Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Seven)

 

“Well, well, well. I come here expecting to find a couple of renegade Ogres trying to sneak a secret snack, and instead I discover two of Mog’s brats in the nursery! This is a surprise.”

Belmok had half-expected to see the gangrel creature had risen from its tomb-like bed, but instead a completely different figure had appeared from out of nowhere, and was sitting perched on the closed platform, examining them with malicious interest.

It was human-looking, most like a tall, thin man sporting straight blonde hair, but with a few peculiarities. He was clad to his knees in a spotless scarlet tunic, belted at the waist; his crossed legs showed off swinging, toeless feet. His ears were curled close to his head and leaf-shaped, set higher on his head than any man’s. But the most disconcerting details were the eyes. The pupils were ivory-colored, only slightly darker than the whites themselves, and in the center the dark pits of the iris were slotted like a cat’s. In his angry, amused, glare, Belmok suddenly felt like a mouse.

“My, my,” he said, jumping down and pacing over to where the Morgs lay prostrate. Belmok struggled to rise but was immediately stilled by a downward gesture from the smooth, nail-less hand.

“No, you just rest there.” He walked over, studying the Morgs curiously. He bent down and stared into Belmok’s face, interested, it seemed, in his ocular. “Now, how did you two get in here with faces like that?” He looked up toward the door. “Oh. Aha. You had some help, eh, waiting outside there? Well, let’s invite him on in!”

He made a beckoning gesture with his right hand, palm up, there was a screech as of outraged metal, and without the door ever opening Leren was suddenly inside the chamber, glowing red-hot, and shaking in shock, his head quivering in alarm, but obviously unable to otherwise move as he stared blankly at their captor.

“Dear me, that must have been quite painful,” the being cooed in mock sympathy. “Sorry to sieve you through the Protection like that, but I was most anxious to meet you before you decided to leave. Well now, since we all seem to be here, I suppose introductions are in order.” He turned to the Morgs. “Please, get up.”

Belmok found he could move again, and he helped Thron get unsteadily to his feet. Thron tried to reach shakily for his fallen sword.

“None of that.”

The soldier frowned at the sudden short tone, but withdrew his hand, eyes burning sullenly. The strange being relaxed into a smile.

“Now then,” he said, advancing on the big Morg, looking him keenly in the face. “Let me see, your name is … Belmok. Oh, High Master Belmok! That must be very impressive among your fellow apes.” He turned. “And this feisty fellow is Lieutenant Thron. Such violent thoughts in your, well, I guess it must be called a mind, I suppose. One hardly needs any insight to read them.” He dismissed them from his attention, and approached the Ivra with relish, who hung almost motionless in mid-air.

“And here is the real surprise,” he said happily, like a collector gloating over a rare find. “They have been calling you … Leren? Ah, such a short name must be a real humiliation for a proud Ivra like yourself. But then, I suppose any of your people who would break the Covenant must be a little degraded. I think I’ll call you Leren too, just so we’ll all be cozy.”

He stepped back to include the Morgs in a sweeping gesture of welcome.

“And I, my new friends? I am Raksil. Behold me while you may, for you have never seen my like before! Although admittedly this body is just an appearance for the sake of you animals. I am what you would call a Yorn, of the Yeroni, and I walked the world in the beginning of things!”

“Never heard of you,” grated Thron through bleeding teeth. “What kind of flunky were you?”

Raksil raised a warning finger, and the soldier doubled over, muzzle squawking out blood, as if he had been punched in the gut.

“A little more respect, talking dust. I worked with Kelsitor in those days. I know you know that name: Master of Wisdom, Ambassador to the Morgs from the Lord of Light. I had a little disagreement with Kelsitor about the limits of the pursuit of knowledge. He said we must only study the ways of Ortha; I wanted to see to what extent things could be … developed, shall we say. When Malik offered me better opportunities … well, I just had to take it.”

He looked at Belmok.

“This one understands. I can see that he’ll do almost anything for knowledge. Even now his ears are growing longer just to hear whatever I’m saying.”

Belmok nodded, as if in acceptance of the assessment.

“Almost anything,” he admitted grimly. “But not quite, Lord Raksil. I would not side with Belg, I hope.”

“Oh, little Morg, there are rewards and temptations available to me beyond your puny dreams of knowledge. More than History, and the petty deeds of your ancestors. More than Natural Philosophy, and how the secrets of creation work. There is more than what was, and what is.” He walked back to the sarcophagus and patted it lovingly. “There is also what can be, like my dear little child Ferrik here.”

“What is this … this creature?” asked Belmok.

“Oh, ask your cloudy friend,” the Yorn smirked. “He’s been trying to analyze it with his special powers since I dragged him in here. I can sense his feeble probes.”

“It is an abomination,” said Leren, cold loathing in his voice. He twisted his head futilely, hair floating and writhing around his head. “It is a thing that should not be.”

“Don’t be cruel to my Ferrik now,” Raksil looked at them and tutted. “It’s a good thing he’s in suspension, or you might hurt the poor boy’s feelings. As it is, he hears nothing. And the little lad is just a work in progress. When he reaches his full growth, I think you’ll find my masterpiece a match even for an Ivra’s powers.”

“But what is he?” Belmok asked again. He readjusted his ocular, leaning on his staff weakly with one hand. “Is it some new kind of Ogre?”

Raksil smiled.

“You know, I don’t mind telling you, since none of you are ever going to leave here alive? When I try to brag to fellow Yorn of my grade they don’t really care. Jealous, I guess. And when I talk to my great masters, they just take the credit to themselves because I’m working for them. And I certainly can’t tell the Ogres, even though they’re dumb as dirt, and you’ll see why.”

He hopped lithely back and sat on the glassy coffin, motioning them in with his hands.

“Gather round, children, and I’ll tell you the tale. Now, there is an old Ogre legend, a prophecy, if you will, that one day, when a Great Ogre female – they are very rare, but they happen – would bear an egg from a Great Ogre male, there would be born a grand leader, a mighty champion, a King who would lead the Ogres to world domination and slay all their enemies.”

“And this is that leader?” asked Belmok incredulously, pointing.

“Oh, dear me no, that’s all chirk, as the Ogres would say. I should know; I made it up myself a thousand years or so ago. The sad truth is all female Great Ogres are sterile. An imbalance in their – well, an element in their blood, I suppose you would say. But a useful tale.”

“Must be an amusing pastime, telling bedtime stories to a bunch of muttonheads like Ogres,” Thron growled. “What a genius.”

“I’ll let that pass for the moment, Lieutenant,” Raksil said airily. “Because it was genius. It stirred them up to produce more troops for Barek’s army. It drove them to extreme actions and sacrifices in the name of this future King. It gave the poor things hope and a sense of destiny.” He stroked the casket below him. “And it perfectly positioned a place for my dear little project here, when he comes to full growth.”

Belmok wrinkled his brow.

“Well, if this … Ferrick of yours isn’t the promised offspring, what is he?”

“It is an abomination,” Leren repeated coldly. “An abomination to Orathil.”

“That’s one point of view,” the Yorn answered smoothly. “And it certainly seems to be Orathil’s. I tried many configurations for this experiment that just wouldn’t work. It appears the dear old Mother doesn’t like any meddling with her children, even such children as the Ogres. Finally, I devised this handy little room. Quite a few of Her laws are suspended in here, and I could proceed without interference. Kept many prying eyes away, too. Including a few of my rivals, let me tell you, who wouldn’t be sad to see me fail.”

“This cannot succeed,” said Leren. “It cannot exist in the world that is.”

“You know, that worried me at first? When I had Ferrik carried, newly-hatched, beyond the door there, I was afraid he might just bubble away or catch fire or something. But all the elements seemed to have harmonized – or if not harmonized, then reached a mutually sustainable antagonism. Ortha appeared to have accepted my little bastard stepchild, once he was born!”

“Elements? What elements do you mean, Lord Raksil?” Belmok’s tone was deferential, his head bowed meekly. Thron shot him a disgusted sideways look.

“Oh, it had to be mainly Ogre, you know, at least the face and the size, otherwise they wouldn’t accept him,” the Yorn went on merrily, yellow eyes crinkling. “But I mixed in plenty of Morg! There are always a few, skulking around in the shadows of the mountains. I needed that for muscles and bone structure, that upright posture. Wasn’t sure it would take, with the height, but a blend of ropy Ogre tendon gave it strength.”

“Fascinating,” the scholar said. He moved slowly, almost reverentially to the sarcophagus to peer in. “Most ingenious.” The Yorn looked pleased.

“That … that thing’s half Morg?” barked Thron angrily. “That’s sickening!”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit,” Raksil scoffed. “Spawn of Belg, Children of Aman – you’re all half-brothers of dirt through Orathil. And there’s plenty more in the mix: the keen physical senses of the Ghamen. Groka Greybeard – you’ve heard of him? – gave a donation that shared the Human potential to use magic. Just imagine it, an Ogre wizard! Why, even the Ivra had a part in my Ferrik here.” He turned smugly to the frozen Leren.

“Do you remember one called – well, the long name was in part Quellentelliqtairentair? Ah, I see that you do. Some while back that one came sniffing around Norda, just like you, and provided Ferrik with some special Ivran senses, beyond the physical ones, before passing away.” He smiled. “That part took quite a bit of experimenting, I’m afraid.”

“I surmised this ‘eye of darkness’ may have had something to do with that disappearance,” said Leren quietly. There was a slight tremor in the toneless voice and his light burned low and blue. “Monster, that was my friend.”

“Such a pity; quite a talented creature.” The Yorn leaned forward. “A shame it didn’t survive the process. But that fate doesn’t have to be yours, my friend. These Morgs,’ he gestured at them. “They’re worthless, maybe a little meal for Ferrik when he gets up, to get him used to the taste. But an Ivra, that could be a real asset in the coming war. Even a single one. What do you say? I’ve been looking for an assistant; the rewards would be great. Your life, for one. Power, for another.”

“I thank you for your kind offer,” Leren said icily. “But your power does not … smell right to me.”

“Ah, get off your high horse.” Raksil hopped down and advanced on the trapped Ivra. “You’re not so different, any of you flesh-bags, even the dainty Ivra. There is potential in all thinking creatures, even the Yorn when we are in this world, to choose our way. I know what you think, all of you: that you’re the ‘good’ ones. Well let me tell you, it’s no done deal, and you’re not more virtuous than anybody, no, not even the Ogres!” He was pacing angrily now. “There have been plenty of wrathful Morgs, and lazy Men, and violent Ghamen who’ve served Norda just as well. And Ogres? You all hate Ogres. Well let me tell you something.”

Raksil stopped, an accusing finger raised.

“There is in all of us, every descendant of Morlakor Shyreen from the beginning, a will, a tiny secret will. In you – physical things,” he said, spitting out the word – “Damn I hate having to take physical form in this world, it’s so limiting! But in you physical things the will has a special place to stand. Even an Ogre has this. Even an Ogre could - if he chose – be as good as you.”

“Bullshit,” Thron spat. “They’re brutes, through and through.”

“Oh, they have no natural bent for it and everything is done to discourage it, what is allowed in their culture, what is encouraged for their world view, but it still remains, by some infinitesimal chance, possible that an Ogre could choose to be just as good as any of you. We can’t breed it out, but we can squash it down. Just as I’ve done in dear Ferrik there.” He smiled. “He is the ultimate reconciliation of the races. Good? Evil? They are both fine choices, but only one will win. I’m offering you a chance to be on the winning side, my dear Leren.”

“No,” said the Ivra, simply, sternly.

Raksil sighed and raised his hands, shrugging. He smiled sadly.

“Well, I tried.”

Without a pause pale green snakes of fire came shooting from his hands, striking Leren and eating into his body. The Ivra shrieked, a terrible sound, the only mortal sound Thron had ever heard it make. The soldier lunged for his sword, but the movement snagged the gleeful Yorn’s eye and it moved one of its hands to send a bolt that sent the Morg head over heels to slam into the wall.

There was a sudden wailing bellow that surprised Morg, Ivra, and Yorn alike and made them look around in shock. While they had been fighting, Belmok had quietly opened the tomblike bed, drawn Thron’s knife, and driven it halfway into the dormant monstrosity’s head that now sat up shrieking in mindless pain.