Friday Fiction: Korm and the Lost Library (Part One)

 

Korm and The Lost Library

 

     Korm sat glumly on the edge of a crumbling wall and wondered, not for the first time, how he had gotten to this point.  The youngish Morg's proper stomping grounds were not the tumbling clamor of a great city, and not even (he freely admitted) among the rustic demands of farm life in the country. Korm belonged, in fact he longed, to be back in the Tronduhon Library School, and not in the crowded halls either, full of the rumble of bustle and debate, but nosing through the peaceful stacks of the Library itself, in search of an obscure bit or two of knowledge with the prospect of a good lunch in the near future. That was the hunt he should be on, not this ... this quest.

     Korm tangled his claws nervously through the thick brown bush of his beard. Since this thing had begun, he was sure the premature grey-streaks that trailed from the sides of his muzzle had grown longer.

     He mused about how it had all started just four months ago, when the ancient Master Belmok, by now a pile of brittle bones in a deflated sack of wrinkled skin, had called him to the side of his sick-bed, opened his nearly toothless muzzle, and had wheezed ...

     "Hey, stupid Morg-pah! Is time to be moving!"

     Korm looked up, shaking his head free of the memory. His Ghamen guide had returned, stepping into camp without a sound, spear in hand, mane rippling irritably around his frowning snout.

     "Path ahead clear," he grunted. "You wanta move get gone while light in sky?"

     "Uh ... yes, thank you, Gho," Korm said, blinking. "Er. Crikta thellee lee," he hazarded, trying out his somewhat rusty classical High Ghamish.

     Gho's snout wrinkled even more deeply, drawing back and showing his flat tombstone teeth. "You sound like the old woman." The malicious humor seemed obvious in his tone. "Get pack things."

     Korm bent and meekly began gathering his scattered belongings, not without a twinge of annoyance at Gho's contempt. He slung his water bottle over his shoulder, tied up the bag of mixed prunes and walnuts he had been munching on, took his drying neckerchief from off of the log next to him on the right and tied it on, rolled up the map that had been open on his left, and closed the three unwieldy leather volumes he had been consulting as he rested. The scholar's gear was almost five times that of his guide's.

     For all that Korm had paid him for his services, he often thought that the Ghamen might at least carry some of it through the Wastelands for him. But Gho would have none of it, and Gho was the only guide he had been able to hire. Korm sighed as he thought of it, and also about the puzzle why things that one unpacked never seemed to go back into the same space. Especially since technically there was now less of it to pack.

     As he wedged the last book in, he almost, but not quite, cursed his old teacher. It was not Belmok's fault he was here; he had merely offered the temptation. It was Korm who had actually taken the bait, and he knew that it was all, ultimately, his own responsibility. But how could he have refused?

     "Korm, my boy," Belmok had wheezed, his one good eye shut, breath barely raising the wispy silver beard on his chest. "Korm, you are my Tar-an-Rantha, my son and heir in the discipline and art of History, my best pupil. That you should come at the crown of my life is a blessing from the Fathers."

     "Oh, Grand High Master ... " Korm began.

     "Don't interrupt," the old Morg snapped vigorously. "I don't have time." He went on, his voice lapsing back into a quavering, portentuous tone. "As such, I am leaving you all my worldly possessions, my papers, and the picked jewels of ... " -he coughed mightily, then swallowed the phlegm - "My library. The school gets the rest, the greedy old torbens."

     "Thank you. Master. I shall treasure them forever."

     "Don't worry so much about the papers," Belmok rambled. "I'm sure there's plenty that can feed the fire. And there'll come a day, of course, when you'll pass the books on yourself, to someone worthy. Ah ..." The old Morg recovered his focus. "But there is one other thing I want to leave you, for you alone, for your benefit. Accept this, and not even Time or Death can take it away."

     Korm's low-set, cuplike ears had prickled, and he leaned forward.

     "I first heard about it not so long ago, about fifty years ... Of course, I was too old even then ... I only offered it to two other students," Belmok rambled. "They both refused ... Denn was married, and Lok had that twisted arm ... they had the talent, but not the spirit." His gnarled claw suddenly shot out, grabbing the other Morg's sleeve. "Korm, I want to give it to you."

     "What ... what is it, sir?"

     "It's a chance to earn your High Mastery," Belmok said earnestly. Korm's eyes had widened. "You know the next step in the Tower of Knowledge. You can only advance so high by nosing through books. You have to go out into the world and find something to add to the hoard, perform a task, a service to the Sons of Kelsitor."

     "And that task would be?" Korm said. He had tried to keep his voice as neutral as he could, but he could tell that the old Master knew he was hooked.

     Belmok chuckled. "That curiosity. We share it, you and me. And I, for one, don't want to go to the Halls of Waiting with this mystery on my mind." He sighed and dropped his arm. "Reach under my pillow and take the scroll there."

     Korm carefully bent down and inserted his hand and groped around.

     "It is the report of a man who got lost in the Barrens, west of the Ghamen Mountains. He stumbled through some nameless ruins, from which he was chased by a great beast of some kind that he never clearly saw. Before he left, however, he found what he described as a room with 'many books', of which he took one, for the gems embedded in its cover. The rest of the book ... " Belmok shuddered painfully. "He used page by page as kindling to start his fires. By the time he got back to civilized lands, there were only three pages left, spared to the last because of the 'pretty pictures'." The old Morg paused, as if unwilling to speak the words. Korm's hand had found the scroll. "Examination showed that it must have been a complete copy of 'The Journey Over the Waves'."

     Korm's hand shot out from under the pillow in surprise, scroll in hand, and Belmok's head fell, clonking his bare skull on the headboard. He hissed in pain and gave the alarmed, repentant Korm the evil eye for a second, before continuing.

     "It was a ripple on the lake among the upper echelons for a while, then disappeared from sight after the pages were given to Master Ket to study, so I'm not surprised you've never heard about it. Few people have. He's still preparing his report."

     "But if Master Ket is working on the problem ..."

     "I don't care about the three pages!" Belmok rumbled. "What about the 'many books'? What else might be out there? What other lost works? What can be recovered for living memory?" He laid back wheezing, passion spent. "You, Korm. You could do it. Before I die. And I haven't long."

     Then, to Korm's everlasting surprise, he had agreed.

     "Are we go?"

     Korm looked up and shook his beard, clearing the memories out of his head. He shouldered his pack, settled it once more as comfortably as he could, and followed the irritable Ghamen off into the brush. It had been two months later, after Belmok’s commission, that he met Gho.

     It was in Steepwater, the final frontier city before the verge of the Barrens. He had joined the Third Legion in Morg City, on its way to change out the garrison there. He had learned how to ride a mule, how to march a league, how to build a campfire and cook over it (quite a different experience, he found out, from their domestic versions, which he had been growing disused to anyway, under his college life), and had arrived at the grim, high-walled fortress somewhat toughened-up but no more confident than before. Korm was, however, very determined, and at the Legion Captain's advice had gone straight to the Mercatus off the city square.

     Here were shops and inns and exchanges that were more or less established for their various businesses, as well as the tents of traders that came and went like the tide. Korm took a room at the Iron Hound, and from there the word went out to all guides, hunters, and scouts that there was work to be had.

     He interviewed almost forty of them, and the answer was always the same. No-one was willing to strike out for an unknown point in the Barrens for the pitiful amount promised by the bill of mark Korm had been issued by the College. Maybe if he had had the silver right there, instead of a scrap of paper...  But there were plenty of more definite adventures to be had, hunts with shorter time frames and more mundane objectives, led by serious, tough folks with no nonsense about them. The thin, nervous scholar did not inspire confidence.

     It was at the end of a desperate week, in the walled evening dim of the Mercatus, that he had met Gho. Korm had just turned in regret from his latest vain interview (a grim Wose scout and his two human associates) when a hand had lashed out of the shadows and grabbed his cloak.

     "Hey, Morgh," a voice had clicked behind him.

     Korm had at first turned in panic to find no-one there, then glanced down in bewilderment to see a short, skin tent set up around one of the supporting poles of the market. Squatting on his hunkers in a space scarcely broader than he was, the grey-skinned, shaggy-maned Ghamen looked up at him.

     "You need a guide into the Barrens?" he had said grimly. "Gho knows the Barrens well enough. I will go before you."

     And that was that, and here they were, two months later, trudging through what the Ghamen had misleadingly called the Short Forest.

     The Short Forest spread out for miles and miles beyond what the eye could see. But there wasn't a tree, not a bush, above six feet tall. Just the height to make it impossible for any Morg (or Ghamen for that matter) to simply see which way they were going, and the trees were thin and wiry and infested with thorns that made them impossible to climb. The only paths through had been made by the tough-hided yellow buffalo, which had somehow learned to live on the thorns. It left the path navigable but somewhat odiferous. Every morning, and several times during the day, Korm had to bend down to let Gho climb on his back so the scout could look around and take their bearings. It was not a position that helped his leadership status.

      And it was not a way many people would choose to tread. When Korm had mentioned back in Steepwater where he meant to go, it had been something of a deal breaker with the other potential guides. But never a word about it passed the Ghamen's lips.

     In fact, Gho didn't seem to care much about anything. Korm had described his destination in the vaguest terms possible. Gho had accepted offhandedly and packed his gear almost before Korm had finished speaking. With dizzying speed, they had left through the East Gate, and by moonfall they were twenty miles out on the heath, camped around a fire with Korm's donkey looking on patiently. A few months later they were around another fire, eating the same donkey, which had died falling off a cliff in exhaustion.

     It had been that night that Korm had finally got a little insight into Gho's character.

     "Eat innards first," the Ghamen had grunted. "Smoke flesh. Last few days."

     "Eh," the scholarly Morg started. He looked down at the brains simmering in the skull he had been handed. "Do you suppose, perhaps ... well, that maybe we should turn back and try again later?"

     Gho looked up. He had taken a bite out of the singed heart and was chewing it vigorously. He swallowed. "Why?" he asked flatly. "Two, three weeks we be at lost place, I guess." He gestured at the donkey legs on the fire. "Got food."

     "Yes, I see," said Korm uneasily. "It's just that in the middle of nowhere, with our beast dead, and no knowing where we'll find any water ... it just seems it might be wiser to chalk up this expedition as more of a scouting trip for our next effort?"

     "Nah. Waste." Gho finished chewing and swallowed noisily. He gestured at the skull. "Eat. Is good, like cream. No waste, no regret. Far to go." He plucked a smoking chunk from the rocks near the flames. "Look. Liver! Best part. We share."

     After they had finished the somewhat gruesome meal (which Korm had to admit had been tastier than he might have imagined) they settled back, drowsy and replete. In a bit, the Ghamen had started what Korm had come to think of as his evening prayers.

     It was an interminable droning chant, that went on and on until Korm himself fell asleep. That night, feeling both nervous about the future but full in stomach for the first time in weeks, his curiosity overcame his respect for the other's privacy.

     "Gho," he asked as the scout paused for breath. "Pardon my interruption, but may I ask what you are doing? Is it some kind of prayer?"

     The Ghamen laughed.

     "No, Morg. That thing might help if the gods are before you. And the Mother? She always there, but She only gives what you can find and take from Her. No. This is the Long Chant of my family. I speak it, so it be not forgotten."

     "What does it -- ah -- what does it do?"

     "What? Morg no got Long Chant? Where you keep you soul?" Gho spat in the fire. "'Splain a lot. Every Ghamen has Long Chant. It tale of family, alla way back to Gha. We learn from just little. Tell it each night so no death."

     "You'll die if you don't?"

     Gho laughed scornfully.

     "No, stupid Morg. So they don't die, they who go before. While name is spoken under the sky, they life. And ..." He paused. He hunched his shoulders, jaw snapping shut. "And when there is none left to speak it, they are gone."

     "Ah. So it is a religious obligation," said Korm. "Can you tell me ..."

     "Shut up, stupid Morg," Gho growled. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow hard. Dammit, I start again." The Ghamen turned away, eyes shut, and began the chant all over. Korm very gingerly stowed away his gear and climbed into his bedroll. He fell asleep with the angry sound grinding in his ears like a waterfall, and now that he listened, he thought he could make out, every now and then, a name familiar from some old song or legend.

     Before that night Korm had only been concerned with his quest. Gho had been a tool, a means to help along the way to finding his goal. Now he realized that he was out in the wilderness, miles away from any other speaking creature, alone, dependent on him for his very life, and he had no idea at all what he was, what drove him, why he had agreed to go on this mad journey. Gho was like a book in a foreign language, and Korm felt suddenly that he should learn his grammar.

     It was a long, slow process. The Ghamen was not naturally talkative. Korm would start the conversation, often about what they must do, lead it into his own life, and then bring it around to the scout's. Some subjects Gho spoke about easily enough, like the Ghamen way of life. This he was inordinately proud of, holding it above Wose or Morg or Man. Other things he would bark back at. And some he would speak of thoughtlessly, flinch, and withdraw into resentful silence, and these were the most personal.

     He had had a son. It had died. He had gone quiet for three days after he revealed that. He had had a wife. After he had let that slip, he didn't speak for a week, and for a long while whenever Korm had tried to talk he cut him short with a surly glance. Korm was relieved when the Ghamen had at last spoken to reveal that he smelled rain in the wind.

     There had been a day, a very harsh day, when they had struggled through a bleak swampy grassland. Korm had slid and slopped and groaned and shivered as they passed through, and at nightfall they had stopped on the verge of the Short Forest that rose like a featureless gray wall before them. Gho looked as impassive as ever, while the scholar had sat shaking feverishly wrapped in a blanket in front of their tiny fire. Gho watched him with unblinking eyes that gleamed red in the flames. Finally, he spoke.

     "Why you do?"

     Korm flinched reflexively as if a fly had bitten him.

     "What? What did I do?"

     "No. Why. Why you do. You not hunter. You seek no fight. Dead city. So what? Treasure?" He snorted. "You say no. Books, you say. I seen book. Just paper. Plenty of paper in Steepwater. Men wipe ass on it. Why you do?"

     "Well, for that matter, why you do?" Korm retorted querulously. He drew his blanket closer. "Why did you agree to take me into this Mog-forsaken wilderness? It can't be for the pittance I'm paying you."

     "Reasons," Gho said. "Ghamen reasons. But you a skinny soft city Morg. Is the holy stupidity on you?"

     "The ... the what?"

     "Crazy man when doom upon him. He tries to die, stupid ways. Walk into Ogre camp. Swim across ocean. Hunt tiger alone. You been cursed?"

     "No!" Korm looked around wildly. "How am I supposed to explain it to someone like you?"  Gho bridled, his mane bristling upright. That made Korm pause, frightened for a second, and then his brain started to work. "How do I explain it to someone like you?" he said quietly.

     He thought a moment, then hesitantly began to work it out aloud for Gho.

     "A book... it isn't just a bundle of paper. It's like ... it's like your Long Chant, I suppose. It keeps the thoughts, the words, even in some ways the very life of those from the past alive. And it keeps it more safely, I think, then mortal memory, better ... it doesn't depend on one interested person, an heir. Anyone can learn from its wisdom, joy at the beauty of the words, live that adventure again. And it puts itself outside of our minds, so we don't have to constantly carry it like a burden. How many hours of your life do you think you've spent chanting, when you could be, well, living?"

     "Bah." Gho tapped his head. "Always in mind is alive."

     "But is there room enough for more? Do you know any other Ghamen's Long Chant? Do you know even any other history?" Korm smiled. "Have you heard the Long Chant of Ortha?"

     "I know Ghamen part of tale," he said proudly. "What else need?"

     "Context," Korm said. "What good is it to follow a trail if you don't look side to side to see where it is going, and where it has been?" He dug into his pack and pulled out a battered leather-bound book. "There is a world beyond Ghamen lands that may very well affect your life, and a world that happened before any Ghamen was ever born. If you don't know where you come from, how do you know where you're going?"

     "Ghamen make paths," Gho said simply. "It is our way." He looked curiously at the book in the Morg's claws. "Is that ... is that the chant of the world?"

     "It is," said Korm. He patted the book. "Do you want to hear the story of how all things came to be?"

     "Huh." Gho sounded skeptical. "If story before the peoples, who told it?"

     "Before the Peoples, before the world, there were the Yorns. And they told the Fathers. Do you want to hear some of what they said?" Korm cracked the book open enticingly. "There are even the words they spoke to Gha in the Beginnings."

     "What it say they say?"

     Korm opened the book all the way and began to read. He almost didn't need the book, but he kept his eye close on the pages. He didn't want to get a word wrong.

     "'Morlakor Shyreen," he read. "'Stood on the Spindle at the Core of Chaos, at the Vortex of Creation. He had arisen from the howen as it spun, and he was the spirit of that stuff, and he was the crown of it all. And he was alone ..."

     That afternoon he had read for two hours, and only stopped when it had grown dark and the flickering fire that Gho had kindled to cook their supper was too hard to read by. That had started a daily ritual, where Korm would ask if Gho wanted to hear some more while he set up camp, and the Ghamen would grunt in noncommittal assent and go about his task. But Korm could tell (he had been a teacher for a short while and knew all the marks and grades of attention) that the scout was always listening carefully, and by the time supper drew on and the food nearly cooked, Gho would have stopped seated by the fire, his gaze totally rivetted on the reading.

     He never asked questions, never thanked Korm, and very seldom commented on the tales he heard. The few times he ever said anything it would be something like "That was stupid" or "What an asshole". He always ended the evening with his Long Chant as he ever did, but Korm thought he could detect a subtle change in the ritual. Before the Ghamen had been talking to himself. But now Korm thought he was projecting the words towards him, as if to share it with him or possibly pay the scholar back for his efforts.

     At last, on a day just past the height of summer, they came out of the Short Forest where it broke off like the crest of a wave on the top of a high cliff. The land sank sloping below them down to a rough plain. Korm stood on the edge, looking down dizzily. It seemed to him as if he had thought he was walking on the ground floor of a place, opened a door, and found he was stepping out of a tall tower. Gho stood next to him, snuffling his pig-like nose, head turning side to side, his pebbly eyes scouring the horizon.

     “There,” he said pointing. “Must be.”

Korm carefully turned his head. To the left, almost on the verge a sight, a tumble of what looked like small rough hills rose above the plain.

“Are you sure?” the scholar asked timidly.

“You see anywhere other?” Gho shrugged. “We look. Maybe see, maybe not. Maybe somewhere further.” He looked over at the queasy Morg. “You ever climb?” he grinned.

“Can’t say I ever have.”

“This easy part. Down easy; cliff hurries you along.” He chuckled. “Do not worry, Morg. Looks steeper to eye. Watch Gho, watch rock under hand, and soon I have you down.”

There were ropes. There were instructions in Gho’s fractured language. There was an eternity of carefully placed feet, moved in infinitesimal paces, occasional shouting and threats by the Ghamen guide, and the constant feeling that his stomach was already hanging three feet below him. Somehow, after a millenia or two, Korm woke up and found himself with black broken nails, stubbed toes, and somehow still alive. Gho thumped him cheerfully on the back and suggested that though it was still some hours before the sun set, they go ahead and make camp. Korm looked up, saw the cliff towering tumbling above them, shuddered, and suggested they move a little way off first.

After Korm found a likely boulder and sat with his back to the cliff for an hour or so, and seemed to have his breath again, Gho cheerfully straightened up from leaning on his spear.

“Time-a go.” He headed off into the scrub.

Korm scrabbled to his feet.

“Wait,” he said, plunging after the Ghamen. “How do you know this is the way?”

“’Cause unlike smart Morg, I look out while I climb.” He snorted. “Fine look-a cliff might help on climb back up. Guide now, not much.”

“You saw the ruins?” Korm gasped as he tried to follow.

“Saw something,” said Gho. “Ruins, rocks, who knows this far? Next high spot anyway, look again there. Everything else, trees.”

They camped that night without incident, but late the next morning ran across the remains of a deer, torn apart and decimated until little more remained than head and hooves. A great stench, not all of it decay, hung about the site.

“Matta-kar,” Gho snuffed, eyes darting around at the shadows under the trees.

“What’s that?” Korm’s voice was hushed.

“Big cats,” the other said. “Big, big cats. Big teeth. Big packs.” He examined the ground. “Not here though. Just one. Scout. Maybe rogue.” He shrugged.

“What do we do?”

Gho shrugged again.

“Move on. Eyes open. Ears open. Nose open. What else? Go back?” He smiled. “Least Matta not here.” The Ghamen started to move on, his movements decidedly more careful.

“Matta?” asked Korm.

“Big Mamma,” Gho said. “Way bigger. Way meaner. It’s her pack, if there be one. Sometime twenty, maybe thirty, altogether.” He looked at Korm. “Eyes open.”

“But … but what do we do if we meet these beasts? In a pack?” The Morg stumbled after him. In his own ears, his movements seemed unconscionably loud.

“Might not.” Gho paused. “Fire. We make fire. Never know beast like fire.”

Korm thought a while.

“Can we make a fire fast enough?”

“Hope so.” The Ghamen chuckled. “If not, don’t last long enough to worry about it.”

For three days they walked on. Sometimes they crossed trails in the wood. After examination, Gho declared them Matta-kar paths, but old and overgrown. They were twisty and narrow, and none led towards the traveler’s goal, so they did not use them. The Ghamen speculated that they may have moved out of the area further north for the season, and they grew cautiously optimistic the farther they went, and Korm, at least, relaxed a little.

On the fifth day they reached their destination.

Korm knew it was the Ruined City from the lost traveler’s tale the moment they stepped from the trees. There was the fallen dome, the square tower, the broken bridge he had described. The scholar’s heart swelled with joy, and he almost ran out to it then and there.

Gho pulled him back with a hiss.

“More care, Morg,” he said quietly.

Korm looked at him in exasperation, but nevertheless lowered his voice as well.

“Why?” he rasped, almost angrily. “The place is deserted! This is the end of the quest! The sooner I find those books the sooner we can head back. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of sleeping on stones and under trees!”

“Then don’t fall now, stupid Morg.” Gho’s impatience matched Korm’s. “How know be empty? It fifty season since found. Wanderer, he find it. Knash to the north of here. Sneaky Ogres, they could find it, infest. Look like Ogree place to me. Outlaws, rebels, exiles … not too happy to see us, I think.”

Korm grew more thoughtful as Gho spoke. Still, his arm strained eagerly in the Ghamen’s grip.

“Can’t go home in a day,” the scout said reasonably. “What hour cost?”

Korm finally relaxed and nodded.

In the end, it took more than five hours, and the sun was already setting when they reached the exact spot where they had started. Gho led them in cautiously, and as the dark was gathering, they made camp in the first crumbling building that had four walls. The Ghamen still seemed a little uneasy, but Korm was bubbling over with the thought of the next day.

“Listen to this,” he said, chortling over his notes. “The traveler reported that he found the books in a large room attached to the dome, somewhat on the west side. The room had an iron-bound door. He had to break the hinges to get in, but they had almost rusted through. He set it up again when he left, so the books should still be protected.” He looked up from his papers. “Imagine. There are inscriptions all around the city, but he couldn’t read a one of them. Well, that’s Men for you. I could even find out the name of this place. What a discovery! They’ll be writing about me for years to come.”

Gho looked up, the firelight making red moons in the tiny eyes in his piggish face.

“Tell me, Morg. How long Morgs live?”

Korm was taken aback.

“Er… well, about two hundred and fifty years is what we can hope for, I guess. Some less, some longer. My master Belmok is pushing two hundred and ninety, but these last years have been none too easy on him.”

“And you?”

“One hundred and fifteen next summer, assuming I get back alive,” Korm said, and smiled.

Gho sighed.

“How? Fifty winters for Ghamen. Time enough. Find mate, have childs, do deeds. Very very old when fifty. How … how you live?”

Korm put down his notes and looked at Gho and his melancholy face and drooping mane.

“It’s nothing we do,” he said gently. “It’s just the way we are. There’s nothing you could do to live any more than your natural lifetime.”

“No understand,” Gho said. He shrugged his massive shoulders. “How endure? How … morapalee carid ghothos … how you take it?” He lifted his head and looked at Korm with pity. “So much time you spend on pointless things.”

Korm was speechless for a moment. He had always thought that the lifespan of the Morgs was the envy of other, less fortunate races. He himself was certainly jealous of the Ivra, who lived for thousands of years. This change of perspective sent his mind reeling a bit as it tried to adjust.

“Well, I … I suppose that’s part of why we invented writing, again,” he stammered. “To off-load our memory from becoming so burdensome. As for the rest … we take it moment by moment, you know. And the world’s so big and interesting … you couldn’t understand it all, even if you lived to be ten thousand.”

Gho tilted his head and squinted his eyes.

“Let world unnerstand itself. Ghamen only duty what Ghamen do in life.” His snout crinkled humorously. “Like guide stupid peoples on stupid hunt in bad lands.” Something inside him seemed to suddenly relax. “G’night.”

He sat back. In a moment he began his Long Chant. Korm lay down, thoughts whirling and rearranging in his head, and went to sleep with the sound of its droning in his ears, echoing off the abandoned walls of the crumbling building in a ruined city in the vastness of a dark wasteland.

The next morning, for the first time on the whole expedition, found Korm awake before the Ghamen scout. The excited scholar wanted to leave everything in camp and start right away, but Gho insisted they eat first and then bundle their packs up and take them along, as there was no telling what they might need. Korm barely had the patience to crunch down a handful of nuts before they were off, Gho behind him, following infuriatingly slow.

It was the beginning of things that tried the Morg’s eager temper. He had the fallen dome in his eye when they started. It looked like a giant cracked egg in the overgrown nest of the city, a hole gaping in it as if some monstrous chick had hatched and flown off, leaving ruin in its wake. It seemed impossible to miss the way to that brooding landmark.

This made it all the more frustrating. Streets blocked with fallen stones. Dead ends. Gaping chasms that seemed to have collapsed into underground excavations. Every time the searchers were balked, Korm would look up through the network of broken bridges and teetering aqueducts, and see the dome, just there, mocking him. A little after mid-day he cast himself down on the rim of a dry urn and tore savagely into his supplies.

“See,” said Gho. “Glad have stuff now.”

“Ah,” Korm snarled, and snapped off a tatter of donkey jerky with an angry bite. “How the hell are we supposed to get there?” he mumbled through his chewing.

     “Patience,” Gho said impassively. “Gone ‘round part. Bigger part still coming. Back up. Find ‘nother way in.” He pointed with his spear to the square tower. “Nothing else, climb and look high.”

     “Why not do that now?” asked Korm. “We’ve passed that thing at least three times in our back-tracking!”

     Gho shook his head.

     “Don’ like climb old builds. Slippy. Dangerous. My friend Dahker, killed like that. Good cliff? You know. People makes?” He snorted. “Last resort. Feet on groundy floors.”

     Korm rose to his feet and shook the crumbs from his tunic hastily.

     “Then for Mog’s sake let’s get looking,” he said testily. “I don’t want to spend another night in this place. It was all right yesterday, but today I’ve had the growing feeling that something is watching me. I don’t want a bunch of ghosts creeping up around my bed, even if they’re only ghosts of the mind.”

Notes

Since yesterday's 2019 Diary mentions 'The Lost Library' I thought I'd go ahead and use it for Friday Fiction. It is rather long (fifty pages), so this is Part One (twenty-six pages). I'll probably publish Part Two tomorrow.

 I only ever drew one picture of a Ghamen when we were working on Goldfire forty years ago, and they never as a species got introduced in the old writings. They are physically distinguished from the Morgs by their greyish skin and their 'snouts' as opposed to the Morgish 'muzzle'; that is to say, their nostrils are at the end of their elongated faces while the Morgs have their noses set underneath their eyes. I had great fun 'discovering' what they were like culturally this time around.

I was also glad to explore Korm (and Belmok) during another phase of their careers (and ages). Belmok certainly become much more delineated over the tales since he was mentioned in passing in Thron, the first of the new Ortha stories, where he was mentioned as the scholar who had recommended Korm to Thron.

Gho thinks Korm speaks Ghamen 'like an old woman' because of the antique forms that he uses in his speech, a classical form that is only preserved in the elder speakers among the matriarchs of the Ghamen.

We also get a fleeting glance at Steepwater, a far-flung Morgish border city, that was a destination (never reached) in the old epic.