It was the early grey hour
before dawn. Near the back of the Black-and-Brown camp there was barely a sound
except for the low muttering of watch fires dying out, with every now and then
a pop and a brief spark. Inside Nast’s tent, however, there was no peace.
The tent was quite a
contrast to Korm’s makeshift headquarters. It was spacious, the canvas thick
and almost new, the floor free of stones and covered with a thatch of soft
grass that had been gathered to cushion the great leader’s steps. Scattered
around were signs of luxury, including an elaborate washstand with mirror and
jug, a tapestry depicting an ancestor’s military victory. There were chairs,
and a table bearing the ravaged remains of a feast and some empty bottles. Most
luxurious of all was the sturdy cot, like an enormous wicker cradle, filled
with cushions, heavy furs, and silken coverlets.
For all its luxury, Nast lay
there uneasily, tossing and moaning. He was having a dream.
In this dream he was sitting
on a throne in front of an admiring court, stroking his thick whiskers in
satisfaction, combing his black, shovel-like beard with caressing, proud claws.
There was soft applause and murmurs of praise from all sides. His eyes squinted
with pleasure and his muzzle grinned uncontrollably at this approbation.
Suddenly there was a note of
unease and muttering from the crowd. Nast opened his eyes wide at the sound and
looked from side to side but could see no reason for the growing nervousness
and even repulsion on the faces around him. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.
Then he looked down and realized in shock what was going on.
With every pass of his paw,
more and more hunks of hair were falling out of his beard and fluttering to the
floor. His bloated, pimply throat was already half-way exposed, revealing
bloody scabs and scaly skin. To his horror, he found he could not stop himself:
with each congratulatory rake of his nails more hair fell floating to the
floor.
Some of the shadowy crowd
got up and left in disgust, while others sat rooted in their chairs, gazing at
him with eyes fixed in judgmental scorn. He writhed, unable to move from his
seat. From nowhere he felt an arm grabbing his shoulder, shaking him.
Nast woke up with a cry. A
dim figure was bending over him. The burly Morg lashed out instinctively in
fear and punched it full in the face, sending it reeling to the floor. The next
moment, as the dream cleared, he saw it was his adjutant, who has been trying
to gently shake him awake.
“Who is it?” His voice was
wild with sleep. His lackey stared at him, a look all too like the ones he had
just been seeing in his dream. “What is it?!”
The adjutant slowly got to
his feet, saluting with his stick, and resentfully feeling his jaw.
“Officer Ken, reporting,
sir. Sir, you said you wanted to be woken up the minute the General and
his party arrived.” His voice was surly. “Well, they’re here, and
setting up an observation point between the camps.”
“Already? What time is it?”
Nast struggled to heave himself out of his nest of bedding but couldn’t, head
still woozy with drink. He thrust out a peremptory paw and the reluctant lackey
took it, helping to haul him up.
“About a half-hour to
sunrise, Sir. And the attack.”
“Crap! Why do they have to
have these things so early?” Nast grabbed a cup from the table with some dregs
of wine still in it, slurped it hastily, gargled, then spat it to the floor.
“Where are Tchoz and Adrik?”
“They’re up and kicking the
troops awake, sir.” His tone was acid. “It was a pretty full night, even for
those on watch. Sir. Not a lot of sleep.”
“They can sleep when they’re
dead,” Nast said absently. His voice was still harsh with sleep. He looked
around wildly. “Stick, stick, stick, stick … gotta have my stick …” The sudden memory surfaced, like a torben from
a stormy sea, that he might have thrown his into the fire last night when he
was feeling a little chilly. That made him pause. He looked at the adjutant.
“Give me your stick.”
The other Morg was taken
aback. “But, sir, we’re not supposed to …”
“STICK!!” Nast bellowed, both claws held out.
The lackey handed it over reluctantly and Nast grabbed it without a word of
thanks. That solved the problem as far as he was concerned. He turned away to
straighten his uniform, which was stained with wine and splashes of food. “Go!
Make sure Tchoz and Adric have all the troops assembled on the frontline, ready
to attack. I’ll be there in a minute. Let’s get this thing over with!”
“Sir.” Ken was feeling a
little lost and resentful. He’d taken care of his stick since the beginning of
Camp, and its absence would count against him on his personal record. And now he had nothing to do with his hands.
He saluted Nast clumsily – they had always touched the sticks to the side of
their heads – and left the tent.
Grumbling and cursing, Nast sat down on one of the camp chairs and pulled his boots on. He got up and stamped over to the washstand to look at himself in the mirror. He lifted a hand to straighten his beard – and paused, looking into his staring bloodshot eyes as the memory of his dream flashed through his head. He turned away, without touching claw to whisker. “Eh. Good enough.”
Notes
Kind of a short section today, but I mean to post another tomorrow. Nast is an unpleasant piece of work, but one can hardly blame him. His family is obviously rich and privileged, and he's never been disciplined in much of anything except in respect for the more powerful members of his family. And they've never been humbled, but naturally done whatever they've wanted, sliding along with whatever they could get away with.
But he's also obviously got some sort of conscience, at least a deep inner realization of right and wrong, the tenets of Morgish morality imbibed unconsciously with every tale and legend he's ever heard. Either that or 'the gods' are sending him a remonstrance in his dreams. I like to think that afterwards he's learned some kind of lesson and improved. Maybe just a little bit. Maybe only to be, if not entirely virtuous, at least a little more circumspect in his raging selfishness.
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