 NC

“Different,” Segur ‘Lard’ said, his hand open and the femur bone balancing on the palm expertly. He called him Lard, because Segur’s eyes had a rotten orange color, as something had gone wrong in the synthesis. A degree more here, the mind occupied on something else and the shade you’ve left the coloring ampule under not as uniformed in all places, could do it.

Of course he was much younger then.

Mistakes were made.

Not a total loss, he thought and glanced at the long blackened bone.

But a nuisance that lessens the construct’s value.

Segur, given his age, should have been much better by now.

Oh, well. No point crying over spilt ash.

“Let me see it,” Zargatoh grumbled, forked tongue wetting his lower lip. He took the bone in his hands, long fingers hurting when they closed around it, but for his left index finger. The pain old, but always there. The hands themselves scarred horrifically, long incisions on the inside and in different color where they’d healed, the ancient stitch marks still visible. Tiny white wrinkles on his deep copper-red skin.

“Charred,” Zargatoh declared and Wiris ‘Green’ and Gizor ‘Black’ stopped sifting through the funeral pyre’s remains and got up. “Old Bones. Neither Folk, nor Human’s. Ah, a good find Segur.”

“Can you use it?” Wiris asked raising a white brow, always quick, even cunning. Her Issir skin gleaming in the morning sun. The body hidden underneath the simple robes well-shaped and female, despite Wiris being a man whilst she lived and before Zargatoh had started working on her. The reorientation had been traumatizing, but helped forge a stronger mind, than even he expected.

He stared at the blackened bone, even scratched some of the soot away with a dirty nail.

“I’ll need my extracting tool,” Zargatoh decided and Gizor who carried his heavy bag, reached inside to find it. He was useful like that and a great work of art. The huge Lorian had been a teen before and a lot of spare material had been used. The increase in mass risky, but the result very satisfactory. “The thin one,” The Aken advised him. “For the marrow.”

Sometimes you can get lucky, find something still valuable in the ashes, he thought with a pleased smile. His snake eyes roamed the empty alley behind Rida’s palace, the buildings long abandoned and the ground freshly dug. The burned remains thrown inside haphazardly in a large mixed pile. Never throw away the bones, if you don’t want them found, Zargatoh always preached. The words beaten into him in his youth, the latter so far away into the past, the Elder of Galith could barely remember it. The world was much different back then.

Now they just tossed the Evil Spirits in a shallow ditch by the road.

A sage thing.

Glen, the golden-skinned female slave of the Peninsula had called him. Garth the ambitious criminal, was also Glen. Hidden even from his people.

Not all. Hmm.

How does a criminal named Glen know who Brock was? Who had cast the first blow? Was there another golem, another construct present?

Working for him?

An apostate.

Would the Painted God allow one?

Is this a test?

Or is it a warning?

Zargatoh used the thin long pin to extract the burned marrow out of the bone. He gathered the material in a small bronze bowl, the warmth of the fire not bothering him. There was a chill in the night air, especially at their camp back inside the thick copse. The light coming from the moons barely penetrated the canopy and their only illumination was the strong campfire.

The water boiling in the iron cauldron over it.

He emptied the contents of the bowl inside.

Add a touch of lead pounder, a young asp’s venom and a spoon of arsenic in the mix.

Let it simmer, force the soul’s shard out, then trap it with a touch of your blood.

Whisper the Nameless psalm.

Find the thread in your mind and pull it, so it can unravel.

Keep adding more material.

Thrice grinded and twice sluiced.

The memories were fragmented.

The broken surface of a mirror, the scenes of a painting torn into many pieces.

Sounds of a thousand conversations, all blurring and incoherent.

The parts of half-formed words, not always matching the broken scenes.

Where are you? Zargatoh asked in his mind, pupils moving under closed eyelids, his body slipping into a trance. Wiris used a sharp razor to slice open his hand, guided it over the boiling mixture, the blood dissolving immediately and the fumes toxic. She immediately filled a small gold cup with it and brought it to his lips. Zargatoh gulped down the foul concoction quickly, his throat burning, teeth hurting and vomit forming in his stomach.

His body shuddered, a groan escaping him and the Nameless reached for his soul.

Zargatoh had seconds to find what he needed now.

Only two Wyverns in the pit, the child said.

The third gone.

Only the Queen’s body and her sword deep in a grave.

Find me the sorceress Minue Mol.

What about the egg? The First Servant asked the shining mask in another conversation.

What? Zargatoh gasped, his body dying. Black spots were forming on his skin, the cracks allowing pus to spill out from the inside.

Has he stopped looking? The First Servant asked the ancient Gish.

Ralnor was always close to her, his pupil replied.

Edlenn’s children were groomed to love her.

A mother’s gift, he will never escape.

Ah, curse you, show me the wyvern. Get back again, Zargatoh let out a pained moan and doubled over. Toxic vomit and blood flooded his mouth. His skin becoming loose over his bones, the muscles dying.

Time moved forward though.

It’ll hatch, the First Servant prophesized, his hatred spilling into the Aken’s cracking soul.

It’ll grow… and thy plans… this Realm… the witch’s world… shall burn.

“Naaah!” Zargatoh cried out and let go of the invisible thread, his body snapping violently back and the Nameless retreating. He stooped forward unable to control himself and landed on the ground, inches from the burning embers, still quivering. Zargatoh puked everything out, the vomit flooding the ground and coming up his face and eyes. Blood and pieces of internal organs in the foul mixture, along black and green poisonous gore.

Wiris helped him up, using a cloth to clean his face and started applying thick salve on his bleeding gashes, painting everything white after she finished to cover it up.

“What took you so long? Why risk it?” She asked some time later, green eyes searching his pale and disfigured face. It would take him weeks to put everything back. He stared at his index finger with apprehension. Zargatoh had only one remaining finger, a couple of ribs and the big bones in his legs, all other bones used up and replaced with bones from his victims. The operations brutally painful and not always effective. “You could have had the construct in a breath.”

He stopped her raising his right arm, teeth grinding and saliva running down his crooked mouth. The fingers loose, where the bones were cut and glued on his skeleton. Years’ work undone.

“This was…” Zargatoh spat down and tried to keep the illness form overwhelming him, but failed and he retched again almost killing himself in the process.

“Different,” Segur said, watching them from across the dying fire.

“Aye,” Zargatoh rumbled. “Someone killed the First Servant. I had to look back.”

“Who?” Wiris asked, working on his wounds. Zargatoh stared at the razor she kept on her belt and a fresh shiver shook his bones.

“Those two we’ve met in the woods is my guess. There was a reason I kept you hidden,” He told her. “And the Sorceress, argh! That stupid bitch will ruin what took eons to put together!” Zargatoh started coughing violently, his whole body hurting. Every little move a nightmare.

Pain is a gift though. It keeps you focused.

“What did she do?” Wiris asked. In a sense, Zargatoh thought proudly looking at her pretty Issir face. It’s like talking with yourself. Only it has another body, tits and a well-shaped cunt.

“She didn’t make sure they had enough,” He grumbled. “It was explained, but she got spooked, or for whatever other reason…” He paused, a cough rattling him. “Now they are looking for an egg.”

“Easy to kill a youngling,” Wiris soothed him, always eager to please. The Dead’s appetite for deviancy was monstrous. “But you know that. Why Glen?”

Zargatoh took a deep breath and tried to get his mouth set properly.

“The port's drunks talked of a wyvern flying on the sky,” He explained. “Nothing had happened in that port for ages, before Garth, or Glen arrived.”

“What will you do Master?”

Zargatoh sighed and let go of his disfigured mouth.

“I’m going to need your razor first,” The Aken Elder told her and felt his ancient bones hurting all over again. “And about a foot of your finest silk stitching thread.”

This was going to hurt.