Eye of Darkness (Part Eleven)

 

An hour later the wizard was sitting in the darkness, leaning against one upright of the trilith, watching the moon rise over the black mountain range, that lay like an untouched shadow even under its gentle beams. He was surprised when Thron came suddenly striding through the doorway, looked down where he sat, then took the other stone and slumped to the ground. The Morg removed his helmet, set it in his lap, and sighed in angry exasperation.

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant? Tired of witnessing?”

Thron turned his head sullenly.

“Frankly, yes, wizard. The gibberish those two are talking! What could I tell anybody about it? What could I tell the King? That they gabbled on like two old ladies at a tea party?” He snorted. “I don’t think they even know that I left.”

They sat quietly a few minutes.

“So, you do concede now that I am a wizard?”

Thron stretched tiredly then leaned forward, arms folded on his knees.

“Sure, you’re a wizard, why not? Maybe you’re even the famous Dunwolf himself.” He chuckled. “And I’m the future King of Morg City.” He shook his head. “What does it matter? This expedition is going to happen. I don’t think there’s any way of stopping it. Hell, maybe even some good will come of it.”

Another silence.

“So what do you think about this Belmok?” Dunwolf asked seriously. “As a soldier and a campaigner, how do you rate his chances of success?”

Thron scratched his beard.

“Oh, he’s a strong one. And a clever one, maybe the smartest one I’ve ever heard or seen. But there’s an old Morg saying. If you’ve been around as long as you say you have, you may have heard it.”

“And what is that?”

“’Too clever is dumb’,” said Thron. “It’s these folks who think they have all the answers who are thrown when something unexpected turns up. And then they freeze, as all their well-laid plans go down the well like the farmer’s eggs in the story.”

He smiled, sharp teeth glinting in the dim moonlight.

“And that’s why I’m going into the Norkult, too, if only to see Master Belmok’s face if it all goes bust.”

 

As it was, Belmok’s face was not best pleased when he joined them and heard Thron’s resolution. It was as if somebody had suddenly asked him to share his cake.

“Completely unnecessary,” he snapped. “Leren and I have already gone over many details of the plan. A third party will only increase the risks and effort.”

“Tough toenails,” said Thron. “My discretion. King’s orders. Either I go, or you stay.”

“And what makes you think,” Belmok bristled. “That I won’t just knock you down and go my merry way?”

“Because if you do,” Thron retorted, “When I get back I will report you as a renegade, you will be outlawed, and whether you return alive or not, your House will be downgraded, its assets seized, and any family you have, no matter how distant, will be on the street, begging for their bread. And don’t think I won’t.”

Belmok glowered at Thron, his steely eyes glinting behind his ocular, fists clenched, underlip thrust out mulishly. Thron didn’t back down an inch and glared back just as stubbornly.

Belmok took the glass out of his eye brusquely.

“Let us go speak to Leren,” he said. He turned and stamped back to where the Ivra stood waiting, its body distended in rest into a nebulous figure that spanned most of the clearing. It gathered together again slowly, almost tiredly, as it listened to what was said.

Leren buzzed and hummed and asked many questions and made some objections. Dunwolf noticed that even after only an hour or so with the Morg, it was speaking more easily. The main concern, it appeared was the cloak.

“Much power it expends. Much – hm -concentration. To extend it to two -hmmm – persons simultaneously? Some thinning. More care. Weariness making increasing would be present. Attention dividing would be present.”

“But can you do it?” Belmok asked. “Is it feasible?” He shot Thron a look. “Our mission will not be possible if you cannot.”

Leren paused and hummed so long, debating the point with itself as it seemed, that Belmok was readying himself for disappointment when it finally spoke.

“It is … achievable. Problematic … but it can be performed. One … believes? Considers? Deems? That one may accomplish this. Are the Morgs males … hmmm … willing to support this additional risk?”

Belmok looked at Thron again, challenging his willingness to take that step. The soldier’s stony face decided him.

“Yes. Yes, we are. We will proceed in the morning, as we had planned, Leren.”

“Very well,” the Ivra almost sighed, voice fading. “Now we must rest and gather energies for the morrow.” The silvery body began to uncoil and dissipate. “This one wishes you best repose.” In a moment the space it had occupied was empty.

Thron turned and headed back to the stones. Dunwolf watched Belmok as the Master scowled after the smugly satisfied warrior. The big Morg turned to the wizard.

“I’m actually glad that Lieutenant Thron is coming,” he said sternly. “He’ll either be there when we succeed, or I’ll be able to see his face when he realizes that he’s doomed us.”