Part I: Leaving the Dark Crag,

...or: The Call of the Unknown

The ever growing labyrinth city, in its heart the towers that once were brought across the ocean by powerful magic, was even darker and colder tonight. Or at least, so it seemed to Makareth, while he was running through the streets, his heels clicking on the cobble stones, his face covered with a simple metal mask that was already showing signs of rust from the corroding breath of the foundries. His family wasn't able to afford golden or silver caedlin, even thinking about such things was ridiculous. Well, luckily, this despicable life of poverty would end tonight. He rushed to the door of his father's shop, knocked on the door violently, and looked around him, his chest heaving, heart beating so loud that he was afraid it would be heard within three steps around him. He squinted his eyes, poisonous air stinging them, and tried to make out shadowy figures in the darkness. He heard a high-pitched laugh of a child behind an iron-webbed window in a house next to that of his family, the sound of a whip hitting skin in the cellar across the street, and the muffled cries of agony, in a coarse, non-elven voice of a human slave. He heard no steps. No one seemed to have followed him.

Two opened the door, much too late, her face red from the heat inside the house. Makareth shoved her aside, angry at her being so slow, and stepped into the softly lit, almost cozy, shop. The sales room was empty, which was no wonder considering the late hour, but the oil lamp on the counter, that Two had brought with her to open the door, shone its irregular light on the abacus, the accounting scrolls, the money box and the wooden display in which hair strands, dyed in different colors, from bright red to deepest black, were carefully placed next to samples of lead-white skin bleach and bone-gray pigment powder, berry- and ocher-based lip paste, carbonic eyelid paint and salves against itch, for faster wound healing and against scar inflammation. Oh how he hated all of this!

"Would young master like to eat something?" Two was looking at him shyly, her freckled, big-pored nose, covered with peachy make-up paste from their own production, was twitching, as she took in the smell of foreign perfume and smoke that lingered around him. Two was young, but she had learned Druhir faster than One, and more importantly, she was able to speak it. Contrary to One, who was still only nodding or shaking his head in response, because One's tongue was removed by his former owner. Still, it sounded wrong and unpleasant to Makareth' ears when the human slave said something.

He shook his head. "No. Go and continue your work." He kept his voice calm. No reason to scare her, she might run to his father and tell him something is wrong. Two was his father's favorite new toy, ever since mother had gotten herself killed during Khaine's celebration days two years ago, so the old man might even listen to her. Despite the fact that he still didn't even give her a name. What kind of idiot called his slaves with numbers when he only owned two?

Two smiled. "Yes, young master." Her pupils were dilated every time she looked at Makareth, and now, in the scarcely lit room, her usually blue eyes seemed black holes.

He shivered. "Go!"

She left the lamp on the table and disappeared into the cellar, where One was probably stirring some stinking mixture in the big cauldron, and Makareth' father cursing about the miserable quality of some ingredient, like he always did.

The Druchii were a proud, cruel, ruthless race, warriors and marauders, that kept slaves for working in their mines and foundries and to do all manual labor. They were people who lived only for their pleasure, and to serve Khaine, the God of Murder. Yes, that is what everybody said. But for Makareth, the reality was much less noble and interesting. Yes, he was trained to fight – and he was a good fighter, the best in his regiment – but that training only took place occasionally, in the times that he wasn't forced to sell make-up and hair dye in his father's shop. Yes, he had been in a war. Once. It was when that bat-shit crazy High Lord that everybody called Darkblade, which meant bastard, behind closed doors, marched against his own home city with an army from Naggor. He leaned against a wall, as the memory washed over him like cool, tingling waves. Till now, it was the most wonderful memory of his whole life, and he didn't allow himself to savor it often, to not let its intensity fade with use.

Makareth' regiment was not at all successful – indeed, the Captain, who was Makareth' grandfather, was slain, and his cousins and uncles and whoever else they were took their feet in their hands and ran. It was understandable, too – grandfather's head was bit off by a freaking nauglir. And fighting against a nauglir close range, if you are on foot, is a really bad idea. Makareth didn't flee. He had tried to hit the guy who was sitting on the reptile with his spear, but the movement of those in front of him simply dragged him along and toppled him over.

Everything went black for a moment, and when he woke up, he saw the clawed, colossal paw of the Cold One digging into the bloody mud next to him and heard a sound of the beast's jaws crushing bones that he feared, for a moment, could be his own. The helmet had rolled from his head when he fell, and the sound and the smell of the battlefield, metal and leather and sweat and torn intestine, eerie shrieking of the Witch Elves, roaring war cries of the commanders, dying screams of everybody, was at once much closer, louder, more intense. He realized that he was still whole, his legs and arms feeling strangely full of vigor. His spear was lying just three or four steps away. He curled himself into a ball, pushed his feet into the dirt, shot like a spring from under the nauglir's belly and grabbed the weapon. A strange, pleasant shiver went through his body, a sensual feeling, like he was alive for the first time, newborn, and with a triumphant laugh he plunged the metal blade of his spear into the first of the many warriors from Naggor that were surrounding him now.

He would have died, and that was what he had thought at that moment, and what he had wanted. A life in the commoner quarters of Hag Graef, closer to the foundries, poisoned by their waste, was not something he had dreamed about. Being killed in a faceless regiment of relatives whom he hated, because even they looked down on him and his father was not an option, neither. But going berserk alone in a sea of enemies, slaying his way through them, and finally dying from a especially deadly hit that he couldn't dodge… That was what he considered an appropriate death.

Killing and dodging, that was what he was really, really good in.

He punched the spear into the abdomen of the crossbow-wielding dark elf in front of him, pushing him onto the men behind him, let go of the spear and drew his sword. A bolt flew past his left ear, but he didn't hesitate. With a launch forward, he brought his sword down on the arms holding the repeater crossbow that had just shot that bolt. The opponent was quick. He jumped back, let the crossbow fall, reaching for his own sword, but Makareth was already closer, his sword flying back up and slicing into the neck of the unlucky marksman. A blood shower painted his shoulder red as he used the dying elf as a shield against the next rain of bolts and then tossed him aside. The captain of the crossbow regiment attacked him from the side. Makareth parried the blow with the sword, metal against metal singing a cacophony, forcing the captain to change his position to keep the stable stance and with this move the shield aside enough to reveal a view of chain mail and embroidered khaitan, and kicked the enemy in the stomach, sending him to the floor.

He had cut himself through about five or six opponents when suddenly they retreated, an empty circle around him, panic on their faces. He turned around, drunkenly, his blood singing a song of self-praise in his temples, and looked into the sharp-fanged, ugly snout of the Cold One that was, just moments ago, munching on his grandfather.

But the nauglir stood still. Probably already full with meat from the battlefield, it obeyed its rider, and just moved its huge head up and down, threatening the opponent in its animal body language, breathing foul air in Makareth' face.

He had looked up and saw into the face of the Cold One Knight, an enemy, and something happened. He never understood if he was too surprised by the other's behavior to react or if it was some spell he was under, but at that moment the stench of the battlefield was replaced by an indescribable scent that somehow reminded him of his only visit to the Houses of Flesh with his older Cousin, and yet was different. The noises had subsided, and his sight was suddenly narrowed, the Knight being the only thing he could still see, nauseating heat rising in the back of his head. His sword trembled in his hand.

The enemy Knight – no, an enemy Champion, Makareth understood, this was no usual warrior! - looked at him. A pale face, high cheekbones and thin, dark lips, skin already covered in deep creases of age but stretched around the skull like that of a dried corpse, with burning green eyes and a smile full of teeth filed to sharp points - the Naggorite was both repulsive and strangely beautiful, in a way a shark, a wolf or a sea dragon could be beautiful. His armor was covered with blood, but under the red mist, there was purple and black lacquered metal, full of spikes and adorned with golden ornaments, and it reflected the deadly dance of the warriors all around, shadows and lights moving along the surface in a hypnotizing flicker. The enemy wore no helmet, and his long hair, black and graying strands, was held together by a golden comb that had the form of a thin, horizontal, crescent moon, and the same pattern was crowning the hilt of the long sword in the Naggorite lord's hand. Around the blade, which seemed to radiate heat, the air was scintillating with fiery sparks, and the blood of those the Champion killed rose from the hot metal as red vapor.

This sword didn't move to chop off the head of the young Druchii standing in front of the Knight's mount. Instead, the Knight bellowed something that sounded completely gibberish to the stunned Makareth, to the regiment, and the Naggorites left, retreated, fled, even. The nauglir jumped forwards, so that the young dark elf had to throw himself into the dirt once more to survive, and then the enemy Champion was gone, and the spell was broken.

The forces of Hag Graef moved up, and Makareth found himself among his own people, once again fighting, as if nothing had happened, joining another regiment of spearmen, and following his people into a bloody, hard-earned victory.

Everything about this memory was perfect – from the feeling of his own blood pulsing through his veins while his sword tore into the flesh of the enemies, the sensations that imprinted themselves on his soul, the sight, smell and sound of battle, to the wondrous meeting with the enemy knight.

Yes, he was supposed to hate Naggor, out of loyalty to his city. The feud between Hag Graef and the rebellious Black Ark was reality. But so was the fact that the feud was actually something only the nobles cared about. For the commoners, it was the taste of the blood that mattered, the rage and the holy dance of Khaine. It was about religion, not about politics. Naggor didn't matter. Nor did Hag Graef, or the Drachau, or the Vaulkhar's bastard son.

What mattered were skill, and passion, and faith to the God of the Bloodied Hand. The enemy Knight was a Champion, a great warrior, a leader of the enemy forces. And that, without question, meant that he was dear to Khaine. Khaine didn't distinguish by the place where you were living, at least so Makareth thought.

So instead of feeling ashamed that he was spared by the enemy Champion, Makareth felt chosen – as if the enemy had considered him almost an equal. When he remembered the burning of the green eyes of the Cold One Knight, he liked to interpret that look as approval, acceptance of a worthy rival. After all, the Naggorites have fled after that, didn't they?

Makareth closed his eyes, locking the warm light of the oil lamp out, and basked in the almost tangible visions of the battlefield. Remembered the sound his spear, and later his sword, made, when it went between armor plates or tore through chain. The force he had to apply then for it to penetrate the soft, heavy flesh behind the armor, too, the rich, metallic smell of blood and its beautiful, surreal color, when he pulled the spear out, dislocating ribs or dragging out loops of intestine. The vibration around him, a blade cutting the air in two, when an enemy countered the blow, when Makareth ducked or jumped or danced to the side, dodging easily, while the elves around him fell. The fever that had him in its grip.

The memory was wonderful, no, it was ecstatic, and he felt his body react physically. It was an excitement similar to that which he had learned to know in the Flesh House, when he saw a beautiful, gold-haired slave girl from the far-away Ulthuan dance on a table at which two drunken nobles sat.

He sighed. This other memory, less intense than the other one, but of an exquisite, delicate sweetness, flooded his mind, and he recalled all the details. One of the men had caught her slender ankle with a gauntleted hand, the hard metal of the rivets on it digging into the tender skin and, laughing about a silly joke, bit into the back of her foot with his filed teeth. She continued dancing, in her oneiric state, her ocean eyes empty from any emotion but drugged, stupefied tiredness, her movements losing not a bit of their grace, despite her foot being held captive. The Druchii licked away the tiny droplets of blood his teeth had drawn and pressed the sole of her foot flat onto the table. His other hand drew a thin dagger in a fast movement, hardly visible until it pierced the bright high elven flesh and pinned the small ivory foot of the slave to the wooden surface with it.

The dance had ended abruptly, the threshold reached, the drugs not enough to override the pain the high elf was feeling, and she shrieked, trying to pull her foot free, hurting herself more in the process, then slumped down and tried to pull the dagger out with trembling fingers. The dark elf noble slapped her cheek with the gauntleted hand, and she stopped moving, her drugged mind finally understanding that struggling would do her no good. Slowly, carefully and quivering, she stood up again. And continued to dance, keeping her pinned foot on the table, but moving the rest of her body, willowy, enchanting and graceful once again.

Makareth had almost choked on his wine from this sight, folding himself in half, the heat in the hardened flesh between his legs more surprising to him than it was to his cousin, who laughed and joked about Makareth being an inexperienced virgin. It was true, back then. It was still true, now. His father did not share Two, the old egoist, marriage was not something Makareth was interested in yet, and the lack of gold was an obstacle between Makareth and the fine goods of the Houses of Flesh. Of course, even an hour with the high elven slave would be much too expensive for both Makareth and his older cousin, and they had settled for more wine and watching nauglir fights.

But now it was all in his past. His future would bring more of those things he wanted most: glory, battle, beautiful slaves. And maybe they would be other, even more wonderful, yet unknown pleasures. His time selling hair dye would end this evening. He opened his eyes again. Briefly, he thought about taking some coins out of the money box, but rejected the idea. He walked across the room, passing chests, cupboards and display cases with more jars and boxes, salves and paints. He tried to remember his life here, in the past years. His childhood, his youth. He wasn't able to. Not that he had forgotten it – he hardly ever forgot anything, memories were the only treasures of his life apart from his weapons and his chain mail coat – but there was a new, very powerful, strikingly unbelievable, memory connected with the sight of this room, a memory that interfered with all those from before.

It was so unbelievable that he stopped walking when he thought of what happened earlier today.

It had been an unpleasant day, without snow but with an icy wind that howled in the chimneys and around the towers, and Makareth was in his usual, rather depressed mood, which was not made better by the fact that his father had sent him for a visit to his father's younger sister. The old man was indebted to her, and. But the idiot still tried to ask her for more gold. Being a Beastmistress, Makareth' aunt did have a significantly higher income than her other siblings, but this didn't make her any less avaricious. So his visit ended up rather unsuccessful. His aunt had coldly told him that should he appear on her doorstep once again without the right amount of gold, she would whip him bloody, sprinkle salt on the welts, lock him in a cage and hang it down from her balcony until his father would pay back all his debts.

Sadly, Makareth suspected that his father would rather sell him to his creepy aunt completely than pay her back – how should he, after all, when all the money the old man earned with his small hair dye business went into wine, betting and gambling?

He had opened the shop earlier than usual – usually they only started selling in the late afternoon and closed the shop after midnight – and hoped to see some customers before the old man would wake up from his tormented drunkard sleep. If he was able to make some sales without his father watching – and stealing money from his own business to bring it to the gambling dens –, he would put some of the money away so that he could slowly collect the complete amount to pay back the whip-swinging harpy of an aunt.

And there had been customers, though not many. A spindly thin, gloomy artist from the inner City, who wanted a lot of lead-white paste, had looked at him silently while he was searching for a jar big enough. A lesser noble came with an entourage of four dark elves dressed in his colors and bought some salve for wound healing and two vials of perfume. And then, the shop stayed empty. Even after the time that his father usually woke up. Makareth had ordered One and Two to begin with preparation to make more lead-white make-up and was thinking about sorting the boxes with the disinfecting and cooling salves on their shelves properly when suddenly the door bell jingled again. Makareth looked up, and froze.

On the door step stood the Naggorite lord, purple and black armor with its spikes and golden ornaments reflecting the bleak light of a dying winter day, the golden crescent moon shining in his hair, the cruel shark-smile and the green burning eyes, all there.

Makareth's heart had leaped. What was the Naggorite doing here?

The sound of the heavy spurs on the boots of the lord, as he stepped closer, had woken the young Druchii up again.

"How may I serve you, noble lord?" He had bowed his head just a bit, keeping an eye on the guest.

What the Naggorite said now was no gibberish. "I wish to buy eyelid paint, in black and blue. Lip paste, in red and black. And black tattoo ink. Do you have tattoo ink here?" His voice was low and purring, and it made something in Makareth spine vibrate unpleasantly.

"Yes, Milord." The young Druchii went through the room and collected the various items. Put them on the counter, took the abacus, counted and named the price.

The foreign Lord smiled his eerie smile and put three golden coins onto the counter, twice the amount that Makareth had asked for. And spoke again. "Yes, you may."

"May what, Milord?" Makareth was confused, his pulse was quickened, and he suspected that he had lost control of his facial muscles for a moment, probably looking like a complete idiot, because the Naggorite lord laughed.

"I remember you. Good handling of the sword. Fast, intuitive reactions. Handsome face." The Naggorite squinted his eyes, green fires blazing no less. "Serve me. You may."

"Milord, I…" Makareth was completely at loss. What did the foreigner want from him? "What do you intend to imply with that, Milord?"

"I am taking you as a liegeman, foolish child. Follow me." The Knight took the paints and the ink and walked out of the shop.

Makareth stared at the Naggorite's back for about the time he needed to breathe in once, then closed the shop and ran after him. Being a liegeman of a Champion, probably a High Noble? It meant gold, glory, battle. Maybe even a title! Even though the Knight was from Naggor, this here was probably Makareth' only chance to make his fortune, and he was not intending to let go of it.

And now he was back. Only for a few moments, the time he would need to get some clothing, his chain mail coat and his sword. He went through the door behind the counter and then up the stairs, into their own tiny armory. He found what he was searching for quickly. Instead of carrying it, he put the chain mail coat on. It hurt the skin on his back and shoulder where the Naggorite had tattooed him in the afternoon, three slender, dark dragons curling their tails around each other's necks. It was not the Naggorite's crest, and was not needed as a symbol of belonging. As a sign of being the noble's liegeman, Makareth now wore a heavy, golden ornamented collar with curved ends, the hadrilkar – like he has always dreamed to do. The tattoo that was stinging and pulsing painfully under the metal rings, despite the three layers of cloth and leather in between had been merely a test.

"Prove me that you want it." The Naggorite had put the paints on a stone table in front of a big copper mirror. He stayed at a house of one of the nobles of Hag Graef, in a room far more adorned that anything Makareth had seen, with tapestries on the walls showing ancient battles, statues of sorceresses and dragons holding basins with greenish burning oil in hands or paws, and an enormous bed with covers that looked like silk, and a blanket sewn together from many white polar fox furs. It was ridiculously hot – the room had a fireplace in which the fire had probably been burning for hours. Now it was just glowing coals. Makareth looked around at all this luxury and felt incredibly jealous, jealous to the point of stomach ache.

"Take off your coat."

He had obeyed, a bit warily.

The lord had clapped into his hands, and a human female that had been sitting on the floor at the side of the bed rose to her feet. She had been sitting there so still that Makareth hadn't noticed her.

"Now your tunic." The Naggorite had gestured to the slave to help him with the armor, and she walked towards him, unusually slowly for a slave, with a hip-swaying, seductive pace, and began unbuckling the belts of his breastplate.

Makareth stared at this surreal scene. Did the Naggorite want to seduce him? The idea of such physical contact between members of the same gender itself didn't offend Makareth. Though the choice of long-time partnership more often occurred between members of opposite genders, the other version was not unheard of, and momentary lust could bring together people regardless of gender anytime. Besides, Makareth had never thought about his own tastes in these things anyway, being a virgin.

But obviously, this was not the way one would usually hire liegemen.

The slave girl skillfully took off the Naggorite's armor and moved across the room to where the young Druchii stood. Makareth couldn't help but notice that she was very attractive for a human, with flowing, dark blonde hair, a petite figure, with skin like milk. Her whole fingers, not only the nails, were painted red, as well as her lips and nipples, and the only clothing that she wore was a silken scarf around her hips and a collar of soft black leather around her neck. Not a single scar tainted her beauty. A strange little smile was on her plump mouth. She didn't speak, just touched the hem of Makareth' tunic, and then helped him take it off. Her hands stroked the bare skin on his chest and abdomen, soft like feathers, and it gave him goosebumps despite the heat. Then she returned to her lord, who now was half-lying, half-sitting on the bed, and knelt before him.

"The needles. Water. Spirits." The Knight had spoken softly, the low purr again, and the girl had shivered, as if she was feeling pleasure alone from hearing his words. She had stood up and went over to a big wooden chest, opened it, took out a metal bottle and a small leather case, and she had put both items on the bed in front of her master. Then she had left the room.

"Come here."

Makareth had obeyed reluctantly, curiosity and the wish to not disappoint his future liegelord taking over against fear of the unknown and mistrust.

The lord had gestured for the young elf to sit down on the bed. "I will paint you. To see how much you really want to serve me. If you can't take this little bit of pain, if you are worried about my mark being on you forever… Then you can as well go now. I don't need a liegeman who would hesitate to give his life for me."

Makareth had stared at the fine, smoke grey robe that the Lord had been wearing under the armor, counted the dozens of battle scars visible through the half-transparent fabric on the wiry, slim body of the Naggorite, hardly able to digest what he just heard. "My life?..."

"I don't want to take your life, foolish boy. You will be there to protect mine. Don't you understand even a simple play of words?"

The young Druchii had shaken his head.

"I am called Lykaon The Enchanter." Green fires, shark smile. "And you? What is your name, my liegeman?"

"Makareth, Milord."

The slave girl had returned, with a crystal bowl full of clear water.

"Good, turn around, Makareth from Hag Graef. I will start with your shoulder blade. Is there any motif you would prefer?"

It had lasted for hours. The pain began as almost nothing but became more intense later, and a hardly bearable mixture of itch, burning and stinging towards the end, when the Naggorite filled in the black color on the scales of two of the dragons. Makareth didn't flinch, but sometimes a ragged breath escaped his lungs, and he hated himself for being such a child when it first happened. In the reaction of the Naggorite, though, there was no disdain. Instead, Makareth heard him making a soft, low sound, somewhere halfway between purr and moan. And the next sting of the needle was even more painful.

At first, it confused Makareth. But after a while, the young Druchii understood that the Naggorite lord enjoyed tattooing him. More precisely, he enjoyed it to see the young elf suffer pain for him, subjecting himself to this treatment by his own will. Makareth smiled. This sacrifice to prove that he was worthy to be the Lord's liegeman – it was far more pleasant than cutting one's own hands on the place before the Drachau's palace to prove one's loyalty. Far more personal, too. The other dark elf's hands, hard, calloused fingertips and sharp nails, were on his hurting skin. The needle which drew dragons on his shoulder and back was lead by the Naggorite, a small iron connection between them. He finally was someone, not just a faceless commoner, a pawn offer in a spearman regiment, a seller of hair dye. He was the lord's liegeman. And with these thoughts, he had leaned into the biting touch of the needle willingly.

He sighed, closing the door behind him. He didn't say goodbye to his father, and he didn't look back. Tonight, the Naggorite, who had arrived to Hag Graef as a diplomat a week ago, would leave again. The lord planned to go to Clar Karond and hire a skiff for some slave hunting, and he mentioned he intended to take Makareth with him.

Adventures, he smiled to himself. Battles. Pleasures. The world awaited him. The pain on his inflamed shoulder and the reassuring weight of the golden hadrilkar around his neck sang to him that he finally had done something right.