17-3
Syffox took some effort to steady his hand and poured a fourth glass. “I need another quiver.”
“But you already have ten quivers—most you hardly ever use.”
Syffox contemplated his drink for a moment. “I think that is going to change.” He took a sip. “I believe it’s time my supply of arrows went to eleven.” He turned his unsteady head to Drael. “I need an arrow that will stop a monster with a touch. I’ll leave it to you to come up with the strongest poison you can concoct. And don’t make it gentle or quick; I want my target to know they’ve been hit with something good.”
Drael took a sip of his bitter drink with a grimace. “Ye-yes, my lord.”
Mackyntal cocked an eye to Syffox. “Poison and pain are new interests for you, Your Grace.”
“I’m in a poison and pain frame of mind.” Syffox took a large sip of the spirits. “Ready, then?”
Mackyntal casually replied, “If you are, my lord.”
Drael hesitated before asking, “And what do I do?”
Mackyntal considered him. “Normally, you could hold his hand steady, but…”
Syffox fixed the younger man with a cold stare over his glass. “Hold my hand, child, and I’ll punch you across the room.”
“But,” Mackyntal continued, “in this case, you can be on towel duty.”
He tossed Drael a heavy cloth to place under Syffox’s forearm. The older priest then rolled back Syffox’s sleeve to his shoulder. He drew out a small leather thong and tied it tightly around Syffox’s upper arm. Next, he picked up a small blade in one hand and pressed Syffox’s hand flat with the other. He then drew a cut along the length of the ancient cleric’s forearm.
The razor-sharp knife easily sliced the skin, leaving a trailing red rivulet. Syffox let out a slow breath and turned his head. He took a sip of his liquor, savouring what bitter numbness it granted him. He smiled tightly at the young man who stared wide-eyed at the trickles of blood running down Syffox’s arm. “The best discovery next to blood magic is distilled elixirs. Be sure to give thanks to Enebros in your daily offerings. We may not be able to grow wine in the forest, but thanks to him, we can distil it.”
Once Mackyntal finished the cut, he crossed the slice with cuts at the wrist and elbow. He released the pressure from Syffox’s hand. “Now flip.”
Syffox paused and took in a breath to address Drael. “We often talk about our magic store. But magic is not stored within us in any particular location or organ. It is stored throughout our flesh and bones and blood.” He rotated his hand and arm upward to continue the surgery. “Watch the veins.”
Mackyntal spoke calmly while continuing his cutting. “Of course, Master.” He drew the blade around to complete the slices at the elbow and wrist so they encircled Syffox’s arm. “Flip back.”
With a groan, Syffox lifted his arm and rotated it back down. Droplets of blood trickled from the length of his forearm. “It was my forefathers who learned how to make items from our own flesh and how to connect to them.”
He winced as Mackyntal pressed down on the top of his arm by the elbow. Syffox raised his glass for him to wait. He finished his drink, then gestured to Drael. “Pour another one. This is the fun part.” The young man did so wordlessly while Syffox resumed his lecture. “When items are made this way, they are alive; they have their own magic power. And because we are of the same blood, we can control them and use them with little effort of our own, as if they are part of us.”
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Drael handed the filled glass of spirits to Syffox. “Is that why nobody can use your bow?”
Mackyntal barely suppressed a snicker, while Syffox gave a pained laughed. “Nobody can use my bow because it’s a miserable old man that hates anyone holding it—even me sometimes.” He sniffed the glass and savoured the burning vapours. “It is also an incredibly stiff bow that would take more than six men to pull and perhaps even a dozen to string. So yes, without the willingness and the magic of the bow itself, nobody can use it.” Syffox took a sip of his glass but did not swallow. He let the harsh liquid sting his mouth for a bit. Without looking at Mackyntal, he nodded for him to proceed.
Mackyntal placed the small blade by the intersection of cuts at the elbow. He then drew the knife underneath the skin and peeled it back. Syffox stifled a growl before swallowing his mouth full of bitter spirits. He took another sip with a trembling hand.
Mackyntal continued to flay the skin back in smooth, even strokes. All of Syffox’s body clenched and he scraped a foot along the floor while still keeping his dissected arm motionless and limp beneath Mackyntal’s knife. His other hand clenched his glass so tightly his knuckles turned white while his breath came from his nose in short harsh pants. Mackyntal finished peeling away the skin from the top of his forearm, revealing a crimson mass of blood and muscle. He put down the knife and allowed Syffox to catch his breath while the room filled with the earthy sent of raw blood.
Syffox slumped in his chair. Sweat dripped down his ashen face, and his free hand and arm trembled, splashing drops of liquor onto the table. He breathed heavily for a moment, trying to find his strength. His exposed arm throbbed with the pain of hot coals. The slightest draft across it made it feel like it was being torn apart; resting would only prolong the agony. He limply nodded his head for Mackyntal to continue.
Mackyntal lifted up the arm with its draping flaps of skin, drawing a moan out of Syffox. He passed a small clay decanter to Drael. “Collect some blood for the binding.” With his own hands shaking, Drael held the small jar beneath a stream of blood trickling from Syffox’s elbow.
Once it was full, he placed it aside and Mackyntal told him to keep Syffox’s arm supported. The young man looked disturbed by the offer but knew there was no refusing. Hesitantly, he clasped the blood-soaked mess of Syffox’s hand and elbow and reminded himself it was an honour to witness this ritual. Syffox winced and clawed the fingers of his free hand along the table with the apprentice’s touch. Drael reminded himself,
Mackyntal continued cutting away the remaining skin attached to the underside of the forearm. Here the work was slower and more delicate to avoid cutting any of the veins near the surface. Even with Syffox’s arm tied off, a small nick in the wrong spot would release a gush of blood to pool around their feet. Despite the shaking mass Syffox was turning into before him, Mackyntal was more concerned for how much work his apprentice would have cleaning up than he was for his old master.
Once he finished the final cut, Mackyntal lifted away a fully intact rectangle of bloody skin. Syffox collapsed onto the table with an agonised curse. He panted for a few moments before shakily sitting back up and slouching in his chair. With laboured breathing and a grey smile, he looked to the young Drael. “The pain helps you appreciate the power of blood.” He lifted his arm from the table with great effort and examined the exposed, bloody raw meat. “You’ll understand it more when it’s your turn.”
The young man shifted uncomfortably in his seat before stammering, “Yes, my lord.”
Syffox rolled his hand over and pushed healing magic into the flesh. With the glimmer of life-giving energy, the skin grew back over his forearm. It left behind pristine white skin that contrasted oddly with the rest of his dark, sun-damaged arm.
Once the healing was complete, Syffox untied the ribbon around his bicep and flexed his fingers to the cool euphoria of fresh blood filling them. He breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. “Healing yourself afterwards is also part of the ritual—to prove you’re worthy. That’s why only the greatest of the Order perform these things. Passing out before you heal yourself can leave you in a very bad state.”
The young man only stared at Syffox’s arm.
Syffox grabbed his empty glass and tapped it on the table. The previous glassfuls in him had been neutralised by pain and adrenaline. He needed a final drink to help the memory of the ordeal fade.
Drael fumbled to fill the glass. Syffox was unconcerned about the spillage. He toasted Mackyntal and the young man. “To passing on our ways to the next generation.” Drael had trouble finding his glass to meet Syffox’s toast. Mackyntal merely smiled and nodded. His hands were still soaked in blood and holding the slab of his master’s skin.
Syffox rose on wobbling legs. “Is there a room free for me to lie down, Mac?”
“Of course, Master.” He gestured to Drael. “Take him to my chamber to rest.” He smiled mischievously. “I will be busy tonight tanning his hide.”
Syffox leaned heavily on the young man’s shoulder, and they left the room with slow, deliberate steps.
