the whole story, both bits

yeah i know the tittle isnt the most original, but i does fit well i think

Revenge and Blood

The pack surged forward; their shrill chittering cries a cruel counterpoint to the blood curdling shrieks of Rilkan’s fallen men. Of the ten men who had accompanied him into the foreboding Shroud mountains only broad-shouldered Tumas and rat-faced Nikolin stood along with him, all backs pressed to the surrounding cliffs as the two dozen surviving morin’ku rushed down the bottleneck, eager to rend flesh and break bone.
Morin’ku were far from animals; far less. What little Rilkan knew of their creation was more than enough to turn his stomach. The body of each morin’ku was an amalgamation of many beasts, each one butchered, mangled and stitched into a desired form, given life through spirits bound into its bloody flesh. Those spirits, the morri, would only answer the call of blood offerings, and were the ultimate source of all the powers that a sorcerer, gold masked serathi or otherwise, could call upon.
And of all the disparate creeds of blood sorcery, only the serathi, sworn enemies of Rilkans lineage, had the combination of knowledge and insanity to create the morin’ku abominations; insanity because the morin’ku were given to nothing but the acts of death. Filled as they are by morri spirits, morin’ku would fall upon first their creator and then each other in an orgy of violence if not quickly bound to their creators will.
All that stood between a serathi and his twisted minions was his will focused through the golden deathmask that gave his kind their prodigious gift in blood magic. It was testament to the power of Rilkans prey that the sorcerer could control such a large number even with the aid of so potent a focus.
As the horde scrambled over their own dead Rilkan firmed his grip on his morrin dai-chan, his bloodied blade, his last physical link to a past as the mournish sorcerer Rilkshan, heir to the ancient legacy of lost Morrindu the Dark. And he would have his vengeance!
Vengeance on the serathi cur who had left him to die a lingering death in the wastes of the Land That Hungers, the vast southern desert that had sprung from a land left ravaged at the conclusion of an ancient war between the city state of Morrindu, the now lost home of the wondering mournish, and a federation of ancient serathi sorcerer cabals. Left to be claimed by the remnants of ancient sorcery, his blood devoured drop by agonizing drop in a death that was torturous lingering agony. Death would come, but oh so slow.
And yet death had come bringing the offer of life; come in the form of three t’gol, prodigal assassins whose most ancient duty had always been the elimination of sorcerers who threatened the mournish people. Their greatest hatred was for those sorcerers such as those Rilksan had once been, mournish men and women who had turned their backs on their people, taking up the art of blood sorcery, its practice forbidden to the mournish until Morrindu had been found once again. Against all of Rilkshan’s hopes, the t’gol had stayed their hand, instead offering a single choice; forsake his craft or die. Half mad with pain the dying sorcerer had agreed without thought.
And so using the dual fey magics of the Far North, employed by an ancient crone named Grisla in ways verging on the impossible, the sorcerer’s body had been reborn; employing the runes of wizards and the weavings of witches, Rilkshan had become Rilkan, the knowledge of blood sorcery and his former life bound, supposedly purged from his memory.
Yet the glory of Rilkshans power had been greater than any had suspected, as the young Rilkan had growen so had his ability to recall the lost past. The will that once bent mighty spirits low now turned to mastering the weaving threads of witchcraft harbored in his soul and woven to his flesh.
Rilkan snarled as his blade carved through the ranks of morin’ku, their perverted flesh melting and bubbling as its edge scoured their flesh, the ancient weapon gaining a harsher gleam of flame with every morri spirit consumed. Even as Rilkan sighted another onrushing mob through the scrum of twisted bodies, he heard Nikolin’s dying scream echo in the confined space, the former Tarissian thief’s tricks scant defense against half a dozen disemboweling talons. Tumas was faring better; his grim Embarran training serving well as he carved bloody swathes with the massive two-handed sword of his homeland. Yet it wouldn’t be enough, Rilkan’s witchcraft, its strength drawn from life, was repulsed by the perverse bodies of the morin’ku, rendered useless against living corpses.
But he would not be denied his vengeance on the serathi! The worm who condemned him to this life, if he could find the sorcerer he could smother the life from him with the raw power pulsing through his flesh, with the force of his hate for serathi, the power that would knit his wounds before any blood could spill, the final safeguard against any potential still lingering in Rilkans blood.
His focus pulled between the lust for revenge and the fight for survival, Rilkan was caught at a loss when the morin’ku suddenly turned on each other, in mere moments perhaps twenty of the tings had slaughtered each other in the time it took to flinch. Why? The sorcerer had them cornered, a few minutes more and even Rilkans’ enchanted constitution would have failed under the weight of sheer exhaustion.
The serthi wanted them alive, it was the only reason to abandon the attack, but what could he have suddenly created that required him to abandon control of so many morin’ku at once?
With a chill that froze his marrow, Rilkan finally noticed the silence… nothing, no noise. With a tremor in his soul he comprehended what the sorcerer had created.
An animal moan escaped his lips when he saw the darkness shift, eight shadows moving faster than an eye could follow, the morin’gol closed in. Sanguine juggernaughts, their ability to destroy was second only to the legendary daemans of the Sorcerous War
And worse, they were once his men.
Rilkans last sight in the world of the living was Haarold Bjornhald's face, twisted by vengeful rage, as he tore his former lord limb from bloody limb. The last sound his own dying screams.