Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Three)

This was, in ordinary times, the auction block. Now it was hung with banners along the wall, banners representing the crown, the legions, and even some of the greater guilds. Below those was a row of chairs, and seated there was a line-up of well-dressed Morgs, some fidgeting with boredom, some sitting up straight with self-importance. Craning his neck over the murmuring crowd, Korm could identify a royal herald, several sergeants in their dark red cloaks, and even an ancient general in blue.

But what really caught his eye and made him grind his muzzle was when he recognized Sekk, one of the most popular and social Witnesses in the City, looking smooth and sleek and bestowing smarmy, benevolent glances left and right. He fumed for a few seconds, then set it by. Why should this occasion be any different from the rest of life?

Then the five minutes must have passed, for there was another clanging of bells. The Herald stood up and formally approached the podium. He paused, then knocked on the stand slowly, three times, looking left and right over the crowd with a solemn expression. The crowd went silent.

“Cadets of Morg City!” he announced. “I welcome you to the King’s Camp Service. It may interest you to know that you have been counted, and that this year there are nine hundred and forty-six of you, something of a record number. Look around you! For these are all now your brothers, now and for years to come. May you remember that with pride! I welcome you in the King’s name!”

Korm flinched as everyone around him suddenly roared in salute, holding up a clenched right claw to the sky. He belatedly raised his own fist, then held it up a second too long when the others lowered theirs’. Luckily no-one seemed to be paying him any attention.

“I introduce you to Colonel Drim, the Commandant of your Camp,” the Herald barked. “He will be your overseer, your chief, and your ultimate authority for the next nine months. From now on you have no mother, no father, no family; there is only Colonel Drim, and he speaks as your sole commander, under the Throne. Respect him, as you would the King.”

He stepped back from the podium.

“The Colonel will address you.”

And suddenly it seemed to Korm that Drim was abruptly there, as if by magic. He had certainly not noticed the golden-brown cape of a colonel sitting on the stage, but now it was impossible to take his eyes off the precise, erect figure that was marching up to the podium like an inexorable sunrise. The big Morg stopped and glared out at the crowd over his scarred muzzle. He didn’t move his head but appeared to take in the group in one intense scowl.

“I am Colonel Drim, of the Fourteenth Regiment.” His voice was a deep, low rasp that somehow reached and echoed off the farthest wall. “You will refer to me only as Commandant; that is my function for this exercise. Failure to address me properly will be the occasion for a demerit. A demerit will earn you a punishment; the most common punishment is a flogging. You have been warned.”

You could have heard a pin drop. There wasn’t even a shuffling of feet.

“Now, some of you might think Camp is a jolly vacation away from home, sleeping out under the stars and having some rough and tumble brawls like you had with your gangs back behind the tavern at home. Some of you with older brothers may know better. Well, let me tell you how it’s going to be, so you’ll have no further illusions about the matter.

“Camp Service is a serious matter. It will demand your entire attention. And it may very well save your life, the lives of your family, and in some drastic instances, perhaps the existence of the whole City. This is not an exaggeration.”

He looked down at them grimly.

“We live under constant threat from the North. The fact that there has not been a direct assault on the City in your lifetime only means that the likelihood of an attack grows greater and greater. And when Barek – and his Ogres – strike, there may not be much time to train and prepare.

“That is what Camp Service is about!” he bellowed, his armored fist crashing onto the podium. Even some of the sergeants behind him jumped. “So that you are not caught with your diapers down when Ogres come knocking at the City gate! So that you can be mobilized at a moment’s notice to meet any threat.”

His voice became grave and even again.

“There may even be some of you, after the training, who will want to join the regular army. If you do, I congratulate you. There is no nobler sacrifice for your country. But even if you don’t, you can never say that you weren’t prepared for when war came upon you and you had to go marching out.”

Drim cleared his throat. His flat gravelly voice did not change.

“Now I’m going to explain how all this works. War is of necessity a clash between at least two combatants. For the purposes of training, you will be divided into two groups, and each will be headed by a ‘King’. Most training you will receive together, but the exercise of that training will be a competition between ‘Kingdoms’. You will learn how to give commands and how to receive them. You will learn the consequences of your decisions.

“Do not be deceived. The position of King has many responsibilities and few joys. If you are chosen as King, the onus of your Kingdom’s success is on you. You will learn when to take advice and when to stand firm. If you are not chosen King, you will have to learn to follow orders, when to question orders, and how to approach your leaders with subtlety and tact.

“The successes of your Kingdom will be tallied and recorded. At the end of the training there will be one final battle, after which there will be only one with the title of King, and his will be the victory.”

He smiled bleakly.

“You might be asking yourself, what do we win? Well, that’s just it. You win. The King gets a small prize from the City, to celebrate with his subjects, but more important is the honor you will receive for your triumph, the bragging rights for your moment of glory. If you think that little enough …” He paused. “Think of how little it will feel if you don’t win.

“I ask you now to choose your Kings. His Majesty’s Herald shall explain the process.” 

Notes

Most of the illustrations I choose for these stories are only rough approximations, to give a little skin or general feeling to the tales. The marketplace would have been a lot bigger and barer than the picture I chose; General Ursus from Beneath the Planet of the Apes gives only a generic idea of how Colonel Drim seems. My hand is not as steady as it once was or I might have drawn pictures as I did in the old days; nowadays I have to try to make pictures only with words.