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.

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 12)

In his camp, Nast was striding purposefully through the chaos as his troops were finding their places, getting dressed, prompting their fellows into action, and in general acting like a stirred-up anthill. Wherever Nast passed among them, however, there was a renewed air of enthusiasm and confidence, and many fell in behind his self-assured tread. He did not look behind him.

He reached the front line on the perimeter of the camp. This was made up of his core followers, the Wedge, a hundred or so fighters that he felt sure could win any engagement with Korm’s entire army. He drew up next to his lieutenants, Tchoz and Adrik, who stood conferring together and keeping an eye on the other camp.

“Well, how’s it going?” he said gruffly, smiling. The walk through his army had cheered him up and chased his night fears away.

“Just fine, your majesty,” said Tchoz in his lazy drawl. He talked as if his nose were stopped up, and his muzzle hung open, jaw slack. He sounded like he had a cold but was not ill; it was just the way he spoke. He pointed. “There’s the committee over there, watchin’.”

“Good, good. And what about King Gormless and his crew?”

“We sent a scout out a while back,” said Adrik. “He reported that they’ve got a team of about twenty around their flagpole, including that big lump Berb. He’s not hard to miss. The rest are forming a ring around the whole camp.”

“That won’t do ‘em any good,” Nast chortled. “Our flying wedge can break that line easy; it’s too thin.” He looked back behind at their own shadowy flagpole. “And when the sun comes over the hill the light will be in their eyes. That, my friends, is what I call good planning.” They laughed sycophantically at his words, but Nast suddenly grew serious. “Form up the company ready to charge,” he said severely. “Let’s get this thing over with!” He laughed. “Then we can go home to Morg City and get back to our party!”

His lieutenants saluted happily. “Yes, sir!” They moved off to either side and began yelling at the troops. “All right, boys, this is the final fight! EVERYBODY to the front! Time to whip those worthless weaklings one last time. Have no fear, or get no beer! Don’t hang back now! That’s the way home, over their backs. We’ll roll right through them! All for King Nast!”

There were barks and howls of excitement and the trampling of feet as the camp emptied, swelling the mob behind Nast. They were all around him, stamping with excitement, shaking their sticks in the air, yelling and growling enthusiastically. He let them go on for a moment, reveling in the feeling of power building up behind him. Then he raised his stick commandingly, and the crowd fell silent. He looked left and right and paused a moment, then suddenly brought the stick down like an axe.

“Up and at ‘em, lads!” he bawled, and charged forward. With a roar his troops leapt after him.

 

Back at the observation post the Royal Commission watched as the engagement began.

“There they go!” the Herald cried, fists clenched in barely suppressed enthusiasm.

“Ye-e-es.” Sekk leaned forward. The old Morg had gone into professional Witnessing mode, eyes screwed hard in concentration, hands folded with the thumbs and forefingers pressing against each other.

“That’s not a very disciplined line,” Thron observed critically. He looked grim. “But I don’t suppose that will make much of a difference to the outcome.”

“No, sir,” said Drim, eyes bright. Things were going exactly as planned. “It’s spirit that really wins a battle, and Nast has assured his people have that. I’m afraid Korm lost this fight before it even began. I did try to teach him …”

Thron glanced over to the camp on the left.

“What IS that boy up to over there?” he growled.

Most turned to look. Sekk only flicked his eyes in that direction while taking everything in.

Over at their camp, Korm and Prull were standing in the front line, facing the raging oncoming assault of Nast’s troops. Some space behind them, Berb could be seen towering out of the crowd, holding the flagpole high in his hands. Behind them everyone was still, calm, and emotionless, their sticks held at rest at their sides. Korm held his stick with both hands, stretched across his waist. They could see his throat working in a nervous swallow, beard rippling and bobbing with each movement.

“They should at least be bracing for the impact!” said Thron severely. “What exactly HAVE you taught them, Drim?”

“Korm should be giving them orders.” The Colonel shook his head. “But you just can’t polish a turd, sir.”

Nast came thundering in front of his troops, stick raised like an ax. He too was wondering in the back of his head why the enemy was doing nothing. But he totally expected them to panic and start to flee any minute. Their passivity enraged him.

“Get them!” Nast bellowed savagely, putting on a burst of speed. His troop roared and followed him with renewed ferocity.

They got nearly to the halfway point between camps, almost in front of the observers, close enough for Nast to see an odd little smile creep over Korm’s muzzle before he lifted his stick and ordered:

“Now!”

Berb yanked on a rope, and almost instantly another flag was raised under Korm’s brown-and-black. The black-and-brown banner of Nast now flew subordinately underneath Korm’s triumphant colors in the clear morning air. Korm’s army lifted its voice in a triumphantly mocking cheer.

The shock was so much that the front of the battle line stopped in their tracks. The army behind them, slow on the uptake, plowed into them, and most went sprawling into a howling, grunting pile. Nast heaved himself out and up from the wreck, yelling.

“No! What … how!?”

He turned back to his camp where the obscure shape on the flagpole still flew in the shadow of the Stone Tombs. Then suddenly the sun raised itself over the crest of the hill, and the darkness fled. Hanging there, lit by the clear dawn and taking one insolently lazy flap in the morning breeze, was an old, rusty green donkey blanket.

In his camp, Korm turned to Prull, a full grin on his muzzle.

“As my old Uncle Akko always says, all cats are gray in the twilight,” he said modestly.

Prull clapped him happily on the shoulder.

“Your old Uncle sounds like a profoundly wise Morg, my friend.”

Nast’s bewilderment turned to baffled anger, and he raised his stick, pointing it at the opposing Morgs.

“Get them! Get them! Get them! Get that flag back, damn it!” He plunged forward, and his troops, after a short, confused pause, roared again and instinctively stampeded after him.

They were almost on Korm’s forces – who were starting to look distinctively nervous – when the Herald suddenly rode up between the two groups and reigned in his horse, facing Nast’s army.

“Hold!” His voice was imperious. He raised his baton. “In the name of the King, hold!” Nast froze at the sign of the imperial ensigns and once more was nearly trampled by his troops as they came crashing to a halt behind him. “Your flag is TAKEN! By the Rules of the Games, this maneuver is OVER.”

“But … but … we haven’t even fought!” Nast protested wrathfully.

The Herald was stern.

“The rules are not who wins a battle, but who wins the objective.” He pointed back at the flagpole in the Brown-and-Blacks’ camp. “And there is the objective! Stand down, sir.”

 Behind the Herald, the army broke out into cheers and exultant laughter, rushing up to Korm and Prull and overwhelming them with congratulations. Berb advanced and joined them, the big Morg waving the flags high in jubilation.

“It’s not fair!” Nast raged. “There’s trickery here somehow! There’s no way …” Suddenly the rest of the observing party came riding up to join the Herald. Nast turned, appealing to them in an imperious tone. “I demand my flag be returned and we start again!”

Sekk drew himself up tall in his in his saddle his head thrown back, old eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

“But it has been Witnessed! It is Seen!”

General Thron got off his horse, followed by Drim. “Sorry, son, but you heard him,” he said. “We all saw it.” There was grim satisfaction in his voice. “And a prettier piece of strategy I’ve never seen.” Drim winced to hear his own word parroted back to him. “Best just take it with grace, lad.”

“But Commandant -!” Nast turned, appealing to the gray Morg.

“You heard the General,” Drim commanded sternly, his disappointment obvious in every tone. “Go on! Get back to camp and pack up; we march back to the City within the hour.”

Nast writhed for a moment under their critical eyes, fists clenching, teeth grinding, unable to believe there wasn’t some way out of this ignominious defeat. Then he turned and stomped off, seething. Someone, somehow, would pay for this insult to the House of Keth. As he passed one of his fallen troops leaning on his stick, he angrily kicked the prop out and the Morg fell back down into the dirt that the charge had churned up.

Notes

Getting close to the end, now. Not a whole lot to say until the final wind-up. The old rusty green blanket is an actual relic in my keeping, a nearly 70-year-old blanket from my father's stint in Korea.

(Not) Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 11)

 

At the observation post Sergeant Borl, as liaison officer keeping track of the Camps, had led the officials to the spot he has chosen for them to monitor the final maneuvers, and what was usually a most entertaining mock battle. The Sergeant moved busily around the various mounts (from fancy horses to humble donkeys) and milling visitors, unloading folding stools and setting them in position.

Among the gathered guests were General Thron, as representative of the army, the Herald, as representative of the King, and Sekk, as formal Witness to the proceedings. These three stood together, waiting for the seats to be set up. In front of them was Colonel Drim, who appeared cool and deferential. But the Sergeant could see that there was a slight hint of tension about him. His future career was depending on how this show played out, and what his superiors thought about it. As Borl finished setting the stools up, Drim formally indicated the seats with a military gesture.

“Here you go, my lords,” he said. “A comfortable observation point to watch from.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Sekk smiled. He sat down stiffly in the chair on the left. “O-o-oh,” he groaned theatrically. Not that he wasn’t really feeling pain, but he knew he was on stage. “These early morning mists aren’t very kindly to old bones.” He smiled at the ludicrous idea that anyone could think of him as elderly – which he manifestly was. Thron, with an air of quiet authority, took the seat in the middle and the Herald sat on the left. Sekk looked around brightly. “Now, what are we looking at here?”

“Ah. Well.” Drim began. His tone was explanatory, as to a civilian, or a child. “As you can see, we are at a mid-point between the two divisions, or Kingdoms, removed a little, of course, so as not to be in the way between them. To the West, on the left …” -he pointed with his baton- “… you can see the lights from King Korm’s camp.” He turned to Thron. “A fair leader. Technically correct, sir, but no flair for command, I’m afraid.”

“So you’ve said,” Thron observed drily.

“Yes, sir.” Drim turned approvingly. “Now, to the East, in the shadow of the hill there …”

The Herald wrinkled his nose. “The hill of the Stone Tombs?”

“Uh, yes, sir,” the Colonel cleared his throat, trying to breeze past the subject. He hurried on warmly. “That is the camp of King Nast, who leads in points this year. In every actual conflict and competition, he has taken away the victory. A master of strategy, in my opinion.” He shook his head. “A shame for poor Mister Korm, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been a King in the first place.”

The Herald furrowed his brow, chasing an elusive memory.

“But wasn’t he nominated by …”

Sekk interrupted him.

“I must say, Nast’s camp doesn’t seem very well organized. Look at all those straggling fires!”

“He doesn’t need quite so many, your Reverence. It’s all due to his rather daring tactic of using the Stone Tombs to protect his rear. Not actually crossing the wall, of course,” he added reassuringly.   

“A most effective maneuver,” Thron said drily. “Of course, it could only work on his fellow Morgs.”

Drim tensed. “But the principle might be applied in other situations,” he said.

“Always depending on if you could find anything that Ogres hold sacred, that is.”  Thron’s tone was sarcastic.

“Different deeds for different needs, General.” Drim’s voice was bland. The other Morg snorted.

“Oh, look!” Sekk cried, pointing to the camps. “Something’s happening!”

“Ah. It begins. Keep your eyes on the battle flags, gentlemen.” They all strained through the indefinite morning gloom to where the banners could be seen hanging limp and colorless in either base. A rim of brightness was showing in the East, and the campfires are going out. Drim smiled.

“The first army to capture the enemies’ flag is the victor, of course!” His smile turned to a sneering smirk, unseen as the others peered out at the opposing armies. “This should be a good fight, my lords.” And by good, he thought, I mean short and predictable. 

Notes

The Herald, of course, vaguely remembers that it was Nast who nominated Korm in the first place, but he can't quite locate the fact.

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 10)

It was the early grey hour before dawn. Near the back of the Black-and-Brown camp there was barely a sound except for the low muttering of watch fires dying out, with every now and then a pop and a brief spark. Inside Nast’s tent, however, there was no peace.

The tent was quite a contrast to Korm’s makeshift headquarters. It was spacious, the canvas thick and almost new, the floor free of stones and covered with a thatch of soft grass that had been gathered to cushion the great leader’s steps. Scattered around were signs of luxury, including an elaborate washstand with mirror and jug, a tapestry depicting an ancestor’s military victory. There were chairs, and a table bearing the ravaged remains of a feast and some empty bottles. Most luxurious of all was the sturdy cot, like an enormous wicker cradle, filled with cushions, heavy furs, and silken coverlets.

For all its luxury, Nast lay there uneasily, tossing and moaning. He was having a dream.

In this dream he was sitting on a throne in front of an admiring court, stroking his thick whiskers in satisfaction, combing his black, shovel-like beard with caressing, proud claws. There was soft applause and murmurs of praise from all sides. His eyes squinted with pleasure and his muzzle grinned uncontrollably at this approbation.

Suddenly there was a note of unease and muttering from the crowd. Nast opened his eyes wide at the sound and looked from side to side but could see no reason for the growing nervousness and even repulsion on the faces around him. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then he looked down and realized in shock what was going on.

With every pass of his paw, more and more hunks of hair were falling out of his beard and fluttering to the floor. His bloated, pimply throat was already half-way exposed, revealing bloody scabs and scaly skin. To his horror, he found he could not stop himself: with each congratulatory rake of his nails more hair fell floating to the floor.

Some of the shadowy crowd got up and left in disgust, while others sat rooted in their chairs, gazing at him with eyes fixed in judgmental scorn. He writhed, unable to move from his seat. From nowhere he felt an arm grabbing his shoulder, shaking him.

Nast woke up with a cry. A dim figure was bending over him. The burly Morg lashed out instinctively in fear and punched it full in the face, sending it reeling to the floor. The next moment, as the dream cleared, he saw it was his adjutant, who has been trying to gently shake him awake.

“Who is it?” His voice was wild with sleep. His lackey stared at him, a look all too like the ones he had just been seeing in his dream. “What is it?!”

The adjutant slowly got to his feet, saluting with his stick, and resentfully feeling his jaw.

“Officer Ken, reporting, sir. Sir, you said you wanted to be woken up the minute the General and his party arrived.” His voice was surly. “Well, they’re here, and setting up an observation point between the camps.”

“Already? What time is it?” Nast struggled to heave himself out of his nest of bedding but couldn’t, head still woozy with drink. He thrust out a peremptory paw and the reluctant lackey took it, helping to haul him up.

“About a half-hour to sunrise, Sir. And the attack.”

“Crap! Why do they have to have these things so early?” Nast grabbed a cup from the table with some dregs of wine still in it, slurped it hastily, gargled, then spat it to the floor. “Where are Tchoz and Adrik?”

“They’re up and kicking the troops awake, sir.” His tone was acid. “It was a pretty full night, even for those on watch. Sir. Not a lot of sleep.”

“They can sleep when they’re dead,” Nast said absently. His voice was still harsh with sleep. He looked around wildly. “Stick, stick, stick, stick … gotta have my stick …”  The sudden memory surfaced, like a torben from a stormy sea, that he might have thrown his into the fire last night when he was feeling a little chilly. That made him pause. He looked at the adjutant. “Give me your stick.”

The other Morg was taken aback. “But, sir, we’re not supposed to …”

 “STICK!!” Nast bellowed, both claws held out. The lackey handed it over reluctantly and Nast grabbed it without a word of thanks. That solved the problem as far as he was concerned. He turned away to straighten his uniform, which was stained with wine and splashes of food. “Go! Make sure Tchoz and Adric have all the troops assembled on the frontline, ready to attack. I’ll be there in a minute. Let’s get this thing over with!”

“Sir.” Ken was feeling a little lost and resentful. He’d taken care of his stick since the beginning of Camp, and its absence would count against him on his personal record.  And now he had nothing to do with his hands. He saluted Nast clumsily – they had always touched the sticks to the side of their heads – and left the tent.

Grumbling and cursing, Nast sat down on one of the camp chairs and pulled his boots on. He got up and stamped over to the washstand to look at himself in the mirror. He lifted a hand to straighten his beard – and paused, looking into his staring bloodshot eyes as the memory of his dream flashed through his head. He turned away, without touching claw to whisker. “Eh. Good enough.”

Notes

Kind of a short section today, but I mean to post another tomorrow. Nast is an unpleasant piece of work, but one can hardly blame him. His family is obviously rich and privileged, and he's never been disciplined in much of anything except in respect for the more powerful members of his family. And they've never been humbled, but naturally done whatever they've wanted, sliding along with whatever they could get away with.

But he's also obviously got some sort of conscience, at least a deep inner realization of right and wrong, the tenets of Morgish morality imbibed unconsciously with every tale and legend he's ever heard. Either that or 'the gods' are sending him a remonstrance in his dreams. I like to think that afterwards he's learned some kind of lesson and improved. Maybe just a little bit. Maybe only to be, if not entirely virtuous, at least a little more circumspect in his raging selfishness.

(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.

 

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.

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.