He had no time to think about it, he needed to get inside! Climbing smoothly up the stack, he then leaped up to the window and sunk his claws into the side of the building and its windowsill.
The old wood, long exposed to sea air, began to crack under his weight. He didn't know what was on the other side of the opening, but couldn't risk hanging there for any amount of time to investigate. He brought his toes up and sunk them into the old wood high enough to provide the purchase needed to vault himself into the dark space of the building.
He fell down into the darkness, landing clumsily on his shoulders in what seemed to be an enormous pile of rags and rope, ripe with the smell of blackweed juice.
The place was too black for sight, all he could tell was that the room was large enough for him to stretch his arms out and not touch the walls. Stumbling across the pile, he reached, felt a doorknob in the dark, and opened the door. He realized that he hadn’t fallen as far as he thought and found himself e looking down over the entire warehouse. At one end, he could see something must be the blackweed shipment that he had helped deliver to Jalpak Lake.
In the center of the warehouse, he could see four elves in chains standing at lighted tables. Two more were hauling the leaves from the bales by the dock entrance.
All of the bales had been undone and the leaves were being piled on the center tables next to the enslaved elves.
Another three were cutting the leaves down to various sizes and another was gathering the scraps and running them through a small hand-cranked mill, turning the dry leaves into dust. A human foreman wearing black robes watched over them.
Asman wondered if the blackweed was heading into the city to one of the many cottage industries for final treatment. Or were these meant for the shipment to Saagardell?
From the opposite end of the warehouse, Asman saw movement. He slunk back into the lofted storeroom he was viewing from and saw the human responsible for his predicament and attempted murder. Vicar Fingerhut was reading from a few scrolls tucked under his arms and looking up now and then to see if anything was out of place.
At the work table where the elves were cutting, the foreman walked towards one and picked up its bucket. He looked inside, then cursed at the captive elf. He threw the bucket at the other workers and grabbed the offending elf by a chain around his neck, dragging it over to the vicar.
Asman could make out a few words, 'tree-buggerer' and 'blood' amongst them. It was then that Asman caught his first whiff of that familiar smell. Cut hay? Where had he smelled it before?
The vicar looked down his nose at the captive elf that stood bent over before him and nodded, motioning the two away. The elf began to scream and the human dragged him by his chain across the warehouse to a wooden frame standing upright in the corner. The elf struggled against his captor with little luck. He was so malnourished that he was easily subdued and held in front of the frame.
Asman watched as the captor bound a rope around the struggling elf’s ankles and with a yank, swept the elf’s feet out from under him until he swung back and forth in the air upside down the wooden structure. The slaver hunched over and grabbed the elf by the hair while kicking a bucket underneath its dangling body. Wrenching the elf's head backward, the slaver pulled a long dagger from his belt and slide the sharp blade across the exposed green throat.
Thick, white, warm blood gushed out, filling the bucket. That odor of fresh cut grass washed across the warehouse, assaulting Asman's nostrils. He watched in horror as the life drained from the elf’s body.
The other elves had paused in their work but did not look up to watch their sister's slaughter.
When the hung elf had bled out, the foreman brought the bucket back over to the table where the others stood and planted it in the center, where they could all reach it, and dropped a cup inside.
Asman could see him directing the remaining slaves to get back to work. They obeyed, drawing out cupfuls from the bucket. They sprinkled the white blood on the leaves they worked with and continued their labor in silent submission.
Asman could no longer contain his anger. These humans had stolen from him, tried to kill him, and now they were slaughtering slaves and tainting blackweed with their blood. Before he knew what he was doing, he had crept down the stairs from his vantage point where he had viewed the atrocity.
Silent as a shadow, he headed for the guards by the entrance. They still had no awareness of his presence until the guard facing him finally looked up and saw his looming bulk step out of the shadows.
Reaching out with his large left hand, Asman grasped the back of the nearer guard’s neck to squeeze and twist.
He wasn’t sure what the other guard saw, but the sudden thick splatter of red on his shocked face told Asman everything he needed to know. The guard turned to yell into the warehouse, but his throat was pierced by Asman’s clawed thumb.
Windpipe hanging, all that came out was a wet gurgle.
With barely a conscious thought, Asman barred the warehouse door and turned towards the remaining humans.
He was beyond thinking now as he strode across the warehouse, blood dripping from his hands and spattered across his chest. Two more guards, thinking themselves lucky they hadn’t been caught unaware, charged him with their swords raised.
His claws were out in an instant and he swung his right hand up, driving his fingertips deep into the soft part of the human’s back, whose knees buckled out from underneath and piss streamed down his leg.
Asman yanked his hand free as the other guard dodged around his fallen comrade with the intent to flank him.
Coming out of his blind spot, the attack almost went unanswered and if his hand hadn’t come free when it did, Asman would have been gutted.
The human’s sword cut through the fur on his left arm, drawing blood.
But like the dead one at their feet, this human had swung too hard and Asman brought his fist down with all his force on the leather helmet. There was very little noise, but Asman could feel the skull beneath give with a small crack. When that body fell, he scanned the large room.
The elves were standing still in shock, unsure of what they were seeing. To their right, at the rear of the building were two more guards and Vicar Fingerhut who shouted something at the soldiers. They charged at Asman while the fat, black-robed human made for the exit.
Reaching down, Asman took one of the dead guards at his feet and lifted the body in both hands. Surprised, the soldiers slowed, hesitating to approach. It was all Asman needed and he threw the corpse at them. It wasn’t the best offensive move, but enough to knock them off balance and hinder their reactions. He was upon them before they could recover. Driving his claws into their throats.
Once they were dispatched, Asman wiped his claws off on this tunic and charged for the exit Fingerhut had fled through. He crossed the distance only moments behind the sweaty little human but found the heavy door locked.
Pounding the frame and yelling in rage, his breath came in ragged and angry gasps. He forced himself to slow down and reached to gather some blackweed from his bag; it might have gotten soaked from the swim, but anything was better than nothing. He needed to think now.
Gone! It must have come off while moving through the sewers!
He forced himself to take a deep breath and walked over to where the elves were standing, his eye on the pile of blackweed leaves beside them. Cringing, he saw that even though they hadn’t been processed, they were still splattered with blood from the recent slaughter. He couldn't force himself to put that tainted weed in his mouth.
Despite the ebb and flow of his rage, he realized it wouldn’t be the best choice to consume any more blackweed in Myskatol until he was sure of its source. He shuddered. Why were they putting elf’s blood on the blackweed anyway?
Asman looked up at the Van’log and saw caution and fear in their eyes. “It’s alright,” he said as he raised his hands. They quickly drew back and huddled together, yelling at him in an elven dialect he hadn’t
heard before.
He was able to actually able to see them up close for the first time and noticed that they were quite different from the elves he had met that day back at the camp in Kazan.
They looked more plantlike than those warriors he encountered. Their skin was several shades greener, their eyes were solid black with no pupils, and their hair resembled the long strands of moss that hung from the trees of Pahale Van, rather than the tall meadow grass he'd seen back home.
“Are you elves?” he asked. But they grew silent and eyed him fearfully.
At least until one of them spied the braided vine that had clung to Asman’s right forearm since Narsaree had given him the strange jewelry. The elf pointed at his arm, “Ashervad?”
He looked at the vine that wrapped around his arm and said, “The ranger Narsaree gave this to me, but I never understood why.” He paused, “Do you know what it is?”
The elf visibly responded to Narsaree’s mention and spoke to the others, all the while not taking her eyes off of Asman. She then spoke in the common dialect to Asman in a lilting voice, “The High Ranger of Pahale Van gave this to you? A paraya? An… outsider?”
“Yes, I think it was because I killed cobolds that had ambushed one of his patrols.”
The elf broke eye contact with him and spoke to the others.
They nodded to what she said to them and she addressed Asman again, “I am Mehara, this is Andhera and that is Vokar. Over there are Atirikt and Bhula.”
Asman looked over at two elves peeking from behind a stack of bales. Their black eyes distrusting and fearful.
“We were enslaved by these humans for many months and are the last of our group. The humans have been working us and slowly killing us off for our blood.”
Asman had felt himself cooling off as he spoke with the elves, but at this mention of the slavery and torture, his temper flared again.
He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to keep his rage at bay. He had lasted almost a week on the Zeedrak, but he had also been too weak to do anything but lull in fever and vomit.
The elves’ strange appearance distracted him, helping him calm himself. “Where are you from? I’ve never seen an elf like you before.”
Mehara said, “We were brought here from Teesara Van in the north.”
“Is that like Pahale Van? Do you mean there’s another forest with more elves?” he asked with amazement in his voice.
“I think that I can tell you these things later?” the elf said in a worried tone. “Now is time for us to leave, but we do not know where we can go! How did you come to this place?”
Asman thought about what they could do. He had no allies here. He couldn’t take them back into the city with him, where could they even go? The Zeedrak came to mind though.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t further consider their options as the door that Fingerhut had fled through flew open and a fresh squad of guards began to pour into the warehouse, their faces obscured by their leather masks.
An older human, likely the captain judging by his more ornate armor, looked at the remains of other guards and their blood that pooled on the warehouse floor.
Shock hung on his face and a murmuring slid through the squad standing behind him. Mehara grabbed Asman’s arm and said, “We need to run, now!”
The other two elves turned to run and as a group, the guards began sprinting in their direction, fueled by the sight of their fallen comrades. Mehara shoved at Asman’s chest until the bugbear realized that staying to fight was not an option if any of them were to survive.
Before Asman was even able to get up to full speed, the elves were already across the warehouse and approaching the opening where the black ship’s bow poked into the building allowing for its cargo to be offloaded.
He watched the elves, they weren’t slowing down as they approached the drop into the harbor’s water. He was about to shout a warning, but they leaped up and rebounded off the wall of the open warehouse entrance.
Their bodies sailed through the air and landed on the bow of the black ship. Mehara followed last and when her feet hit the deck, she turned around and called to Asman, ”Jump! We will catch you!”
He was suddenly very aware of his weight, but he still pushed himself forward as fast as he could. He looked at their thin outstretched arms and felt doubt grow in his gut. With the slap of his clawed feet, he increased his pace though and when he reached the end of the pier, he leaped.
The elves reached out and down toward his sailing form. His fingers spread out, desperation welled up inside, grasping painfully beyond the truth. He knew that he hadn’t jumped far enough and once he passed the zenith of his arch, he fell fast, his body headed towards the dark water.
Five pairs of thin green arms reached out and grabbed his falling form and he raked his toes into the hull, scrambled over the railing.
The deck of the black ship was empty of the crew, but Asman suspected that there would be a human somewhere onboard the vessel. He didn’t want to linger aboard longer than they must. But where would they go? He glanced back and saw that a few guards were trying to open the wide warehouse door that he barred while the rest were exiting the way they came in.
The fog was finally starting to burn off as the sun rose up from behind the rooftops. The green cast that had tinted the world in the summer night was giving way to dawn. They crouched low as a group and made their way to the stern of the ship. When they were looking over the rear of the ship, Asman saw the harbor for the first time since he arrived.
The green skies receded over the waters to the west and beyond the boat village and the junks, Asman saw the goblin vessel Zeedraak, still anchored well offshore.
Catching Mehara’s attention, Asman pointed to the ship and said, “The five of you have to jump in and swim to that ship. It’s the one I came here on and I think you can convince the captain to let you on. The crew has a history of gathering strange things from the sea. Mention me, maybe it will help.”
The lead elf looked at him and asked, “You will not be coming with us?”
“No.” Asman answered, “I still have to finish what I came here for.”
He regarded the elves and asked, “During your time imprisoned, did you happen to see any bugbears? My uncle went missing here months ago.”
“No, Ashervadyl, we were kept hidden for many months and did not see anyone but the black-robed humans with masks,” the elf said sadly, dark eyes locked on Asman's in sympathy.
“Ashervadyl?” Asman asked.
The elf pointed at Asman’s wrist and explained, “You bear an Ashervad, a living root, and have been blessed by one of our greatest warriors. You are Ashervadyl. An honorary guardian of the Root.”
The guards began charging down the pier, but now in even greater numbers. They had tarried here too long. “Go now!” he growled at the elves and motioned for them to flee the ship. He turned and stood to face the oncoming warriors. From behind he could hear quiet splashes as the Van’log dove into the harbor below.
He stepped onto the main deck. The soldiers were boarding the ship from two gangways and approached from both sides.
He lifted his head high as his ears stood up and the hackles of his fur rose, instinct making him looking larger while facing greater numbers.
The guards began to form a ring wall around him, their shields interlocking. Asman feigned a lunge at them to test their resolve, but they stood their ground despite the fear in their eyes. He scanned the circle, gazing at them under their helmets, looking for a weak link to break. Finally, he saw it, one soldier sweating and nervously looking first at Asman, then up to the sky. The soldier froze and screamed, “Now!”
Sensing motion from above, Asman looked up in time to see a large net dropped from the rigging above where he stood. In an instant, he was entangled.
The soldiers didn’t hesitate and fell on him with clubs, beating him unconscious. When the massive bugbear was trapped and subdued, the guards moved back enough to allow someon
e else to approach his body.
Vicar Fingerhut had boarded the black ship, a leather mask in hand, and looked down at Asman’s unconscious form. Loathing rolled off the human as he regarded the silent heap “Take him to the catacombs, we want to know what he’s doing here.”
19
Gansel realized that the only dead creatures she’d ever seen in her life were elves.
Sure, she had handled parts of other creatures, but Professor Schnitzer hadn’t gotten past basic anatomy before the Assembly had decided to wipe the memory of her away from everyone she knew.
Not that it affected her ability to perform for them. No, she had developed an unexpected and intense fascination for necrosophy that first day in the Viva Sectorium. She’d always leave after class had ended and always arrive late to the Temple, lost in the tools and samples.
Making a mental note of what she’d research later, she looked forward to her evenings in the library. Which were never long enough in her opinion, because once she’d worked off the demerits for missing worship, she only had a few hours to read before lights out.
Still, she had gleaned enough to be comfortable performing anatomization of the necrosophy specimens. She understood the tools and methods and could work through any challenge, unlike so many of the other topics she'd had to study at school. In fact, if she hadn't been brought to the old warehouse against her will and threatened with losing her mother forever, she’d feel rather fortunate to have such an opportunity as this.
Gansel eyed the windows above her. The light shone through, illuminating the multitude of dust motes. ‘Were the elves desiccating and casting dust up into the air?’ she wondered.
Following the shaft of dusty light down again, she looked at Primus Sharpe, head bent away from her. He stood facing a workbench, reviewing findings and extraction amounts.
The machine next to her chimed. It finished extracting fluid from another corpse and was ready to be pulled and inserted into the next body.
The Necrosopher’s Apprentice Page 21
