Belmok awoke the next morning
an hour before dawn to the gentle but urgent promptings of the Ivra. The big
Morg sat up with a groan. The cold of the stones he had been laying on all
night seemed to have seeped up into his bones. He reached over and prodded
Thron, who was almost instantly awake, glaring all around with red rheumy eyes
before settling down at the sight of the big scholar. Without a word the Morgs
sat up, ate a bite or two and a sip of water, then stood, signaling to Leren
that they were ready to begin. They were enveloped once more in the Ivran
cloak, and they began their uphill climb to the gate of the Ogres’ cavernous
city.
As they trekked upward, Belmok
silently reviewed what he knew about the place from Leren’s instruction. The
door they were heading for was the only one on this side of the mountain, the
only one that faced Morgish lands. There were many more on the other side, open
as it was to Norda and the kingdom Barek held in thrall. If anything prevented
them from leaving by this way again, they would have to take their chances of
escape on that other side, and those chances were remote and treacherous.
The door was open at dawn to
accept returning patrols and send forth the day watch. It was their best chance
to enter; at nightfall the changing of the guard was more awake and eager, and
detection more likely. The weary returning Ogres, their reluctant replacements
venturing into the day, would be less prone to notice any anomalies arising
from the Morgs unseen presence.
Belmok had been proficient in
the mountaineering portion of the martial training of his youth, and the weeks
of their journey had toughened him up. If his madra could see him now, she
would have hardly recognized her scholarly son as he strode up the bleak and
blasted crag. She probably would have said that he looked quite the warrior.
As it was, no one could see
him, not even Thron, as he walked by his side, hand on his shoulder so that
they would not lose contact, stray from each other, and break Leren’s
protection. Belmok had shortened his step so the soldier could keep up, and now
they marched evenly together as they approached the first real barrier to their
objective.
Halfway up they struck the road
to the door: not so much a paved way as a rut worn into the mountainside by the
constant coming and going of many Ogre feet. It was almost thirty feet wide,
and there were already staggered squads of Ogres grinding their way up the
path. Their gangrel clusters were only barely kept in order by the gnashing
commands of their leaders, who wielded iron clubs every now and then among the
ranks, to terrible pounding effect.
The Morgs watched intently as
they passed. At last, when there seemed a wider gap than usual in front of a
lagging line, Thron pressured Belmok forward, and they fell into step with the
inexorable procession, that was wearily but eagerly filing upward. They
immediately had to break into a trot; the towering Ogres’ stride being easily
twice that of even Belmok’s. The two were soon heaving for breath in the dust
kicked up on the steep path before them and clutching desperately to stay
together.
Belmok was concentrating so
much on keeping his place (the thought of tripping and being trodden into the
dust by the marching masses behind was very distracting) that he looked ahead
and found they were in front of the gate before he knew it. He glanced up
anxiously as it gaped over his head, a maw ready to swallow them, and then they
plunged in, passing from the grey dawning light into the shadow within.
He looked around to find a
place where he could turn aside to escape the flowing throngs that were closing
in behind and before and found the tunnel inside crowded on either hand with
the spectral figures of fresh Ogre cohorts, eyes gleaming pale purple in
impatience for their fellows to pass.
Belmok was almost in angry
despair as the troops grew closer and closer together like a pincer when a gap
to the right opened abruptly and he felt Thron pull him aside in a frantic
lunge that took them out of the tramping flow. The Morgs stood catching their
breath and watched the Ogres lumbering by.
The last troops went past, the
new watch parties were almost driven out to take their place, and the great
iron gates ground together, its chains pulled by teams of twenty apiece,
closing with a clang and bolted down by bars as thick as tree trunks. The Morgs
were shut in the cavernous citadel of their deadly enemies.
They stood a moment until the
last echoes of retreating Ogres had died away down the tunnels, catching their
breath and gathering their strength. Belmok nearly jumped out of his skin when
the voice of Leren came whispering flatly in his inner ear.
“It is well. Let us go down
this way. I shall tell you when to turn. Be wary.”
The Ivra must have given Thron
the same instructions, for Belmok felt a simultaneous squeeze of his hand,
pulling him in the direction indicated. He pressed back, tightening his grip,
and they started down the passage.
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