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.
