Eye of Darkness (Part Nine)

 

Hundreds of miles away, on the top of a bare tor, an ancient weathered trilith of stone raised itself against the fading sunlight, standing like a doorway to nowhere. There was a sudden flashing sheen between the uprights and the lintel stone, and three figures stepped out of the empty space behind it, one sure-footed old man and two bewildered Morgs.

“Now, that,” said Dunwolf in satisfaction, “Is what I call a shortcut.”

“What the hell was that?” roared Thron, grabbing his sword and pulling it out with a hiss. He looked around in angry confusion. “Where were we? Where are we?”

“That, my good fellow, was the Domain of Doors. Let’s see your common street conjurer pull that one off. And there,” he said, pointing to a grim black wave rising sullenly in the north. “There are the Norkult Mountains. Right now, we’re some two hundred and fifty miles from that little sheep-cote outside Tronduhon.” He smiled smugly. “Convinced yet, lieutenant?”

“The Domain of Doors,” Belmok said quietly, stepping back to examine the trilith of stones they had come through. He stuck his hand back through the doorway, but nothing happened. He just felt the chill wind pouring off the mountains and saw their lurking gloom. “So the tales are true.”

“Not so convinced that you might not yet be an agent of Thoravil,” Thron said, sword still at the ready. “Luring us out here for Mog knows what nor why…”

“Hush!” Belmok snapped imperiously. “What’s that?”

The other two stopped and listened. There was a faint chiming on the wind, gathering and growing louder. Tiny, shining glints started twinkling and dancing in the air around them, swirling inward to a point on top of a flat boulder near the trio.

“Ah,” said Dunwolf, stepping forward towards the rock, eyes glowing in the dimly concentrating luminescence. He turned back to them. “Gentlemen, our host; the Ivra Wellolellenlerenwol. And waiting for us, just where we planned.”

Eye of Darkness (Part Eight)

 

The sun was getting low in the sky and they had not turned from the high dusty road anywhere before the wizard called a halt. Along the way Belmok had been asking Dunwolf several cunning questions about the past, all of which the old man had answered in such a way that the Morgish scholar had started to foster an increasing conviction that he was telling the truth, at least about his identity. The Kellic War, that had happened when Belmok was a youth of thirty, had captured his imagination and started him on the road to History Master. Though there were still elderly Morgs who remembered the matter, there could be few Men who could know such details as Dunwolf. He was almost disappointed when the brown-clad man raised his hand and said, “Here we are.”

Belmok squinted around at the broken lands and scrubby stands of trees around them, pursing his lips.

“Where are we?”

Dunwolf pointed off to the left, at a clump of low-hanging silver birch.

“There! Do you see it?”

Thron barked, a single mirthless laugh.

“Well, at least it will be a place to camp for the night before I drag you back to the cells in the City.”

As the three left to road and drew closer to the birches, Belmok got a clearer look at what had seemed a tumble of rocks behind the curtain of branches. It resolved itself into a roofless building, a shell of four broken walls and an empty doorway. An old inn, abandoned and now used as a sheep-pen apparently, with only a clump of moldy hay against one wall to speak of a temporary occupancy. A little wicket of dried branches leaned against the vacant doorway.

“Perfect,” said the wizard. “Here is our shortcut.”

“Here,” said Belmok. His voice was flat. He gripped his walking staff tightly and sniffed. “I can see even from here there’s nothing inside but old grass and some lumps of petrified sheep-dung.”

“Even so,” said Dunwolf cheerfully. “Shall we go in?”

“Why not?” said Thron. “There’s all the makings for a good campfire.”

The wizard stepped forward and laid a hand on the wicker gate. He said a few words the Morgs didn’t quite catch, then swung the ramshackle gate open and stepped in, Belmok and Thron close on his heels.

[No Notes Today]

Eye of Darkness (Part Seven)

 

The wizard, the scholar, and the soldier were given a small but ceremonious farewell at the gates of the city. Expeditions setting forth from the School like this were not unusual in themselves, but the highly uncommon make-up of this group drew a larger crowd than normally gathered. City representatives joined the officiating Masters to show respect for Thron as the King’s Envoy. Many in the muttering crowd of gawkers watched Dunwolf curiously, as if they half-expected the scrawny old man to explode in a puff of smoke and flame.

But it was Belmok, by far, who attracted the most attention. To see the towering, reclusive scholar dressed in armor, heavy pack on his unbowed back and iron-shod battle staff in hand, waiting with calm hauteur for the ceremony to be over, made many think what a warrior had been lost to the academic life. Buzzing talk was bandied around the crowd, about his noble background, his lost brother, his exploits when a mere student, his enormous learning, his proud attitude. If his sharp ears heard it, he paid it no mind.

At last the farewells ended and the three went forth. A few idlers followed them a little way out of the city gates, but as there seemed no more show forthcoming, they soon straggled back. Dunwolf, Thron, and Belmok marched along silently for a while. Thron was the first to speak.

“Well, Mister ‘Dunwolf’,” he said, voice harsh with sarcasm, “Just whereabouts is this shortcut of yours? It seems to me you are leading us south, away from the Norkult Mountains. Don’t tell me you’re lost already?”

The wizard looked over at him, but did not pause in his walking.

“You still don’t trust me, do you, Lieutenant?”

Thron snorted.

“I see no reason to,” he retorted. “You turn up, using a century-gone name, employ a few tricks any street conjurer could produce, dupe a few innocent old scholars, then take us in exactly the wrong direction of the place you say we’re going. No, I still don’t trust you, mister.”

Dunwolf smiled.

“Well, that’s good. That’s the kind of hard-headed commonsense attitude that will carry you far in your career. I can see why King Vez trusts you for this kind of thing.”

“Then will you kindly answer the Lieutenant’s question?” Belmok asked, looking over, not breaking his stride. “I’ve been wondering myself about our rather round-about itinerary. I do have an interest in this journey, beyond Lieutenant Thron’s suspicions.”

Dunwolf’s smile deepened.

“A couple of skeptics, I see. I could explain it to you, or try to, but I think you’ll have to see it before you believe it or start to understand. We’re headed just a little bit farther down this road. We passed it on our way to Tronduhon, Thron, though I don’t think you paid it any attention.”

“That’s as may be,” said Thron grimly. “But if I’m not satisfied with the way things are going, you and I will be heading back to Morg City, and you’ll be in chains that even an escape artist would find hard to lose.”

Notes

The picture illustrating Morg City is a very old one from the early 1980's, and does not very well reflect my present and developing conception of the place.

Eye of Darkness (Part Six)

That afternoon, and the day after that, saw many preparations. Substitutes were found to take care of Belmok’s classes, and the family lawyers were called to go over and tighten the conditions of certain contingencies in their documents. Gear and supplies were considered and purchased. The morning of the third day found Belmok and his mother once more sitting at the breakfast table. The burly, bearded Master was already dressed in dark brown travel clothes, half-covered with a surcoat of tough light leather armor riveted with black steel. For all this daunting outfit, he was still picking up his eggs and examining them, one at a time.

“What I don’t understand,” his mother sniffed, taking up her tea cup, “Is why you have to leave so soon. Surely a bit more care and planning wouldn’t be amiss.”

“It would accomplish very little but delay. As you always used to say when I was a lad, ‘Soonest begun is halfway done’.”

She frowned.

“I don’t remember ever saying that.”

“Oh? Then it was probably one of that succession of nurses you had in to raise Gortus and me. I understood that they were there in place of you actually having to deal with us, so I always imagined that what they told us was spoken by you, at one remove, as it were.”

The old Morgess looked at him, eyes glaring, muzzle screwed into a tighter frown.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Belmok,” she said quietly. “You’re trying to make me angry. So that … so that if anything happens to you …” She stopped, unable to go on. She took a sip of tea with trembling lips.

Belmok set down his egg.

“I should have known I couldn’t fool you, madra,” he smiled. “You’re far too wily an old bird.”

She grimaced through watery eyes.

“As if anything you could do would make it less hard …”

“I know, I know, madra,” he soothed. “But cheer up.” He picked up the egg and continued his scrutiny. “There is much to be gained from this journey. Status. Knowledge. Service to the realm. Perhaps even a measure of security for little old mothers everywhere.” He popped the egg in and started chewing.

“Besides,” he said through his mouthful. “There are many heartening factors. This wizard Dunwolf has promised a shortcut to the meeting with the Ivra. The ‘invisibility’ aspect is very encouraging. No heroics are being called for; just a little hardship. I don’t foresee any real problems. Ow!”

Belmok reached into his gritting teeth and probed around. He drew out his claws and gazed through his eyeglass, disbelieving, at the bit of eggshell laying wetly on his forefinger.

Notes

Madra: Morg word technically meaning “most respected lady”; all Morgs use it to refer to the closest female relation in their life, most often the matriarch. One does not use the word to refer to another’s madra.

MORA MADRA

The very old pages of ‘Ortha Lore’ mention the Fathers and Mothers of the Races. Mog Gammoth’s spouse is called Mora, and there is little more mentioned about her. I now feel I can say some more about Mora.

The odd fact is that, in Ortha, there are few written legends about her, not because of her insignificance, but because of her importance, and her living closeness in Morg lives. While Mog Gammoth is ‘everybody’s grampa’ (which is more or less the translation of ‘gammoth’), Mora’s full name and title is Mora Madra (which is closer in meaning to ‘mommy’ than the simply biological term ‘mother’).

Morgish reverence for Mora is an open secret, but seldom discussed. While kings (elected executives) among Morgs and the humbler office of witnesses are obvious stand-ins for Mog himself, they are mere underlings or substitutes and liable to criticism. Any and every Morgess who conceives shares directly in the ‘office’ and aura of Mora and has the title ‘Madra’. Mog Gammoth is seen as somewhat remote, if all-seeing; Mora is there, in some sense, in every mother.

This has led to a code or tradition among the Madra, more strictly enforced than any written law. It is only really understood by them. It concerns not only a kind of ‘pecking order’ and its rules, but also a balance between personal ambition for your family and the good of the realm. Whoever is the public face of the family, the Madra is the true head. In effect, the Madras of all the families are an unofficial but most effective Senate. Each Madra, of course, values her own family most highly, and will try to apply the rules to them as favorably as possible.

Among male Morgs, their ignorance of the precise parameters of this code has led to an excess of caution and counter-reaction. If worried that what they are doing might offend the Madras, they will stop, think, and proceed very cautiously before doing so, or try to lie about or hide such actions entirely. No Morg will insult another’s Madra, partially because that is to insult Mora and all Madras, even his own, and partially because it is a deadly insult that requires blood. No one will judge another who is following the dictates of his Madra.

Mora Madra herself shares somewhat in the nature of Orathil (Mother Ortha), but specifically and much more personally for the Morgish race. Orathil is the strict balance of nature, ‘red in tooth and claw’, mother of Ogres as well as Morgs, of storms and harvest. Mora is Mommy, standing between you and a rather stern grandmother, occasionally sneaking you a secret cookie. May she bless us all.

 

Eye of Darkness (Part Five)

 

A hiss passed through the assembly like a cold snake slithering around their feet.

“Then you are asking that one of us goes marching to his doom,” said Goli flatly. “No Morg can get by the hordes of Ogres that infest that range. It is impossible.”

“Not impossible with an Ivra in your company,” said Dunwolf. “It cannot positively extend its power without detection, but it can negate other things. If you walk in the cloak of its presence, as it were, it can hide you and deprive the senses of your enemies, so that they neither smell, hear, or see you. But in the end the Ivra needs your hands, your mortal hands, to explore this enigma.”

Dunwolf hesitated.

“Even so, if this is a new plan or ploy of Barek and his servants (and it seems likely), there may well be death at the end of this road, and a finish to the peace that Forlan has enjoyed for the last century. And whatever the Ivra’s motives, I feel we should take this chance to learn of this new development, neutralize it if dangerous, or at least be forewarned of its perils.”

He held out his hands in appeal.

“Masters, I ask for one of your number to come forward, return with me to the where the Ivra awaits outside the clamor of the city, and join it in this hazardous, put possibly crucial, adventure.”

He lowered his hands and grinned crookedly.

“Now, I welcome your questions.”

The hall burst into a babble of voices. Where exactly was the meeting with the Ivra? Where exactly in the mountains was this destination? How long would this expedition take? A demonstration of the wizard’s powers was demanded to prove his identity, which left Master Lokk’s robes singed and flowers growing out of his beard. Doddering old Silva, a Grand High Master of Languages, eagerly volunteered to go, if only to hear Orthic spoken every day. He was deemed too elderly for the journey.

Thron listened dourly to the debate. Questions such as these had arisen in the Court at Morg City, if not so abstractly and lengthily argued. Again he was reminded of a gaggle of turkeys, gobbling happily over a feeder. He ran a hand smoothly over his stiff brown beard. They didn’t seem to see the buzzard hovering its shadow over the little fence of their discussion.

“Master Silva raises a good point, though,” Crett put in. “Although Orthic was the common language of the Fathers, it is not well understood now. How can you be certain you are interpreting the Ivra’s meaning correctly?”

“Well, to be frank, I can’t,” said Dunwolf. “At first all I could put together was a weird pidgin of Old Morg, High Ghamish, and a few ancient words in the human tongues. In the end, I had to lower some barriers in my mind, and it dropped images directly into my brain. After that it seemed to have a greater understanding of my language but was putting it together in a very strange way. I cannot be sure, even now, that I am interpreting the meaning of the images right. The only means I could conclude I got even the gist of things is that it seemed satisfied at last. The Ivra must have a very odd grammar.”

“Oh, please, please let me go!” the old Languages Master begged, almost whining.

Master Crett frowned.

“The point of this expedition would not be to study dialects, no matter how historically interesting. The danger would be phenomenally …”

“Minimal,” said Belmok, rising to his feet. The room went quiet, all eyes on the towering master. He took out his eyeglass and casually polished it with one golden sleeve while they waited. He examined the glass for speck or hair. Satisfied, he screwed it back into his eye and looked around at the conclave of Masters.

“Minimal, I say, if undertaken with certain factors. First and most importantly would be the safety of this ‘Ivran cloak’, as you put it. May I assume you are at least sure about that, Mister Dunwolf?” he asked, looking intently at the brown-clad wizard.

The old man seemed checked by the nearly-scornful tone but held his composure.

“Perfectly,” he answered blandly.

“Then it seems to me that the prerequisites for the candidate for this quest would be,” -Belmok started counting on his claws- ”Firstly, a thorough knowledge of the land and history of the area, then a passingly good knowledge of the ancient languages for the better understanding of his Ivran host, a competent knowledge of Ogre nature and its dangers, a nimble and adaptive mind to changing situations, and, last of all, a level of health and a willingness to undergo a certain amount of risk and deprivation.”

His muzzle puckered into a slight smile.

“As my esteemed mother has seen fit to mention lately, I am getting a little fat under my somewhat sedentary routine. Since I am well-versed in all the subjects I have enumerated to this esteemed assembly, I volunteer my services for this mission, at least until I can get down to my fighting weight.”

Thron clumped to his feet in anger amid the sudden excited hum in the room.

“As King’s Envoy, I would remind this learned assembly that this is a solemn matter! There are somber issues hanging on your debate, and dangers to the realm pending your decisions!” He pointed up at Belmok and snarled. “It should be addressed in a serious and sober manner!”

Belmok’s attitude did not change one iota as he looked down at the indignant lieutenant.

“And I would inform the King’s Envoy that I take very little as seriously, soberly, or solemnly as my personal comfort. That I am willing to imperil that testifies to my regard for the importance of this mission. And I will prove this on the person of the King’s Envoy with any test of strength, skill, or …” He paused infinitesimally, then drawled, “Mental challenge the King’s Envoy may choose.”

Thron took a reflexive step forward, hand to sword hilt, but he was stopped by Master Krett’s swift grasp on his arm.

“Your pardon, your pardon, Lieutenant, that is just Master Belmok’s way. I assure you it is not boasting on his part,” he said hurriedly and loudly. “He truly is skilled in all he says.” He dropped his voice for Thron’s ear alone. “He’s from one of the noble Houses, with all that implies. Even if you could best him … which I doubt, with his training … the trouble you’d raise for yourself would not be worth it.”

Thron glowered up at Belmok, shrugging Crett’s hand away. He turned without a word and sat down haughtily. He fixed his eyes like gimlets on the tall Master and nodded grimly. Crett relaxed visibly, walked up to the podium, and addressed the assembly.

“High Master Belmok being proposed for this task, I ask if there are any other candidates who wish to apply?” He looked back and forth, ignoring old Master Silva, whose neighbor was straining to hold down his eager hand. Belmok’s imperious glass raked the suddenly reserved band of scholars, as if daring them to compete.

Crett turned to the wizard.

“Mr. Dunwolf, do you find Master Belmok acceptable for this purpose?”

“He certainly appears to be well-qualified, both physically and in his talents. And he seems quite willing to go.” Dunwolf grinned. “That is perhaps the most important qualification of all.”

“Then if there are no further questions, suggestions, or objections?” The old lawyer raised his grizzled eyebrows and looked at Thron.

“This decision is left to you, Masters of Tronduhon,” the soldier said stoically, crossing his arms. “I am merely here to watch. The judgement, and the consequences, are yours. But I do not know if I would go stirring the wrath of Thoravil for so trivial a matter.”

“The fact that it is so trivial a matter is what makes it so safe, Lieutenant. I doubt if the Lord of Darkness would go launching massive reprisals for one lone Morg wandering on the borders of his land,” Belmok replied casually. His voice was calm but carried to the farthest corners of the room. “If something goes wrong, I think the worst outcome will be that a few Ogres will have something nice on the grill for once, and that will be that.” He leaned back. “An outcome that would not be mourned by many of my colleagues in this room, I think.”  

There was some muffled laughter, shuffling of feet, and a few none-too-sincere mutters of “Nonsense!”

“Master Belmok, I do not think any of us truly feel that way,” Crett countered impassively. “Your loss would be a loss to the ranks of learning everywhere. So I ask you all, once more, is there aught else that needs be spoken?”

He looked around the tiers for even the shadow of a speech on any face. There was doubt and even some anxiety, but no questions in any of the Masters’ eyes.

“So be it. High Master Belmok is approved for this Ivran Quest, to find what there is to find, and seek what there is to seek, and I further declare, as Decennial Master of Fellows, that pending the outcome of this trial, Master Belmok be proposed for the next level of rank and grade.” He brought his knuckles down again on the podium in the three ritual knocks, summoning the Yeroni to witness. “This meeting is adjourned.”

The Masters filed out quickly with no particular order. In a few moments the news would be spread all through the School, and even be starting to trickle out into the city. Belmok came striding slowly down the emptying rows and joined the old black-clad Morg where he stood conferring with Thron and Dunwolf. Belmok started to open his mouth, but before he could say anything the old wizard grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

“Well done, sir!” he said happily. “This will be an adventure you shall never forget, I think! I only wish I could go with you all the way!”

Taken off-guard, Belmok was about to say something indignant, but then looking at the old man’s face he could only see a sincere excitement and even approval over the council’s choice. For all the man’s age, there was something boyish in his genuine elation. Belmok found his muzzle twisting into a real grin.

“It is my honor, sir,” he announced.

“I suggest you two retire to the Refectory, to get some refreshment and make your plans,” said Crett. “Our kitchens are entirely at your disposal.

“We three,” said Thron, stepping forward into the circle. “I am coming with you.” His hands touched the scroll. “By order. I am to bear witness that this meeting with the Ivra proceeds properly. Then …,” he smiled unpleasantly, “We will see.”

Notes

"Norkult Mountains: great range dividing Forlan, North from South; also simply the Norkult or the Norkults." - Morgish Lexicon.

"Knocking three times to invoke the attention of the three great Yorn of Light." -Morgish Lexicon. These Three Yorn are the 'archangels' of of the Mythos: Kalinor the Great Guardian, Kelsitor Master of Wisdom, and Melniar Mistress of Healing.

 

Eye of Darkness (Part Four)

“The Ivra have been gone for two thousand years!”

“A children’s tale!”

“Unprovable rubbish!”

“MY LO-O-ORDS!” A commanding, barrel-chested voice came rolling out over the clamor. The assembly, cowed into silence, looked around in wonder. The burly scholar had risen to his feet. He smiled, bowed, and said in a more normal voice, “And ladies.” He removed his eyeglass. “I assert to you that History declares the Ivra do exist, but that they have withdrawn themselves from contact with the other races for some time now. I further submit, on my own opinion, that if they have chosen again to interact with us, it would be on a matter of gravest import. I, for one, would like to hear what this Dunwolf has to say about this meeting of his, before I come to any further conclusions.”

The old man at the podium bowed his head politely.

“I thank you, Master ...?”

“Belmok. High Master Belmok.”

“High Master Belmok.” He seemed to be fixing the name in his mind. The Morg sat down again and resumed his examining attitude. Dunwolf went on.

“This Ivra appeared to me, gathering itself out of the air, as it seemed …”

A very pudgy, gnarled Master near the front interrupted.

“What did it look like?”

The old man looked annoyed.

“Very much as the tales have described them. My masters, if you will let me tell my story first, I will gladly answer your questions after. I’m sure you will have many.”

Crett hopped to his feet. “Silence, please, until our guest is finished,” he commanded flatly. He fell back into his chair, job accomplished, and resumed a neutral air.

“I thank you.” Dunwolf went on. “I have to admit I was startled. Old instincts kicked in, and I struck at the figure with my hoe.

“It passed right through the Ivra as if it were made of smoke. I was stunned, and almost responded in my surprise with a blast of power, but it spoke calmly to me, not at all provoked by my attack, and that grabbed my attention. It was speaking a very old form of Orthic, and in trying to understand it I lost my fear and realized what my visitor must be.

“It said …” the old man paused. “Some of you here may know something of Ivran nature, but others may not. The Ivra, to us, appear to be smoky, insubstantial, ghostlike. They are not. In many ways they are tied to the world in more complex ways than we are. It is this … articulation that allows them to move through solid objects like a swimmer through water. To them, we are the smoke they are passing through. Nevertheless, they do have material bodies, at a very … refined level, which they can condense down to appear to us.

“Matter,” the old man sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Matter, because it is so slippery to them, means almost nothing. But power, life, magic … these things affect them in ways that we would … that I find hard to imagine. To them, that is solid, that is the reality of the world.

“Animals and plants, to them, are a quiet hum. Simple, calm, an easily navigable stream. But a city of Morgs, a village of Men, even a tribe of Ghamen, is like the screeching roar of a flock of starlings trapped in a winter storm at sea. It is one of the reasons that they have removed themselves from close contact with the other races. But magic is like a brick wall to them, solid and serious as a sword. And this Ivra has found a new, veritable pit of magic, like a blot of blindness, suddenly formed in the North.”

“The North! What in hell was it doing there?” Master Crett barked, unable to contain even himself amid the sudden gasps and murmurs. “Was there some kind of … dealings?”

Dunwolf raised his hands and shook them as if to tamp down the outrage.

“You misunderstand the nature of the Ivran covenant that they have made for their race. It is basically non-interference, a sort of distance they put between themselves and the struggle of light and dark. They observe, they learn, they ponder, but they do not help anymore, they do not interfere. In their unique relationship with creation, they came to the conclusion that it only brings suffering to the Ivra and those they try to help.”

“And yet this Ivra came to you.” Belmok’s shrewd voice came cutting through the rumble of Masters muttering to each other.

“The way it was put to me,” Dunwolf said, picking his way carefully. “That is, as I understood it, was that I was chosen for this contact as a medium way. I was alone, and thus easier to speak to. I was a wizard, so my magic stood out like a spike in his vision. But my magic was the very reason I could not go on this mission.”

He cleared his throat.

“There are many areas of power in Forlan, some natural, some not. That one should have suddenly formed is a matter of great curiosity to this Ivra, who seems to be young for the race. This phenomenon may be spontaneous, but its nearness to Thoravil argues a more dangerous origin. If I should approach it, with my magic, dangerous alarms may be set off. If the Ivra extends power into it, it will almost certainly be disrupted, with unknown results. To put it crudely, a rather simple tool is needed for the job, and I thought of the Morgs.”

“Now let me explain,” he added quickly to the wave of indignant mutters. He raised his hand and began counting off fingers. “Morgs have no magic, no special powers to draw the attention of those with eyes to see. Morgs are strong and tough, more so than any other race, and such strength will be needed. But most of all, Morgs are clever, shrewd thinkers with nimble curious minds, and there are none more shrewd or curious than those here at Tronduhon Library School. I think that of anywhere that the right person for this quest will be found, it is here.”

“But why should we make ourselves a … a convenience for this faineant creature?” Master Goli said, her eyes fierce. “Don’t we have enough problems of our own?”

“This may soon be a problem of our own,” said Dunwolf grimly “This place, this ‘eye of darkness’ as the Ivra calls it, is deep in the heart of the Norkult Mountains.”

Notes

This entire passage is more or less inspired by this quote from William Blake, therefore it seemed not unfitting to illustrate it from his works: “A Spirit and a Vision are not, as the modern philosophy supposes, a cloudy vapour or a nothing: they are organised and minutely articulated beyond all that the mortal and perishing nature can produce. He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light, than his perishing and mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all. The painter of this work asserts that all his imaginations appear to him infinitely more perfect and more minutely organised than anything seen by his mortal eye.” – William Blake. 

 

Eye of Darkness (Part Three)

 

“My Masters all, ladies and fellows, and our guests,” the black-clad Morg began. Crett’s voice was, as usual, husky and formal, yet penetrated to the farthest row. There was just a quiver of suppressed curiosity hanging on its edge. “I thank you for coming. We are gathered today at the King’s behest. I pray you attend and give most serious ear and best counsel to what is spoken here.” He knocked three times with his bony knuckles on the podium, raking the assembly back and forth with his watery eyes. “I give you Lieutenant Thron, who speaks first.”

The old lawyer withdrew and Thron stood up. As he marched up to the podium, he took out a sealed scroll from his belt. He stopped with military precision before the lectern and raised the roll of parchment high for all to see.

“My orders, from King Vez,” he announced. “On orders, I speak in his place, in this matter.” He slapped the scroll down and glowered out on the meeting. “Three weeks ago, this person” -he pointed brusquely to the robed figure huddled on his left- “presented himself to the King. He convinced His Majesty that he was a wizard, that he came on a mission urgent to the realm, and that he needed the help of one both learned and discerning to address this matter. In consequence, he has sent this – person – to you, Masters of Tronduhon, to seek your judgement for the King, and to render aid if you deem it necessary.” He picked up the scroll again, duty done. “I introduce the one calling himself Dunwolf.”

He turned and marched back to his seat amid surprised and doubtful murmurs. The name seemed known to at least half of the scholars. Thron sat down in his crackling chair, ears burning with resentment, but no longer caring how much sound he made. He looked up and saw the burly Master in gold leaning forward, claws knit together and underlip jutting out. His eyes gleamed like a hound on the scent of his prey. The man in brown rose from his chair, threw his hood back, shook his robes straight, and came to stand before the lectern.

“I thank Lieutenant Thron for his introduction,” he said drily. ”Though he seems less convinced of my claims than was the King himself. And to forestall many questions, yes, I am that Dunwolf. It has been a hundred years since my powers were needed last, and I have been pursuing a quiet, hidden life since then. But.”

He looked up at the ceiling, as if reluctant to speak what he had to say right to their faces.

“I’m afraid that time of peace may be over for us all. A little over a month ago, while I was hoeing my bean-patch, I had a visit from one of the Ivra.”

If his name had caused doubts, this announcement brought a burst of clamor and incredulity from the assembly that could be heard two classrooms away. Anger, disbelief, and laughter arose in a babble of voices.

Notes

Tronduhon was the greatest (and certainly the oldest) university city on Ortha, rivaled only by the New Royal School in the capital. Any new assertions in law, science, or history made in the New Royal School were taken to be ratified or debated, comparing the oldest texts in Tronduhon, and if scientific in nature, tested and demonstrated. Only copies of texts produced by their expert scribal department were deemed to be authoritative.

Of course, Thron and Dunwolf go all the way back to the original Goldfire. The Ivra, however, were transferred from another fantasy world I was working on in the Eighties. I was happy to 'graft' them into the world of Ortha, both because it preserves their lore and has proved (in my mind) fruitful in deepening the growth of the Mythos.

Eye of Darkness (Part Two)

Eye of Darkness (Part Two)

Lieutenant Thron sat squirming in the bare wooden chair the School had provided for the meeting. It had certainly not been designed for anyone wearing leather armor, and doubly not if they were carrying a short sword. The seat creaked and groaned like a ship in a storm every time he shifted his weight. The last thing he wanted was any further attention, so he was trying to be as still as he possibly could, which made the elderly piece of academic furniture more torturing by the minute.

He was sitting in the bottom of what might as well have been a pit, with tiers of seating for about thirty people rising claustrophobically above him. The door to the room was just to the right of Thron, so every time one of the quaint old Masters in their variously colored robes came in, the first thing their curious, probing eyes fell on was Thron. They filed up to their chosen seats above, and then the only thing they could do was look down on him and the dais.  

At first, he had nodded to them in acknowledgement as they entered. Now he just sat as quietly as he could, each involuntary movement he made cracking an echo off the back wall and drawing the attention of every scholarly gaze like a flock of barnyard turkeys, eager to be fed.

At least Thron shared some of that attention with the others on the stage. Even so, they were not as interesting as a high-ranking warrior from Morg City, with a forest-green cloak and his helmet on his knees. The Morg who sat in the middle was only Master Crett, familiar to the whole school in his old black tunic of Law, his white sash streaking down like a flash of lightning in the night. The third figure, on the side farthest from the door, sat huddled silently in dull, much-worn brown robes. A scrawny, elderly human, he held his hands folded together and watched the learned Morgs scuffle in and find their places. There was no expression on his face, but his eyes were bright and watchful. There seemed nothing unusual about him except his presence at this assembly.

Thron ground his teeth at the thought of that human and of his orders about him. Those orders came straight from the King himself, in the presence of the General. The fact that Thron had to dance attendance on this beggar, all the way to Tronduhon, to observe and report on the outcome, when there was trouble brewing in the Northwest Reaches that could require swift action by his company, made his stomach roil. Then he thought about his secret orders and his hand clenched the handle of his sword. He looked darkly toward the impassive, brown-cloaked figure.

As his eyes swept over, his gaze snagged on a Master sitting halfway up the filling tiers of seats. He was hard to miss, sitting ramrod straight and taller than most Morgs, dressed in a glowing old-gold robe cinched with red, and a flowing curly head of hair that mingled with his beard like a mountain ram’s. But what had caught Thron’s eye was the big Morg’s fixed attention on the old man on the dais below. As Thron watched him, the Master took out an eyepiece and screwed it into place, as if to get a better look. Although the seats were being taken quickly now, people seemed reluctant to sit within the haughty scholar’s zone.

As if he felt the lieutenant’s eyes on him, the Master turned and looked at Thron. The scholar nodded, as if acknowledging his notice, then went back to studying the old man. Thron’s face burned. He felt that he had been quickly summed up and found to be of inconsequential interest.

The last few Masters came hurrying in and found their seats. The very last was old Xelkin, in the grey of Medicine, struggling in on two canes. She was given a seat on the lowest tier, and the former occupant labored his way to the back corner, avoiding a couple of seats lower down that remained unoccupied around the tall burly Morg, who grinned sardonically at the action. The mid-morning bell rang, the door was slammed shut and barred, and Master Crett rose from his seat. Thron straightened himself to attention, his chair cracking loudly even through the murmurs of the curious gathering.

Notes

The illustrations I've been finding for these sections of story are not of course absolute representations of the actions and setting, but are chosen to give visual interest to the post and an approximate sense of the 'props' and settings of the scenes. 

I developed an entire color scheme for the different ranks of the Morgish army. These are:

General: Blue

Colonel: Gold

Captain: Dark Red

Lieutenant: Green

Sergeant: Bright Red

Private: Brown.

These all began with Roth wearing a red cloak (rather suggesting both a sanguine nature and a resemblance to a Roman legionnaire), and developed from there.

There is similar color-coding in the academic robes and sashes, which I will get into in the next session.