Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Seven)

Korm sat on a rock in their makeshift tent and poked at his porringer. It was mostly made up of oatmeal, but Berb had shown a surprising talent for finding wild herbs over the months, and Prull had discovered a colony of hyrax, fattening for the winter. So the camp gruel at least had the tang of fennel and sage and a lick of meat in it for their last meal. Korm’s stomach twisted as he thought about tomorrow, and he gloomily prodded the porridge again.

Hyrax

Tomorrow was the last day of Camp, the final trial. After that, everyone would march back into Morg City, and go home for the Harvest Festival, some in triumph, some in simple relief to have done with the whole ordeal. Korm, as King, knew who would bear the brunt of responsibility in dozens of homes. He sighed.

Prull looked up sharply at that, then back at his bowl in exaggerated comic disappointment. 

“Eat your slop, Korm. You’re going to need all your energy for tomorrow’s fiasco.” He took a bite and grimaced. “Besides, it might be considered a war crime if we left any of this swill behind.”

“That’f a good ftew!” Berb protested. He held out an angry paw. “If you doefn’t want yourf, I’ll finish it off!”

“If it doesn’t finish you off first. Taste’s good for what it is, though,” he conceded.

“Not aff good aff my madra’f, or even my fifterfef,” Berb said modestly. “If they waf here cooking, you wouldn’t complain.”

“I bet not.” Prull cocked a pale eye at Korm. “Say, your Highness, you’re a scholar. Why don’t girls get sent to Camp?”

“Oh, they’re far too busy actually running things. Especially come wartime. We boys, we’re the drones.”

Prull laughed shortly, yellow beard shaking for a moment. He sighed.

 “Still, I think ‘stew’ is a rather generous term to apply here.” He took another reluctant bite. “I hear that King Nast’s boys got some wild oxen – or were they strays? – that they’re roasting up in celebration.” He grinned sarcastically. “That Nast has all the luck, doesn’t he? Or maybe it’s just superior administration.”

“It’f cheatin’ iff what it iff!” Berb growled. “Even I knowf that, and I ain’t the fharpeft hammer in the bag!”

Prull opened his mouth as if to explain something, then shook his head, giving it up.

“Even so,” he said. “You’ve got to admit that it was a brilliant strategy, setting up camp where he did this time. Right up against the Stone Tombs? Nobody’s going to go sneaking up behind him, and that’ll be that many more guards to watch his perimeter.”

Berb shuddered, massive frame quaking.

“It’f fakker – facree – ,” he stammered.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sacrilegious’,” Korm said gently.

“It’f difrepectul!” Berb boomed. “Terrible bad luck’ll come of it, you’ll fee!”

“Why should it?” Prull asked. “They’re outside the wall, technically, so they’re not on hallowed ground, no more than we are. I don’t think even all the ghosts of all the judges laid to rest in the Third Tier could argue about that.”

“Pleafe don’t talk about ghoftf,” the big Morg begged. “I’m pretty fyure that’f bad luck too!” He closed his eyes and shivered. “My madra alwayf told me talef about how at night the old kingf hold court in the hollow hallf and the warriorf rife up to fight anyone who dare trefpaff, feeking their treafuref! They might hear uff talking about ‘em and come looking for uff!”

Prull grinned.

“And all the dead lawyers will sue us for slander, I suppose.”

“Don’t tease him, Prull,” Korm said. He turned to the big Morg. “It’s not a terrible place at all, Berb. I’ve been there many times with my Uncle Akko, mostly in the cemetery outside, of course. But sometimes they need a Witness present when they transfer old bones from the graves outside to the Ossuary within. It’s really very peaceful.”

“The Off … the Offoo ...?”

“The Ossuary. It’s a big chamber under the hill, at the very bottom. When the family tombs outside have a new occupant, the old bones are taken out and moved to the Ossuary, right under the tiers with the Kings and the Generals and the members of the Noble Houses.”

“Hah,” said Prull. “Still on the bottom, even in death.”

Korm smiled.

“Closer to Ortha, my Uncle Akko says. And even in time, as their burial chambers fill, the Houses mingle their dust with the poor folks in the Ossuary.” He scraped a last spoonful out of his bowl. “And Uncle Akko says that one day, when the weight of the dead equals the weight of the world, all spirits will return from the Halls of Waiting, take a body again, and there’ll be Bataluk, the final war between Light and Darkness.” He shoved the mush into his mouth, swallowed, and put the bowl aside. “That is, if you believe in such things.”

“Oh, I do, I do!” Berb said fervently. “I believef all the old talef.”

“Of course you do, you great big lump.” Prull patted him affectionately on the back. “Just like you know that a yellow-bearded Morg is a worthless, treacherous jinx.”

“Now, you iff a good fella,” Berb protested hurriedly. “You’fe my friend. You iff fmart, and helpful, and nife aff all get out, but …” He shrugged condescendingly and raised his hands, as if to indicate the whole situation. “Here we be. What’f the fcore atween the Kingdomf?”

Korm looked down, brought back to the matter hanging over their heads.

“We have fifteen,” he said quietly. “They have thirty-five.”

“Yes, and with the fifty points from our own little Bataluk tomorrow, the slaughter will be overwhelming. I wouldn’t be surprised if our troops just went ahead and surrendered, so they can get to their Autumn Cakes all the faster.” Prull threw his bowl to the ground. “I don’t see why this stupid game should be worth so much.”

“Last battles often are,” said Korm. “It’s who wins in the end that counts.” He smiled ruefully. “Just imagine. If by some miracle we captured their flag, that would give us sixty-five points and the victory.”

“I don’t see that happening,” Prull said gloomily. “Not with morale like it is.”

“But, by Mog, I’m gonna try!” Berb said grimly. “I won’t go down without a fight, I won’t! They better watch out!”

“Even you can’t take on the Wedge by yourself, my fearless friend. Nast’s bodyguard is sure to be clustered right around their flag, and that’s fifty of the biggest Morgs I’ve ever seen.”

“They’re fat.” Berb looked fierce. “I ain’t, no more.”

Korm thought about how true that was. Hard living and short commons had toughened the gigantic Morg up and slimmed him down. Korm, on the other hand, had bulked up, not hugely, but with more muscle on his skinny arms and legs. It made his beard look smaller in comparison, and sometimes he thought that his troops’ confidence had drained away in proportion to his beard seeming to shrink.

“Still, one to fifty isn’t fighting odds. And a wisp like me at your side won’t count for much more,” Prull said. “But I’ll be there.”

Berb reached out proudly and thumped him on the back, almost knocking him off from his stony seat.

“You iff a brave fella, my friend.”

“Not braver than you, big guy,” Prull said, rubbing his shoulder good-humoredly. “For all my talk, you wouldn’t find me in the Stone Tombs either, especially at night.”

“Woon’t nobody go there at night,” Berb agreed. “That’f why that coward Naft iff parked up there. He knowf nobody will.” He reached down and started gathering up the bowls, Prull’s from the ground and Korm’s by his side.

Korm grabbed the big Morg’s arm suddenly as it came close. Both his lieutenants looked at him in surprise. The bookish Morg was sitting bolt upright, staring into space. They watched him, frozen, until his brown eyes came into focus and he gazed at them as if just waking up.

“They wouldn’t, would they?” he said slowly. “And Nast … knows that.” His muzzle began to curl into an uncontrollable, unconscious smile.

“Gentlemen, how long until sunset?” he asked. “I think I have a plan.”

Notes

I suppose this stew commemorates one of the most notable meals in all my life, the stew (much nicer than Berb's, but still pretty basic) Pop made after the night of the famous Tornado Camp, when we were stuck in the bottom of the Knodel's field. That one was thick with beef and potato gravy, mostly flavored with pepper and a hint of ash. I wonder whatever happened to Pop's old 'camp cauldron', squat and black cast iron, cooked over the primitive portable fire 'grill' that rested open to the ground and was used at home in the garden for containing burning trash?

Quite a bit of Morg Lore and beliefs about death and the afterlife are developed here; including the concept of Bataluk (pronounced with a long u as in oo), a word borrowed of course from the Ring Inscription in The Lord of the Rings and applied by us boys to any apocalyptic Final Battle (note the 'battle' sound there?) in our action figure 'playings.'

Each of these little segments of the story fall rather neatly into 'marches,' that is to say, parts that I can write before I have to take a breather. Looking back, I'm kind of surprised how often the Harvest Festival crops up in these stories, though it is one of the oldest concepts in the 'mythos.' Almost an 'Old Year's Day', a combo of Christmas and Halloween as well.

 Hyrax are small, stout, thickset, herbivorous mammals. Hyraxes are well-furred, rotund animals with short tails. Modern hyraxes are typically between 30 and 70 cm (12 and 28 in) in length and weigh between 2 and 5 kg (4 and 11 lb). They are superficially similar to marmots or over-large pikas but are much more closely related to elephants and sienians. Hyraxes have a life span of 9 to 14 years. Both types of "rock" hyrax live on rock outcrops.

Almost all hyraxes are limited to Africa; the exception is the rock hyrax (P. capensis) which is also found in adjacent parts of the Middle East.

Hyraxes were a much more diverse group in the past encompassing species considerably larger than modern hyraxes. The largest known extinct hyrax has been estimated to weigh 600–1,300 kilograms (1,300–2,900 lb), comparable to a rhinoceros.

References are made to hyraxes in the Hebrew Bible. In Leviticus they are described as lacking a split hoof and therefore not being kosher. Some of the modern translations refer to them as rock hyraxes. The words "rabbit", "hare", "coney", or "daman" appear as terms for the hyrax in some English translations of the Bible. Early English translators had no knowledge of the hyrax, so they did not give a name for them, though "badger" or "rock-badger" has also been used more recently in new translations, especially in "common language" translations. - Wikipedia

A hyrax, of course, already appeared in "Mighty Mikku," an earlier one of the Tales of the Morgs, as one of the young Roth's scavangings. I dare say Morgs don't know from kosher.