As they got closer to the
mountain, they grew ever quieter and more evasive in their path. Progress was
slow, of necessity, and Leren stayed closer to the Morgs, and could not soar as
high as before, to scout the way ahead. They began to see scattered outposts,
dotted throughout the foothills, seldom more than four rough stone walls, which
they avoided when they could. Every now and then they had to pass near. The
crude little forts were not always occupied, but every single one had a few ancient
skulls sitting atop the walls, human or Morg, staring sightlessly out, as if
keeping reluctant watch for their enemies, or warning off any other of their
people who might draw near. Belmok found he had to repress an illogical urge to
go up and free these relics of mortality from their captivity, lest such
meddling draw attention. They passed by cautiously, paying silent tribute as
they went, and each wondered if he might end up there himself.
There came at last a day near
the end of summer when they were at the very foot of the dark peak that had
been the focus of their journey for so long. Thron and Belmok felt their
Morgish hearts rising as they drew near the mountains, despite the growing
danger. As they set foot on the lowest slope, even in sight of the entrance to
the Ogre cavern miles above them, they knew themselves to be suddenly more alert
than ever, crafty and eager, ready to outwit their enemies, no matter how many
might swarm within. As they bivouacked for the night amongst a tumbled heap of
stone, Leren gave them some last instructions before they should enter the
mountain the next day.
“Now, we must all conserve our
energies,” the Ivra whispered, body barely a glimmer in the dark. “They shall
be needed. No language lessons tonight, Belmok.”
“I understand,” said the
scholar. He smoothed his beard in concern. “Leren, are you tired?”
“No, not tired, as such.
Conserving. Though this one must admit that there has been more expenditure on
this trip than expected. The addition of a third has been … distracting.”
“I’m sorry …”
“It is of no matter,” said
Leren quickly. “I have accepted the costs. Waste no energy on regrets. Keep
your mind on what must be done. Tomorrow we pass into the most highly guarded
and busy areas within the mountain, deep inside. Past the hatcheries, past the
spider-pits …”
“Spider-pits!” hissed Thron.
“What spider-pits? You never mentioned any spider-pits!”
“They are, as they sound, pits
for spiders” replied Leren, as if explaining to a child. “They have been
domesticated by the Ogres beyond their ability to survive in the wild, raised
for their iron-silk to weave Ogre cloth, milked of their venom to poison Ogre
cleavers, and even eaten for their flesh when they are beyond other use.”
“Eaten for their flesh?”
“Their bodies are heavy, and
almost a foot long. With legs, they appear … somewhat more.”
“And we’re going near them,”
said Thron incredulously.
“We must,” said Leren. “Have no
fear. They can no longer climb the pits, and indeed have no need to. The danger
will be in in passing their keepers.”
“Yes,” said Belmok. “Now, no
more questions, Lieutenant. Let’s be quiet and not tax Leren any more tonight.
We don’t want his energy to falter tomorrow and suddenly have the Ogres pulling
at our beards, do we? Good night, all.” The big Morg settled back, hands behind
his head, and made as if to sleep.
“Mog help us,” grumbled Thron,
drawing his travel-stained cloak closer. “Big spiders to add a little more
gravy to this perilous pie.”
For all his griping the soldier
was soon asleep. Leren faded into the darkness, but his watching awareness
could still be felt formlessly around their hiding place. For a long time,
however, Belmok lay awake, looking up at the stars that twinkled coldly above
in the bottomless black sky, until at last he, too, fell asleep.
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