The barber looked surprised, "I've had no orders to release you yet and you still need more rest."
He stared hard at the old bugbear, "Blast your rest, I could take on twenty, thirty cobolds right now!"
"Just like you did during your initiation?” It was Asman's turn to looked surprised.
"Don't look so shocked," said the barber, "I was there that day. The Commander and I make a point of visiting Kazan-on-the-Water for Winterfest. We need to know what kind of rejects we'll be rehabilitating."
Asman's hackles stood on end as embarrassment flushed through his body. "That was not my fault!" The memory of that day caused his stomach to tighten.
The old man put both of his large hands on the head of his cane and smiled. "Now, now, we both know that doesn’t matter in the eyes of tribal law. You know as well as I do, when the trial is underway, what starts in the arena has to be brought to an end by those in the arena. Still, perhaps you were lucky that your uncle was there to save you."
Asman's head pounded with his growing anger. He instinctively reached for his blackweed, but held his hand, allowing his anger to grow. He didn't care if this ass was an elder, if he continued this disrespect, he’d tear him apart. "What is your name, old one? So that I may challenge you."
The white bugbear began to laugh, mockery bursting from his lungs and he rapped his cane on the floor in his amusement.
Asman was at his limit and he snarled, "I will take no joy in breaking a cripple old one, but you dishonor me."
Laughing until it came out in a wheeze, the old one wiped a tear of laughter away, "Fool! You face Kinnoo of the Wykarwyk tribe, and this cane is for you!"
Asman blinked his good eye, "I need no cane to walk!” he snapped, and began to ball his fists.
Kinnoo stopped laughing and smiled darkly at Asman as he raised his cane, "Nor do I."
✽✽✽
Crack!
Asman’s feet flew out from underneath him as he landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Opening his eyes, he gasped for air and saw Kinnoo’s scarred face, wreathed in wispy strands of white fur, sneering down at him, again.
“Right boy! Use that eye you have left! You might be able to charge into a fight, but unless you know your surroundings you’ll always wind up on your ass. Again!” berated Kinnoo.
Five weeks of therapy and intense training. The pain still radiated from his empty eye socket as it dried out. Training always made it ache.
He rolled onto his knees and struggled to his feet. He trained every morning for three hours since the bandages came off and Kinnoo said that if he ever wanted to return to his tribe that he needed to get back to the patrols. To do that, he needed to learn how to use his other senses to compensate for his blind-spot.
Kinnoo looked at Asman’s haggard state and his face smoothed, “Bah, time to rest, we’ll start back up once you have gathered yourself.”
The rigorous training and physical labor at the blackweed farms in the afternoons had strengthened him and helped him recover faster though. Still, daily dueling left him covered in bruises and scrapes. Worst of all nothing seemed able to diminish his headaches, the burning dry socket, or the blurred vision.
Kinnoo motioned for Asman to sit down next to him on a bench. He pulled out his pipe and filled it with sweetnut blackweed.
“I’ve been retraining injured warriors since I was a few years older than you and I’ve done my best to uphold what I was taught.”
Pulling a brimstick from his pouch, he rubbed it on the cobblestones until it flared. Soon he had the pipe’s bowl glowing like a sunset.
He continued, “My Master, long ago, taught me that honor is earned by effort and sacrifice and it is within reach of anyone who seeks it.”
He stopped puffing and took the pipe out of his mouth, “So tell me uyatluk, do you truly seek your honor?”
Asman thought about the question for a bit and said, “Of course, I want my honor restored so that I can go back to my village and my family.”
“Huh,” Kinnoo scoffed, “Is that what you think honor is? Being allowed amongst clan and kin?”
He puffed with force a few more times, then tamped out the pipe.
“A bugbear’s tribe, as you well know, is fickle and can turn on you when you need it most,” he said, poking the stem of his pipe in Asman’s chest, his words as bitter as unripe fruit.
“Their support will come and go. Honor needs to come from within you, it is not bestowed upon you by another! Only then can it never be taken away again.”
Asman was confused by the old one’s words, he’d never heard anyone speak that way before. Wasn’t a bugbear supposed to be of their tribe? How did honor come from within him?
All his life, he’d been made to feel like he had no honor to offer, no matter how hard he tried. Now, this old bugbear was saying, what? That it’s always been there?
Asman closed his eye and remembered what the forest was like. He’d been stuck in this valley recovering for too long. He actually missed being out at night among the still trees, it was as if that was where he was meant to be. To be true, it was where he’d been happiest since even before being outcast. Almost as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to finish his honor duty. The memory of walking through pines was so strong that even now he could smell the wet leaves of the forest floor.
Kinnoo stood and put his pipe away. Gripping his walking stick, he whispered, “Stand ready boy, we aren’t alone.”
Asman came out of his thoughts, unaware of any danger. Kinnoo touched his shoulder pointing to the woodline. Asman saw nothing but shadows among the trees. Then the shadows moved, came out into the sunlight. Four elves bearing spears and dressed in scaled armor moved silently through the tall grass. Their breastplates resembled pieces of hammered bronze, but he knew that they were actually leaves from one of the many trees the elves had domesticated.
Yet no normal leaf could stop an arrow or the blow of a sword like these. The tales told were that they were as strong as the metal they resembled.
Each warrior carried a long straight branch, grown straight from living wood and untouched by a carver’s blade, tipped with a gruesome spike that reflected with an iridescent sheen. Obviously poisoned.
All but one stopped several paces before the bugbears and leaned on their spears, lifting one leg up behind them. The tallest approached, bowing his head to Kinnoo, and spoke to him in their tongue. Asman listened as well as he could, but the words were so foreign to his large ears. Every sentence sounded like they were asking a question that was never answered.
Then, to his surprise, Kinnoo spoke back to them in their language. A conversation ensued that had a cadence of a chant or a song one would sing for a shaman’s dance. Kinnoo stopped and stared at Asman, then said a few more words. The lead elf nodded.
“Asman, this is Narsaree, he’s the leader of the Van’log rangers,” he explained. “He wants to speak with you.”
This surprised Asman. “Why? What does he want?”
“Go ahead and ask him,” Kinnoo said and then in a lower voice, “But do be respectful, the Van’log can easily be offended and I do not want to have to explain to the commander why an uyatluk brought further shame onto himself by dying.”
He took a step forward and addressed the wood elf, “I am Asman, what do you want?”
The elf stared, the afternoon sun reflecting off the smooth green skin of his face, “We have learned of the loss of one of our patrols. That they were slaughtered at the hands of cobold filth.”
Asman knew very little about the Van’log. Elves were a secretive race, and the bugbears only associated with them in accordance with the treaty, but he did know they hated the cobolds even more than his own people did. This was because the Van’log were actually living plants and the Dixwari and their cobold lackeys saw them as nothing more than something to be harvested. No one knew why they sought the elves out or where they took them.
Narsaree continued, “We have also learned th
at despite the denial of your elders,” he glanced at Kinnoo, “you were the bugbear responsible for cutting them out of existence.”
Asman nodded, too shocked to say anything at this moment. Was it true? How did they know? Would they vouch to his kills? No, he knew it wouldn’t matter. Even though the Van’log were their allies, the tribal council wouldn’t take the word of someone who wasn’t a bugbear.
“Then you have the gratitude of the Van’log.” Narsaree bowed his head with the grace of a swaying tree branch, “We would ask you a question.”
Asman nodded, keeping the trepidation from his features.
“The manner in which our comrades were slaughtered has never before been seen by us before and by the time we were able to retrieve their bodies, much of their remains were,” he paused with a disturbed look on his face as he sought the right word, “corrupted.”
Asman puzzled at that description, but the elf continued, “Can you please describe to us the manner in which you found them?”
Asman hesitated a moment as he tried to gather his memories of that day, relaying the images as they came to him. The elves’ bodies hung upside down from the trees, their throats cut. But what were the cobolds doing as he had approached? His memories were so vague, everything had happened so quickly, and his head throbbed when he tried to remember. He stopped and rubbed his forehead above his wounded eye. The throbbing subsided and he continued.
The bags, he remembered the cobolds holding leather bags like large wine skins under the hung bodies. They were filling them with what seemed like a white sap that came from the slashed throats.
The elves behind Narsaree were disturbed by his description and began murmuring amongst themselves. Their leader barked a sharp sound at them and they bowed their heads in silence. Asman looked at them, surprised that warriors would react this way to death. He asked, “Why are you upset? What does this mean?”
Narsaree replied, “We do not know at this time, but we have found,” he paused, “other Van’log in similar states. Bled out and their bodies withered husks.”
The elf leader stepped towards Asman and said, “You have done the Van’log a great service and as a boon, I would give you this.”
Reaching for the bracelet he wore, Nasaree stuck a finger into its braid and pulled free an end. It looked like a woven vine that wound up from wrist to elbow. As soon as the end was loose, the entire vine released from his arm and stuck out like a branch.
“Please take and wear this, friend of the Van’log,” he said.
Asman held his arm out, uncertain of what to do with this gift. The elf touched the end of the vine to Asman’s wrist and the length of it began to sway back and forth like a serpent. Asman fought the urge to pull back his arm.
The vine’s other end seemed to search up and down his forearm for a moment. Then as quick as it unraveled, it wove itself up his arm.
For a brief moment, he felt a quickening. As if fire raced up into his shoulder and into his chest.
A single thought rushed into his mind. He couldn’t tell if he was thinking it or if it came from outside himself. It was a melodic voice that did not originate from any sort of mortal form.
During construction of the Monstrance, our father struck his head on its sharp and thorny exterior.
The injury has resulted in a loss of his capacity to reason.
Several inquiries from this unit to the father on how to operate the Monstrance have failed to result in any new developments.
This unit is concerned that the children will remain lost unless they are willing to reatune to the proto non-quantum spacetime.
He blinked as his mind drew back into focus. Where had that thought come from? The words were as if they had come from that dream. He stared at his gift in stunned surprise. When he looked back up, the Van’log had vanished and Kinnoo stood next to him, impressed.
Asman smiled at him and held out his arm for his teacher to examine. Kinnoo prodded the vine a little and grunted. He stood back and planted the end of his cane on the ground, “Don’t get too proud of yourself now! Rest is over, back to training!”
Asman sighed and tensed for the coming blows.
✽✽✽
Established over three thousand years ago during the second Nirana Wars, Camp Tereng-Kondoy was originally an outpost for bugbears to guard against Eizyr incursions and the roaming blind giant, Ofgriss the Damned.
Over the millennia, the camp transformed from a scattering of longhouses and yurts into a combination farm and military installation. Dwellings were carved into the cliff above up to its peak and could house up to one thousand troops in their caves.
At the base of the valley lay the camp's sprawling blackweed farm. Despite the fact that a supply of the herb was a cultural necessity and vital in maintaining morale and control over the easily angered bugbears, very few tribes were willing to part with their own supply for the troops, no matter what their honor status may be.
A blackweed plantation of their own was established by bugbear chief Bashchi Karato after the end of the Niraana Wars. He bought seeds from every tribe and planted them in the fertile mountain soil. The crops soon flourished in the warm, wet summer of the Arka Mountains.
With naught else to do but manage the troops and farm, the Karato devoted his time to perfecting the various strains of blackweed he had acquired. Most notable were the Wykarwyk White and the strangely euphoric Koblak Blue, a strain that he soon learned had to be kept under lock and key lest his soldiers spent their days doing little but eating and farting after savoring its leaves.
But now, Garrison Commander Baltar surveyed the historic blackweed fields of his predecessor. Only a few weeks ago, his troops finished planting the starters they had nursed from tiny seeds over the winter. He looked forward to a healthy crop and another successful year where they didn’t have to buy their blackweed from the markets in Kazan-on-the-Water.
As he thought on that, Baltar stuck a large single cured blackweed leaf in his mouth and worked it between his back teeth with his tongue. He chewed on it until he felt the juices flow and his mind sharpen. He preferred the calm days of farming over the hectic and constant garrison management. Especially after days like today, which had been a long and disturbing one. Patrols were returning with more reports of elven outposts raided by the Dixwali or their cobold followers.
As he walked the quiet fields, he mulled over one sergeant’s description of a ravaged elf village found this week. The inhabitants had been literally slaughtered, drained of their blood. Forty elves hung by their feet and beheaded.
He approached his encampment, a collection of yurts that stood by one of the streams running down into the valley. Lost in thought, he ignored his guard’s salute when he approached.
He opened the red wooden door and smiled at the homey scents of fried meat, potato, and onions. Inside, Kinnoo knelt by a small cast iron stove, stirring a pot of sizzling food. He put the lid back on and moved the pot off the heat.
Once he had placed a kettle on to boil, he turned to the Commander and they touched foreheads, leaning into one another, hands clasping, a moment’s intimacy at the end of a long day.
“Hungry?” the white-furred bugbear asked as he straightened and turned to place bowls and spoons on a low table surrounded by pillows.
Baltar grunted, lost in thought as he regarded the other table in the yurt. It was a waist-high, rectangular table, its surface painted with a map of his domain.
He ran his fingers along the Tereng-Kondoy mountain range up to the Dario River, looking at the red markers placed to track the locations of Dixwali raids and the blue ones where the patrols had found cobolds skulking along after their masters.
The Dixwali were pushing deeper and attacking more frequently this year than they had in several generations. This troubled Baltar.
His camp was the only major military force the bugbears had. Since there had been no attacks from the arctic wastes for almost a hundred years, the militants patrolling the sout
hern borders served only to amass honor.
Bugbear villages and cities were protected by their own guards or local militia. Baltar had suggested to the Council several times that their military be reorganized. However, the chiefs resisted every time, citing tradition and the innate might of the bugbear.
His eyes drifted to the shoreline painted on the opposite side of the table. Four black markers dotted northern Kazan. Each black dot indicated a bugbear village that had recently been raided by an unknown force. Some council members blamed the Dixwari, but nothing about those attacks looked like the handiwork of the cannibals. The sacred crops had been stolen and many were dead, but no one was eaten.
Tired, he ran his hand over his face. The council was so focused on the old wars and maintaining honor that they weren’t ready for conflict from the sea or the dwarven mountain holdings to the east. What if the dwarves were finally leaving their halls and marching for conquest? He feared that the land he loved and served for so many years would fall, despite his people’s prowess in battle.
“We are so stuck in the past that we can’t plan for the future,” he murmured.
Kinnoo put a hand on his lover’s shoulder, the meal was ready. They sat down together on the pillows to eat while the tea brewed on the stove.
Outside, a horse approached. Baltar’s guards challenged the rider. There was a quick exchange of words and the door opened.
A young, thin bugbear ducked inside, weary from the journey. “A message for you, Commander, from Council.”
Baltar motioned for him to approach and took a small scroll from him. “Show me your arm.”
The messenger pushed up his coat sleeve and presented his arm. Just above his wrist was a finely inked tattoo of a hawk.
Baltar nodded and pointed towards the yurt door. “Go and clean up. Help yourself to a meal over at the farm, kitchen staff should still be awake.”
Dismissed, the bugbear gave a short bow and left.
The Necrosopher’s Apprentice Page 6
