Lore of the Underlings: Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon Read online

  Lore of the Underlings: Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon

  Tales of tongues unknown

  Translated by John Klobucher

  (he wrote it too, but don’t tell anyone and spoil the fun)

  Copyright 2014 John Klobucher

  Smashwords Edition

  Visit John Klobucher’s author page at Smashwords.com

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  Cover art by John Klobucher

  Table of Contents

  Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon

  About the Author

  Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon

  A sweet smoke of billit meat flavored the air from fire pits where a flock of folk, women all or their young girls, were roasting the fresh-killed fowl to a turn. “Good morning indeed!” it seemed to say. Spit after spit of it sputtered and spat as fat dripped from thin crispy skin turned black gold to hiss and flare up in the flames. Hen upon hen spun nearly in unison, slowly approaching a juicy perfection.

  “Mmm,” hummed Boxbo rubbing his belly and fixing his eyes on some plump breasts and drumsticks.

  “Those are not for you!” clucked Ixit. “Don’t be a bird-brain. We’ll land in the Pen.”

  “How ‘bout just a peck or two? And you can grab a wing, a thigh. We’ll be in and out before they know it.”

  “Or soon be the Guard’s dead meat, you plucker, sent home in a box o’ bones — if we’re lucky!”

  And yet, despite their fragrant allure, it took but a zephyr to clear the air and reveal a less-appealing tale… the full, unappetizing story. You see, these supreme and saucy chick-hens were only temporary temptations, the lip-smacking treats of a fast-food feast made to order by rows of doe-eyed maids who steamed and smoked and slaved away, all in a hot and makeshift kitchen no stick of which stood an hour before. This was cuisine conjured up on demand, a mess by command of the other Hurx man, the red-bearded brother of Ayryx the Mourned, no more than a spit from the door of his war tent. And everyone knew the menu here… to fill or be killed from the hunger within it… growing by the minute.

  But then again, in the end, it was nothing that a little game couldn’t change.

  By now no drop of the morning dew remained to grace this open space and the soft green floor of Syland spurge that carpeted a good part of it — at least where the gently sloping land met the foot of the sylvan hillside. Yet that deep mat cushioned the hide-wrapped feet of the nimble humble women folk. And the thick of it still kept the toes nice and cool while the damp soil below squished like rich blackblood pudding… laced with a taste of fat gummy flesh-flukes just to add that special spring. Or dense gooey tar cake that sticks to the bones and sinks to the pit of the stomach.

  But there was another side to this clearing, one less lush and comforting. For nearer the great tent the flat turf went dry, parched and patchy, worn down to bare brown from the heavier traffic of four-wheeling carts and scores of marching men folk. And being baked hard by the thirsty sun, its moist crumby topsoil was turned to dust. That plus the pounding the old sod took from team after team of iron-shod chevox gave rise to a virtual fog of war there. They kicked up clouds and plumes in the air, casting dust storms everywhere.

  From the hilltop settlement barreled a bull-cart, riding down roughshod and reckless as heck. Afar at first but nearing fast, it straddled wide the tired road on a rumbling, rattling path headed earthbound with every sign of an urgent mission. Or just as well a bat out of hell, it all but careened off course more than once descending the slope at breakneck speed. Indeed so frantic was its run that everyone watched it land aground with a bump and a bounce in the valley below. Then and only then was it possible for a peeled eyeball or naked pupil to catch what you’d call a half-decent look and size the whole thing up.

  This double-high, double-deep, double-long wagon had seen its better days. A heavy five-wheeler of rotted pynewood built long ago by hands now still, it was pulled by a brace of young bull chevox with muscular legs and sleek coats of black. A feisty and impatient pair, their power seemed almost too much for the cart, which creaked as if ready to break apart.

  “Crack! Groan… Crack!” whined its weak back axle.

  And due to some massive cargo inside, something grunting and alive, it cut deeper the ruts in which it drove.

  “Wooo! Pig! Sooie!” cried the driver.

  The burly man turned his brawny team hard with a good, quick jerk on their worn leather leads, steering them sharply off to the left and a cart lot midway to the tent. Still they did not slow their stampede. Not these beefy beasts. Not a bit. Not yet…

  A small boy egged them on, a-cheer. “Go cart go! The swiner’s here!” The ragamuffin jumped for joy and threw his arms up in the air.

  Then against the battle tent’s billowing backdrop of canvas colored in browns and greens, this chase scene, the saga of raging bulls in a field of screams, played out at last. Not a moment too soon the reinsman called “Whoa now!” and pulled back strong to park the twain. But his two-pack did not even react. The bullocks kept going — the yoke on him. And the spoked spinning wheels of the big bucking chuck wagon stirred up a cyclone of true grit that sent a dozen denizens flying or diving for their lives. “Think quick!” Thank goodness none were hit.

  “Masher! Basher! I mean it! Whoa or you’ll be dog meat!”

  Suddenly the bulls held up and their joyride came to a violent stop.

  “Umph!”

  “Grunt…”

  Thump!

  Just a porklet’s whisker short of a crash with a score or more of other road craft.

  “Well done bully boys!” laughed loudly the man climbing down from his rickety rig. “Now let’s give the ladies their due of this bedeviled pig.”

  Then in a manner that seemed routine the filthy but friendly-looking driver tugged on a long and hairy vine hanging there by the speedwagon’s tailgate. That action tipped the whole contraption releasing a pitted and pockmarked ramp — a steely sort of hand-plated grate likely made of cold-rolled ironwood — that opened up down to the waiting ground with a cranky scraping sound.

  But that noise was very soon drowned out by an even louder din, the buzz of a sudden swarm of children, urchins who flew in from nowhere it seemed to meet the welcome wagon. Trailing them almost majestically with the warmth and cool of their would-be queen, there came a handsome and matronly woman.

  “Good Mr. Swillyum!” she called to the man, a caring sincerity in her tone. “Sweet Meeting Day dear swiner.”

  Two of the wee tots leapt into her arms without the slightest notice.

  “Have you brought us something plump? Fresh meat for our firepits this morn?”

  The soily fellow wheeled around and beamed back at the woman. “Mother Huggum, halloo! Tip-top o’ the dew-time ta you!”

  Something big banged on the sideboards of the now inert transport, in the deep black hold of it.

  “Yes indeed, by my beard I have! The best of the beasts I’ve ever reared.” He unlet a latch on the wide, weighty tailgate and let it go — GONG! — with a warning… “Watch yerselves kiddlings. Stand off. Look out!”

  But before the small fry could react a pair of flaring eyes peered back from the trunk of the rank delivery truck. T
hey came with a growling, fang-toothed mouth on the underside of a muzzled snout that dripped a venomous mess from nostrils too red and boogered to be missed… a pug-nosed, puss-kissed face like a fist… dog-eared with frog warts festooning its skin and drooling from the chinny chin chin a slime aswim of slugs within, not to mention a horny coat acrawl in all of the foulest, boar-borne vermin — dung bugs that is, big and vile as they come. This pig-styled head bore every dark hallmark. It had to be the ugly mug of an angry albeit well-fatted snarl hog.

  The thing made a chilling, bloodcurdling squeal and charged down the ramp at the near frozen children, a baker’s dozen or so in close range. A razor-backed, toe-nailed, spike-haired monster with no care for their tender age.

  Yet the targeted tots did not run and hide. Instead they sang a lullaby. It was something short and sweet:

  Pretty pig, hello hello

  Let’s go wallow, follow follow

  By the sleeping willow tree

  Where the mud is shallow shallow

  Past the fallow field of dreams

  Handsome hoggy use your nose

  Diggy piggy come let’s go

  To the sleepy hollow hollow

  To the sleepy hollow

  The creature keeled over as if roped and hog-tied, making a long, deep gash in the ground. It had turned petrified, crashed fast asleep, been felled spellbound before it went down. It was sawing wood when its skid stopped dead.

  A cloud of gnats lit on the once-lumbering beast, slumbering peaceful now as a log. Comfortably numb. In hog heaven. A-fog.

  “I see that you’ve already learned yer young’uns,” said Mr. Swillyum to the woman.

  “Never too early!” replied mother Huggum, a gleam of gold in her amber eyes as she surveyed her humming hive. They circled the downed hog still sound a-snooze and bid it adieu with a last verse of music, a chorus bloodthirsty but cherubic:

  Simmer down hambone

  Rest in peas, honey

  Be pleased to meat you

  To marrow to marrow

  Can’t wait to eat you

  Tomorrow!

  Those last notes fell like soil-stained snowflakes — earthly songfall from an angelic cast.

  The swiner unleashed a belly laugh and clapped his hands in appreciation. “Now which ones are yer fair daughters again? I think I see two or three o’ them…”

  “I am proud, kind breeder, to say I have seven,” cooed the yet youthful and apron-clad woman.

  “A pride in every sense!” he pronounced. “I should like ta make their acquaintance.”

  The comb-crowned mother hen gathered her brood in a row by the old wheeled pigpen. “Come now children, pay your respects. The swiner’s a treasured family friend…”

  She spread her arms in their direction, palms up, face aglow. “Here you go — these six plus this one are the cubs of my den, lassies all of the Huggum clan.”

  “Ooo,” swooned Mr. Swillyum crooning Flower of This Thorny Land and adding, with a little wink, “lovely as their mum, I think.”

  She blushed but her blossoms did not miss a bleat. Instead the bunch launched into a folk dance with ten curtsies at the end, all cheerily greeting the gentle meatman. And done they sang in unison, “An honor dear mister herder sir!”

  Then each took a turn meting out introductions:

  “I’m Hexxi.”

  “I’m Vexxi.”

  “She’s Trixxi.”

  “That’s Wixxi.”

  “We’re Noxxi and Poxxi.”

  “They call me Mawg.”

  The last seemed more boy by her half-dozen sisters, beauties all of honey-pure skin and long, flowing manes like lionesses. No, she was on the bearish side — big-boned and husky, rather ham-handed, with hair shorn short and sort of laddish. And that’s not to mention the slow, musky voice she hid behind those meaty mitts. It first came across a little shyly; on second thought, though, you’d have to say guy-ly.

  Yet the swiner made no notice. “The honor is mine, my dandelions! What cute kitty cattails ya are.” He bowed a low and hatless bow that showed the tanned pate of his sun-kissed head. “Please call me Uncle Gustus!”

  Agiggle, the girls bowed back at him then pounced upon the hampered pig. Each knew the job she had to do, so like good soldiers they set straight to it.

  From a pile stacked with poles that appeared out of nowhere, Mawg plus the six picked up long toiling sticks and used them to roll the enormous hog, the weight of a hundred sleeping dogs, onto an old-fashioned slaughtering sleigh handy-made from the strongest of limberwood fabrics. A magically woven twill, if you will. And then by that sling they dragged the thing — in league with a team of other tweens and an army of even weer ones — away from Swiner Swillyum’s ramp toward a spot near the heart of the Treasuror’s camp where a fresh-dug and deep pork-u-pit now awaited, already stoked and thick with smoke.

  Gustus climbed up high atop his huge lorry and watched the crew go, hauling their quarry. A marbled-fat monster soon to be ham. Six-score stone or more of yummy. Seeing that they were still within earshot, the rosy boarmaster merrily parceled out bunches of sage and timely advice on how best to prepare the beast to ensure a tasty and Guard-pleasing feast.

  “The main thing, nieces, is the curing… the Semperor’s secret marinade trick that our fore-folk perfected while out in the wild… should take but a minute, maybe two, if ya do it right.” The swiner cupped both hands around his mouth to better project his booming voice. “Then just a brief bath in pom wine brine — which’ll tenderize the toughest muscle — before ya smoke it for a second with trickory wood and a few sprigs o’ thistle…”

  He saw that they’d reached their destination and paused for an instant quite impressed as each girl pulled from her quilted dress a long, sharp butcher’s blade. He nodded but then remembered something that made him stiffen and call out again. “Oh yes — don’t forget, my near-and-dears, when it comes to the hooves and nose and ears, the head Guard in particular loves a pickle of those hearty parts. Half-sour, double-quick — that should do it!”

  The sisterhood seemed to hear him not but raised their irony chef’s knives up…

  “Did ya catch that, little pups?”

  High up above their maiden heads they flashed the steely cutlery, ready to make some bacon when…

  “Out of my way!”

  A black knight stormed hard toward the tent, dark clouds kicked up in his wake. They threatened to dim the promising day.

  “Move you sows!” sneered the angry Guard, beating the ground with his battle pike. “Or taste the meat of this drumstick…”

  Brewer, baker, bacon maker — everyone seemed fair game to him. They scattered like tit-mice, left or right. Golden ale spilled. Pom pies went flying.

  The grim pikesman made a more beastly noise. “Grrrrrrrrrrrr…”

  That sound drowned out the drone of the crowd and the sea of servants, though at high tide, parted to give him passage. The flotsam and jetsam of them were plowed — without any further snort of warning — under toe by the raging ull.

  A lesser Guard greeted him as he neared the shadowed front door of the tent. “Council has begun, lord sir! Treasuror Hurx would wait no more.”

  Syar-ull flashed his visored eyes but then surprisingly lowered them. He had just digested the doorman’s words. Their aftertaste seemed to sicken him.

  Suddenly lame, he mumbled low, “My shame grows by the hour now.”

  It did not look like the same Syar-ull as he slogged bent and bowed for the final furlong. No, he limped like a wounded guard dog, tail tucked down between his legs.

  Not that you’d want him to fetch a stick or taunt him to heel or beg for it (while a bark and a bite were still his top tricks).

  At least he acted a friendlier cur, giving wide berth to a bevy of ladies — the loveliest loafers of the Keep — who were tending ten portable hive-domed ovens. He even skirted the Huggum clan angelically gutting their deviled ham.

  At last he reached the weathered
tent and handed his pike to the stunned attendant. Then he slunk with a puppy’s whimper under the big-top’s torn flap door, dog-eared but suited for dogs of war to enter and be sent.

  The sentry stood there awkwardly, stuck, gawking at the yellow and black of the battle bat in his leathered mitt.

  But the wait staff barely missed a beat. It was back to the music of brew, bread, and meat. The rhythm of the heat.

  Boxbo and Ixit tailed the action and wagged their tongues, panting, in reaction.

  “Who knew you could teach a hell hound new licks!”

  “Let alone get one to bow.”

  “Wow…”

  “Cowed into submission, all sheepish now.”

  “But…”

  “What’s the matter — cat got your tongue?”

  “No, you dumb cluck. Look!”

  The two fellows fell all over each other, awed at seeing what they saw. Then they tumbled down like dominoes.

  Another arrival, a halting perp walk, sent a shock wave through the folk.

  Taan-syr and two brethren guardsmen, standard-bearers of the coast lands, led a bound and mud-caked man across the crowded fare grounds. There was no mistaking the tall soldier stranger, that handsome young fighter with hair fair as sand. He was so much larger than his captors, especially now in the light of day. And once again he made them pay a heavy price for holding sway, using his several stone advantage to weigh down each step of the way.

  The sea-green Guard was growing annoyed, his face red hot-blooded, eyes white-cold as ice. “Let’s go foreigner, move your feet! The Treasuror does not like to wait.”

  Odd though, as he frowned hard at the stranger, his voice seemed anxious, a touch too urgent.