Friday Fiction: Sergeant Roth

 

SERGEANT ROTH

 

     Sergeant Roth, late of the Fourteenth Troop and currently serving duty in the City Guard, sat back and sipped his sour ale in the relative cool under the awnings of The Roaring Boar. The worst heat of the day had passed and he was off patrol. There were not too many who came to enjoy a drink as astringent as that served in this obscure little inn tucked away in the shadowy skirts of the Great Market, but it was just how Roth liked it. The squelching tang stung his tongue and reminded him somehow of his old home on the bitter steppes beneath the Norkult Mountains' gloom. He even savored the loneliness, like an oasis of solitude in the heart of the teeming city. He sat back, sighed, and put up his aching booted feet.

     He had to admit that he liked the City as an idea more than he did in person. When the Fourteenth was out on rotation, say in Steepwater or on the Ghamen Border, the City and the Sun Tower were places that needed to be protected from the world. The concept was clear cut: Us against Them, with home at your back and your shield in front. Here in the City it was different, the struggle internal. How did you fight against the bad people inside your own stronghold? How could you even judge? Roth was a simple Morg and liked a simple situation. The City ... was complicated.

     Roth belched in contemplation, tasting onions, and picked the sharp teeth in his muzzle. He looked down sidelong at the remains of his meal in its shallow pan and thought idly about finishing the bird off: he had ordered a whole bustard, with all the fixings. That was another thing wrong with his station here. On any frontier the quartermaster regulated your rations. The City was boring, the pay immediate, and indulgences ready at hand. Roth had always been stocky but muscular, and now he was starting to put on the pounds. He thought about just letting the bird go, but the waste! And what else did he have to do at the moment?

     He was saved from his baser instincts at that moment by a glissando of strings. He turned his head a little farther. The landlady, an old grey Morg in a shapeless, colorless sack of a dress, had pulled a harp out in the shadows behind the bar inside, and was running her claws over it aimlessly as her staff went about, cleaning away the mugs and plates on the tables inside. Roth realized he was the only patron still lingering in the gathering evening gloom. The notes teased themselves into the semblance of a familiar tune, leading Roth to relax, lean back, and hood his eyes as he tried to identify it. And just as it came to his remembrance, she raised her husky voice into words more chanted than sung.

              "I walked on the sand

              At the end of the land

              And gazed at the booming sea.

              I came to a halt

              When the sea brume salt

              Seemed to bring to me

              An ancient song

              From the land I long

              Had sought unceasingly..."

     It was The Wanderer's Lament, he realized, the old old song that every Morg heard in the cradle. His madra had sung it to him in his time, and it immediately made him homesick. The weird thing was that it always had made him homesick, even when he was back in his village.

              "Come back to home,

              You kin who roam

              Afar in ships

              Upon the foam.

 

              "Come back we call

              To empty hall

              For absent kin

              Is bitter gall.

 

              "Of blood to blood

              And mood to mood,

              We feel the call

              Of Morgish brood.

              "Great Gammoth stands

              With outstretched hands

              On a green hill

              In Golberand..."

     Sometime, he knew, in the dim past, his ancestors had set out in a fleet from Golberand to find and found a new country somewhere in the vast reaches of Ortha, had landed in Forlan, and in the hardships of colonization had lost their naval lore. Even the location of the Morgish homeland was forgotten, except that tradition held it was somewhere to the northwest. But it was in every Morg's bones, Roth's no less than in any other's: the glories of the White City, the wisdom and courage of Mog Gammoth the First Father, the stories of the titanic struggles in the Beginning of Things. All Morg fables and wisdom tales began there, in Golberand. He leaned farther back, closed his eyes, and let himself be swallowed up by nostalgic yearning for a place he had never seen.

     The harp and singer wandered on, barely interrupted when Roth heard a low voice murmur politely "Your dishes, Sir." He grunted in reply, not opening his eyes, his boots wandering in his sleepy brain on that lonely shingle of song while plate and bottle clinked softly off the table.

          "So it sang, then thinned, and died away

          Like smoke blown on a misty day;

          And the sea roared upon the shore

          And the clouds in the wind were rent and tore

          And I stood still on the beach alone

          While the gulls wailed and the sea moaned..."

     Suddenly the harp jangled to a halt and the old lady's voice was raised in an indignant squawk.

     "Hey, you! Boy! Stop!"

     Roth snorted himself awake in time to see a rawboned human teen, bustard and ale in hand, abruptly put on the speed and go dashing off down the street. Roth flailed in his cloak for a moment to get free, scrambled to his feet, and was pounding away after the boy before he could even think, the landlady bawling after him, "Hoy! Come back! You haven't paid!"

     Roth tore down the stony street like a charging bull, iron-shod boots thundering on his heavy feet, and like a bull he was almost blind with rage. His red eyes focused on the fleeing teen. The fact that he was tired and full and half-asleep only made him madder and more determined to punish the thief who had taken advantage of his weary state. No matter which way the boy ducked and dodged, Roth followed like grim death, never letting him out of his sight. Even so, he wasn't gaining on him, and each late peddler dodged or barrel leapt put the lad a fraction of a second more ahead of him. There was still some inner part of Roth's brain, riding behind his anger, that marveled at the fact that, even as he loped along, pan in hand, the boy never dropped a crumb of the left-over meal.

     The thief turned suddenly into an alleyway on the left, feet skidding in his tattered shoes, rags flying. Roth's muzzle kinked in a snarl of savage glee. He knew that street: a dead-end. Nowhere to run, boy, he thought, and you're not getting back past me either! He slowed a bit and took the corner wide, wary of ambushes, and stepped into the alley triumphantly.

     It was as empty as the blank face of the evening moon, just rising over the featureless walls and flooding the alley with a pitiless, searching light. Roth stood a moment, stymied, breathing hard, eyes darting. No windows, no doors in the blind walls. A flat pile of six or seven short boards, a squat rubbish barrel, a scattering of garbage that hadn't made it into the barrel. He drew the short sword from his belt slowly, and started down the alley, tapping the stones of the walls on either side.

     He kicked the pile of boards when he came to them, and they went clattering away, revealing nothing. The barrel was far too short to hide the lad, but he probed it to the bottom just the same and rolled it aside when he was done. He approached the dim shadow at the end of the passageway, where the moon could not reach, and though he could see that nothing was there, he cautiously put out his hand and felt along the wall. Nothing. He rapped it with his knuckles. No sound. Solid stone.

     Roth looked up the wall, his claws tangling his beard in thought. The lad must have had a rope or something ready for an escape. But how did he get up so quickly? And with his hands full? And pull the rope after him? There hadn't been much more than half a minute before Roth had investigated the dead-end. He shook his head. He must have had some confederates, is all, Roth concluded, to pull him up. Still, the wall was twenty-five feet, if it was an inch. It hardly seemed possible ... He walked out of the alleyway, head still shaking, looking back now and then as if to see if anything had changed. His footsteps echoed hollowly, mockingly, up the empty walls.

     Roth's journey back to the Roaring Boar took a lot longer than the chase away, not least because it was slowed by his puzzled, angry mind. When he got there, he found Lieutenant Borl had just arrived, summoned by the vexed innkeeper, who it seemed was merely starting in on her complaint to that skeptical superior. The Morg officer had one bushy eyebrow cocked and his blubbered underlip pursed uncomfortably at the old lady's outrage. She was obviously just getting wound up and might go on for hours. The lieutenant turned his eyes up, spotted Roth, and deftly redirected the elderly Morg's wrath onto his unfortunate underling.

     "Ah! Sergeant!" he wheezed. "You're just in time. This lady --"

     "That's the one!" she snapped, turning on Roth. "Run off without paying he did! One fine bustard with taters and carrots and onions, not to mention the gravy, and a quart bottle o' Teleth's Sour. That's three marks reg'lar, and enough to feed a family, it is! You're ready for the mad lads to try somethin', but one don't expect the constabulary..."

     "You saw me chasing that boy," said Roth sullenly, reaching for his money pouch. "I was trying to help you..." he grumbled.

     "I seen double-acts before," the lady snapped. "One partner distracts you while the other makes off with the swag. Oh, a very pretty variation on an old theme, my lad..."

     "If that were the master plan, why am I back here a-payin' you?" Roth grumbled. He handed three small grubby silver coins over to the lady, who grasped them tightly in her claw but stood looking at him expectantly.

     "And another two marks for the plate and bottle," she said. "They don't grow on trees for the pickin', you know."

     "It wasn't me that took 'em, it was that boy --" Roth began hotly.

     "It was on your watch, Sergeant," said Borl, looking solemn, but barely hiding a grin behind his gingery-brown beard. "Best pay the lady."

     Roth's muzzle twitched, but he handed over two more coins, which immediately vanished with their brothers into some secret hoard in the landlady's dress. She seemed mollified, if still far from happy, which seemed a little stiff to Roth, who felt sure a mark would pay for at least three plates or ten bottles.

     "There you go, ma'am," said Borl, touching his helmet in salute. "All cleared up. Just a bit of a mistake."

     "Aye, I suppose," she groused, glaring at Roth in begrudging judgement. "Come again, Sergeant. Just be a little more careful next time." She turned and went back into the inn, slamming the door with more firmness than seemed necessary. Almost simultaneously the lock clicked and the lamp in the window was blown out.

     "Oh, you'd like me to come back, at these rates," muttered Roth as he turned from the closed door. "You'd be wearing jewels on your greasy old robes and gold in your ratty hair in a month, you old hag."

     Borl laughed and clapped him on the back.

     "Now, now, got to keep the local merchants happy, my son. Remember, you'll be off on another billet come fall, but I'll have to deal with old Milta all year round, and so will the next fella in your place." He put his arm around Roth's shoulder, and began gently pushing him back in the direction of the Guardhouse. "After all, where else are you gonna get that awful sour ale that you like?"

     Roth chuckled at that, sighed, then grunted.

     "Hur. No, it's that little thief I should be mad at." They walked on a few steps in silence. "I tell you, Lieutenant, I'm going to get that boy and make him pay back every mark. On his hide, if no way else."

     Borl was amused.

     "Roth, Roth, Roth," he sang, like a wise but tired father. "You still have much to learn about City ways. You can't go hawking after street trash. It's like trying to wave flies away from fruit; there's always more! Keep your energy for bigger targets. We got enough to do with big robberies and murders. These kids... it's no worse than shallidoos."

     Roth looked sideways at his commanding officer. A shallidoo was another thing he had a hard time coming to grips with. Any member of the watch on the beat needing a quick pick-me-up could approach, say, a pear vendor, and ask him "Shall I?" The vendor would invariably reply, "Do!" and there you'd have it, a quick snack, for free. Good will, personal relationships, mutual obligations satisfied all around. Some guards, he knew, took advantage of it, helping themselves to huge portions, even when off duty. It was part of the grease that made the wheels of the city turn, and like grease it could get pretty smelly.

     "'Little seeds grow big weeds'," he said stubbornly. "That's what my madra always said. If we could stop more of these street rats maybe there wouldn't be so many of those robberies and murders."

     Borl wagged his head in mock sadness. There was no arguing with a Morg's madra, he knew, and especially Roth's, as he'd come to find out. But he thought he'd give it one more try.

     "Forget it, Roth. It's just the Morg City way. You can't stop 'em all." They walked on a few paces without words, falling together instinctively into the measured step of the patrol beat.

     "Maybe not all," said Roth at last, eyes smoldering in the dark street. "But I'm going to stop that one. He had the audacity to rob me! And that offends my dignity, it does. He'd better watch out from now on, because I'm going to be watching out for him!"

     "Oh, aye, sure, sure you are," said Borl. "And we'll lock him up for a hundred years, and honor will be satisfied." He had seen these little snits take his men a thousand times, and it tended to blow out by the next day. But there was a hint of unease in his mind. If anyone, it was Roth who might actually carry out a vendetta.

     "Let's get you back to the Guardhouse and bunked down for the night. That's where I was, you know, when your little fracas got me out of bed. Just startin' to have a bee-yoo-dee-ful dream too, about a lass in a field of daisies. Wonder if she'll still be waitin' for me, or if dear old Milta will be chasin' me all night now?"

     Roth barked in laughter; Borl laughed with him, and relaxed. Hopefully, he thought, that will be the end of that. It was home to a warm bed, and tomorrow would be a new day.

 

     The next day was a new day, as it tends to be, but it wasn't quite like the day before, as Borl had been rather expecting it would. In fact, it was quite a while before the lieutenant found out how different things were.

     Roth rolled out of bed, restless and unable to sleep. After a hasty breakfast of boiled ham and hard bread in the commissary he went and relieved his counterpart on the nightwatch early and started his rounds with hard purpose in his eyes. Usually as he trudged along his beat he kept a wide relaxed focus on the world around, looking at everything and nothing as he passed by, waiting for out of place details to snag his attention. Now he found himself reflexively narrowing in on anyone that even slightly suggested last night's con, even well-dressed young Morgs of the right height. Roth shook his head when he realized what he was doing and tried to broaden his gaze again. No telling what he might miss like that: maybe even the real thief disappearing around another corner.

     Almost before he realized it, he was standing in front of the blind alley. He stood looking at it as the morning crowds pushed by him, watching him curiously as they went past. He could see there was nothing there, but his eyes narrowed as if they would bore holes in the stone. Finally, he snarled and turned down the dead end, obsessively examining it again in the full light of day. He saw nothing new, nothing at all. He left and quickened his pace to make up for lost time but counting his steps under his breath as he went.

     At the nearest inner city gate he went through and turned left to examine the other side of the wall. This side was all private houses, backed by gardens. He made his calculations carefully, then pounded at a certain door when he was fairly sure. It was opened by a youngish Morg, maybe fifty, dressed in a red robe cinched with the black sash of a student of law. He looked Roth up and down. "Yes?" he said irritably.

     "Watch," said Roth, touching his iron cap as proof. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I'd like to search your back yard."

     "What! Why? What is this all about?"

     "Should only take a minute, sir."

     The other bridled visibly, beard bristling.

     "This is rather high-handed," he harrumphed. "What's your warrant? Where's your grounds?"

     Roth gripped the handle of his sword, casually but firmly.

     "Here's my warrant, the City Arms. And here's the grounds: I have reason to believe you may be harborin' - though all unwittingly, I'm ready to accept - a wanted criminal and a disturber of the King's Peace. Now, for your own safety, I'm suggestin' you allow me a quick search, not impedin' my duties, and if all's right I'll be out of your beard in two shakes."

     The young Morg stood uncertain, wavering, but obviously laboring under a legal compunction to hold to his rights.

     "If it's any mitigation, I don't want to search your house, just the garden. And I'll prolly be checkin' your neighbors' yards, too."

     "Oh - very well," the other crumbled. "This fellow's dangerous, you say?" He opened the door and gestured for Roth to come in.

     "Could very well be," Roth said neutrally, keeping his eyes straight ahead as they passed through the house to avoid seeing anything he might have to legally object to, after gaining entrance on very shaky grounds. Luckily it was mostly hallway.

     They stepped out of the back door onto the porch. Roth looked at the garden. It was not very tall, being devoted mainly to flowers and some fancy herbs. Before he even set foot off the porch, he asked, "Watered recently?"

     "Just yesterday morning, in fact."

     "Ah. Wait here, sir."

     Roth tromped down the muddy path and examined the back wall. There were no tracks in the ground beneath it. He gazed up at the limed expanse of stone above. No scuffs, no scratches, no scrapes. No incriminating rope hanging from the top. He checked the neighboring walls to left and right, and saw they were just the same. He nodded, frowning, and turned back to the house.

     "Well?" the lawyer asked querulously.

     "Everything seems to be safe, sir. Sorry to bother you."

     The young Morg looked at him haughtily and escorted him back through the house, glancing askance at his muddy boots.

     "You've got a nice garden there, sir," said Roth as they reached the front door.

     "Yes." The other started to shut the door.

     "Lovely stand of wild dill," said Roth off-handedly. The door stopped. "Course anyone what didn't know better would think it was ranna weed." The law student looked at him, eyes boggling. "Looks to me like it's about to shed though, and then it won't be of any use to anybody. If I was you, I'd dredge it up and use it right now, if you get my drift."

     The young Morg swallowed.

     "Yes, Sergeant. Thank you, Sergeant."

     "You have a nice day now," said Roth. And a probably even nicer night, he thought as he walked away.

 

     The rest of the day went as usual. Roth broke up two street fights and helped a farmer move his broken ox-cart out of traffic. He aided a few frail old human ladies across the avenues; most weren't as thrawn as Morg females grew to be as they got older. All routine, but his nerves were twanging the whole day, as his eyes darted restlessly, searching the crowds. He didn't think the boy would be stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime right away, so when he was relieved he didn't go back to The Roaring Boar that evening. Roth wasn't sure he could see Milta again just then anyway, without one or the other of them losing their tempers. He ended the day with a few bouts on the archery ground at the Guardhouse to relieve his tension, a short meal of commissary chow, and an early evening. The streets seemed to pour through his dreams all night.

     The next day was a repeat, with, if anything, even greater diligence on Roth's part. This led him to catching more street kids in the act of lifting their unofficial shallidoos and sending them on their way with a swat of his paw and a stern word. He started to feel guilty about taking any shallidoos himself, even when a grateful shop-owner offered him one. He took to refusing them, with thanks. The merchant would look at him surprised, maybe even a little offended. One baker went so far as to mutter "Mad," under his breath when Roth paid him one brass krett for a bun, then gave it to the thin little waif who had just tried to snatch it.

     By the end of that day he was ready for a sour ale, Milta or no. He dragged himself back to the inn, paused at the door with a huge sigh, steeled himself, walked in with his head down, and took a table. A girl crossed over to take his order. "A half-chicken roasted and a pint of Teleth's; loaf of brown," he murmured.

     "Is that Sergeant Roth I hear?" The merry ingratiating squawk rang through the air, and the bustling form of the landlady came swooping out from behind the bar. "Sarge! We missed you yesterday! We don't have so many customers, select though they be, that we can do without one of the best, now can we?" She sat down on the stool next to him and settled in like a squatting hen ruffling its feathers.

     "Please, ma'am, I just want to eat in peace," Roth groaned.

     "'Course you do," Milta said, grabbing his upper arm and smiling at him through snaggled teeth. "But I couldn't just leave you sit down without letting you know we're all friends again. You're welcome back any time, and bring your comrades!"

     Roth's muzzle twisted into a wry smile.

     "Thanks, I'll do that," he said. If I have any I want to shake off, he thought grimly. Just at that moment his order arrived, and Milta looked at the scanty portion in disapproval.

     "Pooh, Sergeant! Lost your appetite?" Her hand withdrew into one of her voluminous sleeves, like a snail shrinking into its shell. "Well, this ought to perk you up." Her claw popped out again, and to Roth's astonishment it held a silver mark. "Here," she said, and handed it over to him, grinning as if she were the Autumn Pilgrim presenting a winter gift.

     Roth took the coin with equal parts wonder and suspicion. "What's this now?" he asked, squinting one eye over at old lady who sat preening like a dog waiting to be petted for a clever trick.

     "Would you believe it? I opened the back door yesterday morning and that rascal had returned the plate and the bottle, clean as a whistle and pretty as a picture. I guess you must have put the fear of Mog in him after all. So I'm refunding your money," she finished piously.

     Roth looked at the coin, deep in speculation, thinking about her story and what it might mean. At last he looked up. "As I recalls," he drily observed, "It was two marks, not one."

     "Oh, well," Milta said, hastily rising and gathering her skirts. "You wouldn't scant a poor old widow costs for her time and trouble and worry, would ye? That's only right, that's only justice, isn't it? Now enjoy your meal, Mister Roth! I got to get back to the bar and keep my eye on the kitchen. A woman's work ... " She scuttled away into the shadows of the inn and left the stocky Morg pondering, tangling his beard with thoughtful claws.

     An honest thief, he mused.

     He was still turning that thought over in his mind when he went to bed that night, having put the mark right back into the old lady's hand to pay for his supper before he left.

 

     A month later Lieutenant Borl called Roth into his office for a little talk.

     It was the height of summer now, and every window of the Guardhouse was open, gasping for air. Roth knocked at the door that stood already ajar, then walked in on Borl, who sat squirming behind his desk in his sticky, leather-covered chair, muzzle gaping for breath. Borl had shaved his bullet-head in a desperate attempt to keep from frying. The gingery length of his beard was twisted into a stiff braid and tied off with a scrap of ribbon, to hold it away from his dripping chest. Roth kept himself from grinning. He definitely wouldn't want to appear that way himself in public, but he certainly understood his superior's attempts at private relief. He came to attention and saluted. "Sir," he barked.

     Borl looked up like a dying fish.

     "Damn, it's hot," he wheezed. "When do you think it rained last?"

     "Couldn't say, sir. Sometime late spring. Four months, sir."

     "Ach, drop the protocol, Roth. It's too hot. Sit down, sit down. Quit blocking the door; I'm trying to catch a cross-breeze."

     Roth relaxed a little, but still held himself wary. You didn't get called to the office just to shoot the shit. He pulled one of the rough wheel-backed chairs from against the wall and sat down. It wasn't as cushy as Borl's upholstered seat, but in the circumstances its open spokes were more comfortable.

     The older Morg wiped his forehead, then squeezed the sweat out of the tip of his beard. He picked up the paper he had been perusing on the desk in front of him, frowning. It was speckled with moisture. He dropped it and looked up at Roth.

     "How you doing, son? Holding up in the heat?" He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "You're looking good. Lost a few pounds, I see. Must help, in this weather."

     "This hot ain't nothing," Roth rumbled. "I was at the Plains of Dar, for a while. You couldn't even go out in the day there; all our movements had to be by night."

     "Is that right?" Borl said distantly.

     "Fact," said Roth. "My pal Lek said that when he was on day-watch there, he saw a hawk startled out of its tree burst into flame when it hit sunlight. Not even a cinder left." He grinned. "He might a' been exaggerating a bit. Anyways, the switch-over from iron to hornscale armor for summer was none too soon. Lighter."

     "Yes ... yes." Borl leaned back again. He spread out his folded hands as if letting his words go. "I ask because I've been hearing some odd things about you, Sergeant."

     Roth stiffened. "Complaints?"

     "No, no complaints, as such. Just ... odd things. You don't sit easy with some people, Roth."

     "Such as how?" he growled.

     "Oh, nothing bad, nothing bad," Borl hastened to assure him. "Diligent. Tough but fair. Even compassionate, in some cases. There's a barrow-man on Potter's Lane who thinks you should be made General. But maybe a little, ... stand-offish, let's say. And with one little sore spot that troubles some folks."

     "I know where this's going," Roth sighed and sat back himself, clenching his teeth. "Didn't know this job included being a nursemaid, Borl."

     "This is about your attitude with the mad lads. You're pushing them too hard, my friend. What you don't realize is that makes 'em push back even harder, and that don't make the merchants happy. You put a rock in the river and the water don't stop flowing. It just goes somewheres else. We had a system in place." Borl passed an annoyed hand over his sweaty head, then looked up at Roth in appeal. "Look, I don't want you to be a nursemaid to these street kids, but can't you just be Uncle Jolly? Wink your eye now and then; look the other way. Afore things get any worse."  

     Roth slammed his fist on his knee.

     "Just let me get my claws on that one," he snarled. "Then there'll be a little peace."

     "Ah-hum," Borl snuffled skeptically. "And how's that chase been going for you?"

     Roth slumped in his chair.

     "None too good," he admitted. "I don't even know the kraddach's name yet, though I've quizzed every culprit I've collared. You've got to admire it. They've got a code. No ratting on their fellow rats. I'm sure they'd come down like the Black Hammer on any one of them that did."

     He perked up.

     "I got close to him a couple of times, though. I'd have had him on Long Street if he hadn't used the Donkey Drop on me as I was crossing the road. And then I almost had my hands on him chasin' through Slaughterhouses, when he pulled a Gorko's Riff, which I didn't think anybody could do in the kind of shoes he had on. Still don't know how he got away that first time, though." He grinned. "Oh, he's a sorcerer, that one. Each time he took the time to look back and smile at me through that scraggly mustache of his." Roth leaned back in his chair, spine straight, eyes gleaming. "Don't think I can really rest now until I teach that smile a thing or two."

     Borl sighed again, even deeper. "Roth, do you remember the story of Jash and the Rogue Torben?"

     "I ain't obsessed," Roth snapped. He shifted uneasily. "This is a matter o' honor now, Borl."

     "Seems to me it's a matter of leftovers. Let it go, Roth."

     "Not just my honor, sir. The Guards' honor. The King's honor. Hell, the whole damn City's honor! I was in uniform! Nobody can miss those color-coded rainbow horse-blankets we wear. Damn the bustard! I ain't gonna have anybody spit in our beards and just let it go."

     "All right. Fine. Fine." Borl rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his snubby nose. "You're obviously having too much fun with this for me to stop you. I get it. Adds a bit of zest to the boring city routine. Another shining tale of virtue for the Silver Book. Hunt your torben." He scowled suddenly, voice hardening. "But lay off the other mad lads. No more questioning. No more ... persecution. And show friendly. Take a shallidoo yourself now and then. Everybody expects it. Get off your lonely throne and walk with us commoners a while, Roth. It's hot enough as it is without you stirring up the flames."

     "Is that an order? Sir?" Roth asked stiffly.

     "That is my concerned and friendly advice to you, soldier, but since you ask, yes, I'm making it an order." Borl picked up the sweat-spattered sheet from his desk and held it in front of his face, eyes fixed. "You're dismissed. And send Captain Galt in to see me."

     Roth rose, saluted, and stood there, muzzle open as if wanting to add something. Borl studiously ignored him. Roth closed his mouth, saluted again, and, turning with military precision, marched out. Borl listened to his footsteps as they faded away, then dropped the paper to the desk wearily and wrung out his braided beard again. Gods, it's hot, he thought. Moon of Melniar, send us some rain!

    

     It was the smoldering high end of late summer, breathless as a pile of bones, hot as a forge. Roth stood panting in the wavering heat, claws clenched on a set of filthy rags. He didn't know it, but his luck was about to change.

     "Aw, Sarge, can't you just let me go? I promise I won't do it no more."

     Roth shook the young Morg he had just collared by the scruff of his neck.

     "You're not gonna get off that easy, my lad. That's the third time I caught you lifting pouches off the folks on Sidewander, and I already let you go three times before with a warning after you promised me you wouldn't do it no more. Or did you forget?"

     "Times is tough, Sarge," the boy whined. "You gotta get by somehow."

     "Whyn't you get a job, then? Believe it or not, there's a labor shortage right now. Plenty an honest penny to be made, if you'll just work for it." He looked at the young Morg's face. "You almost got your Third Beard. You ain't no urchin no more, mister. What's your name, then?"

     "It's Pel, Sarge, Pel at your service. I'd get a job, but I'm not strong. I ain't been well, Sarge, and in this heat too much activity would just kill me, I know. The bosses drive you cruel hard."

     Roth grinned mirthlessly. Though the lad was trying to look as limp as a boiled chicken, Roth had broken horses with less of a struggle than Pel had put up when he was arrested.

     "You won't have to worry about that for a while, then," said Roth. He tugged the leather wrist shackle he had strapped on the other's arm a little tighter. "It's room and board at the lockhouse for you. Lots of lovely leisure and slop twice a day, regular. Come on, get marchin'."

     They trudged through the dusty streets, Pel sulking along in front, Roth nudging him forward again whenever he began to slow down and try some new bargaining tactic. At the transfer of Market Square, Roth got another man to take up his rounds, and he headed with his prisoner to the Watch House. Along the way he noticed with grim satisfaction the looks on the faces of the mad lads they passed, round-eyed and wary (he guessed some of those were Pel's pals) or amused and vulturine (whom he supposed to be from a rival gang). He saw all that through the sides of his eyes. He wasn't letting this one dash off.

     They were almost in the shortened shadow of the tower of the Watch House when Pel stopped, turned at bay, and refused to go another step.

     "Look, Sarge," he said pleading, in a low, desperate voice. "I got reasons I don't want to go to the lockhouse, reasons I don't expect a guy like you could understand, but it ain't just the time. I go in, I don't expect I'll get out again, least not with arrangements like they was before. You let me go, one more time, and I'll ... I'll ..." His voice sank even lower. "I'll tell you want you want to know."

     Roth went still. "And just what do I want to know?" he asked quietly.

     Pel's muzzle twisted into a complicit smile.

     "You're Sergeant Roth," he said. "Every mad lad knows who you want."

     Roth stared at him, neither assenting nor denying.

     "Well?" he asked.

     "His name's Taryn," Pel hissed, lowering his head. "He don't belong to any of the gangs regular. Won't join in on any of the big games. Prolly wants to start his own. They call him Tearin' Taryn, cause he's always running off to do something or other." He looked up hopefully. "Well, Sarge?"

     Roth stood a moment, considering, then yanked the leather shackle impatiently.

     "Nope. Not good enough. Let's go."

     "Wait, wait," Pel yelped, digging in his heels. "I can tell you where to find him!"

     "Yes?"

     "Only you gotta let me go. That's the deal!"

     There was a low brool of thunder, and a sudden rising gust of wind kicked the dust up around their feet. Roth looked up. The light had changed, grown a shade dimmer. A thrill went tingling through his blood. He felt somewhere in his guts that it was a sign.

     "All right," he growled eagerly. "Where?"

     "Dead end off of Elms, before you hit Gold Lantern Street. Come by the north. Five o'clock, every sixth day, but if he sees you there once he'll probably change his pattern."

     "That's fifteen minutes from now!"

     "Better hurry then," Pel urged.

     Roth started to unstrap the shackle. "All right. I'll let you go this time, for 'helping the Watch with the pursuit of their duties'. And if I catch you again, I ain't gonna arrest you." He smiled wickedly as Pel slipped out of the leather loop. "But it might get around what happened just now, and I don't think your street friends will be too happy having a snitch in their midst, so watch your step."

     Pel rubbed his wrist and looked around uneasily. "Speakin' o' which, just in case anybody's gawpin', do you mind? I don't want it to look like we're too friendly, like."

     "With pleasure," Roth said, and without a pause roundhoused the other Morg with a cuff that laid him rolling in the dust. Pel recovered his senses and raised his ringing head just in time to see Roth disappear, hurrying into the hot wind and gathering darkness falling from the advancing line of clouds above.

 

     Roth pushed his way through the hastening people that were scrambling to get off the streets before the weather struck. He could smell rain in the swelling wind, and any other time he would have stopped to relish it, but now it excited him more. He quickened his pace as the crowds got thinner and thinner. He was just able to duck behind an awning that had been lowered like a tent to the ground over a display of crockery, when the Sun Tower, raised like a warning white finger against the rushing black clouds, started ringing five on the City bell. Roth cautiously turned his head and looked out past the snapping canvas, peering down the alleyway.

     At first there was nothing there. He watched impatiently as the last few fleeing figures of pedestrians passed in front of his line of sight, cloaks flying wildly, pushed along by the wind. Then he caught his breath sharply. A lone figure had turned into the alley, emerging from behind an ox-cart being driven clattering down the road.

     It was swathed in short, tattered robes, hood drawn and held around its face, but even from the back the Morg could recognize that figure.  It advanced to the back wall of the blind street and knelt. Roth leaned in closer to the flapping cloth. What the hell was the crazy lad doing? Getting ready to take a nap? Praying?

     There was a grinding sound more felt in his feet than heard, and he saw the boy heaving aside a huge flat paving stone to expose a gaping tunnel beneath, and the answer flashed through his head like the bolt of lightning that lit the sky at that instant. In the same moment the gale hit with redoubled force, and the awning blew away with a sound like a tortured ghost screaming. The crouching figure jerked his head up at the noise, hood flying off, and Roth and Taryn stood looking at each other face to face, not thirty feet apart, as the first black gush of rain came pouring in a howling cataract between them.

     Taryn was down the hole almost immediately, but Roth had recovered first and was just a few seconds behind, plunging his stocky body feet downward and dropping into the tunnel beneath. The dim, disastrous light from above was just enough for him to see that he and his prey had descended into the old sewers below the City, normally not navigable. They must have been lying dried out and forgotten throughout the summer. Clever boy, he thought. In the darkness of the rounded passage to his right he could hear splashing footsteps; without hesitation he turned and followed them into the sightless gloom.

     It was not as bad for him as it must be for the boy, he thought, or even for most Morgs, who have pretty good darksight. Roth had spent a couple of seasons in the mines back home and he could sense the shape of his way in the dark, mostly by the sounds echoed in his low, round ears. He kept on Taryn's trail through every twist and turn down the slightly inclining tunnel, even over the soft purling roar of the water that was starting to ripple and rise around his feet.

     Every now and then he would see the lad flit into the palest of light cast from some gutter above, a silvery curtain of water cascading off his back as he floundered past. Roth sped up, spurred on by these glimpses of his quarry, eyes squeezed to slits in concentration, legs churning relentlessly as he grabbed the walls to hurl himself forward. He didn't even think about calling out for the thief to stop. He knew in his bones it was a waste of wind; he needed that for the chase. He ran on, eyes wincing from the dripping water, teeth clenched in his muzzle and breath blowing in and out, scattering the drops with each blasting exhalation.

     Suddenly the footsteps stopped. Roth lunged forward, taken off guard for a moment. He brought himself up short; it was hard with the current pressing against his knees now. He was sure, with a hunter's certainty, that he was standing close to where the noise of his prey had ceased. He inched forward carefully, claws creeping along the wall, the top of his helmet brushing the low roof. All at once his hands met open air on either side. He was at a juncture of some kind that met this tunnel from left and right. Which way had the lad gone?

     He stood for a moment, writhing in an agony of indecision. If he chose wrong, he would lose his chance, and possibly himself in this lightless dungeon. Roth held his breath, concentrating with all his ears, hoping for a clue.

     As he stood there, catching his breath, calming his heart, it came to him that there was something different about the tunnel to his left. There was a subtle sound, more than the rushing of the water. He puzzled a moment what it could be, and then it struck him: it was the sound of water pushing by some sort of obstruction. Without thinking he turned and pounded down that way.

     The footsteps started up immediately, but much closer now. Roth grinned. Clever boy, he thought again, as he plunged after him. But not clever enough.

     They passed just once more by the light of another gutter streaming from far above, dark dim red as if the sun had finally set below the line of dark clouds above. Taryn looked back for a second, eyes darting, sparse mustache dripping limply. Not smiling any more, Roth thought, muzzle splitting in a grin that showed all his teeth, sharp and bloody-looking in the light. The boy turned away and laid on another burst of speed. It didn't last long. It put maybe a foot or two more between them, but Roth was catching up.

     In fact the problem for Roth now was not going too fast. The water was getting up to his waist, pushing against his back, and he was having to place his boots carefully and quickly along the slick bottom. He was concentrating too much on tracking Taryn and keeping his feet to notice the steepening descent, or the growing roar ahead.

     Roth was just beginning to notice a weak glow from ahead that showed the floundering outline of the running boy when he was suddenly punched in the back by a swelling billow of water, coming with redoubled force behind him, sweeping him off his feet with a yell. As he fell forward he saw the figure of Taryn jump to the left, and then Roth was sweeping helplessly past him, head held just above water, as the boy watched him from a recessed shelf to the side.

     For a second Roth could see what the light ahead was. Into a vast shaft a hundred feet high, closed by an iron grill above, a dozen torrents were pouring thundering down from outlets all around him, turning a heavy groaning wheel with flat spokes broad as tree trunks at a speed sickening for something so big. He eyes boggled down at the hungry maw, claws scrabbling uselessly at the stones beneath him as he slipped forward.

     He was jerked back by a yank on his cloak. His helmet went flying off his head with the force, tumbling down right into the teeth of the mill. There was a crunch and a metallic whine, and the helmet was gone without slowing the wheel for an instant.

     "Hold on, mister!"

     Roth turned on his belly, choking in the current and by the straining cloak, and suddenly his hobnailed boots found purchase on the rock. Taryn was pulling him back with both hands clutching the cloth, his feet braced precariously on a low curb around the recess, back bent and muscles straining, moving the Morg slowly but steadily towards the shelf. Roth finally reached out at last and got his claws on the curb and the boy quickly, convulsively, switched one hand to the Morg's belt, and together they heaved his panting, waterlogged body up to safety.

     Taryn sat down heavily, collapsing, wheezing for air, head held back and hair dripping against the wall. Roth lay for a while like a landed fish, muzzle gaping, sides throbbing. Slowly he drew his limbs under himself and sat up, beard drizzling into his lap. Taryn looked over at him tiredly, and then away in exhaustion. Roth gathered his strength and looked at Taryn, then down into the boiling abyss just three feet away, then back at the lad - almost a man, he could see now.

     They sat quietly in the dim glow, resting, catching their breath, watching each other with wary eyes. At last Taryn suddenly smiled.

     "Well, I guess I'm under arrest," he chuckled. He held out his wrist. "Put the cuff on me, Sarge. It's been a good chase."

     Roth stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, and waved off his words in puzzlement.

     "That can wait," he said. He paused. "Why'd you save me? We could have both been pulled down and killed in that crusher! Why'd you risk yourself?"

     "Oh, well." Taryn crossed his arms on his knees and leaned forward, considering. "Couldn't let you die. You seem like a decent enough guy. Maybe a little stubborn." He smiled. "You ever hear the story of Jash and the Lone Torben?"

     "I am not Jash!" Roth barked, eyes flashing red. Taryn's head snapped back and his smile vanished. Roth glared at him a moment, then his chest started heaving convulsively. To the boy's surprise the Morg burst out in a braying laugh. It echoed out of the little cubby over the roaring waters and didn't stop. "And you ain't no torben!" Roth wheezed.

     Taryn looked at him in wonder, then started laughing himself, tentatively at first, and then helplessly. "I'll say I'm not!" he managed to squeeze out at last. "I can't even sw... swim!"  They laughed together a while after that, the laughter of people who have suddenly escaped death, until it wound down.

     "The water's still rising," said Taryn quietly. Roth looked at it, and said nothing, but shifted his feet.

     "So," the boy said briskly, after a pause. "How'd you finally find me? According to what I know about your beat, you should have been heading home on the other side of the City, almost."

     "I was there, almost," Roth admitted humorously. "Haulin' in a little road-apple named Pel. Suddenly I had the over-whelmin' insight that I knew where you'd be, so's I dropped everything and hurried on over."

     "Pel? Pel Pelnik, King of the Pluckers?" Taryn frowned. "Well, that makes sense, I guess. He always was a turd. Doesn't like me, I know. Wouldn't mind ratting to stay boss, it seems."

     "What do you mean?" said Roth.

     "Get tossed in jail, you lose your status," the boy explained matter-of-factly. "Gangs won't keep a leader that gets caught. Gross incompetence, that is. And the position does have its cushy side."

     "And what about you? Are you a boss?"

     "Ha!" Taryn spat out the side of his mouth. "I never would even join none of them, the Pickers or Pluckers or Crooksticks. Plenty asked me. Bunch of rats and ruffians. Got to be sort of a sore spot after a bit. 'Oh, you're too good fer us, eh? Don't wanna play the game, your lordship?'" He spat again. "I ain't surprised at Pel selling me out and thinking he can get away with it. Nobody will give a damn if I'm out of the life."

     Roth looked out at the water. It was lapping at the brim of the shelf now.

     "I might understand how that feels," he muttered. He looked up. "Ever think of leaving the life?" he asked.

     "And go where?" Taryn replied bitterly, wrapping his rags around his shoulders and shivering. "Every job that will take a kid wants 'a nice strong honest Morg boy', not a skinny street rat." He shook his head ruefully. "I'll give you Morgs one thing. Men might be faster and smarter, but you guys are a lot tougher."

     "Well, thanks." The sarcasm was thick on Roth's tongue. "But I figure a smart fast kid like you could get a job somewheres. And you're not really a kid no more, anyhow."

     "Yeah? Mister, that's the least of my worries right now." He leaned forward and pointed past Roth to the back wall. "This flood ain't slowing down. If that highwater mark there is any indication, this room'll be underwater in a very few minutes and we'll be flushed into that grinder and drowned first if we're lucky. I reckon my near future is pretty much provided for."

     Roth looked down into the churning maelstrom below and gritted his jaw. The lower outlets were already spewing jets that turned the great roaring wheel ever faster in a blur of speed and water.

     "Any way out back that way?" he asked, pointing.

     "'Bout twenty feet on," Taryn said laconically. "There's an access tunnel going up to the gutter, with some rungs. I was heading for that, but I got distracted somehow, and shot past it." He grinned. "Moot point, now."

     "Well, I want you to seriously think about getting a job," said Roth. His hands went to his throat, undoing the clasp of his soaked cloak. He dropped it to the floor; it landed with a plop amid the waves that were starting to wash over their feet. "And I'd like you consider joining the army with me when we get out of here." He held out his hand. "I can swim."

     Taryn boggled. "What?! Are you insane! Look at that water!"

     "I've swum worse in the High Passes home in the Norkult Mountains," Roth said briskly. He pulled out the leather cuff and began latching it to his belt. "There's still plenty of air space now, but it won't last forever, so we better get moving."

     "I told you, I can't swim!"

     "Then it's a good time to start to learn," Roth said, taking Taryn's unwilling hand and trying to buckle the cuff on. "Look, all you gotta do is hang onto my belt and kick your legs. I'll do all the work. Just keep your head above water and look for that tunnel."

     "This is crazy!"

     "It's wait here and definitely be killed or try to leave and only probably get killed. Only probably killed is maybe ending up alive." Roth waggled his eyebrows. "Matter of time, boy. One way's just a little quicker."

     Taryn stopped squirming and stared at Roth. The smiling Morg waggled his eyebrows again, his grin broadening. Taryn desperately grabbed for the cuff.

     "You know, I like this plan," he babbled, struggling to tie it on tighter. "Bold. Daring. Completely mad. I'm proud to be a part of it."

     "Good." Roth struggled out of his boots and they joined his cloak. He stood up, flexing his toes. "Now take off everything you can spare, 'cause we don't need no drag. I wouldn't keep on this scalehorn, 'cept the belt's a part of it, and you need somewhere to hold."

     "How 'bout your beard?" Taryn teased.

     "Not even in a joke, human."

     Taryn quickly shed his rags and stood there shivering in his underclout. The water was flowing over their ankles. Roth moved to the very edge of the shelf and looked into the blank dark as it vomited black water at them.

     "Twenty feet, you say?"

     "More or less."

     "All right. Hold tight, kick your legs, and for Mog's sake try to find that ladder!"

     "Piece a' cake, in all that dark. Must be night by now."

     "Well, listen for it then! My head's gonna be underwater half the time, I can't do everything! Tap me on the back or poke me or something when we get there."

     Taryn hooked his hands around the belt, and Roth looked back to make sure he was ready. "By the way," the boy said, "My name is Taryn."

     "I know," said the Morg, nodding his head. "I'm Roth."

     "I know," the boy said quietly. They nodded their heads together again silently in acknowledgement. "Let's go."

     "On three," said Roth. "One ... two ... three!"

     He kicked off and hit the water like an arrow, Taryn leaping with him, legs flailing. For a moment when they hit the stream he felt like they were being beaten back. All thought left his head except pumping his arms back and forth against the tide. When he breached gulping for air for a few seconds he didn't dare look back, but just lunged back down into the dark and cold, fighting for every inch. Somewhere far away he could feel Taryn's frantic legs thrashing behind him.

     Seven times he lifted his head into the roaring darkness, and couldn't tell if he had moved a foot closer to the goal. He was about to come up for the eighth time, wondering how much longer he could hold up, when he became aware of a distant tugging on his belt. His breath exploded under water, and he rose gasping, nostrils running, to hear Taryn yelling, "You passed it, you passed it!" He turned, claws churning to stay in place, and there, glimmering in the faintest moonlight sheen, was Taryn, hanging from an iron rung, his hand outstretched.

     Roth was almost literally swept away with sudden relief, grabbing at the slippery arm as he passed. Taryn hissed as the black nails bit into his flesh, but pulled back, muscles straining, until the stocky Morg could heave himself up from the grasping tide and grip the cold metal handle with one firm claw.

     They hung there a few moments, dripping and whooping for breath. Taryn at last chuckled weakly. Roth felt like he wanted to laugh too, but he knew they were far from home safe yet, and frankly, he was too tired. He looked up into the grey shade above them.

     "How far?" he asked shortly.

     "Too far," said Taryn. He put his hand wearily, gamely, on the next rung. "We'd better get going." They started to climb.

 

     Captain Galt sat smoking in the Watch House gate room, feet up on a cushioned stool, the Morgish pipe stuck halfway down his leathery muzzle. It was carved in the shape of an Ogre's head, and every deep puff lit up its purple glass eyes menacingly. Galt was doing his best to stay warm. This sudden cold front had caught everyone unawares, and the stove lay shut and empty of fuel. It was all right for everyone else in the barracks with the wind flushing out the summer fug, he thought, but out here on duty, practically in the rain, it weren't no picnic. Bake or freeze, it was always something.

     He looked out gloomily into the pouring rain. Least it had let up somewhat. Instead of bucketing, it was just driving. He sat listening for a moment, then suddenly stood up. There was someone coming through the rain, and they were ... singing?

          "... And the se-e-ea roared upon the shore

          And the clouds in the wind were rent and tore

          And I still walked on the beach alone

          While gulls wa-a-iled and sea mo-o-oaned..."

     Galt peered out as a pair of misty figures came marching through the silver curtain of rain. His eyes boggled at them as they got ever nearer. One was obviously a Morg, barefoot and hatless, but wearing a coat of Guards' hardscale armor, beard streaming in the downpour. The other was a skinny teen, also barefoot as he came stomping through the rain, dressed in some kind of rough striped tabard, cinched at the waist with a bit of rope, the neckhole just a rough tear in the cloth.

     Galt hurriedly grabbed up his pike and stepped into the light at the gateway. "Halt!" he said gruffly. "Who passes?"

     "Captain Galt, sir!" Came the merry bellow in reply. "Sergeant Roth, reportin' for bunk call, and about time too, you’re probably thinkin'! Any stew still in the kitchen?"

     "There's always stew in the kitchen," said Galt. "They can't get rid of it fast enough. What's left over the night before gets dumped in the new pot the mornin' after. I suspect there's bits still swimmin' around from Thron's coronation day. Who's this?" He looked at the lad blinking the water away next to him and his eyes lit up at the sight of his scanty, clumping mustache. "Oho! Finally got your torben, eh?"

     "This ain't no torben," Roth said, slapping his companion on the back, knocking him forward a half-step. The boy looked over at the Morg in equal parts annoyed and amused. "This here's a new recruit for the Fourteenth. Meet Mr. Taryn, lately in the life, but soon to be in service o' the King."

     "Oh, really, now?" Galt eyeballed him, raising a skeptical brow.

     "Really absolutely," said Roth, taking his elbow and hustling him into the gatehouse. "Galt, lend me a gold mark."

     "What? Why?" the older Morg asked suspiciously as the other hustled the trio into the little room.

     "Just do it," said Roth. "Write it up in the paybook. Oh, and you can put me down for a new helmet. And a cloak. And some boots." Galt reached reflexively for the pen and the ragged account book and started to write. Roth glanced at Taryn. "Oh, and I guess you'd better add I owe for an awning from a shop on Latchet Street." He tapped the book where Galt had paused writing, looking up in horror. "'Appropriated in the course o' duty,' Captain."

     Galt shook his head wearily but wrote it down. He reached into his poke and drew out a mark.

     "Here," he said, "But you owe me, Roth, and I better get it back before you move out."

     "Yes, sir," said Roth merrily, then snapped to attention and turned to Taryn. All fooling seemed to have fallen away from him in an instant.

     "Mister Taryn," he said solemnly, holding up the glittering coin. "This is the King's Mark. Do you accept it in token of your loyal service, to the King and to Morg City, their fiefs and bonded allies, to go where called and do as bid?"

     "Say 'yes'," Galt said, taking his pipe out and muttering from the side of his mouth.

     "Er ... yes, I do," said Taryn hastily, cutting his eyes between the two Morgs. He straightened up. "Faithful and true. I do."

     "Receive the King's Mark," Roth barked, presenting it stiffly. Taryn took it in hand, looking at it curiously. He had handled marks before, but now it felt different. Heavier, somehow. Roth relaxed.

     "Welcome to the Loyal Fourteenth," he grinned. "Galt, why don't you send for somebody to get our new squire some clothes? Can't have him running around dressed like that, can we? Oh, and I could use some boots, too."

     "All right, dang ye. Just watch the gate till I get back." The old Morg turned and headed grumbling into the Guard House, pipe smoke trailing behind him like a cloud of crotchetiness. "Whoop-de-doo, a new recruit!"

     Roth sat down on the bench under the light, and Taryn sat down next to him. They looked out at the rain. After a bit Taryn sighed.

     "I hope I'm doing the right thing," he said. "Don't know if the mad lads will let me alone after this. Poacher turned gamekeeper, sort of thing."

     "Don't mind that none," said Roth. "The Fourteenth's moving out in a week, anyway, on winter rotation. By the time we get back, there'll be a whole new generation what don't know you, and you'll have fightin' skills they can't even dream of. What's more, you'll have the Guard at your back." He snorted cheerfully. "You could say we're the biggest gang in the whole City."

     Taryn laughed at that, perking up. He rubbed the gold mark in his hand. "Wonder where I should spend this?"

     "I know where you're gonna spend it," said Roth. "We're going to the Roaring Boar to celebrate. You still owe me for a bird and a bottle of Teleth's Sour!" 

   

Started: Oct. 24, 2018

First Draft Finished: 5:30 PM; Nov. 3, 2018

Notes

In the timeline of the Ortha stories, Sergeant Roth takes place about forty years before the events of Goldfire, the original epic. It is, canonically, the second Roth biographical story. It is also the origin story of Taryn, who goes in the tales from being a ‘street rat’ to a general (surpassing Roth, who remains an archetypal sergeant whatever his rank), to a king, to his death in the unfinished ‘Thrand’. The one outstanding physical characteristic of Taryn in Goldfire was his luxuriant moustache, which I record here in its humble beginnings.

A ’bustard’ is a large, heavily built, swift-running bird, capable of heavy flight, found in open country in the Old World. The birds were once common in England and abounded on the Salisbury Plain. They had become rare by 1819. The last bustard in Britain died in approximately 1832, but the bird is being reintroduced through batches of chicks imported from Russia. The adult male weighs about 44 pounds, slightly bigger than a turkey, so Roth could well be able to share it.

I wrote the poem The Wanderer’s Lament years ago in high school and decided that this was a good place to use it. Borl had his origins as a minor figure in Goldfire and went on to have a career as a secondary character in several other short stories. Jash and the Rogue Torben is obviously a story of destructive obsession, the Morg version of Moby Dick (torben: a gigantic kind of heavy shark), and ranna the equivalent of another terrestrial weed (‘an outlawed plant whose use causes exhilaration but whose overindulgence causes medical harm’ – The Morgish Lexicon).

It was in this story that I really started developing both the Morgish system of beards (Morgs have a complex relationship with their beards. The males calculate their lives’ seven stages by the changes in the growth, and over the ages certain beliefs had sprung up and grown entrenched about what your beard said about you; the Third Beard is the 'Beard of Decision', the time for the 'teenage' quest for a way in life) and the Army’s color-coded cloaks, based on the assumption that Roth must always have a red cloak. They are:

General: Blue

Colonel: Gold

Captain: Dark Red

Lieutenant: Green

Sergeant: Bright Red

Private: Brown

First Beard: Young male Morgs fully grow it about 10 years old, a milestone of their growth; the beard a Morg is born with, the Beard of Birth; Second Beard: the Beard of Youth, or Childhood; Third Beard: the Beard of Decision, the ‘teenage’ beard grown when a Morg's adolescence is over; Fourth Beard: the Beard of Growing, when one undergoes one’s apprenticeship in your chosen way; Fifth Beard: the Beard of Maturity, when you obtain the mastery in your way; Sixth Beard: the Beard of Age, or Wisdom; Seventh Beard: the Beard of Decline, or Withering.