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.