Eye of Darkness (Part Eighteen)

It was an hour or two until daybreak when they reached the campsite, and the Morgs were weary, but somehow they felt they must move further away from the unlucky site before they could rest. They picked up their gear and traveled on, and just before the sun was rising, they found a secluded spot where tall grasses grew around a knot of boulders that had come tumbling off the heights. Finding a hollow among them, they cast themselves down without a word and fell almost instantly asleep, trusting in their outlandish companion to keep watch over them.

Belmok woke up a couple of hours after noon. He sat up, feeling the creaking of his leather armor echoing through his joints, stiff from last night’s exertions. He put his arms around his knees, leaning forward. The midsummer sun beat down, crisping the grass around the rocks, making things hazy and slow in the windless air. He squinted up at the unclouded sky, then down at himself. His beard was disheveled and hanging tangled in his lap, his clothes dirty with digging and stained here and there with drying rusty-black blood. He sighed, then dragged his pack over to rummage around for something to eat.

The sound of the movement brought Thron out of his sleep in an instant, eyes wide and hand reaching for his sword, on his feet before he recognized Belmok’s weary face as the big Morg glanced up and then went back impassively to his search. Thron relaxed and sat down himself after a quick look around. He pulled out a flask from his side and took a harsh gulp.

“The end of my wine,” he said, holding the leather bottle out to the big Morg. “It’s water from here on in, I guess.” Belmok just stared at him. “I think we both need it, after last night.”

After a moment Belmok reached over and took it, killed the bottle, wiped his muzzle, and handed it back.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Aye,” said Thron. He put the flask away. “You know, there are going to be more and more Ogres, the further we go. Bigger ones. Meaner ones. Hopefully maybe this will be our worst encounter; maybe not.” He looked up into the hot blue sky. “Where do you think our guide is? We could probably make a few miles before dark.”

“Waiting for us to get moving, most like,” said Belmok. He pulled out a dried piece of jerkey from his pack, looked at it, then put it back with distaste.  After a moment he brushed ineffectively at a blot on his sleeve.

“That’s the first time I ever had to kill someone,” he said.

“Well, to be technical, you didn’t,” Thron pointed out, a sardonic grin stretching his face. “At the most you might have give one a headache that didn’t last long, thanks to me.”

“It was not for want of trying,” said Belmok frostily. “But I understood that encounters like this would be unnecessary. I thought…”

“Well, apparently your dear friend Leren has his limitations after all,” said Thron. “I suppose he was a little bit what you might call distracted last night. And you and I … well, we were getting pretty loud. We’d better be more careful from now on. And ready for more fights, just in case.”

“I didn’t even put a dent in that one.”

“These kraddach are all bone and gristle,” said Thron matter-of-factly. “Piercing’s about the only way to do the job. You need a blade.” He reached down to his belt, unbuckled the dagger at his side, and held it out. “Here. Take this one. Your little kitchen knife won’t do it.”

Belmok looked at Thron gravely and reached out and took the blade.

“Thank you,” he said. He stood up to buckle it on, then turned to the soldier. “Do you want to get moving? I don’t think I feel like eating just now. When we camp again is soon enough.”

“Fine,” said Thron. “Best we make up for time while the sun’s up. Ogres will move by day, but night is their time. We shouldn’t be stumbling around in the dark to draw their attention.”

The Morgs gathered their gear and looked cautiously out at their position from the shelter of the rocks, at the tumbled withering landscape around them. They found that they had turned a little easterly out of their way in the night. Suddenly Leren was with them, a liminal presence barely visible in the strong sunlight.

“There are some few Ogre striplings still abroad, but they are far from this place,” the Ivra said quietly. “This one has scouted far, so that repetition of last night’s incident shall not re-occur today. This one … I … regret that event.”

“All right,” said Belmok neutrally. “We must all be more careful, as Thron has said. If anything unusual does come up, inform us immediately, please. Now, which way do we go?”

The subdued Leren gave concise instructions for their correction course, and the Morgs started trudging through the scrubby foothills towards the towering peak in the Norkult once more, its bare and pitiless sides black and snowless under the beating sun.