Lore of the Underlings: Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon by John Klobucher

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