Natural Magic

Chapter 13 - Instruction

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Penelope and the Marrowcrack had been running all morning, through midday, and now had reached the walls by evening. She had Salander slung on her back and the Marrowcrack had Chicken, and they were almost out of the supply of water they had scavenged from the kobold camp. After the force of his hurled curses opened the gates, the Marrowcrack wasted no time in entering the city. Penelope drudged after him, her stores of energy finally flagging.

“I don’t want to waste a single moment with that useless, incompetent Bloodboil in charge,” he was muttering half to himself, “but I’ll be blasted by Ogg if that moron got the praise from Lord Kairon for capturing a magical whatsit.”

Penelope fell behind, staggered by the size of the walls, the immensity of the doors, and the magnitude of the living quarters in the city. Behind her, the gate guard was hurling obscenities at the drivers and preparing for another on-the-job training session.

Salander, who was unconscious for the journey, now reacted to her slowed pace, groaning. His arms were tied together and looped over her head. She was wearing him like a cloak, and had been since morning. He wasn’t able to take in the sights at the moment, and Penelope thought, Chicken was even worse off. She picked up the pace to follow the Marrowcrack.

Chicken, she said silently, I may be getting us in over our heads.

****

The heads of state of the city of Hurraggh were meeting, as they have been increasingly doing, over an expanse of food. Laid out on a long table in the center of the room was an array of trussed bird, roasted pigbeast, select cuts of herdbeast flank, crispy lizard skewers, jellied eyes, minced gizzards, chitlins, candied locust… It was enough to distract even the most starry-eyed and dedicated greenhorn officiate from legal matters in favor of having someone pass them some mustard and that bowl of interesting-looking finger sausages. That is to say, the chiefs of Hurraggh had nary a chance of holding out, and all were eagerly tucking in, setting aside things like integrating formerly hostile peoples comfortably under a single governing body. Kairon sat at the helm of the table, no food in front of him, patiently waiting for the hungry storm to pass so he may pick through the tatters and steer their precious vessel into the harbor of peaceful productivity.

Chief Marrowcrack elbowed Chief Boldbreak beside him.

“Look at him,” he said in a gruff whisper, “You ever seen a dark lord sit in a throne?”

Boldbreak grunted. “Never seen any other dark lord but myself.”

Marrowcrack rolled his eyes. “Have you ever sat in a throne like that before, then?”

“Yeah. I had a nice big throne. Ivory and leather. Your great great grandparents helped make it, I think.”

“No no-…” Merrowcrack began. The comment about his grandparents knocked him off guard. “No Marrowcrack would’ve helped you make your throne. What are you getting on about?”

“They were an important part. You could say my ancestors leaned heavily on them through the generations.” He smirked and sucked meat juice off his thumb.

Marrowcrack studied him in silence for a minute, his brow furrowed, anger welling slowly.

“Their skulls made good arm rests,” Boldbreak clarified.

“What I meant to say,” Marrowcrack growled with exorbitant patience, “was that he’s only sitting. He’s not lounging. He’s not brooding. You ever just sat on your-“ He cut himself off before he mentioned the accursed Boldbreak throne. “You ever just sat when you were presiding over your underlings?”