“Don’t move or I will bleed you out like a pig.”
Asman complied only to be rewarded with manacles fastened to his wrists. His captors drew his arms back tight. They dragged him across the floor until he sat with his back propped against a smooth, round column. The sounds of chains lifting echoed off nearby walls around him as they latched into place somewhere behind him.
There was a ratcheting noise and the chains raised incrementally. His arms pulled further back until his shoulders ached from the strain.
His shoulders felt as if his arms were being torn out. The pulling stopped, but secured against the column, he could move his torso no more than his screaming shoulders, he was all but immobile above his legs.
Drops of water began soaking into the dark fabric of the hood. The top of his head grew damp and cold.
“Right you two,” spat the same voice, “One at a time now and get it standing up”.
Asman then heard the ratcheting start again, off to one side of the room. His right arm was yanked up at an impossible angle and he could feel tearing inside his shoulder.
He grunted and panted for breath. The ratcheting stopped. “Now the other side.”
His left arm pulled up and back until both arms were even and ligaments were rendered. Then his tormentors took turns, each chain drawn up one link at a time and around the large column.
His back arched in pain and he saw stars sparkling at the edge of his vision. Then something in his back popped and yowled like a wildcat. The stars exploded in his head like the noonday sun.
“Switch pulleys,” said the directing voice, bored, as if torture was just another menial and routine task. Asman felt his bonds shift up a little and heard two small clicks on either side of the column.
“Proceed,” instructed the voice.
Inch by inch, his body was lifted up by the ratchets until he was painfully standing up on the claws of his feet. But that didn’t stop his keepers as they continued pulling the chain in unison.
One clack, he felt his back press flush against the stone. Two clacks, another tear in his shoulders and another yowl escaped from his lips as his arms were forced to conform to the curve of the column. A third clack and dual explosions erupted from his shoulders as both his arms yanked free of their sockets. Stars filled his darkened vision and his yowling rose in pitch until he, at last, blacked out.
Later, in the dark, he could hear someone talking as if they were coming from far down an empty mountain tunnel. Where was his sergeant? He needed to report to Aijahna, something had happened. Something was wrong with his arms. Something was wrong with his eyes. He had to show her. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
A voice was yelling at him to do something. Why did they want him to wake up? Wasn’t he already awake?
“Water,” he croaked out with the little air he had in his lungs. A blow struck hard across his face and he grew more aware of his present state. He still hung from the chains, his back pressed to the stone column, his shoulders floating and wrong in an aching numbness. He tried to breathe, but his arms were up so high that he couldn’t draw a full breath unless he stood on his toe-claws.
The voice cursed at him. “Here’s your water!”
It felt at first as if a huge bucket was being poured over his head. But the water didn’t stop. He finally stood to try to get out from under the torrent over his head and could finally suck in a full breath once more.
The flow of water was heavy though and completely engulfed his head. breathed in a lungful of water. He gagged. He choked. He couldn’t move away. Water everywhere. Pressing him down. He could feel his shoulders screaming again under the force of the flow.
Then, the deluge stopped and the sudden lack of downward pressure caused him to rise up and sway unbalanced on his claws. But it was no relief to his tormented shoulders, they were still enraged and screaming at him for release. He sucked air into his wet lungs with deep, hacking gasps.
He caught his breath at last and demanded, “What do you want from me?”
The fount opened back up…
✽✽✽
He wasn’t sure at all how long he had been in this room. His legs were losing strength. His rage was long gone. Burned out well after the blackweed left his system. Days? Not sure. He knew that he couldn’t stand for much longer, even now he could only do it in short bursts. Then he’d begin to suffocate from being unable to fill his lungs. Then he’d finally die. That’s all he wanted. To die. To no longer have to bear the pain of wanting to breathe. For all this to end.
The door to his cell opened. He still couldn’t see because of the sack. But the smell was different. The footsteps were lighter. A smell of herbs and flowers. Of summer grass.
He heard a disapproving sound. A young human woman, not more than a girl, clucking her tongue.
“This is why the Primus sent me? To treat a half-dead bugbear?” she asked.
A familiar bored voice, the jailer, his torturer, answered, “The Assembly believes it might have information that could be valuable.
“No doubt about how to get more blackweed,” she replied.
“Don’t know ‘bout that. But the Vicar says he’s to stay alive until he can talk right,” he explained.
“I don’t know what I can do, I know more about taking people apart than putting them back together!”
Asman didn’t like the sound of that.
“Too bad miss, they don’t want word about him getting out, so no one else is to be brought in to do it, it's your turn in the barrel. They figure your ma probably taught you something that could fix him up.”
The girl’s voice grew so sharp that its severity surprised Asman.
“Well, it’s too bad my mother isn’t able to assist him!” she snapped at the jailer,
The jailer cleared his throat, embarrassment lacing his words, “It’s just an expression miss.”
“Lower him down so I can examine him! And please take that ridiculous hood off his head so I can better see what you’ve done to him.”
The sack was yanked from his head and he squinted his good eye open as the jailer reached for the release lever on the wall. The chains rattled link by link as he was lowered. Pain shot through his body from the vibration.
Finally, it stopped and he slumped forward, not daring to lay on his ravaged shoulders. He felt groggy. His vision blurred.
A gentle hand cupped to his face, lifting his chin. The smell of summer grass was all over her! The memory of the elf bleeding out in the warehouse flashed before his mind’s eye and a flicker of anger licked at his mind.
“Blackweed?” he croaked.
“Sorry, I don’t use it,” she apologized, “it’s a filthy habit. Besides, my Mama always said I was allergic to the stuff.”
She examined his shoulders, prodding them softly. Asman yelped and growled a little, but had no further strength in him.
“He generally alright. Nothing that a bit of rest from your tender care wouldn’t cure, after resetting these shoulders of course,” she said to the human guard standing next to her, eyeing him with distaste.
He laughed. “Oh, I’ll be sure that’s just what it gets,” He kicked Asman hard in the thigh, then grabbed her by the back of her hair and yanked her while changing his tone, “Now don’t you think you can get away with insulting me or disrespecting the Assembly!
He pulled her face close to his and sneered at her. She could smell the rotten teeth and stale beer on his breath. “I don’t give a fuck if you are Sharpe’s prize pet, back talk me again and I’ll snap you in two like I did this sub-human trash!”
He threw her head away and she stumbled to the wall. “Mend him enough so that he lives.”
“The first thing you need to do is to release his arms and get them in front of him. Then you need to bring me a heavy bolt of cloth and an iron bar.”
The jailer looked at her and laughed, “Why would I do that?”
“Because Lord Jailer, it won’t matter a bit what I do,
he won’t mend until his arms are back in their sockets,” she explained, “He can’t heal until that happens and I can’t reset his arms unless they are in the right position.”
She paused and shrugged, “But, if you want me to explain to the Vicar or the Primus why he died under your care, I suggest you fetch them for me now”.
He looked at Asman, then the healer, and shook his head, “I can’t make no sense what all the fuss is over this beast.”
The jailer motioned to the other guard to come around and told him, “Keep your blade at his throat and slice him open if he moves any muscle I don’t move for him.” He then stood behind Asman and unlatched the chain that kept his left arm to the wall. Lacking the support, Asman sagged against the stone, pain shooting across his face as his arms lowered.
The jailer’s cold voice turned back to the girl, “Get him on his feet or he dies now.”
She stooped down and told Asman, “You’ve got to listen, you’ve got to do as you’re told or I can’t help you.”
Asman struggled to right himself and stand. Stars swam across the black cloud of his vision. He took his first full breath in what seemed to be days and nodded.
Keeping a distance from Asman, the jailer walked the chain around until the bugbear was facing the rear of the column he had been splayed against. In place, Asman fell to his knees, unable to stand or fight against the pain.
On the column’s back was a hook, out of Asman’s reach. The jailer kicked a stool under the hook, stood on it. Latching the chain onto it, he repeated the process for the other hand. A bit too quick for Asman though and the pain coursed through his being, sleep beckoned him with escape The girl poked at his shoulder and fresh pain lit up his mind.
With both arms high above Asman, the guard dropped his sword point and exhaled the breath he’d been holding. The jailer then ordered him to stand guard by the door until he returned.
The girl hummed to herself as she brought out a healer’s kit. Walking over to Asman, she pulled out a jar of some sort of smelly salve and began applying it to his abrasions.
Looking at the door, Asman spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Can you help me? I need to get word back to someone in Frogtown. A dwarf. Goes by the name of Keningston.”
She jolted back and stared at him. Then she drew in close and looked him straight in the eye, hissing, “You shut up. Don’t ever say that name again!”
She turned away and began to shove things back into her kit bag, “I can’t help you! Please don’t talk about them. It’ll only make things worse!”
“But, I…” he replied, confused by her response.
Someone was coming.
“Please! Hush!” she begged.
The cell door opened up and the jailer returned.
“Here,” he said, throwing an old horse blanket and an iron bar on the floor at her feet. He stood back and watched the healer.
Gansel picked up the items and went over to Asman. Taking the iron bar, she began pushing it into the weave of the blanket. She worked it back and forth until a hole began to form. Once it popped through, she made a similar hole on the opposite side of the blanket. Setting the bar aside, she folded the blanket until it was a hand’s width wide and stood behind Asman.
Placing herself directly behind Asman, she pulled the blanket around his chest and shoulders, passed the iron bar through the holes behind him. Grasping its ends in her hands, she steadied herself by planting a foot in the middle of his back, “This is going to hurt.”
She turned the bar, tightening the blanket around his shoulders and Asman began to scream. Sweat formed on his forehead as he fought to remain conscious.
The girl managed two full turns until she could no longer move the bar. Panting, she yelled at the guards, “Help. Me. Now!”
The guard looked at the jailer who nodded with a smirk watching someone else having to put forth the effort to induce this amount of pain.
She took the bottom part of the bar while the guard grabbed the top and they gave a heave. There was a sudden, double pop as Asman’s shoulders slammed back into their sockets. His screams ceased and he rested his head against the cold stone column. Stars and blackness filled his single eye again and he passed out.
✽✽✽
Weakness, Darkness. Solitude. They’d kept him in the dark for so long that he had no idea what day it was anymore. The only company he had were the unseen sewer flies that lit on his face and crawled into his nose. Over and over he blew them out, but they kept coming back.
The last person he had seen was the girl healer, a few days after she had set his shoulders right. She returned to check their healing progress and minister to the other wounds he’d acquired during his time beneath the temple. What was it she had told him? He tried to remember her visit, but it was so dreamlike.
She had been pushed into the dark cell with him and locked in. She lit a candle she had in her bag with a box of brimsticks. The smell of sulfur had been particularly noisome and combined with the brightness of the candle, it caused him to shrink away.
“Shh.” She approached him with care, making sure that he knew it was her. “My name is Gansel, do you remember me? Be still now, this will help.” As she applied a smelly salve to the whip marks on his back, it reminded him of Kinnoo’s medicine. His time at the camp seemed so long ago. He had drifted off wondering what was happening back home.
That was, he thought, four days ago? Four periods of sleep ago maybe. It was so hard to tell in the dark. The only way he was even sure of sleep is if he dreamed, but the dreams were so real and it felt like he’d been awake the entire time. But when he dreamed, he saw and felt things other than darkness and pain. Yes, he had definitely slept several times, because the memories drifted back to him now.
A few times he was back in his village. But it was so quiet. Everything was dead. Fish floated on the surface of the water between the houses. Even the air felt like it hadn’t moved in ages. The sun was high in the sky, but the light it cast was gray. Towards the end of that dream, he felt himself rising in the air and he saw the entire Kazan region, from across Pahale Van to Earst-ethus, dead and ashen.
In another dream, he was back at the Weitfaam Inn and the goblin captain from the Zeedrak was there speaking with Earlok, Tymuld, Bugatel, and Gansel. They were inspecting a pile of shredded blackweed leaves spread atop the tavern bar. Something was wrong with the leaves, purple and pink worms were crawling in and out of the leaves, but none of the others noticed. Earlok picked a leaf up, held it to his nose, and sniffed. A look of disgust came over him and he pulled the leaf away. A worm clung to his beard, crawling into the hair.
The most peaceful dream was the one where he was on that island with the giant tree. The liminal space he had visited before. Those were uneventful dreams, but with the constant pain of being awake only punctuated by the frantic quality of sleep, boring dreams were a welcome rest. Closing his eyes, he hoped for another to take him away now
The elf’s head dipped low to avoid the roots that formed the passage into the earth from which he came.
He joined Asman by the lake at the base of the tree and sat.
Was it a lake now?
He was sure that the water had been only a small pool at first.
“You were meant to see,” said the Van'log into Asman’s mind.
“See what?” he asked, “If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t see that well, to begin with.”
“You are mistaken. You are already whole. You’ve forgotten, that’s all.”
“Can’t you see with your own eyes?” Asman growled and pointed at his left eye.
He blinked and realized that he could see his finger clearly through both eyes now.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“It is simple. You were meant to see,” the elf explained. “However, you will have to be blind before you will fully see.”
Thunder rolled in the distance.
Asman, afraid, looked to the horizon.
Standing hun
ched over the tree was the black, massive figure from before.
Its tentacles were writhing deep into the great tree’s leaves.
It stopped and looked down at Asman.
He could feel the full weight of its gaze bearing down on his body.
Asman’s hands itched and ached.
Looking down at his palms, he saw the giant green eyes staring back once more.
His center of perception fell into himself, like a snake finally succeeding in eating its own tail.
He felt his being spin into oblivion for what seemed like an eternity.
As he saw his body orbit away into the darkness, he awoke. His vision had narrowed back to his single eye once more.
He heard footsteps and saw a light coming from under the door.
It opened and the Vicar Fingerhut entered, followed by the jailer.
“So sorry that we’ve kept you waiting for so long,” he said. “Assembly business has precluded our regular duties of interviewing detainees.”
Asman glowered at the human but remained silent.
The Vicar walked over and inspected Asman’s back where he had ordered him shot at the end of their journey.
“Amazing. We’ve heard that bugbears are more resilient than humans and also heal faster,” he said, poking ungently at where the crossbow bolts had entered Asman’s body, “but we’ve never seen with our own eyes.”
He walked around to where Asman could see him, “We’ve suspected that since we couldn’t locate your body you might have survived, unlike the others that day. But we didn’t expect to see you here.”
He then examined the hole where Asman’s eye had once been and clucked his tongue at the sight, “It seems though that the rumor that bugbears can regenerate like the frogs is a myth.”
Taking a step back, the Vicar brought his hands up in an earnest gesture. “Now, bugbear, our purpose here today is simple. We need information we believe you have and you need to tell us what you know.”
Asman squinted at the Vicar, wondering what the human thought he knew.
“You see, the Assembly likes to operate with minimal interference. Our job is to make sure that Assembly activities are as unknown to the rest of the world as possible. You and the other bugbears on that river knew of our purchases, as did your uncle. Your garrison commander, Baltar, knows as well, obviously, since he sent you downriver with us. A few others there know as well that we purchased blackweed from your camp, but that area is so remote that no one cares about those beasts.”
The Necrosopher’s Apprentice Page 23