The Graverobber leapt at him, and Leanoric forced his eyes to remain open, forced himself to stare at the twisted, corrugated body of the deformed creature, once human but deviated by toxins, poisons, its skin a shiny, ceramic black, tinkling as it moved, tinkling as if it might shatter. It, or he, was thin-limbed, his head perfectly round and bald with narrow-slitted eyes and a face not a thousand miles from that of a feline. He had whiskers, and sharp black teeth, and a small red tongue, and as he leapt for Leanoric with claws extending and powerful, corded muscles bunched for the kill, so Leanoric spoke his name, and in doing so, tamed the savage beast “Jageraw!”
The Graverobber hit the ground lightly, and turned, spinning around on himself on all fours before rearing into an upright walking position. Leanoric heard the crinkle of ceramic spine, and pretended he hadn’t.
“What want you here, human?”
“I have questions.”
“What makes you think I answer?”
“I have a gift.”
“A gift? For me? How pretty. What is it?” Jageraw’s demeanour changed, and he dropped to all fours again, black skin gleaming unnaturally. Leanoric opened the sack he was carrying, and steeling himself, put in his hand. He pulled out a raw liver. It glistened in the gloom, and the muscles on Leanoric’s jaw went tight.
Jageraw sniffed, and edged closer, eyes watching Leanoric suspiciously. He swayed, peering past Leanoric into the gloom, then focused on the liver. “Human or animal?”
“Human,” said Leanoric, voice little more than a whisper. “Just the way you like it.”
Jageraw lashed out, taking the liver, then went through an elaborate sequence where he sniffed, and licked, and tasted, and sampled. When finally happy, the shiny black creature, glistening as if coated with oil, moved to the centre of the stone circle, dug up a little earth and buried the organ.
“You bring me more, human man?”
“Answers.”
“To questions? Ask questions. You bring me more?”
“I have two hearts, two kidneys and another liver.”
Jageraw’s eyes went wide, as if offered the finest feast of his life. He licked his thin shiny lips, and his sharp teeth clattered for a moment as if in unadulterated excitement.
“Ask your questions.”
“There is an army advancing on my land. It is said they use blood-oil magick.” Jageraw twitched, as if stung, and a crafty look stole over his face. “I want to know if it is true.”
“Who leads the army?”
“General Graal. He is a…vachine.”
Jageraw hunkered down, and hissed. “They are not good. They are bad. They are not pretty. They are far from pretty. You want to avoid these men, they have blood-oil magick. Yes.”
“How do I fight them?”
“Hmm. The food smells nice. Smells pretty. Smells succulent. Jageraw would like another sample.”
Leanoric threw the bag, which thudded as it hit the ground. Jageraw leapt forward, excitement thrumming through his taut muscled body, and Leanoric watched the Graverobber chewing and tasting, head in the bag, then emerging, blood dribbling down his chin as his dark eyes surveyed King Leanoric.
“You are very generous, sire. ” He chuckled, as if at some great jest. His head tilted, and not for the first time Leanoric thought to himself, what the hell kind of creature are you? What happened to you? Why do you eat human remains-hence earning the title of Graverobber, from earlier days? Days when you robbed graves for your food. And, ultimately, why can you no longer leave this ancient circle of stones? Others had asked such questions, and several eminent professors from Jalder University had been sent to research the Old Ways and the Blood-oil Magick Legacy for purposes of scholarly study. All were dead. Jageraw might seem an oddity, but he was powerful beyond belief, and had the ability to…fade away when threatened.
Once, three mercenaries had been hired to bring back the Graverobber’s carcass, with or without a head. One entered the circle with a bag of goodies, and enticed Jageraw out as his comrades waited in the gloom of falling night with powerful longbows. They peppered Jageraw with savage, barbed, poisoned arrows, six or seven of which thudded home to sprays of bubbling blood in slick black flesh. In squealing agony, Jageraw grabbed the first mercenary within the circle and they…vanished. Or so the story went. The man’s companions waited for three nights for their friend, and one evening emerged to discover him lying in the circle, his body peeled but still, incredibly, alive. He’d whimpered pitifully, pleading and begging for help. His companions on impulse rushed into the circle, and Jageraw pounced from nowhere, his body perfectly healed, his claws cutting through swords and shields to sever heads from bodies. That night, Jageraw ate well.
Now, people left the Graverobber to himself.
“You want to fight Army of Iron, you say? Yes. Their blood-oil magick is powerful, very powerful, and they walk the Old Ways with Harvesters of Legend. That is where their power comes from. Freeze your men with horror,” he chuckled, “they will.”
“I never said it was the Army of Iron,” said Leanoric, eyes narrowing.
“That is who Graal commands. Kill him, you must.” Jageraw took a bite from a human heart, and chewed thoughtfully, staring down at his food. “Their magick takes time to cast, that is your strength. They attack at night, yes, pretty pretty night. You must think of a way to circle them, or draw them out. Once they unleash their magick, for a little while, it is out of their control. Now I must go. Now I must eat. Told you too much, I have.”
Jageraw grinned, dark eyes glinting malevolently.
“Thank you…Jageraw.”
“Come back any time,” said the slick black creature, backing away from King Leanoric with ceramic tinklings. “Bring gifts, bring feast, pretty meat from still warm human bodies is what I prefer.” His eyes blinked, and he started to fade. “If you survive, little king,” he chuckled, and was gone.
Leanoric realised he was kneeling, and stood up. He backed hurriedly from the ancient circle of stones, and realised his sword was half drawn. He shivered, aware there were some things he would never understand; and acknowledging there were things he did not want to understand. Jageraw could rot, for all he now cared.
Leanoric turned, mounted his horse, and set off across the mist-laden moors as fast as he dared.
Behind, at the edge of the circle, unseen and rocking rhythmically sat Jageraw, gnawing on fresh liver, and waving with crinkled, blood-stained claws.
Kell, Saark, Nienna, Myriam, Styx and Jex rode hard through the rest of the night, exhausting their horses and breaking out onto the Great North Road just north of Old Skulkra, a deserted ghost-city which sat three leagues north of the relatively new, modern, and relocated city of Skulkra.
They reined in mounts on a low hill, gazing down the old, overgrown, frost-crusted road which led from the Great North Road to distant, crumbling spires, smashed domes, detonated towers, fragmented buildings and fractured defensive walls. On the flat plain before Old Skulkra Leanoric had two divisions camped after moving north from Valantrium Moor, 9600 men plus a few cavalry, lancers and archers stationed to the north of the infantry to provide covering fire in case of surprise attack. In the dawn light their fires had burned low, but there was activity.
“Remember,” said Myriam, leaning forward over the pommel of her saddle. “Any tricks or signals, and the girl dies in two weeks time. A terrible, painful death.”
“How could I forget?” said Kell, and went as if to ride for Leanoric’s camp.
“Wait,” said Saark, and Kell turned on him. There was pain there, in Saark’s face, in his eyes, and he smiled a diluted smile at Kell, then gazed off, towards the camp. “I cannot come,” he said.