Shadows spilled across the rooftops and he could see white trails of smoke pouring from chimneys that stuck out of thatched roofs like pipes in old men's beards. The rooftop world blurred with mist, glowing in the sunset. Even the shores of harbor off in the distance grew hazy and Eldervost’s fleet, with their vivid green and gold hulls, shifted like muted shadows in the damp air. Below the tower, street lamps fought a losing battle with the twilight mist. All that survived were mere hints of glowing gaslight.
Sharpe stood bent and unmoving as a dead tree, his limbs hidden deep within his dark robes.
He waited, meditating on a large heap of discarded robes that lay in a corner of the balcony. He stood vigil as the dark hours crept along and his eyes hung low, hungry for sleep.
A gentle breeze that had been cooling his chambers all day grew still. It was as if every vibration associated with the living ceased.
A soft susurrus at the edge of hearing began to creep up the sides of the tower. The hissing of a thousand of tiny mouths. Every single one smacking their lips. Breath short and rapid.
The noise approached him and he watched as a mass of worms crawled into his chambers. They collected and grew into a wet, mewling, sucking mass. The worms gathered under the pile of robes and rose into a vaguely human form. The tall, vacillating figure dripped worms while towering over Sharpe.
Sharpe looked up and welcomed the being, "Greetings Harbinger Saorsa."
The form bent down as if to look at him and stretched out its massive arms. The worms elongated and hunted for Morrow's head.
Sharpe screwed his eyes shut as they fell over his scalp and down the back of his neck. Even after all this time, it took great effort to hold still beneath the onslaught.
The worms surrounded his head and slid in and out his ears and nose, taking hold inside his orifices like tiny tentacles.
Sharpe’s head filled with an inhuman voice. Even in his mind, it sounded like the slapping and squelching of wet worms against each other, somehow forming words with their movements.
Greetings Servant Master, why shouldn't We consume you tonight?
The heat and mass of the worms weighed on him, threatening to crush and ingest him in an instant.
It was a cipher, heard tens of thousands of times over the years, but no less precarious or terminal each time it was spoken.
Their relationship was simple, the Harbinger and its kind desired to consume the world and Primus Morrow Sharpe sought to delay that event as long as possible. He had to first ensure that the Assembly and the Grand Duchy of Eldervost would be spared. But, if he ever showed weakness, hesitation, or doubt in the Harbinger’s presence, he would become its food and all his work would be for nothing.
He responded as sweat formed rivulets down his back, "Although the time draws near my Harbinger, a greater feast still awaits you. Our young world is not yet full."
There was a pause and the mass slithered back inside the robe.
We recognize you and remember our agreement, you shall feed us the world and alone be spared. If we cannot grow, we consume. If we cannot consume, we grow.
Morrow's relief was immense. But as far as he could tell, not visible to the monstrous creature. That had been his one constant in dealing with it over the years, it seemed to have no guile or knowledge of humanity's shortcomings, especially deception.
All was lost if the Harbinger knew of his true intentions.
The last worm detached from his brow. It seemed to suck the sweat lingering there and a small shudder of revulsion ran down his back, enough to cause the Harbinger to pause.
Lights grew within its hood as it focused on Sharpe, he had seen that before, glowing eyes surrounded by the vermin within.
We are growing impatient. We hunger for what little life your world offers. You have promised to open the way for us.
Sharpe replied quickly, "Soon! Our forces are poised this very week to set forth and destroy our enemies in Saagardell. They alone are able to stand in our way and prevent your glorious feast!"
The mass beneath the robes began to sway, sickeningly blissful.
“Once we have subdued their pathetic armies, I will begin the ritual to draw your full presence into our pitiful world, O Saorsa!”
Faster than he had ever seen the worms move before, they shot out and entangled him completely. Unable to move and swathed in thousands of tiny sucking mouths, the worms gnawed at his flesh.
Rivulets of blood dripped down his skin. Saorsa’s words roared through Sharpe’s mind.
Your promises are growing as empty as our hunger. You shall feed us before Winterdark or the Servant will be part of the feast!
Sharpe screamed out, "The time draws near my Harbinger, a greater feast still awaits you. Our young world is not yet full!" and the mass released him yet again, but he fell to the floor, blood oozing from his puckered flesh.
Harbinger Saorsa retreated.
We recognize you and remember our agreement, for now, you shall feed us the world and alone be spared. If we cannot grow, we consume. If we cannot consume, we grow. Feed us before Winterdark or our agreement is forgotten.
11
Asman stood outside the curing house between a wagon loaded high with blackweed and a long oak pole resting on top of two posts. With one hand, he picked up a long, pale veined leaf and with his other he bound the thick leaf stem to the pole with twine. He braided the leaves on one side and then the other. In a few minutes, he had fourteen feet of bound blackweed leaves ready for curing. Balancing the pole on one shoulder, he took it inside the smokehouse and hooked the ends of the pole on two pegs. It was still early in the day and the rafters were empty. In a few hours, the entire barn would be full of the latest blackweed harvest. Then he'd light and maintain the smoker for two days.
Although it wasn’t likely that he would win back his honor working on a farm, he had begun to appreciate work that didn't have him under the constant eye of the sergeants. His lameness had earned him the antipathy of almost everyone in the valley, shamed and honored alike, and he grew tired of the comments.
"You can't even walk in the woods without being thrashed by the trees!"
"You're so clumsy even the ants can hear you!"
"Worse than useless! Nothing more than a broken middle leg!"
But here on the farm, his eye was no longer a concern. He kept quiet and completed his daily tasks. Collect the harvest from storage, haul the load to the curing barns, bind and hang the leaves, stoke up the smoker, and pack the cured leaves once finished. In the evenings, he'd help in the kitchens preparing meals for the rest of the soldiers.
Once the barn was full, he closed and barred the door. Wiping his large hands down the front of his jerkin did little to clean them of the sticky blackweed residue. His skin had long since been stained black from the season's work, a common sign of his labor.
The constant contact with blackweed was the most pleasant part of his job. Whatever natural element kept bugbears calm when chewing the leaves, also entered their bodies in lesser amounts through contact with their skin. He hadn't chewed any blackweed since his second week of working the fields.
But before he could make his way around to the back, where the smoker was set into the barn, he heard hoof-beats coming up the sloped lane.
Three horses approached, the two in the lead bore Garrison Commander Baltar, and, to his annoyance, Kinnoo rode by his side.
Asman tilted his head to look beyond them and was shocked at the sight of the third rider.
A human?
Asman had never seen a human before. The two realms of Saagardell and Eldervost were always too busy fighting each other for one form of supremacy or another to bother venturing this far south. He blinked and was a little unnerved at what he saw.
‘He's so small,’ he thought, wrinkling his snout, ‘and sweaty.’
His moist state was likely due to the heavy, black robes. Asman could smell nervousness emanating from the human. But Asman didn't need his keen bugbear
nose to notice his reluctance and fear, the human's eyes and body language were enough of a testimony.
Asman recognized the human's clothing from the stories his uncle had told. Black robes edged with runes and a writhing pattern, like a mass of worms, woven in red throughout the woolen cloth. An Eldervost Assemblyman.
“Good afternoon commander," he said, then nodded towards Kinnoo, "teacher."
Kinnoo replied, "Asman, I am glad you’re here. We have…" he paused, eyes boring into Asman under heavy brows, "a visitor, from the Grand Duchy of Eldervost."
Reading his teacher's caution, Asman remained silent and listened.
"Not any visitor Kinnoo,” the commander chided his companion. "Asman, this is Vicar Osric Fingerhut, representative of the Assembly of Eldervost. He has journeyed this far south through our lands with unfortunate tidings about your uncle."
Asman had never spent much time around the commander and didn’t know much about his manner. But he never thought he’d see a bugbear excited about a visiting human.
Kinnoo interrupted, "Perhaps we should allow the vicar to explain commander?"
"Ah,” the commander blinked, "Yes, indeed, Vicar, could you perhaps repeat your news?"
The jittery human seemed to shrink even further into his robes, confused by the commander's request. "Um, yes, well, I have been sent by the leader of the Assembly, Primus Morrow Sharpe, to bear the news that your most recent shipment never arrived at Port Myskatol..."
Asman's frown grew more severe and the vicar's voice dwindled to a squeak, "the Assembly suspects that it was the work of Saagardell privateers as they have been assaulting vessels destined for Port Myskatol.
We trust your… people, however, I have been sent by our Primus to trade with you. Our Holy Land of Eldervost needs your blackweed still."
He dabbed the sweat running down his bare face with the edge of his sleeve. "There has been a shortage of blackweed shipments as of late, f-f-for some reason, and I am authorized t-to purchase whatever you have left."
"And we'd be honored to sell it all to you!” bellowed Baltar.
Both Asman and Kinnoo looked at him in shock. The white-furred bugbear questioned, "But Commander, the troops-"
Baltar cut him off, "I won't hear any protests! As of now, Eldervost is our dearest customer!"
The commander turned in his saddle towards Asman, "This delay was caused by your family, the onus to repair the damage done to our client’s trust falls on you. You will personally escort this shipment all the way to Port Myskatol. You will then track down your uncle and return him to the tribal council at once!"
Great. Even more shame and trouble because of his uncle. Asman cast his eyes groundward lest he betrayed his anger, "Yes, commander.”
"Kinnoo, I have no need for him any longer on this farm, make sure he is briefed and prepares for the journey immediately."
"Yes, commander." Kinnoo bowed of his head, eyes still on his leader and partner.
"Now you, Vicar,” Baltar returned his attention to the little human, "I believe you said you wished to inspect our production?"
"Y-yes." The human nodded, sweat trickling down his temple. "If you please. I would like to know how you prepare your blackweed."
"Certainly!” the commander bellowed "What, Kinnoo, you are still here? Get this uyatluk on his way so I can give the vicar his tour!"
"Yes, commander," Kinnoo repeated, motioning for Asman to follow.
They traveled down the hill, away from the curing barn, towards the warehouse. Asman questioned his teacher, "What is this really about? Where is my uncle? Why is the commander eager to sell all our supplies?"
Kinnoo held a hand up and looked over Asman's shoulder at a small assembly of humans on the other side of the yard. "Keep your braying down!"
He took Asman by the elbow, leading him into the building.
Closing the door behind them, Kinnoo answered, "This much we do know; your uncle sailed with a crew from Zagekhan three months ago, we have reports verifying their passage.
They sailed on a vessel named the Zeedrak and its captain sent us word that your uncle and his cargo did arrive whole and hale at Port Myskatol."
"Then why did the commander no less than accuse him, and me, of being at fault?” Asman hissed.
"Because, you dolt, he wants you to look the part of the hapless victim, which you are good at anyway," the old bugbear sniped. He walked over to a corner of the warehouse and unlocked a small chest, a coffer filled with gold coin. More confused than ever, Asman wondered why Kinnoo had so much money, bugbears typically bartered for goods. Money was for humans and dwarves.
His teacher took an old blackweed pouch and stuffed it full of coin. Tossing it to Asman he said, “You’ll need this for your journey.”
The bag felt heavy in his hands as he secured it to his belt.
"Something odd is going on and we have orders from the tribal council to find out what is happening in Eldervost," he pointed a clawed finger at Asman. "We sent your uncle there and he disappeared somewhere in Port Myskatol, now you will go there in search of answers."
"Me though? Why?"
"Before your uncle left, he arranged with the council that if something were ever to happen to him that you would be given the opportunity to act as the council's investigator and learn the truth," Kinnoo explained, "and if you were to return with the truth your honor debt would be forgiven. The issue of your family’s honor gives the council a good excuse to send you without suspicion."
"What truth?” demanded Asman.
"Someone has been raiding villages in the north and pillaging them only for their blackweed, then slaughtering their inhabitants," his teacher expounded "The council and your commander want to know if it was Eldervost. We sent your uncle as bait, with the understanding that if he survived, he'd have earned his and your honor back. Now it is your duty to finish his investigation."
Asman blinked and sighed. Yet again, his uncle has shamed him with his love.
The next morning, Asman led all seven of the mules out of the pasture and to the livery. He put food in front of them, brushed them down, and laid blankets on their backs. Once he had the saddles on and all straps belted snugly, he took the reins of an old jenny named Dillys.
The rest of the barren perked up their ears and obediently followed Dillys over to the storehouse. He hitched them up in front of a hay feeder and went inside to begin loading the pack animals.
Usually, only three or four were used for the short haul down to the Dario River, where they would meet the barges that would take the blackweed to Kazan-on-the-Water.
That was when they were sending out the average shipment of five hundred pounds.
But for this trip, they'd be transporting half a ton. That amounted to twenty-eight bales and would empty out all their stores until harvest. All the soldiers would have to immediately begin rationing their personal supplies unless they could get shipments from Chainek.
One by one Asman loaded the mules, balancing four canvas covered bales on each back and tying them to the iron rings on the saddles. Once all the animals were loaded, he checked the straps one last time. They were ready to make the forty-mile trip to meet the long-raft riders in Parom Town.
The vicar and his entourage rode up just as he finished, sweaty disgust on his face. It was obvious to Asman that this little human considered being among bugbears a task beneath his contempt.
He looked at the other humans riding with the vicar. The first was an elder, gray and gaunt. Behind them rode two guards, each bearing a hefty crossbow.
Asman peered closer and saw that the crossbows had some unusual features. Each had a long, thin box mounted on top and a series of gears on one side. On the opposite side of the gears, a crank jutted out.
The vicar stopped several feet away from the mule train, unable even to feign interest, and barely glanced at the load. "We will leave now."
Asman closed his eye and rubbed his forehead above his eye patch. He could tell tha
t it was going to be a difficult enough trip with the little human, but anxiety for his uncle had prevented him from getting any sleep last night.
The vicar rode off, his entourage in tow, not waiting to see if Asman was ready to depart.
He checked the leads again to reassure himself, then hopped on Dillys’ back. If they were going ahead to Parom Town without him, fine by him. They wouldn’t get any further until he arrived. He was certain they had no idea how to haggle for river passage.
The day wore on in silence, the humans well out of sight for most of the morning. Asman ate lunch in the saddle, a haunch of boar rump from last night's meal. He worked the meat away and threw the bone into the woods.
In the afternoon, he caught back up to his sweaty, pink traveling companions. They were stopped in the shade and as he rode up, Asman saw the old thin human and the vicar exchanging words with a glance back in his direction. The thin one nodded and turned his horse to approach Asman.
"Bugbear," he managed to say in the most politely condescending manner, "the Vicar Fingerhut wishes to know exactly how we will be proceeding back to Zagekhan with the Assembly's goods."
"Asman," said Asman.
"What?” the old human blinked, puzzled that this creature would interrupt him.
"My name is Asman Alkym Kudum," he explained. "I figured it might be helpful for you to know it since just calling out 'bugbear!' in the heart of our lands would likely confuse those around you."
The old human blinked again then said, "Indeed."
"But please call me Asman," he offered, "the others are family and clan names, they are important but mostly ceremonial."
The thin human didn't reply this time and Asman was unsure if he was thinking or somehow stuck, like a leaderless mule. Asman wondered if he would fall from his saddle.
"How will we be returning to Zagekhan...” he hesitated as the bugbear smiled a toothy smile, which clearly did nothing to soothe the confused human.
The Necrosopher’s Apprentice Page 10
