Tales of Mort2

Nearly a week had passed since the destruction of Stratholme. During that time, Mortimer had been overtaken by caravans of displaced farmers and townsfolk from across the kingdom, making their way West from Lorderan. Since none of them knew him, many had offered food and drink to the Poor Old Man with his heavily laden wheelbarrow. To repay their kindness, Mort had offered them bread baked with grains he had nicked from the tainted shipments before his departure.

Yes, he was a complete and total bastard.

While passing through Silverpine Forest, an area he had visited several times in his youth, Mortimer had run into new denizens lurking about in the shadows. Great, black wolves perverted by dark magics had grown to frightening dimensions, preying upon lone refugees and anyone foolish enough to go into the woods alone. By and large, these beasts left Mort well enough alone. Professional courtesy, don’t you know.

Word eventually reached his ears of the unspeakable betrayal of Prince Arthas, the murder of the King, and the fall of Lorderan to the Scourge. This had an odd effect on Mort. For the first time in all his years, pushing on nearly 150, he felt … Something. The King? Murdered by Arthas? Mort had always hated the king, sure. He’d hated the kingdom. But it was HIS kingdom. HE was supposed to be the blight upon society. Most of his life had been spent finding new and different ways to torment, to subvert the normal, every day existence of his fellow man. At first he had even appreciated the revolting beauty of the pestilence that had taken hold called The Scourge. But this was somehow different. This was more… He couldn’t put his finger on it. One thing he knew for sure was that he was angry. It’s one thing to knock off some annoying Paladin, or poison the odd traveler. It was another thing entirely to destroy the kingdom.

If there was one thing Mort couldn’t abide, it was being out done. Not by some Johnny Come Lately.

He made his way without incident past the spires of what was now being called Shadowfang Keep, but noticed the howls in the night and felt the anger and malice emanating off Arugal’s handiwork. A few times he ran across what remained of villagers who had met, first hand, the source of those howls.

The Dalaran Mages ignored him as he passed their outposts on the border of Hillsbrad. He was, after all, just another refugee.

After what seemed to Mort an eternity of walking he reached Tarren Mill. A few bands of displaced citizens had managed to make it that far as well, and the tavern was full to bursting people. Leaving his wheelbarrow hidden in a bush, Mort pushed his way inside, leaning heavily (and quite unnecessarily) on his walking stick, and was offered a stool at the bar.

The barkeep was a jovial sort, red in the nose and face from nipping a few too many tastes of his own product. Conversation was loud and business was brisk.

“So, where do you hail from, old man?” the barkeep yelled over the din.

“Eh? WHUT?! Oh… wull, until a few weeks ago, I were from Stratholme.”

At mention of that name conversation in the pub stopped, and all eyes turned toward Mort.

“Here… You poor, poor man” said a women down the bar, “you must have lost everything and everyone dear to you.”

Not one to miss an opportunity, Mort feigned a small sob. “Oh… Aye, aye. All me kin. Me ancestral home. All gone. Or… Worse.” Mort sighed heavily for effect before he continued. “Still, stiff upper lip, wot? I got ter keep going! I’m needed now, ye know. I were the healer in me town, and there’s much that will need doing, I’m sure.”

“I knew someone from Stratholme!” piped in another person at the bar, a weasel faced man with whose voice made Mort want to wretch. “Used to tell me tales about this rotten old bugger what made folks lives miserable. Real bastard, he was.”

“I heard tell of him as well!” said another. “What was his name? Mark? Martin?”

“Mortimer” said Mort. “Aye, lived in tha’ big old house outside town.”

“THAT was the name! Rotten old codger, I heard. Right mean old sod.”

“Oh aye, aye” said Mort. “That’s him to a T.” He was grinning. When Mort grinned, people died.

“Still” said the barman, “got what he had coming, didn’t he? Probably put to the sword by Arthas, damn the Prince’s black soul to hell. Thomas, you had business with that bloke in Stratholme what sold fabrics an’ such. Ever heard about Old Mort?”

“Course I did! Folks round those parts used ter say Mort had been dead for years but were too STUPID to know his heart had stopped!”

Hoots of laughter from about the pub.

“Some said Mort was old in the day of their grandfathers and grandmothers. Ugly old thing, too. Curdled milk to cheese just by looking at it.” More laughter at Mort’s expense.

“Hang on” said the barman, “this keg is spent. Someone give us a hand with a new one, will you?”

“Oh please, allow me” said Mort. “Least I could do to repay your kindness, yeh know. Actually, speaking of, this next round is on me. I’ve a few gold saved up, and with no grandchildren left to leave it to, it’s the least I could do.” Cheers went up throughout the pub. “Matter of fact, until this keg run dry, it’s on me!”

For nearly an hour there was considerable drinking and toasts raised to That Kind Old Man. There was also more tales of Mort told, more general agreement that “he got what was coming to him.”

When the cask had run nearly dry the barman rose to get a fresh one from the back. “Here, let me” said Mort. “You just finish that pint in your hand. What’s that make? Four? Five? Ah, there’s a good man.” In their inebriated state no one took notice of how this seemingly frail old thing easily hefted the fresh keg into place. Nor that before lifting, he had pulled the stopper and poured in the contents of a small, steaming black bottle.

“This one is marked ‘Special Reserve’, Barman. Fine brew, is it?”

“It is, indeed! Arrived yesterday from a master brewer friend of mine. Bit expensive though, old… Here, what’s your name again?”

“Frank” lied Mort. “All me friends call me Frank. And tonight, money is no object as nothing is too good for all me new mates, now is it? Let me pass a fresh round to everyone and we’ll raise a toast, shall we?”

More cheers rose up with lots of “What a nice old man! Did he say his name was Frank? Heard about him…”

Once everyone had a mug of their own, Mort went into the back room and poured himself a pint from a fresh, untapped Special Reserve keg and rejoined the crowd. “Now, I’d like you all ta’ raise yer mugs and join me, if you will. To old friends missed, and new friends found!”

“CHEERS!” As a whole, each and every mug was drained down to the last drop, including Mort’s.

“Ah” he said, “that was a fine pint, if I do say. Has a familiar bite. Yeh know, I said to meself coming in here, I said ‘Mort, old son’ ” the conversation not only fell, it plummeted, “I said ‘I’m sure there’s some fine ale to be had in there, and surely to be some good folk to share it with.’ Of course I was dead wrong, as all I found was you sad lot of stupid sods. Ye see… The stories yeh heard about Auld Mort? They weren’t all of it. Not by ‘arf. What a mean, rotten old bastard he is? Or, should say, I am? Oh… I’m much, much worse.”

Realization spread across the faces of each patron, outward from around Mort like dominoes. The barman tried to stand and was met by Mort’s walking stick, striking him so hard he performed two full rotations before crashing to the floor. Thomas and several others stood and moved menacingly toward Mort who just smiled and counted down from five.

There was silence for several seconds, followed by the sound of chocking and bodies slumping in chairs or falling to the floor, then by Mort’s giggling.

“Pillocks, the LOT of yew!” Stepping into the back room, Mort poured himself another pint and drained it with a happy sigh. “Good brew, I must say. Packs a wee punch, it does. I’d swear I’ve had this before, tho” he said, and looked at the side of the keg. Mort read the label and froze, all color draining from his face.

There, with the name of the brewer, was the name of its town of origin.

“Brewed from only the finest grains in Brill!” Dated a few weeks earlier. Mort did some quick and rather panicked calculations. This would have been put in to ferment right around the time of the spread of the Scourge. Made from those same grains…

Mort stood rock still. Fear held him in place like a vice. “No, not me,” he thought. “Not me, not one of them mindless THINGS!”

Then he heard it. The wheezing. The shuffling of feet. He turned, and looked square in the dented, pale face of the barman. His jaw hung at an impossible angle from where Mort had struck him, and his eyes were rolled up into his head. Behind him stood, or rather lurched, Thomas and the other bar patrons, staring blankly about.

Backing away, Mort tripped over the keg. But the recently risen dead seemed completely uninterested in him and began a slow, shambling walk out the door. Soon screams filled the night as these wretched creatures began tearing into the town guards and other townsfolk. There are sounds worse than screams. There is the sound of … eating.

It briefly occurred to Mort that these creatures had barely paid him any mind at all, instead of ripping him to shred. But in his panicked and slightly intoxicated state, he didn’t question what he assumed was his good fortune.

Stepping cautiously into the night, Mort saw someone. Some THING moving toward him. It floated above the ground in a mist of darkness, eyes glowing, spreading decay as it went. As it neared he could now hear it speaking.

It seemed to be counting down from five.

And that, you might say, was the End of Mort.

More accurately though, it was just the beginning.