Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part 17 Outline)

Part Seventeen Outline

The scene is the Hill of the Dead, some way (at least a mile) out from Morg City. It is a burial mound surrounded by a walled cemetery. The funeral procession of King Taryn has walked all the way from the palace through the city to here, all on foot, except for the catafalque of the King, which bears a stone sarcophagus and is drawn by four oxen. If Thrand had not started his health regimen a week ago and been supported by Kettel he might not have made the journey. The vast majority of the mourners stop outside in the cemetery. The mound is opened, and a select number of prominent people, both Morg and human, follow Taryn’s coffin (now carried by eight burly pall bearers) into the three-tiered mound. 

The first level is dedicated to merchants and famous scholars; a certain selection of the mourners stops here and cannot proceed, though heads of great noble trading houses and the Masters of the Great Schools go on. The second level is dedicated to the tombs of great warriors and soldiers; colonels and highly decorated heroes stop here, although generals proceed to the third tier, the highest level.  These are the Tombs of the Kings.

The Generals, the Masters, the chief Witness, and the Heads of Noble Houses are the only ones who enter here, as well as Taryn’s family and a few, like Kettel, who attend the elderly. The gloomy stone boxes stretch back through the black-pillared hall; the only light is from a high louvered window that casts a beam down upon a stone bier. The pall bearers set down the coffin and pick up the old one that lays on the bier, that of Thron, the King before Taryn. It is particularly light, because there was not much of him identifiable left over from his last battle. They carry it off into the shadows, then return and heft Taryn up into the spot. The sunlight gleams on the fresh-cut white marble. He is the first human to lie on this level. The pall bearers leave.

The remaining mourners, about thirty in all, sit down on long stone benches facing the dais, the Queen and her sons on the front right row. The Chief Witness, a truly ancient Morg, stands in front of the coffin facing them. He declaims a few ceremonial phrases, tells the story of Taryn’s life and accomplishments, then calls a very young Morgish Witness up to him. He stares deeply into his eyes, then slaps him a good hard one across the muzzle. “Remember,” he says calmly. And then the funeral is essentially over, although there will be more feasts and rites in the City come evening.

The chief mourners begin to trickle out of the chamber. The family of course lingers, and the Witnesses will be the last to leave. Morgs, of course, are of a more businesslike and less sentimental nature, and more of them are leaving quicker than the humans are. Thrand, however, remains seated on the bench, Kettel at his side, gathering his energies for the trudge back to the City. The others are studiously avoiding him, so as not to seem too greedy or ambitious for his favor, although the next King of Morg City is most likely to be in this room. But suddenly a stout figure comes clanking over and approaches him. It is General Roth, a Morg dressed in ancient armor and with a plain red soldier’s cloak. He has an eyepatch and an iron-grey beard, streaked with white.

Roth: Chief Justice, I’d like a word with ye.

Thrand: (taken aback; quietly) Really, General, I hardly think this is the time or the place …

Roth: (raising his voice) On the contrary, I think this is exactly the time and the place, before these witnesses living and dead, and especially before my old friend Taryn. I want to lay it out before you.

Thrand: (looking around. Everyone is staring at the two) (guardedly) I’m listening.

Roth: (fiercely, loudly) And listen good. I do not want to be the next King of Morg City.

Thrand: (taken aback. This is not where he imagined this conversation was going) I beg your pardon?

Roth: You heard me. I do not want to be the next King! If chosen, I will not serve.

Thrand: (mildly intrigued) But you seem eminently suitable. One of the Goldfire Questers. Slayer of Drang Worthinsbane. High General and close friend of the Last King. And there are many who would welcome a Morg back onto the Throne.

Roth: Don’t I know it! I’ve already got a bunch of lickspittles shadowing my steps, making suggestions, angling for a job under me. Even my own family are starting to give me expectant looks. But I’m telling you now to save time later, I want none of it!

Kettel: (piping up) I can’t imagine anybody not wanting to be King. Why not? (Roth glares at the young Morg’s interruption)

Thrand: My apologies. New apprentice.

Roth: Look, child, you’re so young I don’t expect you’ll understand this, but I’m tired. I’m getting old, and I’ve finally got a son, and I want to spend my last days with him. If there’s one thing Taryn taught me is that the life of a King ain’t nothing but trouble. (He looks over at the Queen and the Princes, who are staring at the Morgs, although they can’t quite make out what he’s saying beyond he doesn’t want to be King) He was always moaning about how he had no time for his family, how his boys were growing up while he was in meetings about taxes and border disputes. Well, I don’t have the time nor patience for that sort of thing. Kinging it is a young feller’s game. You got to start early and grow into it, and I'm just too old. (draws himself up formally) Well, I’ve said my say, Chief Justice. And I’m not saying anything else. (He turns, salutes his old King and friend, and marches out of the chamber.)

The Queen and the Princes huddle together, whispering, and turn to watch Roth leave. It seems obvious to Thrand that the Queen, at least, is glad that a big hurdle to her son ascending the throne has removed itself. The Chief Justice sits pondering a moment, then shakes himself and rises. He and Kettel head out for the long trudge home, the taps of Thrand’s cane echoing through the black pillars. The light shines down on Taryn’s tomb.

 

Notes

Well, as you can tell, this is more of an outline rather than actual writing. I’ll do this sometimes, putting down what has to happen and making little notes about things that may or may not happen when I actually expand it and write it out.

As you might be able to tell, I’ve had the Morg City Hill of the Dead in the back of things for years, since high school, in fact. It kind of appears in King Korm. The concept has changed, of course; the common burial ground is now above ground around the hill; somewhere along the line I just plain forgot about senators; and the closest things Morgs have to priests are Life Witnesses.

 

Eye of Darkness (Part Seventeen)

 

Belmok rolled forward with the fall, shrugged the creature off, and went scrabbling for his staff. Thron had barely an instant to draw his sword before the rest of the pack leaped in, clubs and crude spears in their boney talons.

They were young and scrawny, somewhat shorter than the Morgs, and badly emaciated, as if they had not eaten too well for a long time. Still, there were five of them, and their hunger drove them into a desperate frenzy of attack. Even the blows from Belmok’s iron-shod staff looked as if they were doing little damage, sliding off the hairless spongy skulls with little effect.

Thron was doing better. He sliced and chopped at thrashing bodies with the precision of a practiced butcher, and had killed two of the squealing foes before Leren suddenly stepped in. The shining coils on the Ivra’s head flashed forward, piercing the remaining Ogre-spawn through the chest. They froze, transfixed, and hung suspended, their mouths mewling slowly and baffled purple eyes darting and glowing with hate.

Belmok stepped back in wonder, breathing heavily, hands still tightly gripping his staff.

“Are … are you killing them?” he asked.

“No … I am not,” said Leren. “There is … some difficulty … but … I hold them.”

“Well, let’s just take care of that,” said Thron, and with a quick thrust he stepped forward and plunged his sword into the nearest Ogre’s chest. Then with a gristly jerk he pulled the blade downward and the steaming, quivering guts came spilling out. The Ogre’s eyes went blank, Leren pulled back his power, and the creature fell to the ground in the mess of its own pluck. Belmok recoiled in disgust.

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“Ask your friend there.” Thron moved to the next one and paused ironically, sword poised, lips pulled back to show his fangs. “Anything he can do?”

“The Morg Thron is correct,” said the Ivra. “If these are left to survive, they will bring … worse into our path. The mission will be … much complicated.”

“See?” Thron thrust the steel in, and then there was only one Ogre left to glare at the Morgs in growing fear. Its taloned fingers groped slowly in desperation.

“I thought you didn’t care for this kind of slaughter,” said Belmok sardonically.

“That was animals,” said Thron. “These are Ogres. They know what they’re doing.”

“An argument might possibly be made that they can’t help what they do because of what they are.”

“All the more reason … “ said Thron coolly, looking at the last Ogre in appraisal, face to face. It scowled in slow menace. With a sudden vicious stab, the soldier pushed the sword point right through the eye, through the skull, and into the brain. It fell like a stone among its fellows. Thron turned to Belmok.

“Unless you wanted to keep one as a pet?” he asked sarcastically as he wiped his weapon and put it away.

Belmok shrugged.

“It does seem the only thing to do,” he said. “I suppose I just wasn’t ready for your, shall we say, promptitude.”

“Get ready for it in the future, then,” said Thron. “With these creatures, there can be no hesitation.” He looked around at the scattered carcasses. “We’ve got to get rid of these, cover ‘em up. Any buzzards or what not might draw attention to our trail.”

“Do you think anyone will come looking for them?”

“None shall care for such as these; their people do not … value them,” said Leren. “Please to wait.” The Ivra went unfocussed, its body dimming and sprawling into the night. The Morgs waited in the dimness under the thin crust of the waning moon, looking tensely at each other and at the cooling bodies at their feet. In a few minutes it drew itself back into their presence.

“There is a crevice some five hundred yards away, sufficient to receive these bodies, with stones and sand to cover them. I shall guide you there. I cannot … they are too … heavy, is your word … for me to carry. But I can guide you. And guard you.”

“Figures,” groaned Thron. He bent down and grabbed an Ogre by its gangly arms. “Still, beats digging all night. Which way, wraith?”

“This one is not …” Leren began coldly, then stopped. “I shall make you a light to follow,” it went on. “I shall be spread about you, to watch.”

“Good,” said Belmok. He looked around a bit, chosing the two smallest Ogres, then dragged them together, and heaved them, straining mightily, one on each shoulder. “Let’s go,” He said, panting heavily. “The sooner this is taken care of, the happier we’ll all be.”

“Indeed,” said Leren. Its visible body contracted into a tiny will-o’-the wisp and flickered before them, but Thron could feel his hair prickling as some kind of force passed around and above them. They started following the fire, the soldier marveling at the scholar going steadily before him, and the gruesome burden he seemed to carry easily on his back.

They found the place easily enough with Leren’s guidance, and dropped the young Ogres in the spot, a deep but narrow trench hollowed by rain in a low hillside. They made their way back and picked up the other two, and the Ivra demonstrated another uncanny skill. When the Morgs had cleared the area, there was a sudden rustle as of grass in a soft wind, and they looked back to see the purplish-black blood of the Ogres rising in a cloudy mist, glinting darkly under the waning moon and starting to follow them, creeping along behind. They shuddered, but said nothing, and moved along.

They dropped the last two Ogres with their fellows and stepped back. The blood mist gathered eerily around the hole and suddenly rained down into the chasm as Leren relinquished control. Thron and Belmok began mechanically digging in with claws and blade, collapsing the sides of the trench, until the corpses were covered in a foot or two of earth and sand.

As they made their way back through the dark to the campsite to pick up their gear, Belmok heard a strange sound in the windless night. He looked back and saw that their trail of footprints and beaten down grasses was being tousled and wiped out as they passed, as by an invisible whirlwind. He knew it was the Ivra, and he shook inside as he considered these uncomfortable new manifestations of the creature’s power, the most unsettling he had witnessed yet.

Notes:

I made that drawing of a "Less Ogre" ages ago, just fiddling around. I later dropped the idea of a forked tail and horned helmets. Most of what I developed about 'Ogre life' was created in this tale: before then they had just been the mooks of a dark power.

"Kren" Part Seventeen: Establishing Canonical Backstory?

 

“They broke their venture into two groups, then. Taryn was to lead his men to the garrison town of Steepwater, to try to rally their people to the defense of Morg City, where Bharek’s hardest blow was sure to fall. Dunwolf and his apprentice first returned to Wosehome to alert that kingdom to the failure of the quest and new peril approaching, and then meant to use magical means to return to the City to help defend against the Dark Lord’s sorcerous lieutenants.

“But something happened then that the old wizard had not anticipated. When he and his apprenticed entered the mysterious Domain of Doors, a mystical nexus connecting portals all over Ortha and beyond, something in the elemental nature of the place triggered an unknown power. The youth began to glow! It seemed the foolish young man had been wearing the Goldfire all along, thinking the dull lumpish disc he bore was just a keepsake from his mother’s family.

“But this was the third and final time that the Goldfire’s power had been triggered. It could not be stopped and must be used quickly, while the mortal body of the user might endure it. Once expended, it would be gone forever. In desperation, Dunwolf used a last mighty spell to unlock a portal to Thoravil, the Dark Lord’s fortress, which had been sealed for hundreds of years, and which he had never used because he knew that Bharek would outmatch him. He opened the door but died in the doing of it. The apprentice stepped through and found himself almost immediately in the dread presence of the Black King.”

Kren suddenly became aware that his jaw was hanging open. He snapped it shut then gestured for Koppa to continue.

“Even with the Goldfire it was a hard battle. Bharek still wore the Blackmight, the enchanted armor that had sustained his life through the ages. And it was his long cunning skill against the apprentice’s naked will. But in the end it was no match for the Goldfire’s potency, and when the last flare of its power flickered out, Bharek-a-Rhalken was no more.”

Kren sat back, whistling out of the sides of his muzzle, but he didn’t quite relax. He cocked his head at the youth.

“And you’re sure about this?”

Koppa smiled.

“Oh, most certain sure.”

“Well, the Hetman’s right then!” the Morg exclaimed. “Taryn shouldn't be King, but this wonder-hero! Tell me, what’s his name, and what is he doing now?”

The young man fidgeted nervously.

“Ah, now that’s the embarrassing part.” His smile twisted. “You see, his name is Koppa, and right now he’s acting as Herald for the King, and, well … talking to you.”