Getting a Move On

Aftermath: One of the Tales of the Morgs

AFTERMATH

 

     It was a late – a very late – autumn day.  The great chamber at the heart of the New Royal School lay closed and stuffy; no-one had been in or out for two weeks. The only moving things there had been the climbing and declining rays of sunlight across the walls and the shuffle of spiders now and then in the high corners of the room.

An abrupt clanking of the doorhandle broke the silence, setting echoes that seemed to startle and stir the innumerable shelves of books and papers and set them rustling with the inrush of air as the door creaked open. A Morgish muzzle poked cautiously into the room, followed by a black beard bristling nervously beneath. There was a loud, inhaling sniff.

     “H … Hello?” A voice quavered hesitantly into the echoing chamber.

It was followed the next instant by a squawk as its gangly owner was pushed stumbling into the room. Almost immediately behind him came a stern, matronly Morgess, her plain shift the mellow yellow color of the staff proctors. She crossed her arms impatiently as the Morg caught his balance, then adjusted his green tunic, brow wrinkling.

“Was that absolutely necessary, Ena?” he grumbled.

“What, you were waiting for an answer, Master Grax?” she said flatly. “We’ve got too much work to do clearing this place out without wasting time.”

“Well, you never know,” the Morg said vaguely. He cut his cut his eyes around the room. “After all, history is full of stories … lingering presences, you know … it doesn’t hurt to be respectful ...”

He shivered.

“Don’t you feel something?”

The stolid Morgess shrugged.

“He wasn’t the head of my department. Just the Grand Master of the School.”

Grax’s jaw flopped open.

“But he was Korm!” he protested. “The greatest scholar of his generation, if not in all the history of Forlan! Student of Belmok! He discovered the treasure of the Lost City of the Moon! Almost the last of the Goldfire Questers!”

Ena shrugged again and raised an eyebrow.

“As I recall, he had them looking in the wrong place to begin with, which almost led to their deaths,” she said, her voice dry.

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Grax looked around and tangled his claws through his stringy beard. “Honestly, though, can’t you feel something … personal in the air?”

“Of course,” Ena said briskly. She stepped over to the grand desk that was the centerpiece of the office. Grax followed in her wake. “My old Madra explained it to me before I even became a proctor and started the job. My uncle had passed away and I thought his room was haunted. She told me it was like this.”

She pulled out the chair and sat down by the desk and began examining the objects that cluttered the top, straightening papers and books.

“The most essential part of a person is the spirit or mind, and very close to it is the body, which picks up and discards material as it goes along.”

“Well, that seems pretty obvious.”

“Right. If we didn’t have bodies, there’s no way we’d know anybody else has a mind. When the spirit that gave the body form is gone, the body collapses into mere material … but that material is how we knew the spirit was there.”

Grax snorted. “What does that have to do with … well, hauntings?”

“There’s a third circle of existence that most people don’t think about, and that’s the influence a person had on things while they were alive.”

Ena finished straightening the desktop and stood up, eying the room critically as she moved toward the bed.

“You mean like their legacy, their influence on history?” Grax moved over and sat down himself. Now that Ena had broken the ice, as it were, he found himself filled with awe to be sitting at the great Morg’s desk. He ran a reverent claw slowly along the edge.

“It’s even more personal than that.” The old Morgess went over to the bulky wardrobe next to the bed, swung open the door, and looked over the contents. Her nose wrinkled at the stale smell.

“The things a person collects … the things that only he uses … they’re like the armor a twister slug leaves behind when it changes. The bug is gone elsewhere, but there’s a hollow shell where he used to be, in the shape of what he was.” She shut the wardrobe. “Eventually it collapses or something else takes up residence.”

Grax’s eyes widened.

“I don’t think it’s quite respectful to speak of Master Korm as a slug. He was a great person.” His claws were wandering over the desk drawers with an eagerness of their own, feeling the knobs in anticipation. “Who knows what great legacy he’s left behind for other scholars to find? Who knows …?”

Almost unconsciously he pulled a drawer open. Surprised at his action, he looked down, stopping in mid-sentence. He went still.

After a moment he cleared his throat.

“Why do you suppose,” he asked shakily. “That anyone would save a drawerful of nail-clippings?”

“What?” Ena barked, hastening to his side. She stared down into the drawer.

“Ugh. Well, that’s going into the fire, for starters.”  

Grax shook his head.

“That’s just … odd.”

“Well, they do say it never pays to look too deeply into the great ones’ lives. You’ll find they all raise their flap to poo.”

“I suppose so.” He wrinkled his muzzle. “I suppose we’d better buckle down to work. The next High Master will be wanting to move in soon.”

“That’s so.” Ena looked around with an assessing eye. “Looks like more work for you than me. How many boxes do you think you’ll need?”

The other Morg around helplessly at the shelves bulging with books and papers.

“About twenty?” he ventured.

“Let’s make it thirty. It’s always better to have too many than not enough.” She walked over to the bed – a rather simple and narrow piece of furniture, Grax thought, for the legendary hero – and began stripping the bedclothes, folding them neatly at the foot. “By the way, any idea who the new High Master will be?”

“I only know it won’t be me.” He sighed. “There are a few candidates of course, but none stand out. How can you replace someone like Korm?”

“And yet he will be. No-one’s irreplaceable. Like my madra said when the old King died, you can stick your hand in a bucket of water and take it out again, and the hole that’s left is equal to the absence in society what’s felt when even a great one passes.”

“That seems rather cynical,” the other sniffed. He pulled a scroll out of his pocket and began perusing the list written there.

“But practical. Life, as they say, goes on.” She turned from her work. “What’s that, then?”

“A list of bequests and whatnot,” Grax said distractedly, eyes running over the scroll. “Some special gifts of books to various persons and places.”

His lips moved mumbling quietly, then he looked up in dismay at the overcrowded shelves around them.

“How the hell am I supposed to pick them out here? It’s like looking for particular stalks in a field of wheat!”

“Oh, be quiet!” Ena flipped the last folds of the sheets and turned her attention to the wardrobe. “Big as the chore is, bit by bit it gets done, don’t it? That’s what we say downstairs.” She opened the door. “Huh. Not a lot of clothes for a Master. And pretty shabby, too.”

“Vanity was not one of his weaknesses.” Grax sniffed. “Not like some Masters I know.” He walked over to a nearby shelf, turned a corner to the back, and began scanning the books there.

Ena grinned.

“I bet I could name a few you’re thinking of.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think these can all go on the scrap pile. They buried him in his best, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course,” Grax said absently, as his eyes flickered over the titles. He muttered, reading them to himself as he bent close to see. Suddenly he stopped and gasped in astonishment. “What the --,” he began slowly, brow furrowed, anger in his voice.

“What? What?” The old Morgess came hurrying over gleefully to join him. She thought she heard scandal in his voice and was eager for a little spice on this dull job.

She turned the corner and found Grax leafing through a volume, an appalled expression on his muzzle.

“What is it?” she asked excitedly. “Our revered Grand Master been secretly reading some fiery romances?”

“No, look at this! Just look!” He pointed one shaking claw at a blue seal on the book’s spine. “This is from the Great Library! No-one is supposed to remove this! No-one!”

Ena shrugged.

“Surely the Grand Master could …”

“No-one!”

Ena shrugged again.

“Well, one book …”

“No, look!” Grax waved his arms angrily. “Look! Shelves upon shelves of them. There must be almost two hundred books here!”

Ena whistled long and low out of the sides of her muzzle, eyes wide.

“Oh, he has been a naughty boy!” she chortled. “Well, all sins must out, they say.”

Grax covered his eyes and rocked his head, moaning softly, before straightening up and tugging his beard in sudden resolution.

“Well, this one mustn’t. It would be bad for morale, and even worse for discipline. Just think what would happen if it got around that Korm … Korm, of all people, was a … a … a book thief!” He spat the words out. “Next thing you know our shelves would be bare, with the students using his example as an excuse.” He wrinkled his brow. “But how to get them back in the library without anyone knowing?”

“Simple enough,” Ena said breezily. “I’ll just bring an empty cleaning cart over tonight, load them up with some rags on top, and wheel it over to the archives. Sprinkle ‘em around on the tables here and there and let the librarians sort ‘em out. Believe me, nobody notices cleaners going around.”

“You’d do that for me?” The other Morg relaxed visibly. “That would be very helpful.”

“Never you mind.” The old lady patted him on the shoulder. “My job here is pretty light. Never knowed a Master of any grade to be so monk-like in his living. His personables are hardly worth giving to the School’s thrift store. But all this …” She indicated the stuffed shelves around them. “I don’t envy you and your assistants going through all this.”

Grax barked shortly.

“Oh, it’s like sorting out a dragon’s hoard for us. A pleasant task, once the guardian’s out of the way.”

Ena looked dubious.

“Well, if you say so.” She looked around. “Well, I guess the first once-over’s done. I’ll go get some carts for the lugging and by tomorrow ‘twill all be clear for you scholar-squirrels to gather your nuts. Best meet me back here in an hour so you can direct me about them books.”

“Yes, yes, I have a few things to attend to right quick, then I’ll be back.” They moved to the door, where Grax paused and looked around with a little shiver. “I don’t think I’d fancy waiting here all alone until then.”

“Don’t let it bother you none,” Ena grinned. “In my experience, dead folks is the least dangerous kind.”

The door shut firmly, and the key clicked in the lock. The echoing footsteps died away and all was silent for a while. After a while, a voice for those who could hear spoke up apologetically.

“Oh, dear. I really did mean to return those books … sometime, you know. There just never seemed to be a good time.”

“In the last one hundred years, you mean?” The other voice was gruff, but noncommittal.

“Well …”

The other voice changed its tone.

“Have you seen enough? Are you ready to go now?”

“I was just wondering how …”

“No, it is enough.” The other voice was firm but sounded a little exasperated. “It’s always the same with you scholar types, curious about what happens next. Well, what happens next is there’s work to be done elsewhere.”

The first voice began to fade away, interest in its tone.

“I thought it was going to be some kind of rest …”

The second voice sounded amused as it too faded.

“Where we’re going, work and rest don’t have separate meanings. Perhaps the closest word here in this world is play.”

“Well, that does sound interesting …”

And then they were gone, and there was only silence in the hollow dusty chamber.

 

Finished First Draft 9:49 PM

7/10/2021

I might have published this here before, but I couldn't find it in a cursory search. Anyway, it certainly didn't have an AI-generated illustration with it. So that's new, at least.

Master Belmok

Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part 21, Notes, Outline, and Kinda Conclusion)

At last, there comes some sort of triggering incident, perhaps a riot or some sort of panic in the market. To help settle things down, Thrand announces that he is ready to nominate the new King. He is not really ready, but he feels he has to do something and maybe setting a deadline will help him decide.

To that end the Examination Test is called to order. This is a three-day process whereby a designated group tests and observes Thrand himself, to ensure that he is sane and competent. This group consists of at least four Life Witnesses (probably the same that attested to Taryn’s death), a select group of Thrand’s fellow Judges, and the Heads of the largest Noble Houses (accompanied by their Senior Madras). During this period, they may ask him questions and pose various simple trials to assess his basic fitness. Nothing that bears directly on the question of who is to be King; this is about the High Justice himself.

When they all are done each of the group must swear (in writing) an attestation to Thrand’s competency. This is to avoid any quarrels or quibbles that could delay the process any further once he has made his decision. At the end of the third day Thrand explains to Kettil that the High Justice’s decision could then only be turned aside if he made some sort of gross announcement, like handing the throne to an Ogre or, in the old days, a threatening power like the Dark Lord himself. He chuckles grimly at the thought. He hopes he’s not that obtuse yet.

Kettil looks troubled at that. It’s time for the young Morg to make a revelation now, lest the revelation later become a cause for questioning Thrand’s decision. It’s not really the Judge’s fault; he made an assumption and Kettil chose never to correct him. The fact is, Kettil is a girl.

Thrand is dumbfounded. Kettil quickly explains that she was never sure how long she could keep it up, whether she would be found out or simply quit after the year was over. But the fact is, there was no stipulation as to her sex in the Articles she signed, and some furtive research made it sure that there was no Law positively forbidding it. She has come to the conclusion that she really wants a career in the law, but now knows it cannot be founded on a secret. And she does not want to draw any obloquy to the older Morg’s ruling if and when it comes out, as she feels it surely must. Kettil anxiously watches Thrand’s stunned face.

Thrand bursts out laughing. It’s a good joke on him and takes him down a peg. Kettil is right, of course, there is no law against it, only custom. It also resets his clock a bit and makes him realize he might have been allowing unconscious assumptions to affect his judgement, even as to the kingship. It suddenly makes his decision on the morrow all the clearer. In the meantime, Kettil needs to bring him certain volumes from the Law Library. He will prepare an airtight case overnight allowing Kettil’s apprenticeship. Should he announce it before or after the kingship? Perhaps after would be best, so as not to muddy the waters. But it will be waiting, and, he feels sure, fireproof.

The next day dawns, and the court is convened. The Examiners sign their attestations. Heralds are standing by to announce Thrand’s decision; it will go into effect immediately. Thrand is sitting in the judgement seat, the Crownhelm gleaming in his lap. His knobby old fingers caress the cold metal. Excitement is rife. The new King is bound to be in the crowd.

At the stroke of ten from the White Tower, Thrand starts speaking. He draws it out a little, relishing the attention and the tension. He goes over all the candidates one by one, including Roth and Trallin and Krod (these three will be most emphasized, as they are the ones I’ve mentioned). Then, he comes to the summing up.

None of these will be the new King. Instead, he chooses Varnik to be the second human King of Morg City. Varnik has shown that he has the kingdom’s best interests at heart, he’s the son of the beloved Taryn, and anyway, as a human he won’t last as long as a Morg so if he does turn out to be a dud he’ll be replaced sooner (he might not say this last part aloud).

Consternation, uproar! But as the news speeds away from the chamber and bells start to ring, the court grows more and more reconciled to the idea. The Metarlin (human) faction will have to be satisfied that one (junior) son of Taryn will have the throne. Trallin will return to his estates in Metarlin, to plot for regency there; he certainly won’t remain to be ruled over by his younger brother. He will be joined by Innia who must be satisfied that one of her sons is King, though he seems to have no dynastic ambitions. The Morgish faction, who have had no strong horse in the race, get settled to follow the inertia of the status quo. In the meantime, the Houses have plenty of time to prepare better candidates. What’s fifty years or so to a Morg? The Life Witnesses bear Varnik and the crown away to the formal coronation.

The crowd drains away, leaving the law court personnel waiting on Thrand to dismiss them. The old Judge clears his throat. Now that that little piece of business is cleared away, he declares, I have another decision to place before you. One that may even be more far-reaching than the one I’ve already made today. Kettil comes to stand at his side. Thrand unrolls the document he prepared last night and starts to read out loud.

Thuh End. The rest is just scribbling and bibbling.

Notes

Well. This ‘finishes’ the story I began almost two years ago. I really had almost only the barest idea what it would be about when I started; each step forward was like putting a foot out in the dark on a staircase I wasn’t entirely sure was there, trying to get to the top of a tower.  After a little rest I should go back and flesh it out.

Kettil was known from the very first to be a girl Morg, and I went to some pains that, no matter how often the characters referred to ‘him’, I as narrator never did. She was young enough that she could still pass as a fella with a rather scant ‘beard’. I’m sure that Morg society will accept her with a certain amount of grumbling and gossip, but I wonder if many other females will follow her example. To the madras it would seem to be a step down into servitude and to the males it would seem like poaching onto their preserve. Kettil wouldn’t give a hoot; she enjoys it and with Thrand’s training becomes a very subtle and clear-sighted Judge.

With a little care, Thrand lives to a goodly age if not the longest a Morg can reach. He’s still alive when Varnik passes away, but he has retired, and another Chief Justice chooses the next King. Who that will be I have no idea, though I feel it will be another Morg by then. Who can say? Maybe Roth’s son, maybe an entirely new character. The future is wide open.

Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part 20, Notes and Outline)

Gawnich (the highly placed Morg magistrate from the beginning of the story, one of the Lord Chief Justice’s seconds-in-command and likely to be his successor) meets with Thrand to put forth his candidate to be the next King. This is the Morg Krod, a dull but worthy fellow, a merchant from a noble House, rich but ostentatiously honest in his dealings, given to flashy charitable works and supporting public projects. Gawnich happens to know he would be acceptable to a large swath of Morgish interests.

Krod has also, as Thrand finds after a little gentle but stern prompting, obtained Gawnich as his advocate through a sizable … ahem … retainer. Nothing particularly wrong with that; Thrand even appreciates Gawnich’s forthrightness in admitting it when it comes down to it. It even stands in Krod’s favor somehow in Thrand’s estimation; that he could win the support of someone as basically honest as Gawnich. Which honesty Thrand knows personally; if there was anything really wrong with Krod he could never had won Gawnich’s support, no matter how much he offered.

Thrand explains this to Kettil after he has sent Gawnich off with hope in his heart and a bug in his ear. The young apprentice still finds it somewhat shady, pointing out that Gawnich would then also have the support of the next King should Krod be chosen, and that would give him some clout when Thrand passes away and his successor must be nominated. Even so, the old Morg finds nothing outright objectionable in the suggestion.

Besides, the pressure is building for Thrand to make his decision. The City is growing restless and business is starting to back up. Nothing really wrong just yet, but everyone wants this period of uncertainty to be over. It’s making them nervous, not having anyone to trust (or to blame) for the welfare of the kingdom. Rumors are spreading (prompted by what or who, no one is sure) that the Ogres are planning to take advantage of the interregnum to mount a surprise attack. When will the Lord Chief Justice make his decision? Anyone would be better than no-one, the grumble goes. The Autumn Festival is fast approaching, and it cannot be celebrated with any easiness without the business being settled and a King securely in charge.

Thrand knows he has to make a judgement, and soon.

(Notes to the Notes: I really have to go back and solidify what Thrand’s title is exactly. Lord Chief Justice? Lord High Justice? Lord High Judge? High Justice? That’s what he was in Part One, almost two years ago. At this point I can’t remember what I had settled on. And we’ve come around to the Autumn Festival again. Have to check what time of the year this story started; of course the coronation of the new King doesn’t have to happen at the Festival, just be accomplished by then. Let's see if I can be finished - in some sense of the word - with the tale started August 2023. When I woke up at 2:30 AM this morning I had no idea what this next section would be about. All I knew was that I wanted to bring Gawnich back from the beginning of the story. I even vaguely thought this would be the end. But that's apparently next week.)

Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part 19, Notes and Outline)

Kettle comes in from a day off, disheveled, bruised, black-eyed but grinning. It seems that some of the other pages and apprentices have taken exception to the young Morg’s position under Thrand. Apprentice to the Lord High Justice is a coveted position, and it doesn’t seem right to them that someone with no education or breeding or experience should suddenly just pop into it. Some of their masters, Judges of high degree, have grumbled at it as well, and the impression they’ve given is that they will support any ‘hazing’ their servants might initiate.

But Kettle’s street training has allowed the young Morg to set several bigger, older apprentices on their backs, and earn a certain new degree of fear and respect, even more than is due from being Thrand’s protégé. The old Morg chuckles at it, his mood momentarily lightened. The pressing matter of who shall be King is still weighing heavily on his mind.

The problem is driving him to distraction. He goes over the conundrum with Kettle, more to think out loud than anything. Things are complicated by his personal ambition, to really come to a good decision, something that people will point to and say he was truly wise to do that. His legacy, his reputation, is riding on things as well. Although there are plenty of candidates that would make … adequate rulers, it would be a letdown after a couple of heroic monarchs (and Thron is certainly seen as a heroic King now, if lesser than Taryn) to descend into mere bureaucracy. Every qualification, every political criterion must be weighed.

Kettle questions whether he’s just making it too complicated. Set aside noble house or private talents. Perhaps he should ask what sort of person he wants to be King? Think about all the candidates. Who would he want to have dinner with? Who would he trust to stand by his side in a fight? Who would he loan money to? Who would he like his son to be like? Who would listen to good advice?

The young Morg brightens. Come to that, why doesn’t Thrand just make himself King? He’s still got a few good years yet. Thrand barks bleakly at the idea.

That would not only be against the Lore, he explains, it would be against the Law. And both can be very stubborn masters. Every Morg knows in his bones that self-proclaimed rulers are bad news, and the Law, while elements of it can be amended, has a few iron precepts at its core, and that’s one of them.

And I can’t make you King, either, he adds humorously. You’re not old enough. A Morg must be at least fifty. Though you seem, in many ways, to be wise enough. You’ve certainly given me something to think about. Now go clean up and put something on that eye.

Notes

This little section is sort of an insight into my writing process. I know what has to happen, but not always how. I make an outline of the story as foreseen, and let details emerge as I think about it. Bits and pieces may be be fairly close to the actual writing, when I flesh it out and make 'blocking' as it were. That last speech of Thrand's, for instance, may be used almost verbatim in the actual draft. In the meantime I have something to work with and from. Morgs, being longer lived than humans at a 250 year average, have their own standards of when one is mature. Fifty would be their equivalent of twenty-one, or near enough.

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.