Lore of the Underlings: Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon (2 page)

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.

John Cap didn’t hesitate to further slow his
sluggish gait. And yet he showed the self-restraint to ignore, not
take, the verbal bait. “Fine by me. Sounds great.” He held his
tongue despite temptation to curse his darned incarceration and the
irritation of the ties they used to bind his limbs.

It was a twisted vine that entwined him.
Rough and itchy on the skin.

Meanwhile, the distaff folk were atwitter at
the sight of that mighty mate, this mystery date with destiny.

“The ale girls claim that he’s a star man,”
waxed a moon-eyed Hexxi Huggum, “fallen from the very sky.”

“Ooo yes!” swooned Vexxi, her star-struck
twin. “He shines like a distant constellation,” there was a twinkle
in her look, “made man to see with the naked eye.”

A gaggle of girlies giggled nearby.

“Flesh and blood son of the heavenly Archer,”
added Hexxi breathlessly, “armed with his long horn and strong
bow.”

By now both siblings were on their toes, just
to gaze over the steady flow of lasses and ladies flooding in to
see this scene by the she shore.

“Though I hear that this beau shot
Arrowborne,” interjected Teely Tynn. She was one of the ten hot
oven women, tiny but loud as anything. “And he’s due to be
sentenced to a letting or get well hung from that nasty tree, the
lying ironwood I mean.”

Her daughter Nynn, who was standing aside
her, made an exasperated face. “Mother, I told you — that’s not
what happened.” The teen bared her teeth through painted lips and
hissed a desperate, anguished whisper. “Shhh! Please! Please, just
stop! You’re going to embarrass us, me, even more.” Her kid sister
Lillyx looked on unsure and didn’t dare say a word.

But Mrs. Tynn continued anyway, paying no
heed to her daughter’s pleas. “There’s also talk of conspiracy
between this soldier and the leaver — not to mention the rest of
his foreign force. That has to be why the Guard bring him here. To
face the brother Treasuror’s justice…”

Nynn, in tears, spun on her heels. “I just
want to die!” she cried, running off. “Someone, kill me now…”

The gossip girls didn’t know what to believe,
though the Huggums were ready to disagree.

“But he’s such a strapping lad.”

“Too much of a man to be so bad.”

“And more of a dream than a nightmare.”

“A prince of some kind”

“To be sure.”

“So we think we’ve got it figured out,”

“At least the highlights of the plot…”

“
Errant young knight meets his destiny
while on a romantic mission of mercy.
”

“Or —”

“
Guy takes a walk on the wild side then
gets love-struck and starry-eyed.
”

“Either way, we don’t care.”

“It’s a fairy tale!”

“Straight from a once-upon-a time.”

“And our big love scene is coming up
next”

“If we’ve guessed the storyline…”

“
Fresh from his kingdom our hero comes to
make one of us his princess bride,
”

“
Married to share his magic carpet, riding
over the clouds so high,
”

“
Bound for his isle of sky blue eyes and
happily-ever-after lives!
”

“And did we forget to mention…”

“Babies?”

“Beautiful babies.”

“Our beautiful babies.”

“A castle full of our beautiful babies.”

“Um, just to preserve the line.”

“Naturally.”

“Anyway…”

“That’s what we have…”

“In mind.”

The tag-team contingent wrestling John Cap
breached the perimeter of the tent, a downtrodden ring nearly worn
to a trench.

“Halt there, henchmen!” ordered Taan-syr,
taking the lead again.

Now folk took note of a stench that came with
them, a hint of their time in the pit of the pen. It was a smell
they knew too well and not the sort of thing you’d mention. Not if
you knew what was good for you. Not to a Guard on a mission.

Moon-syr had his captive by the vine but
looked like a child with a great big dog, trying to rein it in.
“Aye sir!”

Guur-syr, working from behind, rebound the
ruptured wrapture ropes around the prisoner’s he-man hands, which
were graced with the grip of three men from Syland. “Consider it
done. My sir!”

John Cap fought against the knots but all in
vain, to no avail. For they were tied in an old-time way with the
skill of an ancient mariner.

“Just to be sure this one’s secure and there
are no surprises…” Taan-syr pulled a hefty chain of rusty ironwood
from his pikeshaft. He weighed the length in his rawhide mitts then
heaved it at his cohorts.

“Listen up, mateys! Look smart men! Anchor
him here, this castaway, dry-docked and locked to our treasured
ground. I’ll call for the landlubber when it’s time.” Taan-syr took
a step toward the tent then stopped, jibbing starboard back around.
“And don’t let him out of your sight till then.”

“Aye aye, captain!”

“We won’t sir! Arrr!”

At that their commander tacked northeast and
gave a passing wave to the doorman — and the dark Guard’s pike. As
luck would have it, a gust of wind just then raised the flap for
him. He shot the old flag a salute and sailed right in.

Moon-syr and Guur-syr swashbuckled the
stranger with the weighty ironwood links. Then they hooked his foot
to a thick, black root protruding from the soil. It so happened the
tent was tied to it too, to hold down its leeward side wall.

“Now then…”

“That should hold him!”

John Cap stood there on display, like some
kind of animal.

Two crows watching from the wings flapped
their lips, each commenting.

“I’d say we have a bird’s-eye view.”

“Welcome to the Syland Zoo!”

Two or three score — then a fair number more
— of the Keep’s most curious people-folk formed a perfect
semicircle that focused on this new attraction. The lion’s share of
them were female, lamb-frocked damsels flocking in to get a closer
look. They gawked like tots at their very first circus, angling
toward the center ring to see the amazing feats of the strongman or
hear shy Tarzan’s wild call. All were enthralled, none
disappointed, by the muscular spectacle.

“Hurrr!”

John Cap made a loud groan or two trying to
loosen up the ropes.

A thrill rippled through the swelling
crowd.

“He speaks!”

“That’s news to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Or is that…”

“Some sort of love song?”

“Or poem.”

“I wish I knew his foreign tongue.”

The chained male steeled himself to listen to
the din, the talk about him. He stood there still in the morning
sunlight, proving his mettle by keeping upright and squinting into
the blinding beams that reflected off his shiny skin, so wet with
sweat from the heat and the effort. A hint of stubble on his square
chin glowed like gold dust encrusted with flecks of diamond,
despite his mask of muck and grime.

The young man smiled wryly to himself.

The strains of a Guardsong came from the
tent, audible but unclear. Folk automatically turned right toward
it and lent or bent an ear.

Then a thick plume of smoke, a
mushroom-shaped cloud, rose from some hole or vent in the roof. It
hung black and ominous over the dome.

Boxbo and Ixit predicted the fallout.

“Looks like our council is almost done.”

“Just about time for the real fun!”

“Let’s find a blind spot to duck and
cover.”

“Boxbo, you know there’s no shelter
here…”

Suddenly something in the air made everyone
u-turn and unspin around. But it was not due to a sight or sound.
No, this time the cause was a swirl of wind — a twisted mistral or
small cyclone — the kind that some call a dust devil. Surely not
your average gust. It pelted the skin with sand and grit that it
churned up from the sunburned ground and cast in handfuls at the
crowd, briefly blinding them. Then in the blink of a bloodshot eye
it blew by and met the unflappable tent, climbing the limberwood
walls of it to make for the morning sky.

And there it found the mushroom cloud, which
it swallowed up and flew away.

More than a few Keeple had a curse for the
weather as they brushed clothes off and wiped the dust from rosy
cheeks. Yet right on the heels of that ill whirlwind came something
much more people-pleasing.

“It’s elderman Myne!” someone called, all
athrill. “He’s back, alive and kicking!”

“And with his two fine offspring too!”

Out of a far corner of the wood, from a pass
to the hotter, more arid southwest, there came an almost priestly
man with a handful of followers in his wake. At his side, on the
right, strode a strong young buck, just fresh from the hunt by his
striking look, with a bloody black pelt slung over his back and a
shiny talon blade in hand. And there on his left, a stunning young
huntress, one with a walk to race the heart and a spear tinged in
crimson in her fist.