The Lore Anthology: Lore of the Underlings: Episodes 1 - 5

  The Lore Anthology

  Lore of the Underlings: Episodes 1 - 5

  Tales of tongues unknown

  Translated by John Klobucher

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

  First Kindle Edition, June 2014

  Copyright 2014 John Klobucher

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

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  For more on the author and the Lore (including podcasts of select episodes), visit loreoftheunderlings.com

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  Cover art and cartography by John Klobucher

  Table of Contents

  What the Lore Is for

  Foreword

  Translator’s Notes

  Episode 1 ~ The Strangers

  Episode 2 ~ Return of the Guard

  Episode 3 ~ Fyryx

  Episode 4 ~ The Letting Pen

  Episode 5 ~ Into the Pit

  About the Author

  What the Lore Is for

  A dedication — made crossing the Mojave and other deserts:

  The lore is for waking

  Dreams lost in machines

  For what dwells between and beyond

  For virtues forgotten

  Wiped virtual clean

  For living lives worthy of song

  The lore is for sweat

  The lore is for toil

  A heart full of blood

  A fist full of soil

  For hands of the small

  Making worlds meant to fall

  For love unleashed

  To save us all

  For evil’s end

  For good

  The lore is for sons

  Stricken young who fight on

  For daughters born burning

  Love’s fire borne strong

  For fathers and brothers

  In arms though long gone

  For mothers and sisters

  Who bear every wrong

  And wash the dirt

  The hurt to heal

  The souls of holes

  We bare to feel

  Whole and human

  Born clean

  Redone

  The lore is for all

  Of us dear friends

  To recall

  Forever and again

  Foreword

  Hello reader!

  I’m delighted to the point of tears to bring you this translation of the Lore of the Underlings, which is, at best, a rat’s nest of strange and so-so tales from heaven-knows-where. Now I’m sure you’re saying, “Hurry up!” and, “Get on with it!” Who can blame you? Why pick at these crumbs while tasty cheese awaits ahead?

  Well, it turns out that this is our lucky day. I’ve just come into possession of a very special document, the notes of an earlier unknown scholar of these mysterious stories, which will no doubt spread the sunny smile of knowledge over every word to reveal their origin and meaning and so on. This is exciting. Let’s read it together for the first time:

  One winter noon now long ago, I woke buried under a blanket of snow in the woods I had wandered as a child… tucked into by something wicked… wild… lost and found out in the bitter cold…

  The sting was the first thing to hit me. The fire on my frozen cheek. Rough bark pressed against my skin with the bite of a dozen angry bees.

  I tried to make sense of what I was…

  This face mashed into a fallen pine.

  Hair matted with sap and dried blood from the scalp.

  Knees bruised and aching, toes numb, feet wet.

  Trunk quaking, hunched over a bed of broken bottles that stunk of a drunken night.

  Dizzy and sick, I rolled to my back and to the sound of cracking glass felt something press against my chest.

  My eyes were swollen to narrow slits, blind but for a blur of white and diamond light cast in ice on the snow like some kind of pixie dust. Still I discovered a place to slip a few of my deadened fingertips… in between the buttons and under the thick of the musty coat that covered me up. This old patchwork overcoat was not mine, nor was the secret it hid beneath — a soft, palm-shaped pouch upon my heart. It gripped me by the ribcage in a mesh of skin-like strings, strong skinny things with fingery tips.

  My hand recoiled then felt again. It seemed to tremble at the touch, holding tight like a frightened child. I grabbed the pouch to pull it off, but something made me stop.

  Instead I crawled away, to the east I hoped and bound for home.

  By evening I had made my feet and staggered through the trees. But as we passed the way of darkness, the fingers on my tender flesh turned into claws that latched on strong. They pierced and pulled me, digging deep with each step. I ripped the coat open and pried my best but tore at the thing in vain. Bowed in pain I cried out loud, “God damn you! No! Let go!”

  And to my wonder, it did… a bit.

  We went on. Before long, the forest gave way to open fields and the fields to the flickering lights of town. I was glad to find the streets deserted, to sneak unseen by the born and still living. All were asleep or in the square where, despite the witching hour, the church glowed yellow-warm and bright against this winter’s bed of white. Christmas Eve was soon to turn into Christmas Day.

  My breath turned to a crystal cloud that vanished on the icy wind.

  We reached my door as midnight came and the church bell tolled of joy. But the palm pouch shivered at the noise. It let go like an unclenched fist and dropped stone-cold in the snow. I pulled it inside then fell as well to the floor in a heap and deep, deep down into a troubled dream.

  Hi, me again. Pardon the interruption. (This might be a good time for a snack break if you need a little something to carry on.)

  I’ve got to say that I’m not a big fan so far. I mean, personal anecdotes and travelogues have no place in a serious study of bookly things like this. God bless him (or her), but talk about self-indulgence!

  Anyhow, I’m optimistic that the good part with citations and footnotes is not far off. I can feel it. Let’s press ahead. Chin up!

  Half-awake I washed my wounds each day expecting them to heal, but instead they wept on fresh and raw. Foolishly, against all sense, I turned to the lifeless sack. I held it in my hands and felt every edge of its velvety skin, almost like leather dyed rich gold and brown. I found no way in, no seam or flaw to reveal what it hid.

  So I cut it, but it would not cut. I tore but made no tear. An axe could not split it. Lit it would not burn. It blocked my attack at every turn, tormenting me all winter long.

  And then…

  It opened with ease, like a beautiful rose, as I dozed on the eve of spring.

  The pouch unfolded a fan of leaves, by the thousands and thin as can be, each one adorned in enchanting runes in the colors of every jewel. Sapphire, ruby, emerald green, marks of a nature not ours, unseen, as if shapes from another time and place all but too small for my sleepy eyes. And somehow I knew they were more, something prized. Both language and lore intertwined like vines, woven words I could feel but not read.

  I kept this treasure to myself and gloved the open palm by day. At night I hid from all I’d loved and dwelled a secret world away, walking with ghosts through the leaves. And I believed. My fate to set them free, the millions sealed in silent cells among the stems and veins.

  Years passed yet they remained each and every voice enchained, bound by a phantom melody, to a tongue-tied tune I could not hear. The key eluded me. No sweet music in my ear but the bleating of a heart of gold gone bloodless, black,
and cold.

  Then one haunting autumn eve living half alive, turned old, I stumbled on a musty keep of moldy promises unkept. Tripped, I tipped a table top, the very place the palm pouch slept, and it tumbled to the floor upset, its fallen leaves face down. I raised my foot to pound it flat. “God damn you,” and “Take that,” I spat. But something made me stop. Instead I stooped to cup it up, my bag of burdens, in both hands.

  For the first time since forever ago, its skin felt warm like flesh. The fingers of the palm fanned out, flexing, plying, trying their best to pull invisible things from the air. Then they made the signs of the runes in pairs as a childlike voice called out crystalline clear, “God damn you! God damn you! God damn you!” It sang a mocking song.

  The curse on my tongue gave their language new life at the price of a withered soul. The palm pouch took a long, deep breath. The hollow swallowed my frail mind whole. The last of sanity I’d see. I knew this was my destiny.

  So lock cracked the locksmith and I became key. Into the keyhole turned mad, mad me.

  Again, blah, blah, blah. This is surely nothing to write home about. Let’s skip to the end and see if there’s at least an Executive Summary with a nice wrap-up of the key points. Hold on… just a minute… Ah, here’s something, some loose sheets stuffed in the back:

  winter night time time to go… go in high high high high snow to place of wood where did me woke and take the gifties, three to you… me like, you no soul, far gone fool…

  gifty one… sorrow sack… sack be gone, you, back back… back to forest came you from, bad joke… unholy… you next one, no luck no lucky one…

  gifty two two bottles… drink no think… drunk me drunk it up me think… no, oh so sorry, oh so so so…

  now gifty last be gifty three… warn to you by eerie me… hear me voice be hear me ghost… come for you too must…

  Yikes! I apologize for that. (Someone could have used an editor or at minimum a spellcheck.)

  Anyway, I wish you could see the rest. The pages go on yet they’re wordless and stained, some of them bitten or chewed. The last does not look human-made, being scratched out red and crude.

  Now maybe I’m just a worrywart but — doesn’t this have an ancient evil written all over it? And don’t you agree that would not be good news? You know what a big mess evil can make once it starts to spew. Is it really worth the risk? There’s only one way to find out. Do you dare to take the chance? You alone must read on or run.

  But perhaps you’re tempted by the hope of treasures in these tales. I hear tell of shiny things on the road — nuggets of truth, pearls of wisdom, precious gems. We could seek them if you like and bring a sack for what we find. Some say there’s gold enough for all, but we must choose the golden rules from gold for fools and false profits. Be careful what you pick and your heart will lead you home in time, awake and alive, with a wealth the dream of any king.

  Come then, turn the page. Let the lore begin!

  jk

  Translator’s Notes

  The translation of these tales was slowed for years by bitter (sometimes bloody) debate over naming — how to represent the names of people, places, and things in a way that honors the tongues that first spoke them. But really, who knows! So the spellings were done to look especially cool, making them hard for you to pronounce. Sorry. Here’s a guide:

  Rhymes with…

  Boxbo rhymes with Oxbow.

  Ixit rhymes with fix-it.

  Jixy rhymes with pixie.

  Morio rhymes with Oreo.

  Pum rhymes with mum.

  Sounds like…

  Ayr sounds like air.

  Ayron sounds like air-on.

  Ayryx sounds like air-ix.

  Bylo sounds like buy-low.

  Faal-syr sounds like f-ah-l-sear.

  Fyryx sounds like fear-ix.

  Pyr sounds like peer.

  Syar-ull sounds like sire-ool.

  Vaam sounds like v-ah-m.

  If you’re French…

  John Cap should be read as Jean Chapeau.

  Episode 1 ~ The Strangers

  They appeared at dawn, on the edge of the northern horizon. We watched them glide across the barren plain, swiftly and gracefully as if on the wind itself. Ever closer they came and we saw what they were, three figures and nothing more. No chevox, no traveler’s cart. Yet they wore the dark shrouds of a long and solemn journey.

  Suddenly they were within the settlement walls. A man came running, “Ghosts on the market road! To the square! To the square!” But most were there already, eager to begin the business of the day. Before they knew, the strangers were upon them.

  The crowd scattered, some falling back behind mounds of sand beans and wheaten fruit, others disappearing into shadowed doorways. A few froze in place, agape.

  By the roadside, a young mother stumbled trying to flee with both her handsome boy and a basket of fresh billit eggs in arm. She saved her son from falling, but the eggs flew and cracked on the ground. Her trouble seemed to draw the three, who swooped in close to see.

  She sensed them surround her and lifted her gaze from the broken yokes and bits of shell. They were faceless, empty eyed. Quaking, she clutched the child even closer and screamed with all her mortal soul. But the terror choked her lonely voice to something squealing and weak, so woeful. Their shaded shapes pressed closer at the pitiful sound and studied her.

  Yet the little one was not afraid. He smiled at them and reached out his hand.

  The mother gasped. She held him back.

  He reached out the other as if to be taken…

  At that they spun away, the three, with nodding hoods and an unworldly laugh. The noise of something wickedly wild. And then in a blur they were gone, speeding eastward down the rutted road to a narrower footpath of dirt and stone that fed into a clearing known as the common field. They circled there a great ironwood tree that stood out in the opening. Before long they came to rest beneath it, on the ground planted side by side.

  Word of evil’s arrival and the threefold visitation spread like skyfire over the land. From morning on through afternoon folk trickled down and then streamed from town. They ebbed and flowed on the edge of the field to witness, at a distance, for themselves. The strong came armed with toiling sticks or a pocketful of stones. The curious came with a keen eye and a fleet foot pointed home.

  “They say there are devils here.”

  “Yes old man, look out in the sweetgrass. See? By the Liar’s Tree.”

  “There?”

  “That’s them.”

  “I see only rocks. Are you sure?”

  “They sit as still as the hardwood itself.”

  “Then perhaps they nap…”

  “Oh that may be, but dreaming up a nightmare for us.”

  “So strike down these demons as they sleep.”

  But no one dared be the first.

  Day turned to dusk and the gathered grew, into a makeshift encampment of hundreds arrayed in a crescent against the three. Some of them set to building fires, pyres of thick limbs fallen from storm season, mixed of everwoods, iron and rose. The wood was dry and cracked in the heat, throwing off sparks of silver and red that glowed in the heavy smoke. The smell of roast billit meat soon filled the air to tempt and tickle every nose.

  And then with the night-rise, more surprise. From the deepening haze and flickering firelight came another puzzlement.

  “What’s this? Look!”

  “Someone runs!”

  “Who is it?”

  “A child. A girl.”

  “It’s the orphan Mox...”

  “She carries something.”

  “What is she doing?”

  “I’ve always thought her mad.”

  “Bad blood.”

  Jixy Mox flew across the field and into an emptiness far and wide while her ragged clothing rippled behind, like a tattered flag flown into battle. In one hand she clutched a pregnant sack of soft, tanned boven skin. Its contents seemed heavy and importan
t. In the other hand, a talon blade.

  Her hair went wild to the rhythm of running, whipped up into a frantic dance. Already animal to some, she now took the look of a chevox foal galloping through the grass untamed. As the plainsmen sing:

  Mane of straw and strands of gold

  Heart of home, unbridled soul

  Even before she reached them, the urchin girl called out, all but breathless. “Daddy, is it you?! Daddy?! Have you come back home again?”

  The dormant figures did not answer.

  “It’s Jixy, Daddy! Mommy’s gone. It’s…”

  Jixy stopped dead in her tracks as the black cloaks abruptly rose from their slumber — up, up, up to tower above her. They rose from the ground, afloat on the air.

  The unwashed waif looked down. “You must be hungry Daddy. You’ve been gone so very long. See what I have for you?!” She turned her eyes to the boven sack and smiled to herself with pride. “It’s food. Daddy, I brought you food. You can have it all. Look here.”

  The dark ones drifted nearer.

  She held the sack up high as she could and flashed the talon’s jagged claw to slash its skin wide open. The contents spilled out on the ground — two loaves of crusted siege bread, a fist of pungent boven cheese, strips of leathered blood snake, and a whole smoked billit.

  Suddenly, two of the visitors swooped and simply by the wind they made knocked Jixy off her feet. She tumbled into a tuft of tall sweetgrass. They pounced upon their windfall. By the time the twain had ascended again the meats were gone and an awful squeal split the ears of the gawking folk.

  The third had not stirred at all at first, hovering off aloof and watching. But then it too descended upon her, down to the sound of a mournful groan. It swept her up in the folds of its shroud and raised her from the bed of blades that had caught the fallen child.

  Jixy’s eyes were wide as moons but her voice was sweet and calm. “I knew it was you Daddy. All along. I knew you’d save me. Now hold on. Promise you won’t let go forever.”