(Not) Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 9)

At first Korm’s going was easy. He was most familiar with the entrance, after all, having come often with his uncle, and the grounds here were well kept, the stone path worn but broad. Soon he had to take a turn, however. The further he travelled through the gloom, the more broken and sketchier the trails through the graveyard became, overgrown with the dry and dying grasses of summer. The tombs he passed, initially closer together and almost comforting, as if keeping company, got farther apart and lonelier.

A creeping mist began to rise, and it was curled and beaten by the uneasy wind. It was obvious to Korm that there was more wind high overhead, because the clouds were still racing, covering and revealing the moon haphazardly, bathing the tombs with startling clarity sometimes and then plunging them into shadow at incalculable intervals. The wind hurried him on.

The graveyard was dotted with dark evergreens and the autumnal skeletons of other trees, poplar and sycamore. Their sighing and rustling in the wind did little for Korm’s composure. The stealthy movement of – birds? rats? – he could hear moving through the undergrowth in the quieter moments wasn’t helping either. He knew that’s what they were, knew it was the wind, the trees, the clouds, the moon, but some basic primitive little part in the back of his brain was moaning at him, telling him that that’s not all that it might be. He was, after all, surrounded by the lonely houses of the dead.

He started to walk faster, unconsciously, at first, then faster. Surely, surely he should have reached the wall already. He couldn’t see or hear anything ahead of him that might guide his way, just more endless graveyard. If I just walk straight ahead, Korm thought … or was he going in circles? He’d lost his bearings, and the panicky thought that he might have been led astray began creeping into his head. He was really running now, heedless, dodging trees and tombs as they reeled dimly into his sight and then seemed to flee away as he passed.

His muzzle hung open, tongue lolling as he panted in panic, thoughtlessly whimpering to himself.

“Mog help me … Mog help me …”

Suddenly he tripped and fell headlong to the ground, scattering mist and fallen leaves. At the same moment there was a burst of light and a harsh voice called out gruffly.

“Who goes there?”

Korm looked up from the rank grass where he had fallen, paw raised against the light. He squinted into the brightness. “K … Korm,” he managed to stammer. “I’m Korm.”

The voice chuckled, dropping its challenge at that, and suddenly became more genial, and a little amused.

“Oh ho, so it’s King Korm, is it? And what might you be doing in the Stone Tombs at this time o’ night, eh?”

The light dimmed to a bearable level as Korm sat up slowly, his gradually adjusting eyes peering at a figure holding the light, which he saw was now obviously a lantern being turned down to a more ambient setting. In a moment he could see its bearer more clearly.

It was an elderly Morg, rather ropily muscled. His beard was coal-black except for streaks of white that ran down from the corners of his mouth. His face was wizened with wrinkles, more ancient looking than any Korm had ever seen. Still, the whites of his eyes were clear around the deep black pupils that looked at him in amusement as he scrambled to his feet.  The old Morg had a tall pike in one hand and the lantern in the other, and there was a horn hanging at his side. As he got up, Korm recognized the rather antique armor he was wearing. It was like that worn by the ceremonial guards of the City.

Korm brushed his own plain uniform down, eying him nervously. “Are … are you on Watch here?”

“Aye, I keep an eye on the place.” The old Morg leaned forward. “But you haven’t answered my question, yet. What are YOU doing here? It’s not quite the time o’ day to go visiting Gramma’s bones, now, is it?” he asked, raising grizzled eyebrows.

Korm scrambled to his feet, a little embarrassed at his panic, and slapped the grass from his knees. “I’m on a mission, if you must know.” He straightened his shirt, sniffing. “If you know my name and who I am, you must know that Camp Service is still on maneuvers.”

“Even so, why are you wandering about the Stone Tombs?” the other probed. “What can you possibly want here?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” Korm said, suddenly on his dignity. “There’s no law against it, is there?  What’s your name, anyway?

The watchman chuckled, shaking his helmeted head.

“Oh, no, I’m not having you report me. That would only be trouble, for both of us.”

“Well, then … let’s just leave each other alone, shall we?” Korm pleaded. The presence of another Morg was restoring his balance. “I promise you, I’m not up to any mischief here. You go your way, and I’ll go my way.”

The watchman leaned on his pike and a smile wrinkled his muzzle. “Sounds fine by me, only you’re not going quite right your own way, are you, Master Korm?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you’re headed for that bastard Nast’s camp, you’re a little off course.”

Korm almost frowned, then tried to look unconcerned. “Oh?” He picked up his stick where it had fallen and brushed his shoulders ostentatiously, to buy time. “What makes you think I’m headed that way?”

“Oh, please,” the watchman growled in amusement. “You’re not here to put flowers on Grampa’s grave. And I do hear a fair bit about what’s going on in these parts. You’re a King of the Camp, at least for now, and you’re obviously here on some last desperate mission.” He shouldered his pike. “I have to admit, son, you’ve got some tracha to be out here on your own. Your Uncle Akko is right about you.”

Korm’s surprise was obvious. He was never a good actor. “You know my Uncle Akko?”

“Yes. He talks about you quite a lot when we visit.”

At first Korm was puzzled, then it struck him. “Ah. I suppose as a Witness, he is out here pretty often, isn’t he?”

“Ye-e-es,” The old Morg said vaguely. His eyes searched the darkness around them, but then he focused again on Korm. “Well, come on. I’ll guide you to the part of the wall bordering Nast’s camp.” He gestured into the shadows. “You’ve gone a little too far north.”

“Well, thank you, I guess, but I’m … I’m not really sure I should. I mean, isn’t taking your help kind of cheating? That’s what Nast’s been doing all along, you know,” the younger Morg said bitterly. “I’d rather not start down that path, myself.”

“Naw!” the old watchman scoffed. “‘Tain’t cheating to take some advice, and that’s all I’m giving you. The rest is up to you.” He saw Korm looked at him doubtfully. “You’d have found your way eventually,” he reassured him. “There’s a damn wall around the place for you to follow! We’re just … speeding things up a little.”

Korm wrestled with his conscience a minute. “All right,” he agreed at last. “I suppose that’s reasonable. Lead the way, but … quietly, please. Stealth is the key to the success of this venture!”

“You got it, your highness,” The watchman seemed amused by Korm’s tone of command. He shouldered his pike and raised the lantern, then announced heartily, “Off we go!”

They marched into the darkness, the Watchman leading. Korm marveled at the old Morg’s sense of purposeful direction and his silent sure-footedness. There was not a clank of his armor, a flap of his cloak, or a thud from his boots. They marched a while in this silence, with only the night sounds and Korm’s occasional stumbling for company. After a while, his curiosity got the better of him and Korm broke the quiet.

“So-o-o …” he began. “You know pretty much what’s been happening in the Camps, then.”

The old Morg shrugged.

“I’m always watching. And listening, when people care to talk.”

“So, you know how my year’s been going.”

“I have a passing familiarity with events, yes.” He marched on.

“Since you’re so old …” The watchman stopped abruptly and shot him a sour look. Korm hastily corrected himself.

“Experienced, that is, and so ready to give out advice, what do you think of the way I’ve been handling things?”

The old Morg grunted and walked on. Korm followed quietly. After a judicious moment, the watchman spoke up.

“You’ve done well enough, lad, with honor, if not with much success. That might count more when you stand in the Final Courts than it does here, but for now …” He sighed. “You might just have to grit your teeth and take it.” They walked on a bit in silence, then he chuckled. “I must admit, that was a gutsy move when you chose the pale Morg.”

“Prull has been a good lieutenant!” Korm said defensively, a little angry. “I wouldn’t have done as well as I have without him!” A little fish of doubt floated up in his mind. “But maybe I shouldn’t have put him in such a difficult position. People thinking like they do.” He shook his head. “I wonder if there is something to folks like him being under Karn’s Curse.”

The watchman glared at him.

“Karn wasn’t under any curse; folks are just reading that into the old tales. Go back to the books and look.” His wrinkled face softened. “Sure, a father would have to be unhappy if his son left him; he might even have thought it was treachery at the time to leave with the Nine Hundred with the threat of war looming so near.” He turned away and moved on. “But I think Karn had to go his own way. I think Mog loved him even more than his other sons, maybe because he was different and had such a hard time.”  Korm watched his old back straighten and stiffen as they walked along. “Anyway, I don’t think folks inherit character with the color of their beards,” he said briskly. “I’ve seen plenty brown and black beards walking around that I wouldn’t trust with a basket of rotten apples. Speaking of which …”

He stopped. Korm gave a little gasp of surprise. They had reached the wall.

It was only about four feet tall. On the other side was a screen of dark trees; that was why Korm hadn’t seen any lights up to now. This close, however, he could peer through them and see fires and dark figures passing across the flames and hear the revelry coming muted all the way to the back of the camp.

“I am none too pleased with Master Nast and his folk,” the old Morg said angrily, and a little too loudly for Korm’s comfort. “They haven’t even dug any bogs; they’re all just pissing against my wall!” he barked. “No discipline, and no respect!”

Korm grabbed the watchman’s shoulder, shushing him and pulling him down until they were crouching behind the crumbling stone barrier. They sat there a moment, the watchman’s eyes bright with amusement, until Korm was absolutely sure they hadn’t been seen. Slowly he rose up to peer cautiously into the enemy camp.

“Well, here you are,” the watchman said huskily as he crouched by his side. “This is far as I go. But good luck, lad, with whatever you’re doing. Remember, follow a wall long enough and eventually you’ll find the gate.” Korm felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’m rooting for you, son.”

Korm was hardly paying attention.

“Thanks,” he whispered absently, then hauled himself up onto the stones with both hands and sat straddling there a moment, listening to make sure his movement had not been noted. He glanced back down at the watchman.

The old Morg was not there. He had vanished into the darkness and the curling mists, and there was only a faint rustle of wind in the grass. Korm peered around a moment, marveling at his stealth, then dismissed him from his mind. There was a much bigger problem at hand, that needed all his attention. With as much care as possible, he dropped quietly down to the other side of the wall.

 

Notes

Since Korm invokes his name, this might be a good place to refresh our memory about Mog: "Mog Gammoth is ‘everybody’s grampa’ (which is more or less the translation of ‘gammoth’) ... While kings (elected executives) among Morgs and the humbler office of Witnesses are obvious stand-ins for Mog himself, they are mere underlings or substitutes and liable to criticism." Mog is the Morgish equivalent of Adam, but 'in world' "there is more evidence that Mog Gammoth trod the world in the First Days than that your great-grandfather ever existed", as Belmok tells Korm at one point. And now it comes to me … that while we have plenty of Adams, no other Morg has ever been given the name Mog, or ever will.” 

After his death, Mog held a sort of spiritual position for all Morgs, similar to but different from the Yorns, limited ‘angelic’ powers in the world. He was spiritual, that is, but having the connection of being one’s actual Grampa many times backwards and of understanding what it means to be a flesh-and-blood creature, struggling through life. As such, he is invoked in times of trouble, and though no Morg believes he has infinite power or always answers, his memory or idea can be helpful in times of trouble, as encouragement and ‘company’, if nothing else.

‘Tracha’ is a Morgish word that refers analogically to courage or nerve, but also is more technically referencing part of the male anatomy. I need probably say no more; but it’s ‘beard’, of course.