The Necrosopher’s Apprentice

by Lilith Hope Milam

  The writhing worms regarded Asman curiously and he heard their wet chittering deep within his shattered mind.

  23

  It was near midnight as Morrow Sharpe climbed up the stairs to his tower. One of his favorite things to do was to stand at the top and gaze over the city and the lands around it. For hours he often stood vigil, feeling proud of all that he had done to protect his nation, of all that he had sacrificed. Those that feared his power whispered behind his back about how he never aged and that no one had ever seen him rest. The temple acolytes that kept his chambers whispered to each other about how he had no bed.

  The current rumor circulating was that he had learned how to employ the meditative techniques of the sexless wood elves and gained his longevity and rest while in a trance. He smiled and chuckled to himself. Truth is always best hidden in plain sight.

  The reason why it seemed that he never slept was that he didn’t. He had not slept once in almost fifty years. Nor had he significantly aged in that time. Not since he took up the sigil of the Harbinger Saorsa had he required rest, nor grown old. Now, if he was successful tonight, he would finally be able to share this boon with all the pure humans of Eldervost! His land and its people would not disappear from the face of Jerdon at the coming of the First Born.

  Halfway up, the temple carillon below rang sixteen times; a new day had begun.

  Truly it was a new day. Once he finished his long-awaited task, it would be the last day of the old era and something wonderful and new would take its place. But first, he had to remove the taint of feeble-minded weakness that corrupted the people of Eldervost.

  Reaching the tower top, he felt immense joy in the ever-present vigor that had accompanied him all these years. He touched the golden medallion that hung from his neck. A lesser being would say that his longevity had come at too high a price, but he preferred to consider that cost an investment.

  He knew that it was Pure Humanity’s destiny to rule all of Jerdon. They were the true descendants of the First Born, not mere chattel like the bugbears, dwarves, and the rest of the subhuman filth that riddled this world like a maggoty mushroom. His ability to control and outwit the Harbinger was proof of this.

  For decades the Harbinger, scourge of the First Born, had attempted to sway Sharpe’s mind and control his body. But he had resisted! He had resisted through the power of his pure human heart.

  And not only did he resist, he overcame! Throughout the years he studied the mystical binding between the Harbinger and himself, searching for a weakness to exploit.

  What he learned was that the binding wasn’t a tether, rather, it was a conduit. A channel of will and emotions. A channel that flowed two ways.

  On top of the central dais stood a short pillar, supporting a copper bowl. Sharpe approached the bowl and reached into his robes to pull out a box of blackweed snuff.

  He poured the contents into the bowl and tossed the box aside.

  For years, he had been hard pressed by Saorsa to find a way to bring the First Born into his world so that the Herald could cleanse the land of the taint of all living creatures. But instead, he researched other topics. Things that would allow his people to become as great as the First Born themselves!

  Twenty years ago, his efforts paid off. He had heard rumors about how the Dixwari were actually corrupted Van’log, tainted through contact with the Eizyr. So he began collecting specimens.

  He convinced the Duke at that time, Duke Gorntush, to form an alliance with the Suverotai dwarves to gain access to their slave trade.

  Port Myskatol was then opened up to the Dixwari, whose craving for flesh found new satiation with the cheap live goods now sold in the Port Myskatol slave market.

  This worked well for Sharpe, he needed blood and bodies and now he had a steady supply of both pouring into the realm. During the following years, he experimented and collected data. All he had to do was keep the Dixwari unaware of his intentions, for their blood and the blood of the forest elves were the most vital for his work to succeed.

  There was a quality about Van’log blood that bound them together, much the same way he was bound to the Harbinger. They were all individuals, but their emotions were enmeshed. But hundreds of years ago, their warriors were exposed to the taint of the Eizyr and grew into bloodthirsty, brutish cannibals. Their connection to the Van’log separated and they developed into a separate species with an even stronger empathic bond.

  It was during that time that he also learned of the strange herb the bugbears cultivated and how it allowed them to transcend from life as violent as the Dixwari to something that resembled a, for lack of a better term, civilized society.

  Morrow chuckled at their primitive attempts at self-governing and trade with the rest of Jerdon. If they lost access to their precious blackweed it would all fall apart. At heart, they were nothing more than savages that learned to farm.

  Not that he was denigrating their use of the herb. No, during his travels through Jerdon he learned first hand of its addictive and calming qualities. With this knowledge, he formed a plan that would allow him to wrest control from the royal idiocy that had plagued his land since its founding and at the same time save his people from the inevitable doom promised by the First Born.

  Pulling a silver dagger from his robe, he drew the sharp blade along the inside of his arm. Blood flowed from the slice and into the bowl, mixing with the snuff.

  This snuff was from the same special batch that he had gifted that idiot Duke Galter and, like all other blackweed in Eldervost, it was processed with the same unique ingredients. Mostly, elf’s blood.

  In his research, he had discovered that certain magic could be imbued into foodstuffs or drink and would enact their intended purposes if consumed.

  He then hypothesized that the binding qualities found in both Van’log and Dixwari blood could combine with blackweed. He made numerous attempts, most ending in the death of his test subjects. He faulted it on the inferior nature of the Dixwari.

  But a breakthrough happened only a few years ago.

  It was random happenstance, a batch of marsh salts that he had collected years ago had eaten through its bag and spilled all over the counter, tainting the experiment he had left out from the day before.

  On a whim, he decided to feed it to an old mountain hermit, turned in by his village as a heretic, imprisoned under the temple, By great surprise, he survived! In a fashion.

  As soon as he had finished his blackweed and salt-laced meal, he became highly suggestible and craved more of what he had eaten. There was something about those salts that kept the subjects alive and in the perfect state for Sharpe's ministrations.

  Tonight all his work would come to fruition. His people would be safe at last. Safe from idiots within and inferiority without. He would work two spells he had been preparing for years. One spell to ensure the Pure Human’s place in the universe and the other to purge it of all weakness.

  He grasped his blade in both hands, green light from the midnight sun coming in the windows danced along its length. He began chanting the long-prepared words in a clear voice. He channeled his hatred into the blade, filling it with years of bitterness. He began to weep with the release of frustration and fury. When the words of the chant began to shake in his throat, he knew it was time and he stabbed into the slurry of blood and snuff. Again and again, he stabbed, repeating the final words of the chant with each thrust. He felt the energy of the spell stream from his body each time the blade thrust into the bowl. He saw the mixture within it steam and simmer.

  A large bubble began to form and he stopped. It grew as he stepped back, continuing his chant, raising his blade high, dribbling thick rivulets of shining mud-red ooze down his wrists.

  The bubble lifted slowly, quavered, burst! Spattering blackened droplets across his sweating face, the bubble released his spell to seek out its target.

  ✽✽✽

  His Royal Highness, Duke Galter, High Lord of Eldervost, Ward of the Dixwari, and Bearer o
f the Witherbrande sat on his more commonly used throne in the Ducal suite toilet scratching his balls. A footman stood to his side bearing the royal mail upon a silver tray engraved with small birds. The Duke scanned one letter after another, glancing at its contents before balling up the paper and throwing it into the corner.

  “I can’t believe the lies these people try to pull on me!” he yelled.

  Ripping open another letter, he scanned the few lines of script and, without looking, he motioned for another footman holding a shining spittoon to come forward. He drew in a long snort through his nose and spat into the container, overshooting significantly, to the footman’s dismay.

  “Completely dishonest!” he hollered at no one in particular. “He’s got to be the stupidest baron in all the Duchy!”

  He stopped to strain, but gave up after a few fruitless grunts and tossed the letter in red-faced frustration.

  Crossing his arms like a petulant boy, the old Duke huffed and pointed at the scribe who sat in the corner awaiting a royal declaration. His patience through several slurred, nonsensical beginnings was rewarded when the Duke finally spoke out clearly, “A general proclamation to be distributed to the entire realm!”

  The scribe almost fell off his stool in surprise and began writing.

  “Baron Mini Munze of Little Liebertigkit has failed the realm once again in producing enough stores for the coming winter! He should quit focusing on chasing his maids and think about the Duchy! Quit acting like a pathetic, sleazy worm and get back to work!”

  Not feeling any less frustrated, the Duke began feeling around his vest. Where did he put that snuff Sharpe gave him? There!

  Cracking open the box, he pinched the moist powder between thick, orange-skinned fingers. He inhaled the blackweed with a deep sniff. Wonderful tingling shot up into his head. Oh yes! The Primus wasn’t lying about this being cleansing!

  The tingle continued for a few seconds and the Duke felt the familiar tickling twinge begging for relief from a good sneeze. He obliged and brought up his kerchief. The sneeze had other plans. It lingered on the edge. The tickling turned to a burning that wanted satisfaction. The burning sensation continued for several minutes and soon turned into an unpleasant, fairly painful itch that wouldn’t be scratched. Tears began to well up in his eyes. Why? Why couldn’t he sneeze? He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, wanting to jump, but strong winds kept pushing him back up.

  Water poured from his eyes! He wanted to sneeze!

  He blew his nose fruitlessly, hoping to dislodge the blackweed powder. Again he tried, again the blow was dry.

  On the third blow, something finally came out! It wasn’t the blackweed. Instead, a chunk of skin and a large spot of blood coated the kerchief he held. He didn’t understand. What was happening to him?

  “Your Grace?” the footman with the mail looked at his lord with concern. “Are you at all well?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be, you moron?” the Duke snapped back at the servant. But he wasn’t and he knew it. He could feel something pulsing and dig from deep within his nose. There was a sharp pain and blood began dripping steadily out of his nose.

  The urge to sneeze returned and this time, he knew he could fulfill it! It rose over him, gloriously strong and promising clarity like a mind full of crystals. Clutching the snuff-box tightly in his fist, the Duke sneezed explosively at last.

  Blood flew from his nose and mouth with the force of an autumn storm. The spray covered his front, the floor, the scribe, and both footmen. Galter froze on his commode in shock and humiliation. He sneezed again, blood flowing down his face like a fountain.

  And again! He couldn’t contain the next one either. Blood continued to spray out after each sneeze. He began to feel weak, but the urge to sneeze wouldn’t leave him. Once more he spasmed with a sneeze and the snuff-box flew across the room.

  The servants began to scramble around him, mopping up the blood sprayed across the room with anything they could find.

  The Duke slid off the toilet and hit the floor clutching his jaw. He tried to hold in the next sneeze. Blood began trickling from his eyes and pooling under the orange skin of his face. He couldn’t contain it any longer. He covered his mouth and the sneeze burst out through his nose.

  To his horror, his nose flew off his face. The servants screamed. The footman dropped the spittoon and frozen at the sight of shreds of skin hanging from the Duke’s face as it grew spongy and porous before his eyes.

  Another sneeze blew open a hole in the side of the Duke’s cheek. Five more sneezes later and the petrified servants could see bare and bloody teeth chattering wetly at them.

  The Duke wheezed and gagged on the flood of mucus and blood exuding from exposed meat of his face.

  The horrifying rhythm ended in eerie silence after two more minutes, but by that time there was little left of the Duke’s face and throat.

  The scribe had sat through the whole ordeal, staring in disbelief. He looked down at his lap. Every piece of parchment was soaked in blood and flecks of gore. His quill fell from a trembling hand. He bent down to retrieve it and saw at his feet the Duke’s snuff-box, gold glinting through a red gloss of blood.

  He picked it up instead of the feather and studied it. Wiped it clean and turned it over. On the bottom of the box, engraved in its oval base, were several strange runes and symbols along with the words, Bless You.

  ✽✽✽

  Sharpe staggered as the binding with the Duke severed. He grabbed the pillar in front of him to steady himself. It was like he had been pulling with all his might on a rope only to have it snap. He hadn’t expected that and it was something he would have to mind in completing the next spell.

  Compared to the final spell he had planned, what he had done to the Duke was a child’s game. Simple associative magic. This next spell would be much more.

  “Go and fetch me the Phylactery,” he commanded his Spiritus Sentinels. One bowed at his request and left.

  The only way to save his people was to get them out of harm's way when the First Born arrived. By no natural means could this be accomplished. To save them he had to sacrifice them. Himself included. For he was the door to their salvation.

  Working with care, he began cleaning the area around the dais. First sweeping, then wiping everything down with pure water. The guard returned bearing a cube of black obsidian and shining metal. Sharpe pointed for him to place it on top of the pillar. It was a thing of beauty, the corners and edges chased in silver filigree. A suitable vessel to carry the spirit of his people into glory!

  At last, he was prepared. He stepped out of his loose robes, leaving his medallion in place around his neck. With his angular, bony body exposed, he tossed his robes far away from the ritual space. He brought over a large piece of chalk and, before beginning, made sure his cleaned blade was at the foot of the pillar.

  With precision, he drew a thick circle around himself and the pillar. Once closed, he wrote the elder runes that were the language of the First Born, words with no equivalent concept in the human tongue but that spoke of insatiable hunger for the living.

  He drew himself upright and began reciting those words like a litany, grasping the medallion bearing the image of the Harbinger.

  He was sure that this would work. There was only one artifact in the world that was powerful enough to bind the pure humans of Eldervost as one for eternity and that was the artifact that bound him to his own Servant Master.

  He knew that combined, the Pure Human Will would be more than capable of expunging the Herald of the First Born from within the medallion that he had worn for so very many years. That when the magic was finally released from the circle, it would work its immortal wonders and bind all the pure souls of Eldervost within, giving all Pure Humanity vast power! Power enough to secure their place amongst the First Born and, if they willed it, to destroy them!

  The room around him grew unnaturally dark. The dim green light of the midnight sun disappeared as a low, wet
, guttural growl vibrated the air in the chamber.

  “What is Primus doing?”

  Sharpe continued his chanting. He took the medallion from around his neck and placed it into a recess carved into the top of the black cube. Silver claws grew out of the chase-work and clasped the golden metal to the top as if it were starving for the artifact.

  “We think the Primus is attempting to deceive us?”

  A hint of glee entered Sharpe’s voice as he could see the end of his work finally arrive. The end? No! It was the beginning. The beginning of something new and immortal!

  “Oh, not that new, Primus,” the Harbinger said in a mocking tone. “We had been wondering about what form your betrayal would come.”

  What did that mean? Had his Servant Master known all along what he had planned? His will to complete the spell faltered. He mustn’t stop chanting.

  But he realized that he was no longer saying the words anymore. The words. The words were saying themselves through him! Now he tried to cease the chant, but his mouth wouldn’t stop chanting the words.

  “Now, now. Don’t let's stop what you had begun in all your mortal wisdom,” the dark figure said to Sharpe. “Finish what you started. Don’t be... weak.”

  Sharpe stopped struggling against the words in shock. That voice didn’t belong to the Harbinger. Who dared confront him here?

  Fingerhut stepped from the shadows as if summoned by Sharpe’s confusion.

  “You’ve got to learn how to harden yourself, Morrow,” Osric admonished his master. “Get yourself together! We are cleansing the filth off the face of the world and taking what is ours.”

  Unable to stop, yet uncertain of now of his plan, Sharpe’s volume rose with his rage and he screamed the chant towards his former servant. How dare he betray him! That weak, pathetic worm! He would not be sharing the blessing to come! Sharpe would make sure! It would be so easy. He would tear the binding from the stupid, fat worm as he had done with the Duke. But first. But first…