Jorm

by Alan Bayman

  She laughed again, as the bard sang of a ‘virgin bride’ convincing her doddering old husband that his virility had made her five moons pregnant on their wedding night.

  “If you where my wife,” I said, smiling, “I would have you even if you were having another man’s baby.”

  Her laughter cut off and her face grew serious as she leaned in, pressing her forehead against mine as she gazed into my eyes.

  “If you were my husband, the only babies I’d be having would be yours.”

  The fires within me roared in response. This was the source of the storm. Shailyn. Shailyn my love. Shailyn my wife.

  A frenzy of memories crashed through me, screams of anguish, terror, and pain. The thunder of my heartbeat was slowing, the storm of memories receding. The inferno of feelings inside me was tempered back. It was a bonfire compared to the embers it was before, but it remained separate within me. Not quite as separate as before though; it was too big to not bleed into my thoughts.

  My heart had stopped beating again. I was laying on the floor of my lab, empty syringe next to my arm. I had healed completely. More so, I looked more alive than before. My skin looked a sickly pale instead of ashen grey.

  I sat up. My vision had improved. I could see colors in the dark, though muted. I wasn’t sure what to make of this, and I wandered if it was a temporary effect of the distilled Miasma or if I had permanently changed what I was. Was I still a zombie? My heart was not beating, so I was obviously undead, but what kind of undead remained the question.

  Luckily, I chose to begin the experiment just after dark, as I had been incapacitated most of the night. Adan finding me like that would have brought up questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Possibly ever. I liked Adan, but I wasn’t sure I could ever risk him turning me in.

  My thoughts drifted to Shailyn. What had happened to her? What had happened to us? Did she move on after I died, remarrying with descendants I might happen across on the street? Was she forced back into prostitution and the short, brutal life that entailed?

  The fire within wanted me to rush out and find a Divinationist. Such a service was rare and very expensive in the city. I doubted that I could find one that wasn’t in the richest areas without it being a sham.

  Unless, I thought, the Divinationist was an Orc. I had heard the Orcs studied divination among their Shamans, and there was a sizeable orc population on the East side of the city, by the slave quarters. The city’s slave quarters were much smaller than other cities (the undead didn’t count as slaves, and were cheaper to take care of, didn’t tire or sleep, and historically never rebelled). But it still had a sizeable auction and breeding house.

  But first, I had to check if there were any differences other than my enhanced sight. The sight itself appeared to be permanent. Or at least it showed no sign of diminishing, like alchemical concoctions tend to do. Adan noticed I “looked a third dead, instead of half dead,” and asked if I made some healing remedies.

  I spent the next night running tests. My control of Miasma, both liquid and ambient, had vastly improved. With my thoughts alone, I could pull liquid Miasma out of a vial and command it to hover as a ball over my hand. With concentration I could make it turn into basic shapes. With practice, I was sure I could do more subtle manipulations.

  With that, Necromancy came much easier, and the basic cantrips came to me easily. I would have to find or remember more advanced tomes on the subject if I wanted to take the knowledge further or try experimenting on my own. But the next coming dawn I decided to put it off in lieu of finding a Divinationist.

  After telling Adan I had errands to run, I left for the auction house. I thought I might buy an Orc slave and have it lead me to a Shaman in exchange for its freedom.

  It was early in the morning and I was wearing my fancier clothes. Fog made it hard to see beyond a few yards. I walked down a trade street, and wagons were already set up with vegetable or meat vendors, knife grinders, tea carts, or heavily guarded spice traders.

  Beggars sat between them, loudly lamenting their fate to anyone who glanced their way. Some of them wore bloodied bandages so poorly done I didn’t have to look at the ambient Miasma to know they were fake. Others seemed genuinely in need. They gave me pause as I felt a twinge of sympathy. I hadn’t felt anything like that in unliving memory.

  The wagons became fewer and the beggars more common as I got closer to the slave district. The goods sold changed to appeal more to slave owners; manacles, collars, whips, slave garb, and the like. The beggars were dirtier and looked more genuine, and a few of the women among them offered to sell themselves. My twinge of sympathy grew stronger and I hurried along.

  The slave auction house was an opulent building in stark contrast to the crumbling poverty around it. An ornate archway made of some foreign white stone marked the entrance. It opened into a large courtyard with white and blue tile. A fountain enchanted with soft illumination was in the courtyards center, adorned with scantily clad women in slave collars lounging at its base.

  I wondered how the women could stand lounging around a fountain without freezing to death in this weather until I saw the faint tracings of an enchantment on the ground around the fountain that seemed designed to draw heat in. I wondered briefly why a slave owner would care about the comfort of slaves on display, but then realized that the very curiosity of warm women in cold fountain would be part of the display’s attraction.

  It only occurred to me a moment later that I could see the enchantment. The lines and weavings of flowing runes reminded me of ambient Miasma when it was harnessed for magic.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” A voice next to me broke me out of my reverie.

  I turned to see a short, sturdy older man dressed in expensive silks. His fingers were covered in rings of silver and gold, a few of which glistened with enchantments of their own. Behind him towered an enormous Orc dressed as a guard but wearing a slave collar, who stared down at me impassively, arms folded. To his right was a comely girl dressed in tight fitting servants garb and slave collar holding a tray with several cups of wine. She smiled at me in a way that did not touch her eyes.

  “My finest wares,” the man gestured at the fountain. “All of them masterfully trained in the art of pleasure.” The man snapped his fingers the two closest girls drew one another into a languid, intimate kiss.

  This was not at all what I expected when I came here. In hindsight it was obvious; if living slaves were not purchased for labor, the majority of them would be used for sex.

  I almost said, “I’m not here for sex,” but at the last moment I changed my mind, thinking I was going to say something along the lines of, “I’m looking for a worker, Orc, not human.” What I ended up saying was:

  “I’m not here for a human.”

  The man’s eyes widened in delight.

  “Ah, a connoisseur of the exotic,” he grinned. “Yes, we have a number of exquisite creatures to delight a variety of tastes. Might I inquire as to your preferences? Is there a particular kind of creature you are looking for?”

  “Orc,” I said after a moment. I didn’t want to purchase a sex slave, but I couldn’t think of a way of correcting him without looking like a fool.

  The man nodded and then took a cup of wine from the girl next to him. After offering me a cup, he whispered something in her ear. She immediately turned and walked toward one of the back doors. It was painted red and looked reinforced enough to withstand a siege. He admired the slave as she walked away before turning back to me.

  “They make such excellent servants. Loyalty is bread into them you know. Or guaranteed with the right enchantments.” There was a part of me, in the far back of my mind, where the twinge of sympathy had come from earlier, that was giving me a steady, growing urge to crush his skull.

  He invited me to stand over by the fountain, where he said it was as warm as a hearth fire and one could see more shimmering lights beneath its waves. I took him up on it to distract myself.

  A few min
utes later the serving slave returned with four people. One was a guardsman with a sap and whip. The other three were Orc slaves.

  “I’m sorry to say that we have little demand for Orc women trained in the arts of pleasure, so this is all we have on hand at the moment. But if there is a special preference you had in mind, let me know, and we can discuss arrangements.”

  “Now then,” he gestured at the first slave, a tall woman with light green skin, high cheeks, tiny tusks, and an indignant glare. “This is Oosha, she was a huntress we caught a year ago. Untrainable, she will require an enchanted collar. Savage and passionate, she is good for both warming your bed and making you a tidy sum in the fighting pits.”

  He turned and gestured toward the next woman. She was shorter than the first, and a little wider and older. Her glare was far more intense than the first woman. “This is Du-mok, captured a few months ago. Not as much of a fighter as Oosha, but capable of many crafts. She is also resistant to training and would require an enchanted collar.”

  He then gestured toward the third slave, who was dark green of skin, with brown highlights. She was short for an orc, shorter than me, and not nearly as muscular than the other two. Her yellow eyes looked through me, as though she were only pretending to pay attention.

  “Last but not least, this delicate flower, is Shan-lo. Shan-lo is skilled in a variety of arts and crafts, and could make a very entertaining servant, and her supple frame is surprisingly resilient to the most vigorous of passions. Further, she is by far the most docile of the three, making an enchanted collar not a requirement, though I still recommend it.”

  He turned to me, smiling.

  “What do you think?”

  It wasn’t a choice, really. While I could technically afford an enchanted collar, it would cost me a huge sum of money for an enchanted item I was going to end up not using anyway. Besides, the way Oosha and Du-mok were looking at me, they were likely to try and kill me the moment the collar came off.

  Shan-lo, it turned out, barely spoke Cyrian, and she could write, but only in Orc. This reduced the price for her considerably.

  Before noon and after a bewildering amount of paperwork I found myself standing outside the auction house as the brand-new owner of an Orc slave.

  We immediately went into a nearby tavern. It was the only other place in the area that did not look totally run down, and it looked as though it catered to people visiting the slavers auction. It was near empty now, with a few men dressed as guardsmen at the bar and no one at the tables.

  I sat with her at a table as far from the bar as I could and ordered a bowl of stew with a haunch of roast lamb, and some ale to wash it down. She looked at me in surprise when I slid all the plates over to her. She picked up the haunch almost timidly and offered me the first bite. She blushed slightly when I shook my head, then began to devour it with a ferocity anyone starving could recognize.

  By the time she got to the stew she began to slow down. I pulled from my Travelers Bag a roll of parchment and a piece of charcoal.

  On the parchment I wrote

  We must talk, in Orc and handed the parchment and charcoal to her. She paused in her eating, scribbling something down, and then handing it back to me.

  Thank you for bringing Honor to my tribe, she had written.

  Explain, I wrote in response. It is tricky writing questions in Orc. It was easier to write out commands.

  I am runt, she wrote back. I bring dishonor to tribe. I have little value. Chief sells me to men. You buy me at good price. Honor to tribe.

  There were some cultural implications I was not grasping. I shook my head.

  I need to find a Shaman, I wrote. I need one who can see the past. You will help me, and I will set you free.

  She frowned when she read what I wrote, but then she wrote,

  The half-dead should not seek the life they once lived, but you are my Master and I will help you.

  I stared in surprise. Tell me how you know I am half-dead.

  Smell, she wrote, wrinkling her nose.

  Do you fear the half-dead? I managed to write a question.

  I do not fear them, she wrote in reply. My tribe believes that sometimes a lifetime is not long enough to get things done. Our Shaman would sometimes bring back ancestors with unfinished business.

  Her tribes Shaman must be either a necromancer, or at the very least dabbled in Necromancy. Getting in contact with her tribe could be dangerous, especially if he tried to enslave me.

  Tell me if he is one who can see the past, I wrote.

  He cannot, though he can talk to the dead, she replied. But my tribe does know someone who can see that far. I can take you to our Trademaster in the city, where you can bargain for knowledge.

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘bargaining for knowledge’, but it sounded like a solid lead.

  When you are done eating, take me to your Trademaster.

  After reading my last message she picked the bowl of soup up with both hands and slurped it down, some of it spilling onto the thin burlap that made for her tunic. I thought of getting her new clothing. It was far too cold for her to be walking around dressed as such.

  She dropped the empty bowl onto the table with a crash, then proceeded to chug her mug of ale in a manner that a roughened sailor would envy. She then slammed the empty mug down, belched loudly, and smiled.

  “Doo-arou. Thank you, Master,” she said.

  I got the most curious impression that her table manners had been deliberate. At first, I thought that she might be testing me to see if I would punish her, but looking into her eyes kindly regarding mine, I realized she was in some way showing me respect.

  I nodded at her, gesturing for us to go, then took all the parchment we had written on and tossed it into the tavern’s hearth fire.

  Outside, I pulled her over to one of the wagons selling clothes for slaves. Most of what they sold didn’t appeal to me, but there were a few things that were servant’s garbs. I got her a grey wool dress, soft leather sandals with some foot warmers, a nice looking (if pricy) soft leather bodice, and a grey hooded cloak treated to keep off the rain.

  Shan-lo seemed surprised at my generosity. I didn’t really care. I had plenty of money, and little to spend it on.

  While I was there, I also got her a virtus. They call them something else these days, but a virtus is a lady’s belt with a small knife built into its buckle. It was originally designed for young unmarried women to defend their virtue.

  Shan-lo’s eyes grew big as she learned how the knife detached from her belt. Her fingers traced over the flat side of the blade, then she brought it up to her eye level, and gave me some sort of salute. I smiled at her, as it seemed the right thing to do, and she smiled back.

  11.

  It took several hours for Shan-lo to find her clans Trademaster. Wandering through the Orc district at first seemed like a very bad idea, until Shan-lo had me buy a few necklaces of beads and arranged them about my neck. In writing she explained to me that the beads meant that I was ‘Restless’.

  Restless meant that I had died so angry or determined that my spirit had willed my body to move again. In Orc customs, that meant it was dishonorable to get in my way, for only the greatest of warriors and sages could have a will strong enough to transgress matters of the flesh. At first, I thought of objecting to such a title. Then I remembered The Stick and realized that it accurately described how I came about.

  The Trademaster was tall and rail thin, with dark green skin, narrow tusks, and a single patch of black hair in the back of his head woven in elaborate knots that went down to his waist. His bare chest was covered in tribal tattoos, and he sat behind a small cooking fire with a pot of tea brewing over it.

  He spoke at length with Shan-lo, his body relaxed but his sharp, yellow eyes darting between us.

  Finally, he turned to me and spoke,

  “I speak your tongue, yes? Shan-lo say you honor us. We listen to Shan-lo. Shan-lo say you seek the past. The dead do not
seek the past. The past is when they were living, and you are dead. But you Restless, yes? No Shaman wake you? If yes, then you are beyond life, and death no matter.”

  I paused, thinking about what he said. Then I carefully spoke,

  “I do not know if I am Restless. I don’t know if I was made or I willed myself to be. But I think I might be, or I have since willed myself to become Restless. Part of the reason I seek the past is to answer this question.”

  The Taskmaster nodded slowly, then poured himself some tea into a few wooden cups. He offered some to Shan-lo, who took it. He did not offer me any, but since he already knew I was undead, I took no offense.

  “I know Shaman who help you,” he said after the tea was finished. “But you help Shaman first, or Shaman no meet you.” He leaned forward, almost over the cooking fire. “Shaman have ancestor, half-dead, like you. Shaman ancestor trapped in dark place. You fetch Shaman ancestor, we take you to Shaman. Yes?”

  I thought about this for a moment, then said, “tell me about the dark place.”

  The Orc nodded.

  “Cold, unfriendly. The water is black. Living cannot live there. Only the half-dead can walk. Bad poison Shaman died there. Bad poison Shaman keeps ancestor trapped.”

  I frowned. If some dead Orc necromancer cursed the place and this ancestor zombie was trapped there, I wasn’t sure there was much I could do.

  But then, I didn’t see the harm in trying. And if the Orc Shaman was a necromancer, maybe he left some books I could study.

  I nodded. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do. I cannot guarantee anything though.”

  The Trademaster smiled. He then murmured something to Shan-lo, who said something harsh in reply. He frowned, then they spoke again for a while. He then turned to me and said,

  “Shan-lo will show you the way, it not far. But when the water goes black she must stop. You go alone from there.”

  I nodded, and the Trademaster spit into his hand and offered it to shake. I copied his gesture, though I had no saliva to spit with, and he shook my hand with a grin.