The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  “Excellent! Do take it easy, we can’t have all those dresses we bought being in need of tailoring so quickly!” Irene giggled. “After you finish, we’ll head right out for gloves. Oh! Have you been to the Gilded Glove before? They’re spectacular!”

  “Yeah,” said Soli, bringing a piece of sauced fish to her lips. “I didn’t care for the service.”

  Chapter 24

  Saemund’s breath quickened. His cheeks flushed. He fervently breathed the scent of the hot blood, which streamed from Ulrich’s heart, as it pooled at his feet. He waited until the priest’s last breath fled his body, and then Saemund drew his feet back. The blood smeared across the floor with his foot.

  He threw his head back and smiled, quietly crowing.

  Saemund rolled the pale body over, and red covered the palms of his hands like warm ink. He brought them to his face and held them under his nose. He took a long, deep breath, savoring the coppery scent, before he slowly licked his palms clean.

  It was salty and warm.

  His mouth practically dripped with excitement as the taste sent a shiver throughout his body—a shiver that made his dense grey hair, under the rotting skin he wore, bristle with anticipation.

  He carefully unbuckled the dead priest’s belt—resisting the urge to rip it off of him—and set it on a chair to make sure that no more blood would touch it. Saemund put his hand on the collar of the priest’s robe, and he peeled it off, revealing young, perfect, pale flesh.

  Saemund paused, taking in the boy’s naked form. The body appeared naturally lean and impeccably healthy—it would fit him well. He traced his fingers over the bumps of bone and muscle, and his smile turned to tightened, frowning grimace.

  He could barely feel the new skin with his old, rotting flesh still on.

  Saemund withdrew his hand. He untied his own belt, dropped it to the ground, and threw his robes off of him—leaving him completely naked. The skin he was wearing was falling apart, like a long-forgotten, decayed home that had missing walls, windows, and shingles. Long strips were absent, leaving his ashen flesh below visible. One of the pink nipples was missing, and where it should have been was nothing but flat, grey flesh.

  The skin on his member had completely been stripped away, leaving nothing but what was his own large, grey manhood—half-erect from the excitement of the kill. The feeling was odd, but pleasant. He had only even been able to achieve the sensation in blood and violence, and, even then, only ever halfway—he felt the frustrated sensation as a deep mockery against him.

  It served as a constant reminder of how different he was from the humans he masqueraded as.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor and took a deep breath. He focused his mind on his body and relaxed all his muscles. All the thick tendrils of “hair” withdrew from the rotted skin he wore. It slumped down around him like an old, tattered sock.

  He opened his eyes, shook his arms, and everything from his shoulders to his fingertips slipped free in one piece. For his chest, he dug his nails in, slicing downward from neck to groin to slide the thing off like a vest. After his torso was free, he moved onto his legs. He rolled the flesh down, like one would do with a tight pair of pants.

  The face always needed more than a simple shake, so he pulled the flesh away. It came apart in bits in his hands like damp, fragile tissue paper. He grabbed the earlobes (which were resting slightly askew) tightly in his hands and yanked—both came off leaving nothing but the holes of the ear canals. He stuck two of his fingers into his nostrils and yanked the nose free from his face, leaving a small bump of bone and two holes behind. He took a deep breath, delighting in the absence of the decay that was so close to his own nostrils.

  With his foot, he pushed the old flesh—that he had been wearing for around three months—to the corner of the room, underneath a chair. He shoved his old beggar’s robe along with it. Only his belt, which carried one simple pouch, did not join the pile. His hands went to that pouch, undid the button keeping it closed, and out from it he drew a thick, curved blade in a light, leather sheath. He pulled it from the sheath in a quick movement. It was sharp and immaculately clean, but the metal was darkened like an overcast day, and the light from the brazier seemed lost on its surface.

  The priest’s skin offered no resistance to Saemund’s blade as it sliced into the throat, right under the jaw. Saemund lead it down to the groin in a long, continuous line. Blood oozed out over the knife’s edge and dripped down to the floor.

  That bristling sensation awoke within him again as the hairs of his true skin perked up in anticipation—but he kept his hand steady. He brought the blade to the left of the priest’s member, leaving the skin of his privates intact, and slid it from the base of the inner thigh all the way down to the ankle.

  Saemund wished he had the means to hang the body up. He could have properly bled the boy, and securing it always made the next part easier. But Saemund always made due with whatever situation he found himself in. Firmly, he pulled at the priest’s flesh, using his knife where he needed to separate skin from muscle. In his expert hands, the skin slipped away from the muscles as easily as a loose, unbuttoned jacket.

  The torso was bare. The sight of bloodied, red, lean muscles and white tendons made Saemund’s mouth water anew. He rolled the body over, and then he continued his flaying from the shoulders down, taking care to create the least amount of damage to the new precious skin that he yearned for. A skin that he felt he deserved. Finally, he thought, something beautiful and clean versus the filthy miscreants he normally preyed on.

  At the arms, he cut along the inside, and when he made it to the palm, he splayed his hand out, cutting a line for each finger on its underside. He continued to pull and cut until the flesh of the torso, arms, and fingers were loose, and then he moved onto the legs. When he got to the feet, he did the same as he had done for the fingers, cutting along the soles and the underside of each toe.

  Every time the warm flesh touched his hands, he felt his hairs prick up, excited to embed themselves into the warm, new skin. Saemund wouldn’t allow it, for he never dressed until every bit was free.

  He trembled in anticipation of the euphoric act that was to come.

  Once he was done cutting the body, all of the skin was loose, and it looked like a cape of flesh hanging from the priest’s neck. He moved his knife to the clasp of the skin cloak, and he slit along the jaw, freeing it.

  Next, he moved to the head, the part he was sure to always take the most care with. He traced his knife from behind the ear following the base of the hairline in the back. He peeled the skin away, rolling everything forward. The eyelids, though, never came without a fuss. He never risked tearing those, and he sliced them away individually, carefully placing them on a nearby, empty chair as if they were fragile crystal.

  All that was left of the priest’s skin was the ears and the nose. Saemund took the knife, and, with a crunch of cartilage, removed each ear whole as casually as a butcher at his block, and then he placed them next to the eyelids.

  He always saved the nose for last. For some reason (which he had no explanation for), he found that chopping it off created the most charming sound, and, in what had become a ritual, he kept it as his finale.

  The room was splattered with blood that was beginning to dry. Saemund draped the flesh of the torso, legs, and arms around him. The moment the hot, wet skin touched his back, he quivered, and the hooks of his hair hardened and dug into the flesh, anchoring it as if it was his own. He wrapped the skin around him with his hands, holding it close until his hair had it firmly in place.

  Hot pleasure flooded his body. There was a pounding in his head, and he lost his balance for a few moments—steeling himself on the wall with his hands. His blood surged through his hair-like capillaries and into his new skin, filling the dead flesh with his own life force.

  The quivering stopped as most of his new flesh was secured, but in its place a light tingling spread and a fuzzy, rushing sound filled his mind as if his whole
body had exhaled. He pressed on, using one hand to secure the last of the flesh suit around him, and the other to hold him against the wall as his balance faltered.

  After he had regained himself, he pushed away from the wall, and he turned to the door. He waited until the rush had left his mind and ears, and the hardness had left him, and then he knocked several times in a well-practiced pattern.

  The door opened just enough to let Dotard in. He was wearing the skin of an old, weathered man that smelled like fish guts and rye. On his back he carried a heavy bag that pulled at his shoulders and sagged onto his buttocks. “All went well, just as you said,” whispered Dotard excitedly, seemingly to himself.

  “Worm?” asked Saemund in his own watery, chaotic voice.

  “Watching. Keeping the other priests away. We’re ready to please. Eager to help.” Worm’s eyes lingered on the skinned priest in the pool of the blood. His voice became softer, and it was filled with a primal greed. “Excited to eat.”

  “Soon.” Saemund held up the ears of the priest to Dotard, who took them excitedly.

  “Soft! Beautiful! When can we have a pretty one?” Dotard fondled the ears, caressing them like precious jewels.

  “When you’ve earned one.” Saemund gave a quick chuckle of contempt.

  Dotard nodded. In no way did he reveal if he had detected Saemund’s disdain. He held the ears up to Saemund’s head, which was covered in the pale skin of the priest, except for his eyelids, nose, and ears. Dotard placed the first ear, holding it in place for half a minute while Saemund’s barbed hairs burrowed into it—connecting with the vessels and anchoring the cartilage. He mirrored the right one, making sure they were even.

  As Dotard worked, Saemund took a deep breath, contracting and flexing the muscles in his eyes. He knew the priest’s irises well, and his own snowy pools shifted, creating little circles of umber brown around black pupils. They were an exact copy of the deceased’s in front of him.

  Saemund handed Dotard the eyelids, one at a time. Dotard placed them with the care of a surgeon. It was far easier for them to heal cuts than tears, and Dotard knew that he would pay if he made the slightest rip in the delicate petals of flesh.

  Saemund stood completely still until he felt the eyelids anchor. Blood coursed through the new additions while he blinked several times.

  Last was the nose. Dotard took his time placing it on Saemund, lining the nostrils up with Saemund’s own two holes. His skin kept excitedly grabbing at the flesh, wanting to burrow as fast as possible. Dotard tinkered with the placement for a few moments, and Saemund spent all his energy forcing the hairs to relax until Dotard gave a sigh of approval and held the nose still. Saemund’s hairs latched onto it, sinking into the cartilage that he himself did not have.

  Blood surged into the vessels, filling it with his own life. Dotard removed his hand, and Saemund flared the nostrils and scrunched his face. The nose held firm. He filled his lungs with a long, hearty breath, and released it through the nose. It tickled, and Saemund smiled.

  “It’s perfect!” Saemund took another breath, but it was slower that time. It didn’t tickle as much. He knew that by the third, the brand new sensation would be gone, so he savored it.

  Dotard nodded thirteen times in rapid succession. “It is beautiful!” He fidgeted with the straps of the backpack as he glanced down.

  Saemund sneered. He grabbed the priest’s belt, and then he motioned to Dotard to hand him something.

  Dotard slipped the bag from his shoulder, and it plopped to the floor, staining the bottom of the bag with blood. He flipped the top open and pulled a fresh, dark robe free.

  “Good.” Saemund grabbed it. He unfurled it with a snap of his wrists (taking care to make sure it never grazed the blood on the floor). It was a priestly vestment, exactly the same as the priest had worn because it was, in fact, a robe stolen from the temple. Dotard had done well sneaking into the laundry room and getting away unseen—but, then again, they were all created to be good at such things.

  Saemund knew that Dotard’s spirit would flare at the praise, and it did. So simple he was, thought Saemund, so pathetically simple. That was why Saemund had named him Dotard, for he could think of no better identity for the fool.

  Dotard smiled as he stared at the flayed body. His eyes were wide with the anticipation of the feast before him. A single bead of drool slipped from the left corner of his mouth.

  Saemund pulled the robe over his head, and he was surprised how comfortable it was. The outer layers were rough wool, but there was a thin lining of soft cotton that tickled and teased his new flesh.

  A small delightful shiver rushed through him.

  He squirmed under the robe, particularly indulging in the gentle caress of the vestment on his pink, and very sensitive, nipples. Apparently the lad had more nerves there than Saemund had ever experienced, and he smirked at the sensation.

  Still staring, Dotard’s hands began to shake. But like a well-trained dog a foot away from his master’s fresh steak, he made no move for the tantalizing body before him.

  Saemund sighed, and with a wave of his hand, signaled Dotard to begin.

  Dotard pounced onto the body, seizing it in his strong hands and shoving his teeth into the backside. Dotard always went for the rump first. He was always very vocal on how he desired its flavor above the rest of the cuts. The way he described the meat marbled with savory fat was as if it was the most delicious delicacy he’d ever tasted.

  Saemund smiled, and his own stomach pleaded for a taste. “Save me the usual.” He had spent many years eating human flesh raw and had grown bored with it. Lately, he found himself experimenting with the meat. He planned on braising the priest’s cuts in red wine and serving them with onions, potatoes, and mushrooms.

  He smiled at the thought of his feast as he grabbed the priest’s belt and buckled it around him. He made sure to wear it the same way he had seen it on the priest. Just above the hips, he told himself as he clasped it.

  Dotard gave no indication that he heard Saemund as he ripped chunks of flesh out of the cadaver. A low, persistent, uncontrollable rumble accompanied him while he chewed with pleasure. Blood covered his lips, chin, and hands, but he never slowed his pace. As usual, he gave each piece a couple chomps in his mouth before swallowing.

  Saemund suddenly thought how amusing it would have been for Dotard to choke in front of him and die—but of course Dotard wouldn’t. It was how he always dined, and he’d been around for almost a decade.

  Saemund turned away from the gory feast, and he opened the door to peer out. Worm was waiting down the hall. No one else was in sight, but, far off in the temple, he could hear a cacophony of voices. No doubt people were still praying, he thought.

  He slipped out, and quietly closed the door behind him. With the scent of blood and rotted flesh closed off behind him, a new scent overwhelmed him. “That damn incense,” he muttered in his watery, warbled voice. Its pungency overrode all the other scents he no doubt would have sensed: the sweat on the priest’s skin, the dust in the hall, the smoke from the oil fueled lanterns on the walls.

  He straightened and tightly pressed his lips together. He couldn’t afford slips like that. His vocal folds thickened as he mimicked the priest’s pleasant, warm voice, muttering to no one but himself random words as he practiced.

  In two minutes he felt he had the priest’s voice—that it was as perfect as the flesh he wore.

  Worm scuttled over to him, constantly throwing glances behind to see if anyone had suddenly appeared, but no one did. The two creatures were alone in the hall. “Master?” Worm asked with a loud whisper.

  Saemund held his finger up to Worm, and Worm stopped in his tracks like a frightened deer. Saemund wanted nothing more than another moment to savor the new voice—the new him.

  “Vitoria,” he whispered to himself.

  “Vi.” He gently smiled.

  His mirth only lasted for a fraction of a second before he turned his attention to Worm. “Why do
you bother me?”

  “The plan?” Worm rubbed his hands together. “Is everything—”

  “The plan that you do not seem to understand, Worm?” Saemund walked over to him casually. He pushed his shoulders back so they were straight and strong like when the priest walked about the temple. “You mean the plan that called for you to wait in the hall? To keep people away? Which you are not doing turned towards me? Addressing me?”

  Worm’s shoulders slumped as he shrunk away. “I did not mean—”

  “You had one job, Worm, and you can barely do that. What need of I for you if you cannot follow orders?”

  Worm rubbed his hands with greater fervor. His face went pale. “Yes, Master. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he blubbered with a tremble.

  Saemund loved how the poor bastards called him master—the only two in more of a wretched position than him. “You are lucky I am feeling so benevolent today.” Saemund ran his fingers over his new hair. It seemed a little oily—as if it hadn’t been washed properly in days. He decided he would have to have a proper bath soon—an indulgent act he was very much looking forward to. The leather thong holding the blonde strands back had slipped during the transfer, and Saemund quickly adjusted it. “Did Dotard tell you what happened to your predecessor? What happened that forced you to be made in such a hurry?”

  Hesitantly, Worm nodded. His face turned paler as the last remnants of warmth fled his flesh.

  Saemund smiled. “Where is his room?”

  Worm’s trembling hands pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It had been folded so many times that it was no bigger than a child’s palm.

  Saemund snatched the paper and unfolded it. A map of the temple had been sketched by Worm, accompanied by small, barely legible notes. One spot on the map had what Saemund needed to know (what he couldn’t find out by himself given his recent bout of stench): where the priest’s quarters were. “Good boy.”

  Worm exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for several minutes, and he put his hand on the wall to steady himself.