Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty)

 

The journey changed after that day. As they penetrated deeper and deeper into Ogre lands, game grew scarcer, with only the occasional lean and wily wild pig drawn by Leren’s controlling skill into the circle of their evening camp. Even then they had to be particularly wary in disposing of it. With the growing scarcity of their supplies, Thron had long since stopped complaining about the Ivra’s method of providing those meals. There was plenty of gogen wood to chew on, though, and fat tasteless journey-root was abundant and easily found by its prickly, pyramidal stalks. It seemed that Ogres, even the lesser breed, did not relish such fare, no matter how hungry.

And there were Ogres in growing numbers now. Many in scavenging, scuttling bands of two or three juvenile members, but just as often there would be one larger lone male skulking along by himself. Leren, who seemed to be hovering closer to them, would cloak the Morgs whenever detection was near, and Belmok was able to observe many of the creatures in all kinds of conditions. One night, when they were securely camped down but before they began his Ogrish language lessons, he asked the Ivra about them. Thron was sitting, watching quietly as he gnawed on a particularly tough journey-root.

 Belmok took out his ocular and screwed into his eye. He seldom produced the glass these days, except when he was feeling curious. It concentrated his mind, as well as his sight, and reminded him of his scholarly purpose.

“Leren,” he said. “All these little Ogres we’ve been encountering. What are they doing out here in the wild? They’re not all outlaws, are they?”

Thron laughed through a mouthful of mushed root.

“Can’t imagine a crime so vile that even an Ogre would find it criminal.”

“Thron is correct,” said Leren. “There is little in their society that is taboo, beyond disloyalty to their masters. This situation is biological-societal. For them it is … normative.”

“How so?” asked Belmok, leaning forward and knotting his hands together. They were talking very quietly, and the Ivra was gleaming dimly blue, like a candle guttering in the wind.

“A female Ogre …” Leren began. Thron snorted in surprise and almost choked. The scholar and the Ivra looked at him, with much the same expression.

“Sorry,” the soldier wheezed. “I just never thought about it before.” He swallowed in disgust. “That must be a pretty sight to see,” he concluded with revulsion.

“An Ogress,” Leren began again, “Is a prized commodity in the Ogre race. My studies show that only one in five born are female. They are valued as breeders, and as such never leave their caverns. Males, on the other hand, are abundant and superfluous. When the brood-clutch of Ogre eggs are hatched …”

“Eggs!” spluttered Thron. Again he got the look. He grimaced and hung his head. “Don’t mind me,” he mumbled. “Huh. Eggs.”

“An Ogress breeds only with a Great Ogre,” Leren continued. “She lays four or five leathery eggs at a time, and they are gathered together in a clutch of thirty or so, to be watched over by an elderly female past breeding age. When they hatch, the females are segregated, and the males are … I cannot say nurtured … watched over for perhaps three years.

“At the end of that period they are driven forth from the community, to survive as best they can in the world outside and on the margins. One-third grow into Great Ogres, the elite, and return on their own to take up their places in society. Others never attain such stature and are culled for thralls, or as drones for their legions. Many – the weak – perish.”

“Well, that certainly explains much about their behavior,” said Belmok. He tangled a meditative claw through his beard. “It sounds like they’re bred merely for violence and strength. I wonder why, if only the big ones breed, are there still so many smaller ones?”

“I have followed and observed for many years,” said Leren. “A Great Ogre is produced when a strong male devours one of its brothers in the nest. There is a … an internal change.”

Belmok shuddered. “The more I learn about these creatures, the more appalling they seem.”

“These females,” said Thron, still fascinated by the concept. “So nobody ever sees them. What do they look like? I mean, how can you tell?”

“The Ogress ovipositor, in contrast to the Morgish female organs …” Leren began impassively.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on now,” Thron hastily. “I don’t mean by looking up their skirts. I was thinking about some more, well, obvious clues.”

“I comprehend,” said the Ivra. “The females have a type of scaly crest on their heads, analogous to hair in other races. When it is down, it even somewhat resembles hair. It is raised in anger or to display superiority. The female is … mm … distinctive among the bald male populace.”

Belmok adjusted his glass in amusement.

“Thinking about looking out for a date, Lieutenant?”

Thron winced.

“Thanks for putting that thought in my head,” he growled. “I was disgusted enough.” He tore off another mouthful of journey-root, turning away from them and beginning to chew angrily, muzzle grinding. Belmok chuckled silently to himself.

“If you have no further questions,” said Leren. “Let us take up our lessons again. In the Ogron tongue, chirk is an intensifier, used to describe disapproval or denigration. It is an otherwise meaningless or ‘filler’ word, used in conversation with little thought or intent. The literal sense is ‘excrement’, but it is seldom used to refer to the actual substance …”

Notes

Gogen wood and journey-root are my contribution to the 'questing fare' of Fantasy, but they are nowhere as tasty as lembas or treasure berries. Gogen (go-gen) is more of a fibrous shrub then a tree; it's use stains the teeth red. I've used a picture of red twig dogwood to represent it. Journey-root is based on the towering milkweed and sow-thistles observed in my youth, but with fatter roots, rather like white radishes, but much blander. Neither is a particularly pleasant culinary sensation, but they tend to be fairly abundant in wild waste places, and will keep a traveler going.