A War of Apes... the Sequel: Great Ape, Chapter One

[Lord Zombiac]

I have since changed many names


The story has changed much since I posted the synopsis.
Scroll down to read the full story!

[Worm of Despite]

Not to scare you with technology, but hit the Enter button after every paragraph. Thanks.

[Lord Zombiac]

fixed thanks. that's what I get for writing nothing but internet posts for the last twelve years!

[Lord Zombiac]

I have written the first chapter and have decided not to change the name of my protagonist. He is no longer called "Dread-Rungrin." His name is now Zombiac.
As I have said, this is a true story!

[Lord Zombiac]

This is a true story. All of the names have been changed except for my own, which, as my story begins, I do not even know myself.


Chapter One: The Yoke loosens...


Baelbozurg, that master of the unseen, that whisperer of secrets, did not provide drink for me tonight. I had earned the right to pass, a few times in darkness, to the place called Baldskull Draughthouse. If I was quiet and went after hours, I was allowed to drink. I needed the soothing comfort of spirits now. I had been needing that welcome abandon a lot in recent times. I was not happy with what I had become, although it is true I know not what I had been before. I had not even been permitted to remember my name. The wizard had taken it from me.


Monsoon thrummed its melancholy downpour upon me in lukewarm, steamy heaps. The tangled, thorny forests sagged with the heaviness of the rains. The tiger and the panther fled the watering holes, forced to search further for their prey. Trapped in this weather, they would be more dangerous. All animals seek higher ground in monsoon, but I walked in nadir, both nadir of landscape and nadir of soul.


But what is an ape to speak of soul? I shuddered. If I had one, it must needs be destined for Hell at last. For the restoring of Uttertup, I had begun to do more than my appointed task. I served to keep the things Baelbozurg conjured alive. I was tasked to find out what or who they ate, and retrieve this nourishment. I was commanded to torment these eerie un-things and remind them the power of Baelbozurg’s yoke. I was not hired to do the things he required of me now. Something troubled me about making sacrifices of the innocent. Something also stirred me in the loveliness of the virgins I dragged to the place of sacrifice. It awakened deeper feelings of loneliness than I thought I was capable of. I discovered a sense of fair play I did not know I had within me. It was one thing to wield weapons against slithering, babbling creatures from other worlds, things not made of flesh and blood, things not aware of pain. It was another to plunge the unholy dagger into helpless, naked flesh. Flesh that was bound to cold, merciless slabs of whited stone, now streaked with crimson blood.


I padded softly in darkness, for I was forbidden a torch. Ahead gleamed the soft lights of Baldskull Draughthouse, where each shadow that passed the door lingered with the stale darkness of the un-innocent, the slayers of men, the perverts of passion, the wallowers of corruption.


I soon heard voices, speaking of me. Old Gnathgabber’s voice I recognized, the other I did not. It was insistent, though. The speaker meant to stay in spite of Old Gnathgabber’s admonition that the Draughthouse was now closed and that things went on after hours that not every eye should see.


“I fear no man or monster,” said the lingerer, “If it can die, I can kill it. If it can reason, I can speak with it. I paid to drink all I wanted. I do not drink all at once. I am better served keeping my edge all night... and observing. My life is in the balance, whether or not I observe everything I can. A sell-sword is likely to die if he does not learn all he can of his employer.”


“You drank all you are entitled to. A hideous ape comes tonight. He has no friend. He has nothing to loose if he should decide to kill you,” warned Old Gnathgabber.


But the other voice would not be still to such warbling.


“I expect a barkeep to honor the terms of his agreement. My employer instructed you to give me all I could drink. I have not finished drinking tonight. I shall look upon this ape you speak of, and perhaps he shall have a friend tonight. Who knows? He may even need one.”


Had I ever needed a friend? I could not remember and I did not know. It was true, however, that I had none. Not a one in the world. How is it, then, that this word, “friend” suddenly leapt into my heart like a thing to be coveted? How then, was I troubled. I had never considered the prospect of consolation. I did not expect any. I pushed the door open and when Old Gnathgabber heard the solid door creaking under its great weight he smirked-- I could see him now-- and said, “Have it your way, sell-sword!”


I walked into the flickering candlelight. Behind the bar, the aged, crooked looking person of pale hue and pointy nose kept his arms folded and his eyes trained on me.


“Good afterhour, ape. You have company tonight.”


Old Gnathgabber’s bald pate gleamed as he tipped his head towards the burly, leather clad man who tipped a jack of ale into his grey-streaked beard. His shaggy hair covered his eyes and his belt was heavy with the weight of a sword longer than most men, and heavier than a weak man could wield.


“Will you share a drink with me tonight, Master Ape? Will you tell me your name?”


“My name,” I said, drawing close and sitting beside him, “I do not know it. The wizard took it.”


“Oh, I can tell you how to find it. That is easy,” replied the man. I looked at him with interest.


“How?”


“Do you know the time of your employment?” the man asked.


“I was hired on one of Baelbozurg’s dark festivals. He celebrates the very one in the morrow.”


“Good!” replied the beaming sell-sword, “then the hour of discovery is upon you. He must make the name available, or, if you can’t read, speak the name in your presence on the anniversary of your employment. Wizards are bound by such things. You have only to read it or hear it.”


“I can read,” I said, “and care not to know my name. Better you should not tell me yours.”


“But how can we be friends, if you can not speak my name?”


He held out his hand, “I am Loomgrin. I come from overseas. I fight for a high price, for I can master this. It is called Mustardseed and few are the men who can wield it.”


He tapped at his sword with his other hand. I did not shake his hand, but instead stared at the jack he had put down. The stuffed beasts, mounted profusely on the walls, seemed to follow my eyes as I stared at the draught I needed.


“I’ll have a drink,” I said, “but I care not for conversation.”


Here Old Gnathgabber handed me a leather jack while Loomgrin withdrew his big hand. I drank deeply and looked this sell-word up and down. he appeared to be waiting for me to speak.


“What kind of name for a sword like that is Mustardseed?” I asked, “is it not said that a small thing is no bigger than a mustard seed?”


“Many swords have names. Some have a measure of magic too. Every magic blade gives you a sign of its power, however small. This one turns yellow when fresh blood has been spilled on it, not golden and shiny, but dull and flat. It remains so for many hours after it has been cleaned.”


“You claim your sword is magic?” I asked.


“Yes. Put an edge on it and it will hew through anything in its way.”


“Perhaps that is just because of your strength.” I said.


“That could be so,” Loomgrin mused, “for strength I have never met my equal-- among humankind.”


“Why, human, are you here? In this black night, speaking with me? You would call me friend. Choose your words carefully and tell me why.”


Loomgrin took heed to my caution and looked me up and down before grinning and smiling.


“A challenge, by Hell! So I must speak well with you. But I have been told few words pass between you and other living things ever. Even your master keeps you not to speak, but to do diabolical work. You keep things alive that have no place in this world. For this reason I will trust you and be candid... but I will wait for you to slake your thirst. Drink deep and I will tell you certain things. I expect you to do the same.”


“I know no secrets. I am a dumb brute,” I told him, “what matters to me your prattle? Speak as I drink and entertain me.”


I drank and held my empty jack out for more. By the time I had my third I had heard plenty.


Loomgrin did not like selling his sword to persons such as Baelbozurg. Magicians, perhaps, unsavory types, perhaps, but men like Baelbozurg put uncanny fears in even the sternest hearts. Loomgrin was no different. That he would hire himself to a black magician with dark designs and darker secrets was a sign that he needed money. Loomgrin had made it known that were the other side to match Baelbozurg’s offer, he would take it. To this end he needed to know more about the wizard. He had sent loyal scouts here ahead of him and learned that Old Gnathgabber would not go wagging his tongue to Baelbozurg. For whatever reason, the old man kept a grim neutrality.


“These Grogens. We have not their like in my country... what are they?”


“Grogens,” I said, “are dumber than apes. Perhaps more in gait like humans, but that is all. They take pleasure from putting their heads in campfires and baking their skulls. The skin often peels away, leaving charred, rotting flesh, and blackened bone. It clouds their eyes and slowly kills their brains. They twitch and flail in a clumsy manner. They are nothing to fear if you are a hardened warrior, steeled against them... but they can make you afraid if you have never seen their like. And if they can make you afraid, they can kill you.”


“Speak to me now of Uttertup. What is it?”


“Uttertup,” I began, “is an ancient ruin. It has preserved darker souls than the wizard in elder times. If it is re-built and restored, nothing can destroy its keeper. To this end he has begun to work and the work is grim and dirty. To this end, he has called forth Heldrinkers.”


“What are the Heldrinkers?” asked Loomgrin, “I want to know more than terrified whispers. I need to know more than wild conjecture!”


“Better had you never asked,” I said, “than to know what they are. They drink blood and live in shadows. No more than six of them can ever walk the earth at any time, and he now has five. He will have another, the last, before his plans are through.”


“They are powerful?”


“Yes.”


“They are undead?”


“Yes.”


“They are Vampires?”


“No. What they are is deeper and darker still. They are immutable and unyielding. They are a danger to the soul as well as the body. They corrupt and destroy, for that they were forged long before, indeed ages before, the names of the gods who made them were forgotten.”


“They are from before?”


“From before.”


The only sound now was the thumping of heavy raindrops against the windowsill.


“Friend,” I said quietly, “ask more. Ask more, if you will, but keep no more hidden from me.”


“It is the tradition of my people,” replied Loomgrin, “to marry our daughters to those who do the same work as we do. Because of this I must bring her perilously close to my battles. Because of this I must pay a high price to the family of her suitor. Because of this I fear for her. Tell me what work it is you do, ape. What works makes you crawl into the night seeking drink? What work is it that makes you call me friend, though you have never had one?”


“I have been made to sacrifice virgins,” I said, “and this has left me befouled, tired, and damned.”


“It is as I feared then,” the sell-sword said, “I will drink now with you. For I need the ease that spirits lend a frightened man as well.”


He waved his hand and Old Gnathgabber placed a foaming jack into it. Pouring the cold ale down his throat, he furrowed his brow and smoothed it with his palm.


“I take great risks being here,” he said slowly, “take great risks speaking to you at all, let alone trusting you. Are you willing to take action? Are you willing to change your life? I speak to you as a man now, ape though you are. Little do I know what you can understand.”


Suddenly, Old Gnathgabber cleared his throat and spoke.


“If you would speak with this ape as a man, then you should know his name. I know it. I will tell it. Before he sold his soul to Baelbozurg, this ape was known as Zombiac.”


I listened to the name and wondered what it meant. Now that I knew it I cared what those who spoke it would say of me.


“Zombiac,” said Loomgrin, “will you shake my hand?”


He held it out again. This time I shook it.