The Necrosopher’s Apprentice

by Lilith Hope Milam

  The bolts were thrown from the outside on the doors behind her, their clamor echoing in the far reaches of the laboratory.

  "Welcome back Miss Alterblum," the Primus said, continuing his work, "I trust you are done making your rounds and that you fully comprehend the weight of your situation?"

  Gansel remained silent.

  Sharpe turned to the machine, opened a panel and inserted a crank. He gave it a few turns. "Ah, you see, this is where you say, 'Yes Primus' or 'I understand, Primus.' Silence does not behoove you, this is the chance for you to do your due diligence. To step into your place here."

  "Just what is my place here?" she blustered "To cut up and study these bodies for you? And then what? You’ll release me? Bring Mama back?"

  "In time. In a fashion, yes," he replied, still focused on adjusting knobs and switches on the device. "I'll not deny that the Assembly's methods are exorbitant. But we do reward loyalty and devotion to the Pure Human Spirit."

  He made one last adjustment and turned to finally face her. She could hear his breathing behind the mask as he approached.

  "You do this work and you and your mother will be taken care of. She will have an unknown benefactor and receive employment and a healthy stipend from the Assembly. She has no memory of her daughter and won't come inquiring nor shall pine away for you. But if you don't do as we command, we'll go to her instead. As you saw, her blissful ignorance is easily shattered."

  Her face flushed with frustration and fury, she felt tears burning again. “Why did you do this to my mother? Why did you do this to me?”

  Primus Sharpe laughed. “Well, you see Miss Alterblum, may I call you Gansel?” when it was clear that she wouldn’t reply, he continued, “The best cages have no bars.”

  18

  Stretching, Asman woke himself and looked out at the slowly waxing light of dawn in the swamp. He was late to meet his uncle and his father. Dressing quickly, he grabbed a roasted haunch of camel-bird from the hearth spit and ran out the door. This was not a day to be late!

  Eating his hasty breakfast as he ran to the edge of the docks. He saw his father waiting for him at the end of the pier and his uncle standing on the punt-raft. Jecirak grunted, “Late as usual Komuru!” His father refused to call him by his birth name. Instead, he called him ‘Charcoal’, as if he were a dirty smudge left after a devastating fire. Asman knew it was because his father was a rake and never wanted to step up to his tribal duties as his sire.

  Buchak waved for Asman to climb on the raft and passed him a punting stick. Jecirak grunted, then walked unsteadily, swaying from lack of blackweed, onto the raft and dropped down in the center.

  The young bugbear turned away from his brooding father and in unison with his uncle, pushed off from the pier and into the Erinchik Swamp. Asman could smell the sour pong of week-old sweat wafting off his sire. Asman inwardly despaired. He knew this version of his father all too well and steeled himself for the inevitable abuse.

  Jecirak struck a brimstick on the surface of the raft and lit a lamp. Hanging on the raft’s lamppost, it cast a dim orange light into the cypress trees and reflected their outlines onto the black water.

  They drifted in the dark for half an hour, the sounds of frogs droning in the pre-dawn. A huku-bird called out, ‘huu-huu-kuuu’ as they changed the placement of their sticks and made a sharp right into a black pool surrounded by a copse of cypress trees and roots.

  Punting to a space between the roots of an enormous cypress, they secured a line to a root. Buchak sat next to his brother and they stared down at Asman.

  His father belched, then rumbled in his gravelly voice, “Today are your tests Komuru. Today you will prove to your clan if you can provide for and defend it!”

  He pointed to the black water. “In this pool, lives the great Chagilbalyk, the Lightning Fish, that we have fed over the years waiting for the day when it’s strength will feed our people.”

  His uncle drew a long dagger and held it out to him, blade down. “It is time. Kill it and bring it here!”

  Buchak took out a raw camel-bird leg tied to a looped rope. He settled the rope around Asman’s neck, no warmth in his mocking grin. “Lightning fish are shy and only come out to be fed.”

  Asman held the huge drumstick up as both his father and uncle chuckled.

  “Maybe you can beat it over the head with it when you catch it!” his father said, laughing menace sharpening the edges of his words. “Get in there.”

  Asman slid into the water and began to head out along the side of the pool, the dagger tucked into his rope belt and the drumstick floating in the water bumping his chest. He peered into the pitch black waters, wondering how he was going to catch the beast his tribe had spoken of for years. Streaks of light, moving through the water among the roots suddenly brought all the stories to life.

  The colors shifted from purple to green, then blue. Swirling in the water, it looked as if the fish stretched out until it was as long as a sea constrictor. Asman blinked, no, that had to be an illusion! My eyes are making it seem longer. He blinked a few times and the fish’s size diminished.

  The fish, knowing an enticing meal had entered its domain, latched onto Asman, dragging him under and into the maze of swamp roots. He could feel the roots wrapping tight around his arms and legs as the fish whirled him through the water. He thrashed against them. He couldn’t breathe! He had to escape!

  ✽✽✽

  The massive thud of his body hitting the floor woke him up more than the actual fall. Linen bed sheets twined all around him. He must have been tossing and turning something awful.

  He sat up and regretted it immediately. Darkness, but his head blazed with pain. He couldn’t tell if it was a new pain or his old injury returning. The room was hot and stuffy. Sweat beaded on his brow and his tunic was soaked through.

  Slow breathing calmed the pain to a manageable level as a subtle scent caught his nose. Another bugbear had slept here. Its scent was a few weeks old and deep in the bedding. Had his uncle been here?

  After holding his head for a minute, he cracked his eye open and looked around. A quick stab and a dull ache accompanied the sight of the room.

  Garments were cast to every corner. He saw his uncle’s ceremonial kemerchu belt and mantle lying underneath the bed. Pulling it out, he ran his finger over the golden belt, felt the rough facets of the round, red garnets mounted into the face of the large buckle. He admired the rich gold and vermillion threads woven into the large mantle, which reached his feet when held up in front of his chest. He folded the belt and robe, an ache in his heart, knowing that he’d never attend a kemerchu ceremony or wear the garb.

  He placed it on the bed and the clank of metal on floorboards drew his attention downwards. Something shiny rolled across the floor and under the table. Asman reached into the shadows and pulled out a large nose ring. It was the one that had been intended for him if he hadn’t almost drowned that day. His fist tightened around the ring and tears welled up in his eyes as memories of that day arose from deep in his mind.

  His lungs had burned and he couldn’t see anything under the water. It was clear enough, almost as clear as a fresh spring, but this part of the swamp was so dark and the muddy bottom was carpeted in leaves turned black by the bitter water, that it didn’t matter. It was like swimming on a moonless night. Now and then, an iridescent streak would catch his eye. Asman gripped the dagger in his left hand, ready to wrestle the massive fish while plunging the dagger into its gills and eyes. The glow raced past him on the right and he spun to face it.

  A tremendous mass struck him in the back and knocked the wind out of him; water flooded his lungs and stars flashed in the sides of his vision. The glow of the lightning fish seemed to double, were there two fish? He couldn’t turn fast enough beneath the surface to determine how many fish were now swimming around him. They were becoming a kaleidoscopic swirl as they danced all around him. His feet seemed to be floating over his head and he drifted into darkness.

&
nbsp; Intense pain erupted in his legs, back, and chest. Someone grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him out of the water. He couldn’t breathe! He rolled onto his side and vomited the sour water onto the raft. He rubbed the mud from his eyes and looked up to see his father glaring down at him.

  “What a wretched excuse of a bugbear you are.”

  Opening his eyes again, Asman resolved to not spend any more time feeling sorry for himself over this memory. He’d already wasted too much of his life reliving that moment in his mind, each time hoping beyond hope that somehow it would change and his father would be the one to pull him from the water.

  Seared into his brain were the contempt on his father’s face and the sorrow and pity on his uncle’s. Why had Buchak kept the ring all these years? Was his uncle going to present it to him when he returned from Eldervost? Was he to someday still become an Honored One? Sticking it in his tunic pocket, he decided to venture outside the room. He needed to figure out where he was and where his uncle had gotten to.

  The nagging worry that troubled him the most, ever since leaving Tereng-Kondoy, returned. How was he to find Buchak? He had been chosen as the slewfoot for the tribe and sent to this barbaric, dreadful city with its foul odors and no real place to start. He wanted to rush out and find Buchak, now, today, but he knew it was insensible to hurry when you had no place to go.

  The light from the window was growing dim as the sun lowered itself behind the buildings across the courtyard. He stuck his head out the small opening and tried to get some fresh air and some clue to his whereabouts. He saw the empty cobblestone street below and a breeze cooled his brow, but the odors of this city continued to assault him. He’d never be able to track by scent.

  The smell of roasting meat drifted up from the window below his. Burnt fat and blood masked the stench of the city for a moment. His stomach growled like a neglected beast. He felt empty inside. When was the last time he ate something other than travel rations? The building certainly seemed bigger than a private home. He hoped that whoever let him in this room would be willing to part with a meal as well.

  Pulling his head back in, he winced as he twisted stiff muscles. The memory of being shot and dying in Lake Jalpak sprung to mind. Why had the humans betrayed him back in Kazan? His stomach answered with a loud rumble. No amount of questioning would stop his hunger. He needed to eat.

  Asman looked at the door's height, dwarf-sized like the window. He had to stoop down to get out. The hallway wasn’t much better. But shuffling hunched over and sideways allowed him to make his way to the stairwell.

  Downstairs, he heard someone drop a glass, shattering it on a stone floor. Someone bellowed, “Who’s knocking around up there? We ain’t butlers, come downstairs already!”

  Entering the tavern’s great room, Asman saw a middle-aged, muscular dwarf with stringy gray hair. He stood there, anger turning to amazement, and holding a stained bar towel like a whip. “Damnit, those goblins were right. You are the mirror image of Buchak!” the dwarf blinked, “Unless you are him? My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.”

  “No sir”, Asman half-smiled.

  “What are you doing looking so much like him then?”

  “You’re not the first to say that,” he replied. “After all, he’s my uncle.”

  “What? You’re Asman?” He beamed, to Asman’s surprise. “Well, I'll be foreassed!”

  “Yes, sir? And you are?”

  “What? Well, I’m Earlok Keningston, I own the Weitfam Tavern here, well, half of it anyways!” he said still smiling and looking at Asman like he had just stepped out of a storybook. “My Uncle Bugatel owns the other half.” He waved his hands and stepped behind the bar “Nevermind that, I don’t want to talk about dwarf things! No doubt you're looking for Buchak, or perhaps some vittles, maybe a place to stay? Am I close?”

  “That’s right, all three, in fact, some of that meat you’ve got roasting would go down well.”

  “Of course! Come round the bar and have a seat!” The old dwarf waved him over, “As you could tell, you woke up in your uncle’s room. He stays here enough that we keep it ready for him whenever he comes to Myskatol.”

  Asman rubbed his still sore head, awakening the dim memory of the Dixwari ambushing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but how did I end up here?”

  “Fug’nor and Thoung, some local goblins, they brought you here,” Earlok explained as he poured beers for other customers.

  “They thought you were your uncle and knowing that he recently had business here, brought you to me.”

  Asman squeezed his bulk into the booth nearest the bar. His knees bumped the crusty bottom of the table.

  He watched as the tavern keeper dropped off drinks to the other patrons. Returning to the bar, he filled a pitcher with ale and planted it in front of Asman.

  “Now, sir, you can stay here with no problem,” Earlok said sheepishly, “but there is an issue of an outstanding bill…”

  “Yes, quite,” said Asman with a nod. “I am to assume the responsibility of his affairs in the name of our clan, tribe, and nation,” he pulled his purse from his belt.

  Handing it to Earlok, he said, “Also to fulfill any of his debts he might have accrued due to his absence.”

  Earlok almost dropped the bag as he opened it, his eyes shone, “How long would you like to stay?

  The kitchen opened up and a young, red-headed dwarf girl came out with bowls of stew balanced on a tray. She dumped them on the other patrons’ tables and walked up behind Earlok, “Bugbear up, Pa?”

  The girl eyed him and clucked her tongue, “You’ll be one to keep fed! So glad you could join us!”

  Asman sensed her confidence and then noticed her resemblance to the Master of the House, “You must be Earlok’s,” he paused, hoping not to offend, and finished the sentence, “daughter?”

  She laughed, “That’s right sir! I’m Tymuld, his only one! I was hoping that you’d come down for dinner, I’ve cooked up some of our famous kogje!”

  Asman smiled at the offer. Dwarven cooking wasn’t awful, as long as you didn’t mind their tastes. In this case, it was a stew made from unborn goat. “Is there anything else?”

  If Tymuld was offended at his rejection, she didn’t show it, “We make a good kabob if you don’t mind aged mutton.” Asman said that he didn’t and she was off to the kitchen.

  He looked around the peaceful tavern and watched the dwarves enjoy their ale and kodje.

  At the bar, a few of the patrons were enjoying pipes with their drink. Asman felt the anxious pang remind him that there was another hunger that he needed to keep in check as well. He felt for his pouch and realized that he had not checked for it when he woke. Had he dropped his newly purchased leaf during the fight with the Dixwari?

  He called Earlok over. “Do you have blackweed here? I’ve mislaid my pouch.”

  The barkeep held up a hand and ducked under the bar. A moment later, he came around to Asman’s table with a wooden tray that held a ring of pipes around a large wooden bowl in the center. “You’re lucky Mister Asman! The Assembly has a choke hold on the city’s blackweed market and don’t share it with us ‘sub-humans’.”

  Earlok spat on the floor. “But your uncle keeps us well stocked for when he pays a visit and don’t you worry, your pouch is upstairs in your room. Fug’nor and Thoung found it by you in the alley and I secured it in the chest in your room.”

  He lifted the lid off the blackweed bowl and smiled, “Your uncle said this was Fathead Leaf? It should be good stuff!”

  He paused and whispered in soto, “I wouldn't know, I don't touch the stuff them humans smoke, I think they cuts their herb with horse shit!”

  He pulled back and laughed, “Tastes something awful! It’s a wonder the humans don’t complain! Maybe it has to do with the fact they eat…” he shuddered, “eggs.”

  “If they eat something shat out of a chicken’s arse, they’d have no qualms smoking whatever the Assembly sells.”r />
  Stopping to think about this new idea he added, “Huh, that actually explains a lot about them, humans.”

  He was about to leave as Asman put a large hand on his shoulder, “What was that about the Assembly?”

  Earlok blinked. “What? Oh! You know, they’re always on about ‘Pure Humans’ this and ‘sub-humans’ that. ‘Pure Shit’ if you ask me.”

  “No, sir,” Asman clarified, “What was that about them cornering the blackweed market?”

  “Just Earlok will do. But blackweed is one of the more absurd aspects of Myskatol life. Only humans can buy blackweed and only the Assembly can sells it,” he explained. “It’s one of the reasons why I try to keep your uncle coming here.” He winked. “For the ‘off-market’ supply!”

  Tymuld came up to the table, bearing a platter of kabobs sizzling in their juices. “Da! Mister Weslatt needs a refill! Quit botherin’ Mister Bugbear!”

  “Right! Be there in a sec Trulbar!” he bellowed and ran off.

  Asman ate his kabobs in silence, pondering what the innkeeper had told him.

  He knew where he had to go next, he had to find out where they brought the blackweed shipments. If he could find that blackweed, perhaps he could find Buchak. Maybe even find that bastard, Vicar Fingerhut. His thoughts grew dark. He’d never been one to seek revenge. But he had special plans for that sweaty, little pinkling.

  He needed to get moving, Fingerhut had only been a day ahead of him. If he could find the ship that carried the humans here, then he could find the blackweed. But he’d need to act tonight. He called Earlok over and asked, “Where do get their blackweed from?”

  “You mean other than the shops?”

  Asman nodded.

  The dwarf sat across the table from Asman and thought for a bit. “Well, the Assembly pretty much has the whole operation by the short and curlies. We don’t know where they get it from originally, but they are the only ones that bring it in and the only ones to make it available, for humans of course.”