The Necrosopher’s Apprentice

by Lilith Hope Milam

  The voice of a human woman called out from the back of the store, “Be right there!” Asman felt at his waist for the coin purse bound there. He was fortunate, although his blackweed had been ruined during his float across Lake Jalpak, the money Kinoo had given him remained. He gave silent thanks that the sailors that had fished him out were honorable enough, or at least afraid enough, to have left it alone.

  An old, female human entered the shop from the back room, wiping her hands on a brown stained towel hanging from an apron equally stained. Asman saw that her hands were tinted as well. She looked up at him, squinted, and scowled, “What are you doing in here? We don’t serve your kind!”

  Asman blinked, he had expected some sort of negative reaction, but not this.

  “Want to buy blackweed,” he said as calmly as he could.

  She held her scowl, put a fist on her hip and shook the other hand at him. “You should know better than to come in here!”

  He stepped closer to the counter and her eyes widened, the shaking fist dropped back to her side. His bulk blocked out the afternoon sun coming in the window and she was soon deep in his shadow.

  Asman reached into his purse and dropped three gold coins on her counter. “I want blackweed and here is my gold.”

  His voice reverberated in his chest from the rage that was growing.

  “Indeed!” she gasped and picked up the coins, testing their weight in her hand. She pocketed them and scurried to the window, turning the Open sign around.

  “Fine! What do you want? Pick it out and be gone with you!” she exclaimed. “And you will not be leaving by the front door! Out the back, you’ll be going!”

  Asman nodded in acquiescence and looked at the labeled jars; he blinked. He recognized none of the names on them. Strong Man Smoke? Pure Summer Leaf? Clean Lands Blend? What was this?

  Seeing the confusion on his face, the woman clucked her tongue and waved a hand, “Come on now! Don’t you see a flavor you like? I thought your type grew this stuff, you can't be that picky!”

  Impatience brought her stamping back towards him. “You’ve got to be off! Just take this, your gold more than covers the cost I paid for it!”

  She reached under the counter and pulled out a large leather bag, handing it to Asman.

  He took it out, opened it, and smelled its contents.

  Kazan Gold!

  Asman grinned.

  “You like that garbage?” she asked.

  “Yes, this will do,” he answered as he took a small pinch and put it in his mouth, breathing a sigh of relief.

  She balked at him then rolled her eyes, clearly judging him a half-wit. “Take it all! I’ve had that for far too long. We got it in the original shipments and it was absolutely worthless! Untreatable shake!”

  It was Asman’s turn to think her the idiot. Kazan Gold was the premium cut of blackweed!

  “Really?” he said with a little mirth returning to his voice.

  “Don’t you dare look at me like that subhuman! That useless herb wouldn’t take to the Treatment the Order requires,” she explained in that same condescending voice the Warden had used with him.

  “I shouldn’t trouble you anymore, how do I get out?” he asked, feeling the effects of the blackweed enough to know she wasn't worth his ire.

  She hurried him into the back room and towards a door he assumed led to the alley behind the plaza. As she clucked over a series of bolts, he looked around at her workroom.

  Blackweed bales were stacked in one corner next to a long bench covered with leaves ready for bagging. Only, she wasn’t bagging the leaves, rather she seemed to be soaking them in some sort of white liquid. Asman sniffed and the smell of fresh cut hay last thick under the smells of the cured blackweed.

  Something odd caught his eye. An unusual device sat on the center table, the scent of hay emanating most strongly from it. It looked like some kind of machine for crushing or grinding. A spout stuck out from the side for emptying its contents into a large bowl. He saw in his brief glance a pulpy brown and white mess inside. Next to the device’s hopper stood a bucket of seeds resembling giant peach pits. “What could she possibly be adding to high-quality blackweed?” Asman wondered momentarily.

  The woman released the last bolt and the door swung open. “Get out of here! Don’t you ever come back!”

  He looked around once more and ducked his head as he left. The door slammed quickly behind him and as he heard the bolts being set again, he smelled the Dixwari waiting for him before they even drew their blades.

  ✽✽✽

  Back in the early days of the world, during the first Niraana Wars, the only beings fighting were the Van'log against the Eizyr. And had it remained a simple use of martial force against the Eizyr, the conflict would have been resolved and the Eizyr exterminated.

  However, shortly into the war, it was discovered that the Van'log were being corrupted through contact with enemy corpses. The infected elves became a scourge that threatened the existence of the Pahale Van forest and the forest elves that cared for it.

  Fearing the worst, the First Caretaker, Sabase Pahale Karyavak, sent envoys out to the nearby lands to beseech the other races of Jerdon to join them in their struggle.

  The scouts that met with the bugbears near what is now known as Kazan discovered that their neighbors had recently begun to battle against Eizyr incursions. Alarmed at this news, the Van'log warned their them of the corruption that had spread within the ranks of wood elves that came in contact with eizyr remains.

  Their hosts laughed at the envoys’ concerns. That had been many months ago! Wouldn’t any corruption have shown by this time?

  The Van'log observed the bugbears and inspected the troops that had recently fought off the masses of Eizyr that had begun to flow over the mountains. They showed none of the signs that plagued the infected Van'log. They had no sores and were in complete control of their faculties. From that moment on, an alliance was forged between the Van'log and the bugbears. They would join forces, with the bugbears acting as brute force on the ground and the Van'log providing information and support from safety of the trees.

  Yet, despite the might of their newly forged alliance, the war still waged on for many years and the sickness that was brought on through the initial contact still spread as the Van'log revenants moved up the Pahale Van frontier towards the sea.

  At the final battle in the marshes outside the goblin outpost of Oguurthaan, it was believed that the last of the revenants were dispatched. However, it was soon discovered that a few had survived and commandeered a goblin vessel bound for the jungle coasts of the Suverotai.

  Since their escape, the malformed revenants began calling themselves the Dixwari and have barely carved out a nation for themselves.

  Due to their reduced intellects and inability to reproduce in any manner other than transmitting their own corruption, their numbers remained small but nevertheless deadly, as Asman was learning.

  As an uyatluk warrior, he had never encountered any of the Dixwari and he was now glad of that. Five of them stood at the end of the alley in a variety of shapes. Underneath their hoods, Asman could see dirty, leperous elven faces eyeing him hungrily. The two in the front grinned at him, malice splitting their lips away from each other in gray, scabby slits, revealing rows of serrated teeth. The group spread out and pulled clubs from beneath their stained robes.

  The blackweed euphoria that Asman had in the shop washed away as his heart began to beat faster. He drew his long dirks from his sides and filled his lungs. Raising himself up from the stoop required to exit the shop, he looked down on the filth in front of him. His vision misted red and a growl rattled in his chest. The thugs stepped forward once and Asman let loose a roar that shook the air in the narrow alley then charged them with all of his force.

  The cretin on his right reached him first and swung the club into his side with a hollow thud. Asman registered the pain but used his momentum to twist his trunk, driving the pommel of his blade int
o the creature’s face. He heard its skull shatter even as his attention moved on to the next.

  To his left, another Dixwari struck him across his shoulders. Asman shrugged away but could feel something tighten and pop, an explosion of pain erupted. He backhanded his attacker against the wall left-handed and slashed his right dirk across the throat of the next oncoming attacker.

  The fourth swung its club and connected with Asman’s head. A blossom of stars and pain exploded in the darkness where his eye used to be. Asman swayed for a moment and fell to his knees. The remaining Dixwari pulled a small knife from his belt, long enough to slit a throat, and approached Asman. He couldn’t get his head straight, so he curled up in a ball to protect himself.

  Somewhere behind Asman, he heard a yell and footsteps as someone came running in the direction of the fight. The Dixwari looked at each other, then ran out of the alley. Their forms lost in the crowd.

  Asman struggled to stay upright but wound up with his hands stretched before him just managing to keep his face off the ground. Two short figures ran up from behind and stopped on either side. He was hunched over and dazed, unable to do anything else but curl up in a ball.

  “Hey mister, you alright?” The newcomers’ voices echoed as if he was deep in a cave. He swiveled his head left then right, his benefactors were two goblins.

  “What’ll we do with this guy?” one asked.

  “Let’s get him back to Frogtown,” the other said.“I think I’ve seen him staying at Earlok’s Tavern. He’ll know what to do with him!”

  They asked him if he could walk, he nodded and stood. For a moment the world spun and he leaned up against the wall.

  The goblins held him up from either side as best they could and guided him out of the alley, moving down a narrow street. Asman couldn’t track where he was going. The journey seemed short but was made up of disjointed scenes and changing locations. They kept to the alleys and crossed a bridge.

  The last thing he remembered was being led upstairs into a dark room. He fell onto a soft bed and at last was able to pass out.

  He was within the liminal space once more.

  There was the pool.

  The enormous tree.

  The motes of light that swam in the air.

  He was awestruck by the peace of it all.

  He turned his body and saw a strange shimmer in the air as if for an instant he could see through the trees and rocks around where he stood and deeper into the forest.

  He turned back towards the pool and noticed the shimmering transparency once more.

  It was all around him, it didn’t matter where he turned.

  He brought his hands up to his face and the world around him returned to opacity again.

  He tilted his hands ever so slightly.

  There!

  At that instant, he could see through everything!

  Every shape and form became translucent and outlined in shimmering light.

  He angled his hands again another way and his new vision persisted, but it was as if he were traveling through the woods now.

  He saw glades open up between the trees as he sped past, still pools of water, the ground rising and falling until he stopped at the edge of a cliff.

  A vast sea stretched out beneath him and he teetered on the brink.

  He put his hands over his face, afraid that he would fall into the waters below.

  He sensed himself snap back into place by the white tree.

  Turning his hands around, he opened them up in front of his face in the hope that would allow him a better sense of stability.

  Through his hands in front of him stood the tall figure of an elf.

  The tallest Van'log he had ever seen!

  He dropped his hands and the elf was no longer there, in its place stood a young human girl that looked at him with black eyes shining like the Winterdark sky.

  Asman felt the girl speak to him, her mouth was still but her young voice entered his mind like an echo in reverse, springing from the depths of a canyon.

  ‘Greetings Root, my sisters and I are waiting for you to take up the mantle.’

  Confused, he asked, “Where is this place?”

  She answered, ‘We are where the first tree grew.’

  She pointed at the huge tree that dominated the space above their heads, then gestured around them.

  And this is the forest in which it stands to this very day.

  The trees began swaying in a wind that wasn’t blowing.

  Asman looked around at the woods surrounding them.

  “Is this the Pahale Van? What am I doing here?” Asman asked. “Why do I keep returning?”

  The sound of the wind wailed in his ears.

  Wait, no.

  That wasn’t air.

  It was something running.

  Running through the bushes.

  Rushing down from above.

  ‘So that you can learn. To learn that you can now see what is coming’, said the girl.

  A continuous thunder boomed from every direction.

  It was so loud!

  “What is it?” Asman yelled over the rushing cacophony.

  The girl pointed to the sky, ‘It is my sister Saorsa, one of the First Born. Forgive us for being so terrible.’

  Asman looked at the darting shadow figures in the trees and up to where the girl was pointing.

  Hovering over the trees, was a gargantuan mass of black tentacles and eyes glowing brightly with orange menace.

  It began to rise up and dominate the darkness behind where it writhed.

  It was enormous and as it reached its full size, the rolling orange globes that were its eyes began to search for something.

  A small orb stopped rolling itself in circles and froze, looking at Asman.

  The air thickened, to pulsing and pounding all around them.

  ‘Weakness!’

  Asman heard the hissing presence in his mind.

  It filled his thoughts and his knees buckled under its weight.

  ‘Weakness!’

  The world rushed up to meet him and he plummeted into darkness.

  17

  Where are you taking me? Why are you doing this?” Gansel screamed as the Underkeepers dragged her along the naval docks into a dark warehouse. Waves splashing against the stone foundations of the wharf drowned out her protests and echoed through the silent shore. The evening sun rested on the horizon shining its waning light across the face of the city, shadows swallowed the streets.

  After they had taken her from the academy, the wagon traveled to various segments of Port Myskatol, pausing briefly on unknown errands. She peered out between the bars of the tiny windows, hoping to catch someone’s eye and call for help. But there had been no one on the streets they traveled and what few people she had seen only peeked out from closed windows and doors, disappearing almost as soon as they appeared.

  From the few landmarks she could see, she gathered that they were traveling in the direction of the one part of the city that she’d never dared enter, the Martial Ward. The headquarters of the Underkeepers, the Panick-corps and the Eldervost navy.

  The wagon rolled through the last checkpoint and down a long wharf that she recognized, it was one she saw every day she went fishing and had wondered about its desertedness.

  She could see her favorite spot through the window, the long jetty of boulders that stuck out into the harbor, and the high-tide waves breaking against it on the far side. How had her boring old life gotten so far away?

  When they pulled her out of the wagon, she noticed that the Primus hadn’t followed them. They took her inside and locked her in a large, dimly lit room, the low sun glowing softly through narrow windows along the ceiling.

  As her eyes adjusted, she could better see her surroundings. It was another laboratory, like the one at school where all her classmates had been left unconscious on the floor.

  ‘What would happen to them?’ Gansel wondered briefly but was distracted when she noticed one wall
completely filled with rows of shelves bearing jars and bottles. She squinted in the wan light and touched several, feeling paper labels on each. Alchemy supplies?

  With the setting sun leaving her in the dark, Gansel’s other senses took over. She could smell the various contents of the jars and bottles, dusty herbs and acrid salts. But, overall those odors, she noticed another that made her heart grow cold. Summer grass. The more she breathed, the more her head began to buzz. Elves? It was the strongest she’d ever smelled before.

  Her heart raced as she felt blindly along a workbench for something that could shed light. “There must be something,” she whispered to herself in desperation. “There!”

  Her hands found the familiar shape of a brimstick box. Fingers fumbled to pull out one of the wax covered sticks. She struck it on the wooden surface of the bench and it erupted in an orange flare. She spotted a lantern sitting on the far edge and lit the candle within.

  Lantern in hand, she turned to face the room. A gasp of horror escaped her lips.

  The room was larger than she expected, her lantern inadequate to reveal the whole of the space. Thirty feet wide and a hundred long she thought. But it wasn’t the size of the room that surprised her most, it was the tables that filled the room. Dozens of them, arranged in three rows. On each table lay an elf corpse.

  Her skin crawled at the sight and stood frozen, staring. At first, it was hard for her to focus, the odor, although not unpleasant, made her fearful. Every time she’d been this close to a single elf’s body, something terrible happened to people around her.

  ‘But,’ she thought, ‘Not to me.’

  Plucking up her courage, she was about to step towards the bodies, to get a better look at them, when she heard a door open outside. Someone was coming! She held the lantern close to her chest and backed away from the doorway.

  Footsteps marched towards the room. She heard a bar lift and the door opened. Two Assemblymen walked in, both wearing leather masks to ward off the scent of the dead elves. She could recognize Primus Sharpe from how he stood, shoulders back, overconfident stride.