Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 13 and Conclusion)

The observers turned to Korm’s army, who were still crowding around him and his lieutenants, shaking their hands and pounding them on the back - even Prull, whose coloring in the general celebration seemed to be forgotten. But the crowd went quiet as the officials approached, drawing away from Korm, Prull, and Berb to give them room. Berb was the last to catch on, waving the flags joyfully until he noticed the older Morgs staring at him. He stopped and stepped back bashfully.

Thron approached, gazing at Korm but talking to Drim.

“Now then, Commandant, I believe that before this exercise Mister Nast had thirty-five points and Mister Korm had fifteen?”

“Yes, sir.”  Drim said.  His answer was prompt, but he seemed to be recalling some lost paradise.

“Well, Mister Korm, with the fifty points of this drill you now have SIXTY-FIVE points, and that, my boy, leaves you the winner, the last King standing, the victor of this year’s Camp Service.” He clapped a heavy claw onto the skinny Morg’s shoulder. Korm winced a bit at the grip. “Congratulations!” The crowd behind them cheered. Thron turned to Drim, who was stewing stiffly by his side.

“And congratulations to you, Colonel! You’re obviously better at polishing turds than you think. If someone trained under your command can come back from so far behind, I predict a long and fruitful career for you as Commandant here in Camp Service.” He looked back at Korm.

“King Korm. You showed both extraordinary bravery and thinking outside the box.”

“Thank you, sir,” Korm answered, head bowing under the compliment.

“Don’t thank me!” Thron snapped brusquely, frowning. “Extraordinary bravery and thinking outside the box will get you and your troops killed nine times out of ten in the real world. I’m just grateful that there’s no way you will ever be my King. And I’m glad Mog Gammoth wasn’t here to see this little sideshow.”

 He grinned, then took a pouch from his belt and handed it to Korm.

“Here’s your prize, boy. One hundred marks. Use it well, King Korm.” At his signal, an aide brought up his horse. Thron jumped up onto it and wheeled around. “Pack it up and move it out!” he commanded. “We head back to the City in half an hour!”

He turned his mount and rode off back towards the observation point, harness jingling. The rest of the committee hastened to follow. Korm turned to Prull and Berb, shaking the leather pouch a little in wonder, feeling its weight.

“I … I understand it’s traditional to spend this in feasting your kingdom,” he said.

“Forget that!”  Prull said gleefully. “The lads have already snuck up and informed me that for sparing them the shame of having to crawl home in defeat, they’re pooling their money and they will be treating you!”

“I’f pledged a whole filver fixpenfe myfelf!” Berb cried happily.

Prull looked cheerfully annoyed.

“Berb, I know for a fact that you don’t have two copper kretts to rub together!”

“Well, no.” Berb was ashamed, then stubbornly loyal. “But I would if I could!”

Korm reached up to pat him on the back.

“I know you would.” He drew a deep breath and straightened up, clutching his stick firmly. “Well, come on. Let’s break camp and get ready to move.” He was happy to be leaving, but a little wistful at the thought. “It’s the last time we’ll be doing that, anyway.”

Prull put his hand on the other side of Berb’s back.

“Next stop, Morg City and the Happy Horse Inn! I’m buyin’ the first keg of ale!”

They marched off together, a spring in their step, Berb proudly holding their flag high.

 

It was three days later. After the return to Morg City, there had been the celebration, the Harvest Festival, and the parting of friends. Korm was sitting in the old apartment again with Uncle Akko. Korm, after spending months out under the sky surrounded by hundreds of others, was finding the familiar apartment cozy, but even smaller than he remembered it.

There had been little time for them to be with each other – the old Morg being busy with the Autumn Blessings – but now they had spent the afternoon together, with Korm retelling his experiences at camp. He hadn’t told Akko all the details about how he managed to capture the flag, as he’s not sure how the old Morg would take the news of the not completely reverent passage through the graveyard. Akko merely knew that he snuck into camp and made the exchange, and with instinctive discretion and a feeling of proud wonder, wasn’t asking for any specifics. 

“And the next morning, believe it or not,” Korm concluded, “Prull went in and signed up into the regular army. And they took him!”

“No! He wasn’t still drunk, was he?” Akko grinned.

“Sober as a judge, I swear. Said he had to make some kind of living, and now that he had some experience, he’d give the soldier’s life a shot.”

“Well, was the recruiting officer drunk, then? These Autumn Festivals …”

“No!” Korm laughed.

“But a yellow beard … army folk are not the most broadminded …” The old Morg looked dubious.

“Well, they all knew about our unexpected triumph, you see, and were most impressed. And as one of my lieutenants …” Korm shrugged happily. “They were willing to give him a chance. It probably didn’t hurt that Berb signed up with him. Berb thinks Prull is his lucky charm now.” He smiled. “I imagine Berb’s fist will be making sure Prull gets the respect he deserves.”

Uncle Akko cackled.

“Good for him. There’s nothing in the Law, really, against his kind; that’s all in the Lore, which is a slippery fish, at best, and gets in people’s heads more than it should. You’ll find out, when you’re a Witness, that you’ll be having to compromise quite a bit, not with the Law, but with folks’ expectations.”

Korm hesitated.

“Yes. About that … I still have those hundred marks …”

“And very useful those will be to you, too. We should stash them away in the Reserves …”

“No. Uncle Akko, I was thinking …” Korm tried to pick his words carefully, gently. “I never had a chance before. Things have always been so tight. But I always wanted …” He paused, then just brought it out. “I want to go to the New Royal School!”

Akko looked puzzled.

“But you don’t need to go to school to be a Witness …” he began reasonably. Korm stopped him, taking one of his old claws in both hands.

“You don’t understand. Oh … it’s a fine life, uncle, a noble life, and it’s best for you, but I’ve always wanted to be … well, a scholar.”

Akko’s face fell.

“A scholar.” He sat back. “That means you’ll be leaving.”

“It’s only the other side of the City,” Korm urged. “I could visit you every day!”

Akko smiled sadly.

“Now that would be pretty selfish of me, wouldn’t it, to ask that of you? It’s rather an engrossing life, so I’ve heard, if you take it seriously, and I know you’d take it seriously.” He looked wistful, remembering. “You’ve always been that way, since you were little … scholarly … you have a talent in that direction. But I’m rambling, aren’t I?” He straightened up, clearing his throat.

“You know what? In my prayers I’ve always asked Mog to look over you and help you find your way in life. And since He has made this possible for you …” He looked up at Korm decisively. “This must be the way you are destined to go.”

“Oh, Uncle Akko!” Korm stood up and hugged the old Morg’s frail figure. “Thank you. Thank you for understanding.” He wiped a tear away and sniffed. “Well! I’d best get busy then. The new semester starts in a couple of weeks, and I’ve got to get over there and register.”

“You run along now, and get it sorted,” the old man said kindly. “I’ll see you at supper; we have fish tonight!” Korm rushed happily out of the room, after a final hug. Akko sat for a moment, then quietly shook his head and stood up on tottering feet. He walked into his bedroom, which was only a curtained-off alcove. There on a little shelf over his simple bed was a closed private shrine. He unhooked the doors and opened them slowly.

Inside was an ancient icon depicting Mog Gammoth. If Korm had still been there he might have recognized a figure that looked like an uncanny idealized portrait of the Watchman from the Hill of Silence. Akko raised his hands, palms up, eyes looking heavenward – or at least at the ceiling. He sighed dubiously.

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. He looked down again and closed the shrine.

 

--Rewrite finished 12:40 PM, 10/14/2020.

Notes

And the Autumn Festival seems to have once more wormed its way into another tale of Ortha. Funny how that seems to have a way of happening. Consistent world-building or a paucity of imagination? The truth is, I just like it; it's an in-world version of Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year, crammed into one. I forget who it was (James P. Blaylock?) that held that all fantasy tales should end with Christmas, with celebration and reward and hope.