For the hundredth time, Skera-Kina was ordered to the mainland, to be surrounded again by mortal weaklings. She loathed everything about this place. The noise, the filth, and especially the wretched mainlanders. She tried to set aside her displeasure long enough to complete her obligations to the temple.
Five years of peace had reduced the number of assassinations she was asked to perform. Her missions now involved political machinations and scheming, things which bored her. Her tasks had become tedious, and she seethed at having to play nursemaid to the spies and bounty hunters who worked for the priests. She had no patience for such trivialities, and yearned for the day that her obligations to the temple would be finished.
She picked up a small rucksack, removed her boots and jumped out of the boat. She tethered the boat by hooking its anchor around the trunk of a dead tree. Then, with a wave of her hand, she summoned a glamour to conceal the craft. Only a mageborn would be able to see the boat upon the shore now. The simple effort tired her. She hadn’t slept in two days, and she still had at least a fortnight of hard travel ahead. She would travel north—up through Dead Man’s Pass, into Everwood Forest, and finally, across the icy landscape of the Frigid Waste. The last leg of her journey would test her survival abilities. She would not be able to secure a horse until she left orc territory, so the next few days would be on foot.
The assassin drew her thick cloak around her body, but didn’t bother to raise the hood or conceal her heavily tattooed face. No enchantment could hide her rune-marked flesh, for her markings had power and blocked any spell that would disguise her appearance. But here, there was no reason to hide. Only orcs lived in this place, and without magical abilities, none of them could survive an encounter with her. She wouldn’t need to cover her face until she left this region.
The raven cawed again. "Caution. The greenskins approach."
Skera-Kina raised her face to the sky and inhaled. Yes… the scent was unmistakable. The greasy smell of lizard-flesh wafted through the air. The fetid odor was so familiar, like a perfume that had turned in the heat.
A shiver of excitement shot through her. Invigorated by the possibility of combat, the fatigue melted from her bones. The priests hadn’t ordered any killings on this journey, but they couldn’t possibly object if she dispatched a few greenskins.
“Stay close, my beloved pet, for his eyes shall be yours,” she whispered, kissing the raven’s red-crested head before she released it. The raven shrieked in delight and took flight, landing in a nearby tree. The bird had participated in this scene many times before. Although scavengers would be quick to descend upon the carcass, gorging themselves on the orc’s flesh, the blood raven was Skera-Kina’s personal pet, and he knew that the best parts of the kill would be saved for him.
Skera-Kina ducked behind a tree and drew a pair of exquisite glass knives from her belt. She forced herself to relax. Her heartbeat slowed as her training took over, and she felt a dark calm settle over her body. The sensation brought back memories of her youth, from when she was a child-slave. She remembered standing on the front steps of the Temple of Blood, where she was pledged to servitude.
Despite the frequent beatings she had endured, her position had been desirable for a slave, as it had afforded her opportunities to learn. She even taught herself to read by listening and watching the other students. She had been fearless in her youth, even daring to steal books from the temple’s library, which were restricted to everyone but the priests.
After four years as a temple servant, it all came to an end one day when she was caught stealing. She had snatched a small prayer book, and just as she was tucking it into her tunic, a young man entered the library. He was a student, just a teen, and not yet a priest. His eyes flashed from shock to contempt as he watched Skera-Kina hide the book.
The boy leered at her, and then ran to report the theft to the temple priests. She would never forget his face. His hair was black, and his skin was the color of a chestnut. His cheeks were round, and he had a mole under his left eye, the exact shape and size of a lentil. As an acolyte, he was subject to frequent beatings himself, but Skera-Kina was a slave, her status lower than an animal. Even a water buffalo toiling in the fields had greater rights than she did, because no priest would ever beat a water buffalo for disobedience.
The punishment for theft was severe, and since the acolyte had discovered the theft, by rights, he was allowed to mete her punishment. The boy dragged Skera-Kina into the middle of the courtyard. She remembered squinting in the bright sunlight, and then looking up at the boy’s face. He was smiling.
He laughed and kicked her down. He beat her savagely, raining down blows with his fists on every inch of her body. When she raised her arm to defend against the blows, he beat her even harder.
When his hands grew tired, the acolyte fetched a wire whip and struck her so viciously that she collapsed, her back flayed open like a tattered curtain. He stopped only when the dinner bell rang, flinging down the whip to wash his bloodied hands in a nearby fountain. Then he ran off to eat his supper in the dining commons.
Skera-Kina was left in the courtyard, broken and bloodied. A temple servant finally took pity on her and wrapped her body in a sheet. She was carried back to her master’s home to die… but Skera-Kina’s master was a practical man, and he valued his slaves at least as much as he valued his livestock.
The master ordered a healer, paying for the service from his own purse. The healer saved Skera-Kina’s life. She was even permitted to recover from her injuries inside the house, rather than in the barn with the other animals.
The master’s private servants changed her bandages, and gave her strained fruit and watered wine while her jaw healed, for even with the healing spell, she was unable to chew solid food for a month. The master had been a dispassionate man, but he was pleased that Skera-Kina was saved, for he felt that she was a clever and useful slave, if somewhat mischievous.
The priests did not allow her to return to her old position at the temple, so her master put her to work in his fields. To his credit, the master did not punish her any further for the theft.
Years later, Skera-Kina’s magical powers were discovered by a traveling Seeker-Priest, those sent out to find mageborns.
The priests restored her to temple service once her mageborn gifts were measured and found to be promising. As the seasons passed, the priests saw Skera-Kina’s powers grow, and they negotiated a price for her freedom with her master. She was released from his ownership and placed into permanent service at the temple, where she swore fealty before the holy altar, consecrating the oath in her own blood.
Many years later, after she had finished her apprenticeship, she went to visit her old master. He told her, half-smiling, that he had negotiated an extravagant price for her, on account of the whipping she had endured. After all, he had been forced to pay a healer, a fact that he had never forgotten.
Skera-Kina was an exceptional student, learning all her spells at an accelerated rate. She memorized the Five Points of a Blood Master’s core training: Spellcasting, Semantics, Resistance, Combat, and Stealth. As the priests realized the extent of her powers, they became enthusiastic about her progress and granted her many privileges.
All the while, she felt nothing but emptiness, saved for a single tiny spark. She never forgot that battered slave girl, never forgot the face of her aggressor, nor the vicious beating that left her fighting for her life. The childhood memory of that public humiliation seethed inside her, like a slow ember, whispering for retribution. She waited for her chance at revenge.
The time passed quickly, and as she advanced, the acolyte eventually studied in the same classes with her. She observed him daily while he trained, catching glimpses of his face, now with a sparse beard on his chin, but still chubby and round like a melon. On many occasions, she looked directly into his eyes, and there was never a shadow of recognition; for in his mind, she had been nothing more than a nameless slave.
Who could fathom th
at Skera-Kina would ever rise above slavery, much less study beside him in the great temple?
Sometimes, they fought side-by-side in the temple’s practice rings. When they did, the acolyte offered her a shy smile, which she returned. She watched him patiently, with dead eyes like a shark, knowing that vengeance was near.
Then one day, it came time for the acolyte to take his final vows and become a temple priest. The month prior to the ceremony was reserved for deep meditation. The acolyte entered the men’s sweat lodge where he would pray for days and eventually call his spirit-totem. She knew that this time would be her best chance for revenge, while he was isolated and weak from fasting.
With each passing day, her anticipation grew. Skera-Kina waited until the coming of the new moon. On that night, the acolytes emerged from the sweat lodge to go into the forest and call their spirit-totem. It was the final step before their ordination. Silently she left her sleeping quarters and went into the wood.
It was a dark, windless night, and she only had the stars to guide her. She searched the woods for over an hour before she found the sweat lodge, concealed behind a high fence. She waited in the darkness and overheard the priests sending the acolytes out toward the final stage of their training.
Carefully, silently, she followed behind the boys, making sure that she stayed hidden in the shadows. Her target was at the front of the line, walking slowly into the forest with the others.
When they reached the tree line, the round-faced teen ventured out on his own. The final ritual called for isolation, which would leave the boy vulnerable. Skera-Kina circled him in the darkness, dizzy with anticipation.
“Hello,” she whispered, drawing up behind him. The acolyte tensed, and Skera-Kina placed her fingers on his lips. “No, do not speak. Tomorrow, you shall become a priest, but for now, you are still free. I have watched you for many moons, wishing for things I could not bring myself to describe.” She stepped back, and the boy turned to face her. His eyes shone with a mixture of confusion and excitement. “Do you feel the same as I do? The same burning desire?”
The acolyte nodded dumbly, his lips spreading out into a eager grin.
Skera-Kina chuckled quietly and straddled his body, slipping her hands behind his neck. “Then let me touch you—and share your mind and heart, that I might know you better.” She felt his pulse quicken. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” he said shyly.
Skera-Kina leaned down and brushed her lips against his face, stopping near his ear. She drew a single breath and whispered the ancient curse she had practiced for so long.
“Ai-me-nahh, lei’na, nei.”
The walking death.
The boy’s eyes grew wide, and the blood drained from his face. An eerie glow encircled the pair, and a terror unlike any the boy had experienced coursed through his veins. Enveloped in silence, he tried to scream, but couldn’t cry out. Her grip on his neck tightened, and she pushed her finger into his temple, striking a pressure point there. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then he fell to the ground and lay writhing there, foaming at the mouth and convulsing.
She hadn’t killed him. No, it was a fate worse than death. Skera-Kina had shattered his soul. The boy was found lying on the grass the following morning, motionless as a statue, his eyes open and staring at nothing. The priests decided that the communion with his totem had overwhelmed him. He would never recover.
The priests considered his condition a result of weakness, and they placed him in the servants’ quarters. He did not regain his speech; the servants would forget to feed him, sometimes for several days. Eventually he was moved into the stables, where he slept with the animals.
Sometimes Skera-Kina would take a break from her training and visit him in the stables, where he sat alone on a stool in a dark corner. She looked into his eyes and smiled. He never responded.
The flesh wasted from his bones, and he became little more than a skeleton. He died a year later. Since he never took his final vows, the priests gave him a servant’s funeral. No final prayers were said, and his body was wrapped in brown paper and thrown from the cliffs.
A shiver went through her body as she recalled that memory. She had brought many to their end since that day, but no kill could ever compare to her first. Her upcoming fight with the orcs was trivial in comparison.
Several seconds later, a group of orcs came into view, three males silhouetted against the setting sun. Their green skin gleamed with rancid animal fat. One dragged a wild hog carcass on a litter, his axe still embedded in the animal’s skull. They laughed and punched each other, snorting and grunting in their guttural language as they congratulated themselves on their successful hunt. She understood some of their harsh orc language, but not all.
Skera-Kina watched them with narrowed eyes, and right before they passed, she jumped from her hiding place. The laughing stopped and the orcs froze. A shadow of recognition crossed their faces, and the largest male ordered the other two to stand behind him. Then he stepped forward and raised his weapon.
That’s curious, Skera-Kina thought. In past encounters, the orcs taunted and mocked her, believing her easy prey. Over the last few years, she had slaughtered dozens of orcs, and their initial reaction to her presence had always been the same.
This was different. The three males observed her warily, their eyes narrowed into slits, as they waited for her to make the first move.
With a voice like thunder, the largest male spoke. “Olek-anga-mahral,” he said.
Cursed-shadow-woman.
The orcs had given her a name. Skera-Kina marveled at this realization. It was a rare honor—as well as a warning. Orcs did not grant formal names to other races. If the orcs had gone through the trouble of granting her a name, they knew who she was, and they were showing respect. It meant that she was now part of their myth-stories, and also…that she was marked for death.
She was surprisingly pleased. For this, she would fight this creature with honor, without magic or trickery. The largest male raised his axe and shouted his challenge—a hoarse cry that echoed across the bluffs. He pounded his chest twice, so hard that his spiked bracelets drew blood. The black liquid oozed from two shallow punctures near his sternum.
The other two orcs followed suit, screaming their names, but only pounded their chests once. She understood now. This was an introduction. The larger male was the dominant male, and the smaller orcs were his blood-sons.
Skera-Kina stepped back and took a wide stance, arching her back slightly to mimic the ceremonial niqu-tixa, the orc’s challenge position. She lowered the timbre of her voice and issued the formal response to her opponent, her words stilted as she struggled to speak in the greenskins’ primitive language.
“You battle me.” She struck her chest, spat on the ground, then drew a circle in the dirt and stepped inside. “Round fight, ring fight, circle fight!” she cried, challenging the large male to formal combat. She spun her fists and crouched low–ready to battle.
The male nodded and ordered the smaller males to drop their weapons. They obeyed immediately, lowering themselves to a kneeling position, their backs rigid, enormous hands splayed out on their thighs. They lay their axes in front of them and faced the circle. If Skera-Kina won this battle and killed their father, each one was permitted to request a revenge match, either until a victor prevailed or until each of them were dead, whichever came first.
The largest orc stripped down and stepped into the circle without any weapons. He wore only a small leather thong, fitted with a rigid wooden cup to protect his manhood. He was easily twice Skera-Kina’s size, both in weight and bulk. His hairless chest, heavily muscled, was covered with thick scars.
Skera-Kina shrugged off her cloak and tossed it aside. The dark tattoos that covered her entire body were all visible now. Her skin gleamed, moistened by the foggy air, the sharp lines of the rune markings fresh and dark. She removed her sword and placed it outside the circle with her throwing knives.
This was a
sacred ceremony, a fight without weapons. Just two bodies, face-to-face, measuring themselves against one another. The orc could not refuse her challenge; they would fight to the death.
The scent gland underneath the orc’s armpit dripped oil. The stench hung heavy in the air. The orc dragged one palm across the gland and rubbed his hands together, then smeared the rank musk all over his chest and arms. The odor was nauseating, and Skera-Kina fought to keep from gagging. She made a mental note to avoid the gland. If the orc somehow managed to trap her head underneath his arm, it was possible that she could lose the fight. The musk oil of male orcs was mildly toxic and could even cause hallucinations. Moreover, if she touched the gland, no amount of bathing would remove the odor, and the stink would stick to her for several days.
She wouldn’t use any spells during this match, but her tattoos would automatically block sharp objects. Any attempt to puncture or slice her skin would fail. In order to kill her, the orc would need to break her neck or suffocate her.
The orc shouted his first battle-insult. “Fight, fight, cursed-shadow-woman! You are small and ugly like a beetle, and I shall crush you underneath my heel.” The other two orcs whistled and howled, clapping their hands and throwing dust, though they remained seated on the sidelines.
Skera-Kina returned his taunts. “You are slow and weak like a river turtle, and I shall break your bones like twigs.” The other two orcs jeered.
The orc stamped his foot. “I am strong like a bear, and I shall squeeze your skinny neck!” More chest pounding from the other two.
Her lips peeled back in a wicked leer. “Your manhood is shriveled, and you are impotent and weak like an old she-goat.” It was a terrible slur, and the orc’s face contorted with rage. He crouched into fighting position.
The Balborite Curse (Book 4) Page 3