Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 8)

An hour later found two Morgs in brown and black moving furtively across a plain in the Wastelands, sticks in hand. It was slightly past sunset and though shadowy, there was an afterglow in the air. A drift of clouds was coming in from the east, flying clouds that thickened and thinned without pattern or consistency. They covered and revealed the stars and the nearly full moon, which was just rising slowly in the east, though much slower that the clouds. The wind was blowing on and off in an uneasy motion. One of the Morgs, the brown-bearded one, had a light, lumpy pack on his back. Looming in front of them but slightly to their right rose a dark hill, blocking out what few stars might have shown in the eastern sky. Here and there, white sepulchers showed gleaming on the hillside in the flying moonlight.

Suddenly one of the Morgs stopped, panting, and leaned on his stick. His golden beard, pale in the stark light, wagged and waved as he tried to catch his breath.

“Did we have to come so far out this way?” Prull gasped.

The Morg with the backpack stopped and turned back.

“Yes, we must,” Korm panted, happy to take a rest himself. He caught his breath and gulped. “If we want to keep Nast’s lookouts from spotting us.” He pointed into the darkness ahead of them. “Besides, the gate is over here.”

“What of it? The wall’s no more than four feet high anywhere, you said. We can jump it easily.”

“It will be easier to find my way from there,” said Korm evasively. He looked a little shamefaced. “And it will be easier to find you on the way back. Besides, it’s more … fitting.”

Prull cocked his head.

“Oh, now don’t tell me you’re getting superstitious!”

“It’s not superstition!” Korm said hurriedly, then clenched his jaw. “But I’m not sneaking over a wall. It’s just fitting. It’s why I have to do this on my own, to stand or fall. I’m …” He shrugged. “… I’m the King.”

He started walking on. Prull paused a moment, then followed him with a sigh and a sardonic shake of his head.

They walked on in silence, except for the moaning of the wind and the trudge of their feet. After a while Prull spoke up.

“It was a good idea to leave Berb behind to guard the flag,” he said matter-of-factly.

 

“Yes,” Korm said. “He’s a fine fellow. Loyal. They’d be brave warriors that attempted to take the flag from him. They’ll think twice before they even try.”

Prull wrinkled his nose.

“And that goes for our own troops, at that,” he answered.

Korm turned abruptly, looking over his shoulder. “You’re joking again, aren’t you? You don’t think they’d actually do that?”

“Well, they’re not exactly happy …” Prull could see Korm’s worried face in the disastrous moonlight. He chose his words judiciously. “… but probably not. They’ve got some self-respect left, anyway, or Berb will pound some into their skulls for them if they don’t.”

Korm relaxed a bit and they walked on.

“No,” Prull continued. “I meant it was a good idea to leave him at camp because it’s creepy enough out here already, and we’re not even at the Tombs yet. I’m pretty sure he’d be quaking like a bad pudding by now.”

In the gathering gloom, Prull could hear a smile in Korm’s voice.

“Don’t tell me that you’re feeling superstitious?”

Prull sounded offended.

“Of course not…” he began.

He was suddenly interrupted by a rising weird wail worming out from the darkness, chased by a distorted cackling on the wind. He gasped and jerked his head up, looking around, eyes wide. Korm turned to look at him in concern, startled by his reaction, then looked up wildly into the shadows around them. A drift of cloud skittered away from the face of the moon, and Korm froze. There in front of the Morgs was the Gate of the Stone Tombs.

It was not particularly ornate, a mere arch of rock. It was grim and rather primitive, stark in design, but with a hint of grace in its lines. The sudden gleam of moonlight made it shine like white bone.

Prull hardly noticed it. He stood stock still, his pale eyes rolled white in his unmoving head. 

“What … what was that?”

Korm thought fast, looking for an explanation to reassure himself as well.

“It must be from Nast’s camp. It’s … um …” He pointed. “It should be right over there!”

“I don’t see any fires …,” Prull breathed wildly.

“It’s the wall …, Korm reasoned. “The shoulder of the hill … with this wind there’s bound to be echoes …”

“The wind’s not blowing this way, Korm!” Prull panted. But the effort of trying to think was making him get a grip on himself. He smiled weakly. “Huh. Maybe I’m not as hard-headed as I think I am.”

Korm smiled.

“No-one could be as hard-headed as you think you are.” He grabbed Prull’s arm and squeezed it. “Look. Here’s the Gate. This is where I have to leave you. If I’m not back in, say, five hours – that should be plenty of time - head back for camp. I’ll either be behind you later, or I’ll have been captured. Whichever way, no reason for you to wait out here all night.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself?” Prull looked at him doubtfully.

“No worries.” Korm’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. “I’ve got my stick.” He tossed it up a bit, caught it firmly, and headed through the stark arch of the Gate.

Prull shook his head, grinning ironically. He sat down where the doorway met the low wall to wait, arms crossed. The grin slowly faded from his muzzle as he sat alone in the dark, leaning against the cold stone, and listening to the endless grieving of the wind. 

Notes

Hm. Not a lot to say at this point, at least I can't think of anything. It's pretty much just action. But remember Korm's lumpy pack. It's part of his plan.