Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part Sixteen)

Kettle slowed down a little. Backaways Street was long and straight, and right in the middle, at the gate in the dump, sat Grelda.

The little Morg slowed down a bit, not out of fear, but more awed at the enormous figure sprawling silently on her makeshift throne. Grelda never opened an eye, claws folded over her belly as it rose and fell rhythmically, but Kettle hadn’t come closer than five paces when she murmured rather distantly, “Greetings, child.”  She shifted a bit, rags rustling. “What brings you to the dump today? Street brats don’t have any garbage … None that they don’t keep themselves, anyway. Come to rummage?”

“No, ma’am.” Kettle reached in and brought out the stowed leftovers, a meat pie and some little pastries. “I’ve had a bit of luck today, and I thought I’d share it with you, if you please.”

The fat Morgess opened an eye at that, which went wide at the sight of the offering. Kettle dusted them off a little and held them out. Grelda murmured in appreciation as she plucked them out of Kettle’s hand; they quickly disappeared into the folds of her own clothes. They were quickly followed by fruit: apples and peaches and a nectarine.  The last seemed to particularly impress the lady.

“Lucky indeed,” she growled. “This grub looks like it comes from the Justice kitchens, if I’m not mistaken.”

‘You’re right, of course, Madra. I just been there. In fact …” Kettle hesitated a moment. “In fact, that’s something I’d like to ask your advice about. “

Grelda chuckled.

“Don’t tell me you’re in trouble with the Courts already, at your age?”

“No, ma’am.” Then Kettle told her the whole story, of Thrand’s rescue and of their meal and of the judge’s surprising offer. Grelda made little impressed murmurs like ‘Mmm, mmh’ and sometimes mild exclamations of surprise. When Kettle was finished with the tale, the little Morg looked at Grelda anxiously.

“Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is, do you think I should do it? It would be a big change. It sounds good, but maybe it’ll be just a big bucket of worms for me.”

 Grelda raised her bushy eyebrows.

“It’s a fine opportunity, not the sort of thing offered to everybody, especially little street brats. Old Judge Thrand must see something in you that makes him think you’re up to it. But really it’s up to you, what you want to do. How do you feel about it? Do you doubt yourself?”

 Kettle hesitated.

“Well, I do want the job, even it’s only for regular meals and a chance to learn more reading. After a year I can always leave, but I’ll always feel like a quitter then, I think.”

The little Morg looked uneasy.

“Also, there something Mr. Thrand doesn’t know about me. Do you think I should tell him about it before I accept the offer?”

Grelda chuckled, her vast bulk quaking with private amusement.

“The High Justice seems to think he’s wise; it might do him a little good to realize he’s not all-wise. Accept the offer by all means, and do as well as you can, little one.”

Kettle’s eyebrows unknotted, muzzle breaking into a toothy grin.

“Thank you, great lady. You set my mind at ease.” The little Morg turned and set off at a great pace, tatters flapping. Grelda watched the retreat with hooded eyes, then reached her claw into the recesses of her clothes. She drew out the nectarine, and examined it carefully before taking a deep sniff. It was not often that such delicacies came her way. Finally she took a bite, chewing with hardly a movement of her muzzle, carefully not letting any juice escape. Grelda closed her eyes and swallowed. For a moment she was still. Then a vast but nearly silent laugh shook her body.

Eye of Darkness (Part Sixteen)

 

That night there was no fresh game, so they kindled no fire. The Ivra informed them that they were entering territory where Ogre patrols sometimes passed through, which made most beasts avoid them. It was just as well, for any flame might attract attention from lookouts in the hills. Thron stayed in camp and the Morgs munched on the meat leftover from the night before. The soldier’s eyes flickered between Belmok as he sat eating and Leren, standing waiting for them to finish. The Ivra’s light was cold and blue with its efforts to be less visible.

Belmok slowly and thoroughly chewed his food, as if reluctant to finish the meal and start their nightly dialogue. At last it could be put off no longer.

He took a deep draught of water, swallowed heavily, and cut his eyes over at Thron. He cleared his throat.

“So, Leren, do you think we might meet with any Ogres tomorrow?”

“This one … I … think it is a possibility. Not only are there scouting parties that pass through these lands, there are bands and individual Ogrondekkron … lesser young Ogre males, ejected from the warrens as unfit for nurture in their, ah, societal resources. I … observed this in my studies. They are unstable in their patterns of action, and while the minds of the Ogron are … sludge-like, is the closest word in your tongue … in the aggregate, in lone members they can be particularly hard to … ah … see. This one … I … must increase my diligence tomorrow, and I would advise the Morg males … you … to do likewise.”

“Ah,” said Belmok. “I’ll suppose we might have a chance to see how well this ‘cloak’ ability of yours will work.”

“There is no doubt. This one … I … would not have brought you if there were.”

“Yes. Good, good,” said Belmok. He paused, and for the first time in days pulled out his ocular and screwed it into his eye. He looked keenly at the Ivra, watching the tendrils of its hair moving as if tossed by unseen forces, and for the first time wished the creature had more readable features.

“Tell me, Leren. You never fully explained what you were doing in the Norkult when you found this ‘eye of darkness’. It seems an unpleasant place to explore, even for someone of your obvious advantages. Do many of your people visit?”

There was a pause. A long pause.

“No other Ivra has gone as far as this one into the Norkult Mountains for … hmmm … some time.”

“Indeed?” Belmok took the glass out. “How long?”

Again the pause. Leren looked between the Morgs with a quick motion of his head, and answered at last.

“Some thousands of years. Before this one was born.”

Belmok glanced at Thron.

“Ah. And is there any reason for this … limitation by the Ivra?”

“It … is strongly advised against. There is a power in the North, as you know, Barek-a-Rhalken targreppinter. His sight is keen, his allies powerful. To infract into his realm … is strongly advised against.” Even in the figure’s passionless voice, Belmok thought he could detect a hint of uneasiness.

The big Morg pulled out a cloth, and spent a moment deliberately cleaning the ocular before putting it back in place.

“Leren, my friend,” he said evenly. “Would you even go so far as to say that is forbidden?”

The Ivra drew back, the coils on its head writhing as it turned its regard quickly from Thron to Belmok and back again.

“Such a societal construct is not known among my people,” it said loftily. “It could not be … hm … enforced, given our nature. However, ...” it paused, then went on reluctantly. “Such visits are highly discouraged.”

“Indeed,” said Belmok. He ran his claws through his beard and looked with steely eyes at Leren. The hovering figure seemed more than ever like it wanted to fly off into the elements, out of his scrutiny. “And would you mind telling us why you persisted in your pursuits, despite this discouragement?”

“I will not be judged by such as you,” Leren said flatly. “I do not know that other races can comprehend Ivran ways, the necessities of our existence, the compulsions that drive our … hmmm … hearts.”

“Try me,” Belmok challenged drily. “And you do not have to accept our judgements. But be assured, I am judging, and I shall act out of the compulsions that drive a Morgish heart.”

“Very well,” said the Ivra. “Try to understand my reasons. Though I do not know if you shall, as not even I can completely do so by the stringent conclusions of the Ancestors.” It looked up into the starry heavens, sprinkled with light, as if seeking for the right words in their profundity.

“Those conclusions hold that we … the Ivra … must abstain from the races, among whose peoples we once mingled. It brings sorrow to us; it brings sorrow to those we associated with. Your concerns, your brevity, your special engagement with what you call the solid world, it is fascinating. One of our poets said it is for us what it would be for you to look at an image in the water and being able to interact with that image without shattering it; like holding smoke; like watching a butterfly weave its patterns but not daring to touch its wings.

“We have tried to help. In the First War, beyond even the memories of my parents, we fought against the Dark Yeroni, against evil wizards, against the spawn of Belg. The Ivra were reduced then, to a third of their numbers. No other race suffered so. I have told you we reproduce but slowly; we have not recovered even now. We have … receded from you, more and more over time, watching from afar, abstaining from interaction with you ephemerals, lest it cause instability, interference, and … hm …  envy.”

“I must confess I have been envious of you, Leren,” said Belmok judiciously. (“Speak for yourself,” growled Thron, and the scholar shot him a look.) “Your knowledge, your long life in which to learn that knowledge, your … detachment from that ‘special engagement’, as you call it. I have sometimes seen the world like that, like a rainbow that is and isn’t there, and fancied the idea of myself as purely a floating intelligence, watching. But I don’t think that envy should come between our different kinds.”

Leren bowed its head.

“Still, control of this language is inadequate. There has been envy, yes, but the envy is among the Ivra. This one … I … have been envious.”

“Envious of us?” said Belmok slowly, brows drawn. “What could you possibly want that we have?”

“The crux of the dilemma can be expressed for this one in one of your words: matter. How to explain. Hmmm. For the Ivra, the world consists of three elements: energy, matter, and nothingness. This explanation is not quite accurate, but this language … Energy is also in three modes; these can be called life, awareness of self or mind, and what you call magic. Mere life is … repetitive, minds are cacophonous, and magic is dangerous, to be approached with caution, as you would a fire. Energy is the mode in which we encounter the world.

“But you have a foot planted firmly both here and there, in matter and energy. Our world … the Ivra … it is so much repetition. It is, in its way, very simple, very ‘clean’ as you say. And I … I, Leren, have become curious about the complexities of your way of life. I do not believe that Shyreen has made the Ivra to simply watch and study and keep safe. We must have more purpose. My curiosity … I suppose you might say, my … hm … boredom, led me to dare study the Ogres again, to learn firsthand, and my conclusions are that there is a danger to all races growing in the Norkult Mountains, and that I must … share … this knowledge with you.”

The gleaming blue figure paused.

“Whatever other of the Ivra or our chosen Way prescribes. I have taken this purpose upon myself. I must matter with the world.”

The two Morgs looked at Leren; Belmok in speculation, Thron calculating. It had grown brighter and brighter as its speech had intensified. At last Belmok spoke.

“I thank you, my friend, for being straightforward with us.” He turned to Thron. “I think that answers your questions about our guide’s motives. I find them admirable, don’t you?” He looked back at the Ivra. “I see no reason why we should not continue.”

“Now just a minute,” said Thron, pointing with one black claw extended accusingly. “This … this creature just admitted to basically breaking all his people’s rules, suborning us into his actions by lying to us by suppressing the truth, shown himself to be a cold-blooded calculator, and you’re fine with it, just like that.” His voice rose in incredulous anger. “I think maybe a little more time in judgement would not be amiss, Master Belmok!”

“I do not,” said Belmok calmly. “His motives are perfectly understandable, even if his manner of implementing them are a little … sideways, let us say. Besides, I’m not about to turn back now when we have come so far and are so close to our objective. I’m not going to face the School and say it was all just a waste of time.”

“Ah, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Thron snapped. “Your precious Mastership! Don’t worry about stirring up the Ogres against the Kingdom after a hundred years of standoff. Don’t worry about turning Barek on our backs again! And please don’t worry about getting me killed, that’s a small enough sacrifice for your glory!” he roared.

“Lieutenant Thron, may I remind you …,” Belmok started hotly, but at that moment a circle of purple eyes bloomed in the darkness on the perimeter of Leren’s dense blue light, and the squat powerful figure of a young Ogre came pouncing out of the night, landing on the big Morg’s back and sending him crashing to the hard-baked ground.

Notes:

Targreppinter: Old Orthic word (shadow-clutching-lord-cruel)

Morlakor Shyreen: the Supreme Being and Creator

"Kren" Part Sixteen: "Goldfire" Spoilers

 

Koppa bowed his head wryly.

“It was a miracle, of course,” he said. “And like all miracles, it took a lot to set it up so it could work.

“You may remember tales of the wizard Dunwolf, of course? Well, while Bharek was busy launching his attack against Morg City and the South, Dunwolf had formed a small company who travelled to the East with a different plan. He knew, you see, that this new push into the Free Lands was finally too strong for the weakened South to resist, that the Ogre Horde could very well overwhelm us all at last. Even if we survived, Bharek always found a way of coming back. So he decided this company must travel to the East, to Thoravil itself, and strike down the Black Lord where he sat on his dark throne.”

Kren looked appalled.

“Shyreen’s Shit!” he breathed. “What made him think they could do that?”

“What, indeed?” Koppa raised his eyebrows and sat back, clearly enjoying Kren’s reaction. “Dunwolf himself had never been powerful enough to go toe-to-toe with his old master through the centuries. And he was growing old, while Bharek was being preserved by his cursed armor, the Blackmight. But now he thought he knew where he could find the Goldfire.”

“The Goldfire? What’s that?”

“I’m not surprised you never heard of it. It was a powerful talisman, lost for ages and nearly forgotten. But now he thought he had it traced at last. With his young apprentice, as well as Taryn – General Taryn, as he was then – and the warrior Roth and the scholar Korm – both Morgs, like you – and a handful of brave men, they journeyed to the ruined city of Worthin, where the dragon Drang sat on his hoard of desolation. Here they hoped to find the Goldfire.”

“Now, Drang I’ve heard of,” Kren acknowledged. He looked skeptical. “But from what I have heard, entering his nest would be nearly as hopeless as walking through Thoravil’s front door.”

“Nearly, but not quite,” Koppa conceded. “In the end, the fire-drake was slain, but after a terrific struggle in which it was thought that Roth was lost.”

“But they got this Goldfire doohickie, eh?”

“No; that’s the pity of it. Before his death Drang revealed that nothing like it was in his hoard. Now, dragons never lie. They’re so powerful that the race never learned how, and a dragon knows what’s in his pile to the last penny. Even though the beast was destroyed, the company was left in despair.”