Eye of Darkness (Part Fifteen)

 

For a few days after that, Thron spoke very little. He would absent himself when it became plain that the Ivra was going to produce more game, then return with the makings for the fire. Belmok became quite proficient with dressing game and hiding what could not be consumed, in case any scouting parties should pass their trail. After a meal, Thron would withdraw again, and Belmok would be alone with Leren for a while. It was during this time that the big Morg worked with Leren on his language before laying down for the night. It was almost two weeks before Thron would come and sit listening to these sessions of an evening.

The fire, which would be shielded behind stones or stands of trees and kept from smoking as much as possible, was doused as soon as the cooking was finished. But they drew around the heat of the ashes while it lasted, and talked in the dim glow that Leren still shed, whether it would or no, whenever it gathered itself into visibility. Thron noticed that the Ivra was talking more fluently in Morgish with every session it held with Belmok.

Thron never said very much, but he listened intently. The soldier couldn’t make out a lot about the abstract discussions on history and the elements of language. For one thing, Leren seemed to have little concept of what aspect of a subject the scholar would be asking about, and Belmok had to question it like a lawyer, sometimes for hours, before he could narrow the discourse down to the answer he was looking for. Several questions, though, had started growing in Thron’s mind over time.

In the mornings, after a cold, hasty meal, they would break camp, the Ivra appearing briefly for a small consultation and perhaps a course correction, and then they would be off. The stark mountains drew slowly nearer, and the land more tumbled and overgrown, patchworked by cold streams running from the heights. The Morgs seldom spoke to each other, except about practical matters, small warnings or observations about their trail. Time and shared concerns seemed to weave a fragile truce between the two, a cessation of hostilities during a common struggle. One day, before they entered the shattered foothills of the dark range, Thron broke that calm and asked a question.

“Do you think he’s listening to us?”

Belmok was so surprised he almost tripped mid-stride, but the next moment caught his balance and went along smoothly.

“I see no reason ‘he’ should be; I understand it would be rather difficult in his spread-out state. His attention is cast ahead and about us, scouting. But if you wish to call him …”

“No, no, that’s all right,” Thron said hastily. They walked along, but now the silence between them was full of unspoken curiosity. Eventually he spoke again.

“He’s talking pretty well now, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Belmok almost smiled. “I think Master Silva would be most disappointed with his conversation these days.”

“He don’t hum so much, does he? Don’t have to look so much for his words.”

“I’ll tell you something, Lieutenant,” Belmok said. He pushed a stand of waving weeds aside. “That humming? That is Leren speaking very quickly … actually speaking … a long string of words, until he finds the one he finds most correct. He is slowing himself down for our comprehension, much as you or I would simplify and slow our speech for a three-year-old. Or a new recruit.”

Thron could hear the grin in his voice. He quickened his pace until he was walking side by side with the big Morg.

“Very nice. Very nice,” he growled. “Well, now that he’s talking stupid enough for me, I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

“Nothing’s ever stood in your way, Lieutenant,” said Belmok. “I suppose now would be the time. I’m sure we’ll have to be pretty quiet soon,” he pointed ahead to the line of peaks. “When we get up yonder.”

“Aye,” said Thron. “I’d like to put a question to you too, Master Belmok, to consider a while with your powerful mind, before I talk to Mister Leren.”

“And? What may that be?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, while you been criss-crossing our guide with your questions about now and then, here and there, or not. But I’ve been listening to him, trying to read him, which Mog knows is hard enough with his flat ways. You’ve been happy enough with what he has told you. But I could swear, and it’s nothing I can lay my thumb on, that there is something about this journey that he is definitely not telling you, and in fact avoiding when you get too close to the subject.”

They strode on in silence.

“Do you really think so?” said Belmok quietly.

“I’d bet my hide on it.”

They walked on.

“I may speak to Leren about that,” said Belmok at last.

Thron dropped back behind. Belmok went on without any expression, but his mind was racing away, reviewing the past nights and pondering many half-formed questions that started to peep out at him from shadowy corners in his brain.