Eye of Darkness (Part Nineteen)

 

For nine days they made their way northward, without incident. On the tenth day, as evening was drawing on and the shadows had started to lay long, Leren was suddenly and without warning with them.

“There is a squad of Great Ogres heading in this direction. They have issued from a nearby outpost unexpectedly early in the day. They are spreading out and are sure to pass this way. I must, as you say, ‘cloak’ you.”

“I guess this is where we find out if the cock is worth the crow,” said Thron grimly. He fingered his sword nervously. “How exactly does this work? Do we do anything?”

“On the contrary, we must do as close to nothing as possible,” said Belmok quietly. He tightened the girths of his pack. “No noise, no big movements, don’t brush up against anything, right, Leren? Don’t even fart if you can help it.”

Thron almost snorted with laughter, but quickly stifled the sound.

“Indeed, every additional emanation means more attention and energy one must expend,” the Ivra said flatly. “When we are on the rock floors of the caverns or among the shadows it will be less difficult, but out here … do not move unless you must.” Leren seemed to look around, then pointed at a flat rock not far from where they had stopped. “Go there quickly and stand upon it. They shall pass this way soon.”

“Getting up on a rock don’t seem the best way to hide,” Thron grumbled to himself as they headed for it. “Goes against all training.”

“Just move,” said Belmok, swinging his staff as if to shepherd him along. “And quietly, please.”

Thron was about to respond despite all caution when it seemed a sudden wave engulfed the Morgs. For a moment he couldn’t figure out what was happening. He could still hear the wind blowing and the hiss of grasses around them, the desultory calling of a few birds in the distance as they started up in alarm. But he felt like he had been struck deaf somehow. Then he realized that what he couldn’t hear was himself: his steps, the creak of his armor, even his breathing, all the little noises he made without even hearing them at other times, that faded into the background.

“I guess we’re cloaked,” he whispered, but the only way he knew it was by a reverberation in his head, and by the subtle feeling of disapproval in the air around him, as if the Ivra were hushing him without words. He looked over, and it was not a total shock that he couldn’t see Belmok. He looked down, and with some surprise couldn’t even see himself. He almost stumbled climbing onto the rock, and as he grew still, saw that even in the long burning beams from the west there was not a shadow of either of them to be seen.

The cloaking did not muffle any of their own senses, however. Soon they began to hear clanking and the dull thud of many heavy footsteps coming from the north, then the crush of vegetation, then the complaining sound of harsh craking voices squealing as they drew close, and then a troop of Great Ogres lumbered into sight.

There were about twenty of the creatures, striding along four abreast, the shortest almost twice as tall as even Belmok. Their huge round heads bobbed back and forth on ropy necks sprouting well below their hunched shoulders. They peered about, scouting, even as they argued among themselves. The Ogres did not so much march as struggle for position, their great three-toed feet scrabbling the ground ahead to claim the next step among many rivals. Some carried curved black blades at their sides; a few had towering spears almost twelve feet long, tipped with iron, held crooked in their bony arms. All were clothed in greyish-black tunics, buckled at the waist, in various degrees of age and disarray. They stilted their gangling bodies along, mewling and arguing, seeming ready to vent their wrath on anything, even their own members, if no better target presented itself.

The Morgs watched the Ogres intently as they started to pass, Thron in hatred as at an old foe, Belmok in fascinated repugnance at the sudden embodiment of an old childhood bogyman. The troop had nearly gone by when one straggler in the rear, head banded by a studded iron hoop for a helmet, suddenly turned to gaze in their direction, for all the world as if he had spotted the Morgs standing on their perch. To their sick dread, it turned from its fellows and came galloping towards the rock, white eyes gleaming through purple rims.

Belmok almost turned and fled right there, but the desperation of the situation kept him transfixed between fear and hopelessness. Luckily, he didn’t move, for the Ogre merely set one foot on the stone, raised itself a little, and gazed out spying over the land behind them, oblivious of the enemies before him.

Still, the creature was no more than three feet away. If it chose to hop up for a better look, Belmok thought they might very well be discovered despite the cloak. Hardly daring to breathe, he stared into the face of the monster before him, studying it. Its unblinking eyes, its pug nose, its needle teeth hanging out as it panted for breath, its tiny ears set far back on its pale, bald skull. Belmok could even see the purple veins pulsating at its temples. He watched them throb, nearly hypnotized by the motion.

The Ogre turned away suddenly and Belmok snapped to. The beast loped off to catch up to its pack, and the scholar felt he could finally breathe again. Only when the last sounds of the Ogres’ passage had died away completely for a good space did the Ivra let them go, and Thron and Belmok found themselves looking at each other again, pale and serious in the aftermath of the event.

“Well, I can say that seemed like a success,” murmured Thron, in a shaky attempt at jocularity. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so close to an Ogre without both of us trying to kill each other.”

“Indeed,” said Belmok. He leaned on his staff, suddenly weary. “Leren, are you there? Where shall we go now?”

Leren faded into visibility. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed to Belmok like the Ivra’s movements seemed a little drained.

“We must go forward, slightly east from here,” it said wanly. “It is well. It will take us closer to our objective and pass between the Ogron outposts. Then we turn north again.”

“Sounds good,” Thron grunted. He squinted his eyes. “Say, Leren, why do you suppose they were out already in the day? Do you think they might have heard something and come looking for us?”

“Thron need not worry,” said Leren. “I listened to them as they passed. This patrol is a … hmm … punishment for a disobedience among the troops. They were … most dissatisfied and vocal. I heard nothing that would indicate an awareness of our movements.”

“That’s good,” said Belmok. They started to climb off the rock. “So, you understand Ogrish, eh?” he asked curiously.

“I was studying their ways when I discovered the … hm … dark anomaly. Their language is stark, and simple, and full of much … invective.”

“Perhaps you can teach me.” They started heading out on their new bearing. “It may come in very useful, in these lands.”

“If you wish,” said the Ivra shortly, and began to fade again. “It is easily done. Later, when camp is made, we can begin. Now I must go, and watch.” The voice was barely a whisper as it disappeared.

“What you want to learn that gabble for?” snorted Thron. “Going to invite one over for tea?”

Belmok pushed his pack higher up on his shoulders.

“Like I said, it could come in handy if we’re ever separated from Leren, or when we’re cloaked and he can’t tell us what’s going on.” A dreamy gleam came into his eyes. “And just imagine! I’ll be the only Morg alive to be competent in Ogrish! That should be worth a whole new level of Mastery in itself!”

Thron shook his head in amused mockery and plunged after the tall scholar into the brush.

Notes

I drew that picture of an Ogre (so helpfully labelled on the rock behind him) all the way back in Briesemeister Middle School; in fact, it was in the same room that Mrs. Rector used to read tales to us for the elective Ghost Stories. As you can tell by the human victim's clothes, it was supposed to be contemporary with the time. Only later did the Ogres become our Evil Fantasy Race for Goldfire. And speaking of Goldfire, nothing cheesed us off more than when Stephen R. Donaldson published a little throwaway volume titled Gildenfire.