Lore of the Underlings: Episode 7 ~ Ho-man Holds Court, Page 2

soon.”

  “The grand… You should have said… Never mind. Let him take his treasured time.”

  When the Guard had finished, Ho-man bowed and turned back to the pre-tried teen. “So, old bean, as I was saying…” He squatted down on the sooty ground, ready to do some spilling.

  “As you might have heard from our honored Guard, these days most folk call me Ho-man, though that is not my given name. For I was the first born of this oasis and honored as Homeboy, my claim to fame. Yet sadly my surname was also reset on that sweet and bitter summer’s day… the day when my mum died birthing me. Since my dad had already passed in The Crossing, another family who took pity adopted this half-blessed, double-crossed orphan. That’s how I joined the Havvum clan.”

  Ho-man wiped a tear from his eye with the backside of his prose-stained hand.

  “And they raised me well, in the Treasured way. Made me what I am today,” he chirped in his usual chipper voice. “Record keeper of our Keep and clerk of the Treasuror’s court, of course!”

  John Cap appeared to be lost for words. Luckily the clerk found more.

  “Oh, and if I forgot to mention — I’m grateful to get such a kind kind of question.”

  At that Homeboy Havvum reopened his notebook and drew what looked like a happy face. Then he flipped to a mark on a far-flung page.

  “We’re required by law to state your age.”

  The young man readily gave his answer but something bright distracted him. “Seven…” he turned to take it in, “…teen.” It was white and blinding. Then…

  “Ogdog?!” He uttered the name in wonder underneath his bated breath. “Sure glad to see you here… I guess…”

  There bathed in beams at the chamber’s dead center and all aglow like an omen of death, his comrade the battle-hardened changeling stuck up from the blackened earth. He was still in the form of a sword of tusk — a long, broad alabaster blade — that someone had made a point of thrusting deep deep down through the floor’s scorched crust. In anger, by the looks of it.

  Sight of that mock but lifelike weapon made him ponder even more.

  “What exactly am I here for?”

  But Ho-man was once again watching the door and did not even hear the query.

  The visitor couldn’t help but notice how this soul differed from the rest. Not your average Sylander. He had a style the others missed.

  It began with his mug, which all but beamed despite a mouthful of tea-stained teeth and the ironwood fillings that capped them off. Smiles were hard to come by here, often even frowned upon. A grin like this one’s was uncommon, so happy-go-lucky and ear-to-ear. And speaking of ears, his two appeared to be dressed for anything but a hearing — courting disaster you might say — for each one wore a ring of fire according to the naked eye. In fact it was merely a pair of flameworms, pets he liked to keep close by. Not really jewelry but eye-catching still… for a modern family guy. At least his clothes had the same design and hemlines as the other folk’s, though Ho-man’s were fashioned in colors and patterns with an extra flash of magic. Call it a flair for the dramatic. Or maybe a flare that bared his heart. The ensemble surely made a statement, intentional or not.

  John Cap cleared his arid throat and finally got the man’s attention.

  “Sorry, Tom Cat… Come again?”

  “What is all of this about?”

  The clerk reached into his right hip pocket and pulled out a rolled up scroll of parchment. He spread it flat and read a bit. “Docket says Keep versus male teen, leaver — if that helps to clear things up.”

  “Not exactly,” smirked John Cap. “I thought my crime was coming here.”

  Ho-man laughed and shook his head. “No, no silly! The leaver’s another. And just what the judge plans for you… I’ve no clue.”

  John Cap took the news in stride, looking not all that surprised. He nodded toward the audience.

  “How ‘bout a rundown of this crowd — anyone I should know… or avoid?”

  “Sure,” said the notary. “Good idea. Let’s start with those gentlemen over there.” Ho-man indicated the Guard. “By now you might recognize some of them.”

  They were eleven in a row, right up front and sitting low to the ground on boulders smooth and cold of hard yet hollow pillowstone. A half-ring of chieftains weighing in on rocks light as feathers and granite-strong. Not the most comfortable kind of cushions but seating befitting these hardened men.

  John Cap studied their colorful armor and noticed the rainbow that they made. “Yup — the riders from the field. Boy they were fast. Flew in from nowhere. Had us corralled before we knew it…”

  Just then he spotted a dark cloud among them, a brooding black hole in their midst.

  There was no mistaking this nemesis.

  “Oh man, not that one again. My friends and I were just pitted against him and it wasn’t any fun.”

  Yet there was something funny about him, sitting so sullen and so very still. Eschewing the billit. Forgoing the ale.

  “That’s not the usual Syar-ull.”

  The words were Ho-man’s but carefully muffled — he dared not be overheard. A whisper weak, barely audible, as if echoed from beyond. “Just between you and me, my friend, I’d like a peek behind that cowl.”

  Only now did John Cap catch the fact that each of the Guard had been unmasked, with just one exception. He saw in their faces a range of ages but all were steely-eyed rock-hard men, warriors trained to break not bend.

  The stranger asked a dangerous question. “What’s the black Guard hiding from?”

  “Whoa!” cautioned Ho-man, “don’t go there. It’s no time to poke the bear…”

  The word keeper changed the topic and quick.

  “When you’re dealing with these soldiers you’ve got to know their pecking order. Fortunately there’s a rule of thumb. Just remember this nursery rhyme:

  Sing a song of Syland

  Our isle of blood and lore,

  Two and twenty sentries

  Guard her ‘syr’ to shore

  If you last that first trial

  You’ll face eleven more;

  Syar and his ‘ull’ patrol

  The heartless at our core

  Ring around the motherland!

  Long live the Semperor!

  The foreigner looked a tad unsure so Ho-man expounded further still.

  “These Guard set on stone are the ultimate kind and lords of this island’s inner ring — sectors around the Wild we’re in and most protected from the world. They represent an order of knights that the Semperors formed in days of old. A royal force of loyal men, picked by hand from across the land and sharpened, honed like an ironwood pike. Those early kings deployed the Guard to bring rule to a lawless time, ending the clan wars at long last, imposing a harsh but enduring peace. And in the wake of their bloody reign was born our sacred nation…”

  John Cap tried to be diplomatic. “And what a nation. It’s unique.”

  Ho-man nodded and went on. “These days, in our Keep at least, Guard of the ull fill a special role by serving the Treasuror as his council — a corps of advisors and sounding board. They tend to meet in this same tent but always in secret, at his whim. Such as the session this very morn. Even I got the boot for most of it.”

  The clerk now looked from the armored men and to the row that loomed behind them.

  “Then again, I shouldn’t complain. I do get to witness once per moon when they convene our parliament, a body called the House of Keep. In fact it’s my task to record word for word every motion, each speech that’s made or heard… Not that the Treasuror pays any heed… But you can bet there’ll be debate — heavy, hot, and plenty of it.” Ho-man chuckled to himself. “Fireworks and flying fur. Quite the show when they get going (even if it signifies nothing).”

  John Cap stopped him. “Which ‘they’ do you mean?”

  “You’re staring at them,” answered Ho-man. “Beyond this squadron, the eldest of elders, solons and doyens who’ve come to obse
rve…”

  A handful of well-dressed elder statesmen appeared to have risen up from nowhere, as if conjured in thin air. On closer inspection they’d been set in high chairs, lofty seating carved with care at the pinnacle of furniture making. Such a perch made them seem nearly regal, rare men and women looking down on the lowly groundlings surrounding them.

  The chair in the center was finer still, taller and more colorful too. Armed, cushioned, and richly appointed, adorned in gold silk of a long-lost ilk. Or simply consider the elkalope trim, the piping of loup fur and other game… Truth be told, it was all but throne…

  And John Cap knew its occupant.

  Cold-eyed elderwoman Pum kept watch like an old crow from above. Indeed she seemed to hold court herself, dictating to her attentive staff, making pre-judgments on their behalf, and shaking her head at all that passed within the scope of her icy gaze.

  Suddenly she spied the stranger and wagged a craggy finger his way. It was more than a little threatening.

  The prophetic gesture took John Cap aback and he turned to evade the gray bird’s look. His eyes found a much welcome ally instead.

  Priestly minister Minyon Myne stoically sat to the matriarch’s right, just in shot of her half-cocked ear. In contrast to his fellow elders, he had declined a fancy chair in favor of a simple bench — really only a pile of plankwood that he’d stacked up for himself. And yet despite his humble shelf, he towered over all the rest.

  Somehow he noticed John Cap’s glance across the wide and woeful void. He gave the young man a clandestine nod.

  The tall teen reflexively answered the elderman with a