Thrand (Part Nine)

Thrand stumped along Circle Street, feeling rather pleased with himself. He was drawing absolutely no attention. His cloak and hood covered most of his body, except for his belly, which surfaced from the black cloth like a whale breaching the sea. Thankfully that was not a positively identifying feature, and in fact as more and more cloaked figures started to throng the cobblestones, he began to feel increasingly anonymous. Soon he relaxed and his mind began to wander to the rhythm of his steps, only interrupted now and then by thoughts about the growing pain in his legs and feet.

There were, of course, two big issues that lay before him, that had to be considered before he even thought about any actual candidates. The first, of course, was fairly simple: a War King or a Peace King? Since the end of the Goldfire War and the reign of Taryn, there had been peace in all Forlan. The decimated Ogre forces had retreated behind the Norkult Mountains and nary a peep had been heard from them since.

A Peace King seemed a foregone conclusion, though there were some with long memories who could not shake the idea of regular incursions from the North. Behind their mountain walls, though no longer motivated by the Black King, the Ogres had perhaps recovered enough strength to try another invasion, if purely by habit. To most this did not seem likely, however. The second issue was a little more vexed.

The big question this time around was, really, Man or Morg? Taryn’s unprecedented election had been an inevitable conclusion after his glorious relief of the city (however aided as it was by distant supernatural means). His was the face on the field, and he was the one who had reaped the gratitude of the people. But that was years ago. Among many of the Morgs there had been a growing feeling that when the moment came it would be time to revert back to the old traditions.  Well, the moment had come.

On the other hand, Taryn had proved that a Man king could be a quite capable ruler. The presence of humans had grown in both the White City and the country round so that they had become a more significant faction. Their fertility had taken off, and they were reproducing at an unprecedented rate since relieved of the oppression of the North. The Morgs were still plodding along at the same stolid pace, secure in their lengthy lifespans. The monarchy was not subject to a vote by the population, but Men were becoming a sizeable power block, and a force that needed to be reckoned with.

On the other hand, who was worthy enough among them to be awarded the Crownhelm? Taryn had been an exception, true, but it had always appeared to Thrand that most humans seemed to twitter and hop around like a flock of birds, running to and fro, picking up strange ideas, then dropping them like rejected twigs. It might be true – it was now legally established, in fact – that one could become king, but were there actually any of them qualified for the job at the moment? He supposed only time would tell.

There was an ambiguous trait about them that Thrand couldn’t tell was a good thing or a bad thing. At least they wouldn’t, from a Morgish point of view, stay very long in the office, should they gain it again. A Morg king could last nearly two centuries. This contributed to continuity and long-term policies but could degenerate into a certain stodginess and intransigence as a reign rolled on. Humans were more adaptable to the times. They didn’t live long enough not to be.

Although the Chief Justice knew of no Man who was qualified for the job, there were a handful or so of Morgs that had come to his attention, who satisfied all the old conditions for the job. Members of the Noble Houses, given to public works, familiar with the laws and statutes and procedures of the White Tower. Perhaps not very brilliant, but well-suited to the bureaucratic side of administration. Not at all lordly or heroic, which seemed to be what humans expected in a king, but strong and hardworking.

Thrand was just beginning to go over the list of these Morgs in his mind, half-distracted by his aching feet, when suddenly he was startled out of his meditations by a huge horse-apple that came whizzing through the air and hit him plop on the chest, right in the center of his new cloak.

“Hey, fat-arse!” A voice rang out, shrill and mocking.