Call Me Malgor
As Fjore the Foulhand stormed into Ravens Rock’s throneroom, his soldiers were enjoying the spoils of war. Some got their enjoyment from trinkets, others from the people who were unfortunate to be on the wrong side of the walls when they broke through. But for Fjore his whole life led to this: To overthrow the lord who wronged him and his family, take his place and live the rest of his life as a tyrant.
His first order after sitting on the ornate throne was for a celebration to be held. He wanted a feast and demanded entertainment, something easy enough to be found when surrounded by those as cruel as he was.
On the first night they assaulted and tortured men and women alike and in the days to come they only got more organized.
Each of them were as desensitized to the horrors around them and many thought they had seen it all, however they were proven wrong on the fifth night when two beastmen came into the hall pulling a man behind them. The sight of the man made everyone gasp.
The man, if that was indeed what he was, was completely flayed. The only thing he wore was human skin stretched so thin that people wondered if he grew into it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Fjore demanded with a smile. “I am trying to eat” he shouted, gaining a cheer from those around him.
“Sir” bellowed a beastman resembling an ox, “he was found in Lady Tiffany’s jailcell. He was only discovered today.”
A murmur came about the crowd as everyone wondered how this could be.
“How is that possible? Lady Tiffany hosted many guests in that cell since I slayed her father” Fjore said, thrusting obscenely to show off the codpiece made of the former lords skull.
“I do not know, my lord. I–”
“Shut up” Fjore said, no longer amused. “Bring this man forward.”
As the two beastmen dragged the man to the center of the room a cheer that hoped for barbarism emerged, Fjore silenced it with a gesture once the stranger was thrown to the ground.
“Do you speak?” Fjore asked, his voice booming and powerful.
The stranger nodded and with a croak, said “yes.”
There was an astonished gasp at this revelation.
“How long were you in that cell for?”
“How am I to know without windows?” asked the stranger.
These words sent a chuckle throughout the hall and made Fjores face flush red with anger. How dare this naked man give him any lip? He was Fjore the Foulhand and his warband was many.
With a gesture, Fjore shooed the two beastmen away from the flayed man. He didn’t know how the man was still alive let alone how he could be so defiant, given his scars. What he did know was that whatever happened next, it deserved to have a stage.
“Who gave you those scars?”
“One less skilled in violence than you” the man said quickly. “My father.”
“Why are you not dead?”
The room grew silent, waiting for an answer. Instead of receiving it however, there was silence. Then what at first was mistaken to be a low growl grew to a rumbling chuckle emanating from the flayed man.
“I will answer no more of your questions, Fjore, son of Ra’orf” said the man as he slowly rose to his bloody feet. “I will give you all one chance to join me” he added loudly, addressing everyone in the hall.
An uneasy silence came over the hall that grew like a wave which slowly spread out into the world. One didn’t have to be sensitive to the touch of magic to feel that this was a time of change.
“Join you?” asked Fjore, nearly too silent to be heard. A fact he was thankful for because when he spoke he doubted the strength of the man who said them. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Why would we join you, prisoner?”
The man grinned and those who saw it instinctively took a step away from him. It was unnatural seeing his muscles pull gums and skin so thin it could be seen through.
“A wolf could benefit from the eyes of sheep.”
Fjores eyes flared at the insolence. These were words only spoken by someone wanting to die.
Or from a man issuing a challenge.
“You dare challenge me?”
“Not a challenge” the man corrected. “An invitation.”
Fjore had enough of the man and gave the order for the flayed man to be killed.
Without hesitation his personal guard drew their weapons and advanced on the unarmed man, disrobed of everything, even his very skin.
Dodging a spear thrust at the last possible moment, the flayed man spun behind his attacker and removed a short utility blade from the soldier’s belt, using it to sever the mans spine.
“You should have kept your armor on” the flayed man said with fake empathy. “You are all guilty of resting on your laurels. Those who follow me will be free of such supercilious delusions.”
Seeing the soldier crumble made the others hesitate, and the flayed man allowed them the opportunity to make up their minds about joining him or not.
They all chose incorrectly.
A young man who wanted to prove his worth sprinted towards the stranger, but was stopped when the flayed man simply stomped on the butt of the spear the paralyzed man was holding, sending the blade into the guards belly. The pain and stopping suddenly made him drop his sword, which was easily caught by the flayed man.
Looking down in horror, the young man saw ropes of intestines falling onto the ground. He had seen gore before, but never his own and his mind refused to accept it.
The stranger stepped past the young man and gently recommended he used both hands to hold his guts in place before meeting his next challenger. This snapped the young swordsman out of his confused state and he started to sob.
A drunk man with a large two handed ax came in next, swiping high. Instead of hewing the flayed man’s head off, the skinless stranger ducked then stepped to the mans right. With another swing the skinless man hacked at the shaft, sending the ax head flying into a nearby table. Then with the same motion he spun around the drunkard and struck the mans heel with the sword taken from the man who challenged him before. Severing the foot.
As the drunk man fell, the stranger plucked the wooden shaft out of his hands and abandoned the sword.
Two rushing swordsmen came in from two different directions and started hacking away. The stranger, armed with only a length of wood, was at a considerable disadvantage. Each parry sent splinters flying, making the shaft shorter with each use.
Dodge, parry, dodge, jab, parry.
Down to half the length of wood he started with, the man finally found the moment he was looking for. As soon as his opponents swords touched his staff at the same time the flayed man sent a current of electricity out of the wooden rod which ran through both swords. Immediately causing both men to fall onto the ground, twitching helplessly.
Fjore, who had already leapt over the table, was regretting his decision. However it was too late to back out now. To do so would make him appear weak. He let out a roar that was cut short by the flayed man summoning red lightning that blackened the air around it from his hands.
Fjore crumbled to the ground. White as a sheet and breathing as though he had caught the plague.
The hall grew quiet. No one knew what to do or what to say. All except for the mysterious flayed man, who dropped the piece of wood he was holding and walked to the cages filled with prisoners.
“You” he said, pointing a finger at a man behind the bars. “You swore an oath to the lord of this keep, did you not?”
No one made a sound for what felt like minutes before a man stepped forward. “Aye” the man said with steel in his voice.
“Good. Take your people. Take them wherever you want” the flayed man said, pulling the metal lock off the door with his bare hands and opening the cage door open. “No one will stop you or your people from fulfilling your oath. That is, if you wish to leave.”
The last few words made everyone inside the hall hesitate to move, or even speak. After what the prisoners had seen, why would they ever want to stay?
Before anyone could say anything, the flayed man spoke again. “Or you can stay. Fulfil the second part of the oath you made under a new lord. I know how I look, but how bad could someone who killed your enslavers and then granted you freedom be?”
No one moved or spoke for a long time. They just watched as the stranger approached a table and tasted a grape.
“What is your name?” asked a wizen voice from the table where Fjore once sat.
“You can call me Malgor.”
“Hmm” the old man said, deep in thought as he puffed on his pipe. “But is that your name?”
Malgor smiled. “There is power in names. You know that better than anyone, Lycian.”
The old mans eyes grew wide for a moment before he sat back down.
“Gather these soldiers” ordered Malgor to no one specifically as he motioned to the people who attacked him moments before. “I need them alive when I make my screaming cloak.”