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
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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. They 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.