IVRA: The Airish Folk
The most mysterious and elusive of the races, the
Ivra have bodies of an exceptionally fine and articulate nature, so that they
can be invisible, ride on the wind, or pass through solid matter. When they do
assume visible form, they are tall, thin, and beardless, of a regular and
flawless body type that varies little from person to person.
Although they have many attributes that are
generally associated with spirits, they are incarnate beings that are born, are
vulnerable, and die. Though they can pass through solid matter, it is
accomplished by an act of will and is not a constant quality of their nature;
enchanted objects or places guarded by spells are impassable to the Ivra, even
by these acts of will.
Invisibility is a rule of their nature; they assume visibility for any business with other races. They are nourished on sunlight and water and have no need of anything else. As a consequence, they have little to do with the other races or even the earth. They have no artefacts of any sort.
More can be learned about the Ivra by following the short story Eye of Darkness on this blog.
“NO!” Raksil roared, releasing
the Ivra in his anger and sending a red whiplash of power across the big Morg’s
face that sent him reeling backward with a spray of blood. The Yorn bent over the
wounded creature, crooning to it desperately, extending his power to draw the
blade slowly from Ferrik’s skull, knitting the wound as he went, until at last
the knife clattered to the bottom of the stony bed.
Raksil looked up, relieved that
his creation still lived, and turned to vent his rage on Belmok. But his
prisoners had fled.
The three companions fled
heedlessly back through the dark corridor, Leren in the lead, Belmok helping
the winded Thron along as he leaned on his staff. Even through the blood
streaming from his face and his squinting eye, the big Morg could tell that the
Ivra was weak and wounded somehow, its light flickering and flaring erratically.
Still, as they reached the
lighted levels once more, he could feel the muffling Ivran cloak descend over
them once more. Leren’s voice echoed faintly in his head.
“That was well done, friend
Belmok. It was a risky chance.”
“I don’t think I killed it,
though,” the big Morg panted as he ran. He hitched Thron’s arm up a little
higher on his shoulder. “I’m not used to that kind of slaughter. Do you think he’ll
follow?”
“I think not. Outside the
chamber the Yorn would draw … higher attention. He will not want that. He must
tend his Ferrik. But he will alert other guardians soon, if he has not already.
Ah. See. It begins.”
By now they were reached the nurseries,
and even the hatchlings were mewling loudly in terror, their nurses jumping
around in agitation, as at some subtle and silent alarm. Down the elevated
pathway, weapons clattering in their hands, a troop of Ogres came streaming
through the archway, staring wildly in all directions, eyes glowing with anger.
The fleeing Morgs were just able to squeeze past them, even occasionally
jostling a warrior as he went by, the careless brush with his enemies ignored
in the eager rampage ahead.
“That was very close. We shall
not speak any more,” the Ivra as they scurried through the door. “I must ...
preserve my concentration.”
As they retraced their steps
Belmok felt his anxiety, but also a frantic hope, growing ever greater. If only
they could make it out of the mountain! He tried not to think about it, but
only concentrated on navigating their escape, room by room, level by level,
dashing the blood from his eyes, struggling to see their way. When Thron seemed
to recover a little and catch his wind, his hope rose. As they encountered
groups or single sentries, his heart fell. When they passed a troop of guards
in their way and Thron managed to push a straggling Ogre blocking their way
into a spider-pit, Belmok almost barked aloud at its squeals as it was swarmed
by a horde of spiders. Then he felt a rush of guilt. Besides, there was neither
time nor energy to spare as he hurried on.
They were on the level that
they had entered on, though still far from the gate, and Belmok’s expectations
had been frantically rising, when suddenly Thron broke away from him,
shattering the Ivra’s fragile concentration. In an instant both Morg’s were
visible, and Belmok cried out as he saw the soldier plunging into a side
chamber. He lurched after him but was almost instantly met by Thron emerging
again from from what he now saw was an armory, a black Ogre scimitar in his
hand.
“Lost my sword back there,” he
answered Belmok’s wild questioning stare. “I ain’t going forward without a
weapon.” He grabbed the disbelieving scholar by the arm again. “Come on, let’s
go!”
They scrambled forward together
and felt Leren engage the cloak barely in time to avoid a hurrying line of
lesser Ogres trot past them and into the just-vacated room.
As they approached the front
gate and possible freedom, the Ogre patrols grew less frequent, but more
orderly, disciplined and wary. The Morgs had to slow down and move more
carefully themselves, and Belmok noticed nervously that he was beginning to
hear his own gasping breath or the odd footfall from Thron’s iron-heeled boots
ringing through the hallways. Leren’s power, it was obvious, was failing, and
with it their protective cloak. If the Ogres noticed, or if it failed
completely … the big Morg shuddered and hurried his companion on.
They passed the final tunnel and
rushed into the gateway hall with a desperate burst of speed, and then halted
in dismay. The gigantic iron gates were shut and barred, certainly immovable by
two tired Morgs, and the foot-high open space twenty feet at the top showed that
it was the early morning again, and hours before the doors would be opened and
the hordes go swarming in and out once more.
Belmok stood for one despairing
moment, gazing longingly up at the sunlight. Then Leren whispered into his ear
again.
“There, to the right.”
Belmok looked. On either side
of the great gate there was a door, only big enough for one of the smaller
Ogres, that he hadn’t noticed while they had been slipping inside. He tugged
Thron’s hand, and the soldier must have gotten the message too, for he
immediately followed his lead.
Inside the doorway there was a
spiraling stairway going up. They started to climb it, one exhausted step at a
time, and at the first turn out of sight of the hall, the Ivran cloak dropped,
and the wan figure of Leren appeared.
“Rest a moment here. When we go
forward again … do so as quietly as you can. I … must retain energy for our
final escape … if escape we can. I shall not … desert you … but I must …
conserve…” He was suddenly gone.
“Well, that was reassuring,”
Thron complained,
“Save your breath,” Belmok
husked. “We’ll need it.” He tried to put his hand up to his right eye but
couldn’t, only wincing away at the touch. His weak left eye was blurry, and he
reached down for his ocular that still bounced unheeded on its ribbon. As he
drew it up, he saw that its crystal had been cracked across but had not broken.
He stashed it back away in his tunic regretfully.
“Are you ready?” Thron
whispered. “Daylight’s wasting, I think.”
“Yes. Quiet now.”
It was hard to stifle their
grunts and groans as they trudged up steps not for Morgish legs, but they did
so well that they surprised the sentry at the room on top so much that it had
no time to make any noise before Thron sprang forward and slit its throat. The
soldier watched the Ogre thrash briefly in a puddle of its spurting purplish
blood. When it was dead, Thron looked up at Belmok in wan satisfaction.
“Told you I needed a weapon.”
“Very good,” came a whisper,
and Leren was with them, the palest of outlines in the sun that came streaming
into the shadowy room. “There is a rope ladder, see, bundled in the corner.
Climb down, and I will cloak you from the sight of the watch-room on the other
side. Make for our camp of last night, and then we will … we will … rest again.
Go. Hurry.”
The Morgs needed no urging but
had soon unfurled the knotted ladder and almost sailed down, the rough
iron-silk knots slithering through their claws as they spurned the rungs in
their haste. The moment they touched the ground the Ivran cloak closed around
them, but patchy and tattered and growing thinner as they sprinted for shelter,
and dropping completely as they dove into the rocky turnoff that hid the
approach to the shelter they seemed to have left so long ago, safer for the
moment but in danger still, in the shadow of the looming Ogre mountain
fortress.
Belmok and Thron crawled
through the tumbled rocks to the camp and found Leren there before them. Belmok
was shocked to see the Ivra sitting on a stone, hands on knees, staring
unblinking at the ground. He had never seen it do anything other than stand.
The long tendrils of hair were barely moving. Thron cast himself panting down
to the ground, but Belmok moved slowly over to Leren, leaning on his staff, and
looked at him in concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The Ivra looked up.
“As a matter of fact, I am
not,” it said, stoically as ever. “I have been trying to replenish my energy,
but the Yorn’s attack seems to have … undone something in me. I estimate that
this one shall endure only a few minutes more, at most. I am sorry to leave you
in such a place.”
Leren suddenly reached out and
touched Belmok’s arm. This, too, was a first. It felt as light and cold as the
brush of a butterfly’s wing.
“You must return,” the Ivra
said sternly. “Somehow return. Tell the Dunwolf all you have seen; perhaps he
can find a way to tell my people. And warn your own people about this new …
plot.”
“You know I shall do my best,”
Belmok promised gravely.
“I have found that to be …
considerable.” Leren lapsed into silence.
“Leren, my friend.” Belmok
hesitated to break into the Ivra’s last moments, but he had to know. “This
other Ivra … your friend … that’s why you really came here, isn’t it?”
There was a pause.
“I must reveal it,” Leren said,
almost sighing. “It is why a took up an interest the Ogres, and in this area,
after the disappearance … this was my friend’s interest. No, friend is too pale
a term. Quellentelliqtairentair” – Leren’s voice lingered over every syllable –
“Was my … there is no word, in any tongue. When I found that hidden eye of
darkness and had the hope and fear that it might be that one’s prison … I had
to know. And now I do.” Again, the fading voice almost sighed. “Soon, we shall both
be together, past hope and fear. It is well.”
“It was truly done,” Belmok
said gently, smoothing his tousled, bloody beard with one claw. “And good shall
come of it, I trust. This journey will not be in vain, but will help many.”
“I thank you for coming,” said
Leren, looking up into the scholar’s face. “Your eye. It is wounded.” The hand
went from the Morg’s arm to his head, and Belmok felt a slight tingling. The
hand dropped away, exhausted. “There. It is knit together, but I do not … I do
not think it will ever see again …” And then the Ivra was gone, in a sigh of
wind and a cloud of mist that dissipated into the dry chill air.
Belmok and Thron left the camp
as quickly as they could, after an uneasy rest and a hasty meal. Before night fell
they found the best shelter they could and spent an anxious night watching in
turns as increased Ogre troops went tramping through the darkness, obviously
stirred up by the recent assault on their mountain. Belmok wondered how much
they knew, and how Raksil communicated orders to them from his shielded hiding
hole. The Yorn must have been quite angry, if the number of squads that raked
the dark foothills that night was any way to judge. Three times that first
night there were Ogre patrols not a foot from the Morgs hiding place, and it
seemed that only the will of Mog kept them hidden. Never had Thron wished so
much for the presence of their Ivran guide again.
The month after that it was
still touch and go, even in broad daylight. Never on their trip to the mountain
had the scholar learned so much about covert movement, about scavenging food,
about sleeping in a sort of trance only to be ready to awaken at a moment’s
notice. Luckily Thron seemed to have kept a map in his head from their journey
before, and he took the lead, guiding them surely on the road, threading their
way back whenever another pack of hunting Ogres drove them from the track, and
scrounging whatever sustenance he could find along their course. Belmok learned
the taste of five different kinds of beetles, all nasty. He ate them stoically.
They spoke very little during
that time, at first because of the hazards, and then, it seemed, because of a
growing reluctance to face the consequences of their journey. Much depended on
their return, they both knew it, and there seemed little to discuss. But Thron
watched the one-eyed scholar uneasily as the big Morg grew daily more morose
and distracted. It was a month or so after their escape from the mountain, and
they were just out the riskiest region of danger though still not out of reach
of Ogre claws, before Thron ventured to speak more than a word or two of
instruction.
They sat on a fallen tree-trunk
in a washed-out gully, huddled with their cloaks wrapped over every stitch of clothing
they had, not daring yet to have a fire against the growing evening chill.
“Fall’s well in,” Thron finally
said. “The nights are only going to get colder.”
“Yes,” Belmok said.
They sat silently for a while.
“Hey, do you know what today
is?” Thron asked jauntily.
“No.”
“It’s the Autumn Festival!” he
cried, with a ghoulish approximation of jolly cheer. He reached down for his
forage bag and started digging around in it. “And look what we have for our
feast!” He began pulling items out with one grimy paw.
“We got more lovely
journey-root! Better enjoy it, ‘cause it’s getting rarer. And look! A snake
that’s not actually poisonous. That’s right, we got meat! But the crown
of our repast, for dessert, we got not ten, not eleven, but twelve elderberries!
I’m glad there weren’t thirteen, for I’d hate to have to fight you over that
extra berry,” he grinned.
Belmok reached out and snatched
a lumpy journey root without a word. Without looking he took a bite, and impassively
began grinding away. Thron’s face fell.
“Ach, you’re no fun anymore,”
he said in disgust. He stuck one sharp black thumbnail into the snake and began
peeling off the scaly skin. “Well, what did I expect of the brother of old
Greedyguts Gortus?”
Belmok stopped chewing and
looked up.
“What?”
“Oh, yes, I knew him,” said
Thron casually, attention all on his skinning. “A mediocre warrior, at best.
Probably had risen as high as he was ever going to get, before he choked
himself. Given to black moods, it seems. Bad for morale. Just as well he went
out when he did.”
“What?” Belmok squinted angrily
with his one good eye.
“Fat, just like you,” Thron
went on, holding up the pale naked snake and examining the flesh. “Well, the
family’s dying out anyway, what can one expect.”
“I’ll have you know,” Belmok
snarled, “That my family’s not dead yet, and my brother was a great
warrior!”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Thron said,
in a sarcastically soothing tone. “But I do know one saying the Ogres have.
‘The best enemy warrior is a dead enemy warrior.’ I guess by that standard,
Gortus was the greatest warrior there ever was.” He threw the snake skin over
his shoulder. “And the Ogres never … had … to lift … a finger.” He looked up
smugly.
With a roar Belmok’s hands were
at Thron’s throat, and the two Morgs went crashing, rolling to the ground. They
were lucky there were no enemies nearby, for the sound would have surely
brought them swarming. The two grunted and thrashed, turning and struggling
until the big Morg sat towering over the prone Thron, weight on his chest, claws
tightening around his neck.
“My brother was a good Morg and
a fine soldier!” Belmok said fiercely through gritted fangs. “Better any day
than an assing taddach … like … YOU!”
To his bewilderment, Thron went
limp and started to chuckle weakly. Belmok nearly let go of the soldier in his
surprise.
“There’s the old
arrogance,” Thron wheezed in satisfaction. “I was beginning to think you’d lost
it with your other eye.”
“What?” said Belmok, puzzled,
but not letting go of his grip. “What?”
“I did know Gortus,” Thron
said, getting his breath back. “And he was a fine soldier and a good fellow. But
after a victory he was given to dark moods, moods he tried to shake with
feasting and … other indulgences. Lacking such means, I thought I’d try another
approach.”
Belmok let him go and stood up
slowly. Thron lurched to his feet and looked around shakily. He took a few
steps and picked up a sticky object covered with leaves and filth.
“Hope you like your snake with
a seasoning of dirt.” He patted at it with his paw. “’Cause we’re not wasting
this.”
They went back to the log and
sat down again, Thron still picking at the snake, Belmok humbly gathering up
the scattered food. They divided the stuff in silence, and then the big Morg
said, “Thank you.”
“You can’t be moping and
mourning right now,” said Thron. “Plenty of time for that when we get home.
Right now, we have to think about surviving, not giving up.” He started
chomping on his portion of snake, tongue curling and muzzle grimacing at the
taste.
“That is true,” said Belmok. He
looked down at his share of the meager fare. He reached down and grabbed a
gobbet of the meat firmly. “I thank you for reminding me, Thron.”
The soldier paused in his
chewing.
“You’re most welcome, Belmok.”
He swallowed. “Hey, I got to get you back in one piece for your Grand High
Mastery, eh? For the glory of the Empire!” He raised a fist in salute.
“I suppose,” Belmok muttered.
He picked up a berry and studied it. “What do you think King Vez will say about
all this?”
“Well, he won’t like it.” Thron
took a chaw of journey-root, to take the taste of reptile out of his mouth.
“After all, he was chosen as a Peace King, and all our skirmishes since then
have been branded as policing, not battle. The idea that there’s a big war
brewing will not go down easy, but I think he’ll have to swallow it in the end
and start preparing for an assault in the future.” He took a sip from his
half-empty water skin and cut his eyes at Belmok. “I may need you to come to
Morg City to help persuade him.”
“I’ll do that,” the big Morg
said. His brow grew stern. “Do you think they’ll march on the Norkult and kill
darling little Ferrik before he’s all grown up?”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” said
Thron after a moment’s thought. “Too costly. Preparation, sure. Build up the
army, keep it close to Morgish cities, yes. But an offensive strike? We’re
certainly not prepared, and from what I saw in their caves, they are. But that
Ferrik-thing? After what you did to him, he may never be ready.” He grinned.
“You saved all our bacon, back there. And after you seemed just about ready to
lick Raksil’s bottom.”
Belmok smiled back at Thron.
“Oops, I lied to our enemy. How
evil of me.”
They laughed together at that,
gruffly, as only Morgs can, but when they stopped, Belmok sighed.
“Even so, I don’t think we’ve
seen the last of Ferrik. You know, in the face of that abomination, I still couldn’t
bring myself to strike hard enough. I suppose I’ll never be the warrior Gartus
was.”
“Maybe not,” Thron agreed. “I
suppose you’ll just have to be the kind of warrior you are. A thinking
warrior.” He picked up his share of berries and knocked them back all at once.
“Say, do you think that what that Raksil said was right? Do you think there’ll
ever be a good Ogre?”
Now it was the scholar’s turn
to ponder.
“If what the Yorn said is true,
I guess it must be possible, if unlikely. It conforms with what we know of
moral philosophy. But if ever such a decision is made, it will come from
within, not imposed from without. Even if we conquered or captured the Ogres
and tried to impress our ways upon them, they would have to decide for
themselves, and freely. Until an Ogre comes across the Waste with his hands out
in friendship, I guess the only way we can influence that is by modeling our
behavior. And with our constant clashes, and their masters’ influences, the
chances are infinitesimal.”
“Thought not,” said Thron. He
dusted his claws together. “Still, one never knows, eh? Maybe even that Ferrik could
be the turning point. After all, he does have good blood in him!”
The nights grew more bitter
even as they struggled southwards, but with less and less chance of the
cold-blooded Ogres out so far from their sheltering caves. Forage grew scarce,
but Thron had a knack for finding the holes of hibernating creatures, rolling
with winter fat, and even of trapping the scavengers that came sniffing around
the bones. After another chilly month and no sign of Ogres they dared started
lighting fires again, and a hard six weeks after that Dunwolf stepped through
the trilith stones to find them camped around a good blaze, swathed in capes of
wildcat skins and chewing red gogen wood with scarlet teeth.
The wizard journeyed back to
Tronduhon with the Morgs, where they were welcomed enthusiastically, and, after
warm baths and cooked meals, they went to the School Council to report. It took
three days before they could tell all, with Dunwolf attending closely to what
was said and offering his advice and insight where possible. He nodded in
confirmation at what he heard about the Ogres’ conditions. He listened with
grim worry as they recounted the story of Raksil and his experiment. He looked
grave at the news of Leren’s death and promised to do all he could to contact
his people. As forthcoming and as encouraging as he appeared, Belmok sensed
that there was something deep worrying the old wizard, that he was deliberating
a worry in his mind that never reached his lips.
Whatever it was, Dunwolf took
it away with him when he left with Thron to report to King Vez in Morg City.
The last time Belmok saw the Lieutenant was at the end of the Council. They
said nothing, just shook hands, raising their brows and wrinkling their
foreheads meaningfully. And that was all.
Belmok returned to his mother’s
house that evening for the first time. He had sent her a message when he had
arrived back in the city, but they had not seen each other until now.
She rose as he entered the
dining room, his dark-gold robes cleaned and freshly pressed, the pearl rosette
of Grand High Mastery pinned at the shoulder, red sash cinching his newly-trim
waist. His hair and beard fell in a combed, clean cut. A new ocular winked in
his left eye. The old cracked lens had been put safely away in honor; after all
it had saved what was left of his sight. But his right eyed stared sightlessly
out of its scarred socket as if blasted by lightning.
“Good evening, madra. I hope
you’ve been well?”
“All the better for seeing you,
son,” She said shakily. Her eyes were glistening. She gestured. “Shall we sit?”
“After you.”
They sat down.
“We have all your favorites
tonight,” she said brightly. “Look. Tova has taken special care with the eggs.”
Belmok glanced down at the
mounded dish, and for a brief second his mind flashed back to a dim chamber and
a stony nest.
“Perhaps not tonight,” he
ventured. “But those cinnamon apples smell very good.” He began heaping
his plate and tucked in with an appetite. It appeared it wouldn’t be long
before he was back to his old shape again.
His mother selected some food
distractedly, almost at random. She picked at it while Belmok ate but couldn’t
seem to tear her gaze away from his face. He looked up and saw her expression.
He swallowed his mouthful.
“It’s the eye, isn’t it,” he
said. He raised his glass of wine. “I must admit, it takes some getting used
to. I’ve been practicing, in the mirror.”
“It looks very … distinguished,
Belly.”
He lowered the glass.
“I know you’re trying to
console me, madra,” he said gently. “But it’s not necessary. I found out that I
have been going through life with one eye shut, anyway.” He screwed the ocular in
more tightly, the remaining blue orb gleaming in determination. “I simply find that
I must now keep the other eye open all the wider, to see everything that there
is to see, which I was ignoring before. That’s all. A dark eye is a small but
dear price to pay, for such knowledge.”
“Well, well, well. I come here
expecting to find a couple of renegade Ogres trying to sneak a secret snack,
and instead I discover two of Mog’s brats in the nursery! This is a
surprise.”
Belmok had half-expected to see
the gangrel creature had risen from its tomb-like bed, but instead a completely
different figure had appeared from out of nowhere, and was sitting perched on
the closed platform, examining them with malicious interest.
It was human-looking, most like
a tall, thin man sporting straight blonde hair, but with a few peculiarities.
He was clad to his knees in a spotless scarlet tunic, belted at the waist; his
crossed legs showed off swinging, toeless feet. His ears were curled close to
his head and leaf-shaped, set higher on his head than any man’s. But the most
disconcerting details were the eyes. The pupils were ivory-colored, only
slightly darker than the whites themselves, and in the center the dark pits of
the iris were slotted like a cat’s. In his angry, amused, glare, Belmok suddenly
felt like a mouse.
“My, my,” he said, jumping down
and pacing over to where the Morgs lay prostrate. Belmok struggled to rise but
was immediately stilled by a downward gesture from the smooth, nail-less hand.
“No, you just rest there.” He
walked over, studying the Morgs curiously. He bent down and stared into
Belmok’s face, interested, it seemed, in his ocular. “Now, how did you two get
in here with faces like that?” He looked up toward the door. “Oh. Aha. You had
some help, eh, waiting outside there? Well, let’s invite him on in!”
He made a beckoning gesture
with his right hand, palm up, there was a screech as of outraged metal, and
without the door ever opening Leren was suddenly inside the chamber, glowing
red-hot, and shaking in shock, his head quivering in alarm, but obviously
unable to otherwise move as he stared blankly at their captor.
“Dear me, that must have been
quite painful,” the being cooed in mock sympathy. “Sorry to sieve you through
the Protection like that, but I was most anxious to meet you before you decided
to leave. Well now, since we all seem to be here, I suppose introductions are
in order.” He turned to the Morgs. “Please, get up.”
Belmok found he could move
again, and he helped Thron get unsteadily to his feet. Thron tried to reach
shakily for his fallen sword.
“None of that.”
The soldier frowned at the
sudden short tone, but withdrew his hand, eyes burning sullenly. The strange being
relaxed into a smile.
“Now then,” he said, advancing
on the big Morg, looking him keenly in the face. “Let me see, your name is …
Belmok. Oh, High Master Belmok! That must be very impressive among your fellow
apes.” He turned. “And this feisty fellow is Lieutenant Thron. Such violent
thoughts in your, well, I guess it must be called a mind, I suppose. One hardly
needs any insight to read them.” He dismissed them from his attention, and
approached the Ivra with relish, who hung almost motionless in mid-air.
“And here is the real
surprise,” he said happily, like a collector gloating over a rare find. “They
have been calling you … Leren? Ah, such a short name must be a real humiliation
for a proud Ivra like yourself. But then, I suppose any of your people who
would break the Covenant must be a little degraded. I think I’ll call
you Leren too, just so we’ll all be cozy.”
He stepped back to include the
Morgs in a sweeping gesture of welcome.
“And I, my new friends? I am
Raksil. Behold me while you may, for you have never seen my like before! Although
admittedly this body is just an appearance for the sake of you animals. I am
what you would call a Yorn, of the Yeroni, and I walked the world in the
beginning of things!”
“Never heard of you,” grated
Thron through bleeding teeth. “What kind of flunky were you?”
Raksil raised a warning finger,
and the soldier doubled over, muzzle squawking out blood, as if he had been
punched in the gut.
“A little more respect, talking
dust. I worked with Kelsitor in those days. I know you know that name:
Master of Wisdom, Ambassador to the Morgs from the Lord of Light. I had a
little disagreement with Kelsitor about the limits of the pursuit of knowledge.
He said we must only study the ways of Ortha; I wanted to see to what extent
things could be … developed, shall we say. When Malik offered me better
opportunities … well, I just had to take it.”
He looked at Belmok.
“This one understands. I can
see that he’ll do almost anything for knowledge. Even now his ears are growing
longer just to hear whatever I’m saying.”
Belmok nodded, as if in
acceptance of the assessment.
“Almost anything,” he admitted
grimly. “But not quite, Lord Raksil. I would not side with Belg, I hope.”
“Oh, little Morg, there are
rewards and temptations available to me beyond your puny dreams of knowledge.
More than History, and the petty deeds of your ancestors. More than Natural
Philosophy, and how the secrets of creation work. There is more than what was,
and what is.” He walked back to the sarcophagus and patted it lovingly. “There
is also what can be, like my dear little child Ferrik here.”
“What is this … this creature?”
asked Belmok.
“Oh, ask your cloudy friend,”
the Yorn smirked. “He’s been trying to analyze it with his special powers since
I dragged him in here. I can sense his feeble probes.”
“It is an abomination,” said
Leren, cold loathing in his voice. He twisted his head futilely, hair floating
and writhing around his head. “It is a thing that should not be.”
“Don’t be cruel to my Ferrik
now,” Raksil looked at them and tutted. “It’s a good thing he’s in suspension,
or you might hurt the poor boy’s feelings. As it is, he hears nothing. And the
little lad is just a work in progress. When he reaches his full growth,
I think you’ll find my masterpiece a match even for an Ivra’s powers.”
“But what is he?” Belmok asked again.
He readjusted his ocular, leaning on his staff weakly with one hand. “Is it
some new kind of Ogre?”
Raksil smiled.
“You know, I don’t mind telling
you, since none of you are ever going to leave here alive? When I try to brag
to fellow Yorn of my grade they don’t really care. Jealous, I guess. And when I
talk to my great masters, they just take the credit to themselves because I’m
working for them. And I certainly can’t tell the Ogres, even though they’re
dumb as dirt, and you’ll see why.”
He hopped lithely back and sat
on the glassy coffin, motioning them in with his hands.
“Gather round, children, and
I’ll tell you the tale. Now, there is an old Ogre legend, a prophecy, if you
will, that one day, when a Great Ogre female – they are very rare, but they
happen – would bear an egg from a Great Ogre male, there would be born a grand
leader, a mighty champion, a King who would lead the Ogres to world domination
and slay all their enemies.”
“And this is that leader?”
asked Belmok incredulously, pointing.
“Oh, dear me no, that’s all chirk,
as the Ogres would say. I should know; I made it up myself a thousand years or
so ago. The sad truth is all female Great Ogres are sterile. An imbalance in
their – well, an element in their blood, I suppose you would say. But a useful
tale.”
“Must be an amusing pastime,
telling bedtime stories to a bunch of muttonheads like Ogres,” Thron growled. “What
a genius.”
“I’ll let that pass for the
moment, Lieutenant,” Raksil said airily. “Because it was genius. It
stirred them up to produce more troops for Barek’s army. It drove them to
extreme actions and sacrifices in the name of this future King. It gave the
poor things hope and a sense of destiny.” He stroked the casket below him. “And
it perfectly positioned a place for my dear little project here, when he comes
to full growth.”
Belmok wrinkled his brow.
“Well, if this … Ferrick of
yours isn’t the promised offspring, what is he?”
“It is an abomination,” Leren
repeated coldly. “An abomination to Orathil.”
“That’s one point of view,” the
Yorn answered smoothly. “And it certainly seems to be Orathil’s. I tried many
configurations for this experiment that just wouldn’t work. It appears the dear
old Mother doesn’t like any meddling with her children, even such children as
the Ogres. Finally, I devised this handy little room. Quite a few of Her laws
are suspended in here, and I could proceed without interference. Kept many
prying eyes away, too. Including a few of my rivals, let me tell you, who
wouldn’t be sad to see me fail.”
“This cannot succeed,” said
Leren. “It cannot exist in the world that is.”
“You know, that worried me at
first? When I had Ferrik carried, newly-hatched, beyond the door there, I was
afraid he might just bubble away or catch fire or something. But all the
elements seemed to have harmonized – or if not harmonized, then reached a
mutually sustainable antagonism. Ortha appeared to have accepted my little bastard
stepchild, once he was born!”
“Elements? What elements do you
mean, Lord Raksil?” Belmok’s tone was deferential, his head bowed meekly. Thron
shot him a disgusted sideways look.
“Oh, it had to be mainly Ogre,
you know, at least the face and the size, otherwise they wouldn’t accept him,”
the Yorn went on merrily, yellow eyes crinkling. “But I mixed in plenty of
Morg! There are always a few, skulking around in the shadows of the mountains.
I needed that for muscles and bone structure, that upright posture. Wasn’t sure
it would take, with the height, but a blend of ropy Ogre tendon gave it
strength.”
“Fascinating,” the scholar
said. He moved slowly, almost reverentially to the sarcophagus to peer in.
“Most ingenious.” The Yorn looked pleased.
“That … that thing’s half
Morg?” barked Thron angrily. “That’s sickening!”
“Don’t give yourself so much
credit,” Raksil scoffed. “Spawn of Belg, Children of Aman – you’re all
half-brothers of dirt through Orathil. And there’s plenty more in the mix: the
keen physical senses of the Ghamen. Groka Greybeard – you’ve heard of him? –
gave a donation that shared the Human potential to use magic. Just imagine it,
an Ogre wizard! Why, even the Ivra had a part in my Ferrik here.” He turned
smugly to the frozen Leren.
“Do you remember one called –
well, the long name was in part Quellentelliqtairentair?
Ah, I see that you do. Some while back that one came sniffing around Norda,
just like you, and provided Ferrik with some special Ivran senses, beyond the
physical ones, before passing away.” He smiled. “That part took quite a bit of
experimenting, I’m afraid.”
“I surmised this ‘eye of
darkness’ may have had something to do with that disappearance,” said Leren
quietly. There was a slight tremor in the toneless voice and his light burned
low and blue. “Monster, that was my friend.”
“Such a pity; quite a talented
creature.” The Yorn leaned forward. “A shame it didn’t survive the process. But
that fate doesn’t have to be yours, my friend. These Morgs,’ he gestured at
them. “They’re worthless, maybe a little meal for Ferrik when he gets up, to
get him used to the taste. But an Ivra, that could be a real asset in the
coming war. Even a single one. What do you say? I’ve been looking for an
assistant; the rewards would be great. Your life, for one. Power, for another.”
“I thank you for your kind
offer,” Leren said icily. “But your power does not … smell right to me.”
“Ah, get off your high horse.”
Raksil hopped down and advanced on the trapped Ivra. “You’re not so different,
any of you flesh-bags, even the dainty Ivra. There is potential in all thinking
creatures, even the Yorn when we are in this world, to choose our way. I know
what you think, all of you: that you’re the ‘good’ ones. Well let me tell you,
it’s no done deal, and you’re not more virtuous than anybody, no, not even the
Ogres!” He was pacing angrily now. “There have been plenty of wrathful Morgs,
and lazy Men, and violent Ghamen who’ve served Norda just as well. And Ogres?
You all hate Ogres. Well let me tell you something.”
Raksil stopped, an accusing
finger raised.
“There is in all of us, every
descendant of Morlakor Shyreen from the beginning, a will, a tiny secret will.
In you – physical things,” he said, spitting out the word – “Damn I hate
having to take physical form in this world, it’s so limiting! But in you
physical things the will has a special place to stand. Even an Ogre has this.
Even an Ogre could - if he chose – be as good as you.”
“Bullshit,” Thron spat.
“They’re brutes, through and through.”
“Oh, they have no natural bent
for it and everything is done to discourage it, what is allowed in their
culture, what is encouraged for their world view, but it still remains, by some
infinitesimal chance, possible that an Ogre could choose to be just as good as
any of you. We can’t breed it out, but we can squash it down. Just as I’ve done
in dear Ferrik there.” He smiled. “He is the ultimate reconciliation of the
races. Good? Evil? They are both fine choices, but only one will win. I’m
offering you a chance to be on the winning side, my dear Leren.”
“No,” said the Ivra, simply, sternly.
Raksil sighed and raised his
hands, shrugging. He smiled sadly.
“Well, I tried.”
Without a pause pale green
snakes of fire came shooting from his hands, striking Leren and eating into his
body. The Ivra shrieked, a terrible sound, the only mortal sound Thron had ever
heard it make. The soldier lunged for his sword, but the movement snagged the
gleeful Yorn’s eye and it moved one of its hands to send a bolt that sent the
Morg head over heels to slam into the wall.
There was a sudden wailing
bellow that surprised Morg, Ivra, and Yorn alike and made them look around in
shock. While they had been fighting, Belmok had quietly opened the tomblike
bed, drawn Thron’s knife, and driven it halfway into the dormant monstrosity’s
head that now sat up shrieking in mindless pain.
