The Curse of Rha-kan'Ocka Ch17

CHAPTER 17.

Matters of Heraldry

Plink plonk plinketi blonk.

GRABARABAUUM!

Plunketi bliblibliblii plinkplonk plok.

BRAMM! BROMMBRRRARUURM!

Blip blip plip blub plink plynketi pli-

Baring slowly his incisors, Lord Khran-Av’ees scowled at the ceiling. This was getting ludicrously irksome. He had not ordered for cacophonic theme music when he had conquered the palace. Even though, according to the official evil overlord lore, you were supposed to have your own soundtrack. Preferably with lots of trombones, kettledrums, and dark boom-boom march in it.

Rha-ghi’Leh was currently in the claws of a ferocious thunderstorm. Incessantly it had roared on for about three days. As it went with the fashion of the local storms, they were known to linger even for a whole mooncycle, if the heavenly turbulences got onto an especially rowdy mood. The gathering of the more ruffian kind of clouds was hard to predict due to the existing masses. Only when the wind and bolts began their decathlon, were the people alerted. Often the warning arrived too late, resulting in forfeit cattle and citizens.

The storm was rending Khran-Av’ees’s concentration apart. Frankly, his concentration was not too efficient to start with. In the past, he had often found himself tapping a fingernail against an armrest or swinging a foot along the rhythm of an inexistent melody, after he had spent a mere few minutes or so with a more mentally demanding job. These days the man was more resistant to the temptations of restlessness, but it had required a whopping amount of pre-practice. Even presently the study space had to be mostly devoid of susurration and whatnot, if he wished to sink satisfactorily into the fjords of contemplation.

BROMM! GRABARRBRAZZ!

Plink plink blub klonk plunk glob bluup bl-

“Silence!” he bellowed, shaking a fist at the clattering rain. Nay, how dared the moronic weather disturb him thusly? What a gumbo-brained jobbernowl. He was, after all, a mighty Dark Lord, and everyone should accordingly obey his command.

As if the storm could understand, but anyway.

The palace’s hollow stone and metal structures duplicated the fall of every droplet, so that the rain felt like as though you had sat in a double-decker with a flock of baby hippopotami jumping up and down on the roof. And this analogy did not even include the thunderbolts. You did not need abiding this sort of heavy metal concert when lodging in mudhuts and tents. The water fell with soft, silent thuds onto the canvas. Or then did not fall at all, if a vigorous gust of wind had blown the roof off.

In addition, it was insufferably cold in the Great Hall, even more callous than before. The humidity mingled with the stone’s icy exhale, hence giving every corner the feel of a hyperactive fridge.

Khran-Av’ees would have needed the gift of concentration right now. He had pushed his regular grammar and vocabulary practice aside, and taken the recent paper bonfire case under burning examination. As it was parabled: if you had carefully disassembled a tangled pile of string, the darn cat went and bedeviled it overnight three times messier as originally.

The interrogation of the slinky servant had provided with some results. A few more slivers of info had been unearthed, plus the undemolished part of Lirbutiliiyui’s correspondence. During the short passed while, the oven sightseers had become almost utterly unreadable. When exposed to heat, the local lump paper rather rapidly dissolved into sheer powder.

Hence the intact letters had come not only in handy, but also in eyey and brainey. If one wished to handle and decrypt them, anyway. Perhaps also in footey, if they needed to be carried around in a form unequal to soot.

The über-loopy handwriting on them with its florid oldschool font gave Khran-Av’ees supplementary headache. So dissimilar to his own scribbles, which tended to be almost childishly rounded and splattered with ink. Quills mostly refused to stay well in the hold those banana-esque fingers. Rather, they were created to grab nothing smaller than quarter a tree trunk at a time. If he used quills, they had to be, well, very big quills, which rendered them clumsy. One reason why the warlord had delegated most of the writing work to Qwertyui.

But at least he was able to write and read. These abilities did not come as granted in the Rha-kan’Ockian districts. His own father was as literate as a mummified seagull, and very much the same could be said about his siblings. On the other hand... what would have there been much to write about in Schonda’Rha-baggoh? Except, of course, if one wanted to assemble a comprehensive dictionary of the sauciest derogatories of the cosmos. Anyway, a leap from that horrid dialect into the common speech was even a bigger effort than learning your alphabet.

Nonetheless, why to tackle the documents solo? The amanuensis could have probably read these lines even with his eyes closed.

There was something to be denoted about privacy, when it came to Lord Khran-Av’ees. He did request for counsel and consultation when the need arose, which was very frequent of course. Yet in certain things Nobody was his best friend. He proceeded sans anyone with the few most important strategy planning and research work issues. You trusted your men to a fixed degree, but kept the surplus secrets barred in your hindmost brainlocker. The more your power grew, the more decisive you became about not making all your knowledge a shared possession. Even though one of Khran-Av’ees’s favorite sports was to trample all the glory of his enemies into mud, he had to congratulate Lirbutiliiyui on his effective confidentiality arrangements.

When the full correspondence had been found in one of the palace’s many concealed chambers, the warlord had confiscated it instantly for his personal use only. And prevented the most illiterate soldiers from regarding it as a potential toilet paper stock.

But... today seemed like an infernally unideal moment for enemy tactics investigation. Khran-Av’ees kept fidgeting in the throne and rolling mechanically a random dreadlock around a finger. The curly scribbles were making his eyes water. It was like staring at the trail of a swarm of drunken ants that had been dropped into an inkpot and let march over a sheet of paper. A few seconds later he discovered that an irksome cradlesong had filled his frontal lobe with an idiotic bouncy-perky tune.

It is odd how the most bananabrained jingles tend to wriggle their way into the consciousness when one seeks for concentration. But that is how the endocranial associative pathways apparently work.

“Rgheino’louschi rhublanrchahan...” he snarled at nothing in particular. He seemed to be hopelessly stuck.

“BAUMM! BURARUMMM!” the sky responded jovially.

“Fine! May this day be devotedetheth to thy victorious conspiracy of despoiling the studies of the mighty Lord Khran-Av’ees, but let it be made known to... hrhmrhwossthingbloodypronoun that the glorious day of avenge and payment shalt strike upon thy worthless aerial embodiment! Behold, as thy pesky bolts of light shall fail to burst alight and disband into the sackcloth abysses of the netherworldly maggotlands!”

The backbone of his patience had finally snapped. The man began to roll the disorder of papers into one bundle, growling increasingly more bloodcurdling threats under his breath.

BRABABARROUMMBURRRGROMBOMBOMBURRRBABARABUUUMBOMMMM!

Clinkety clonkety blytiblyyclank plonk klop klipklopbloiink klypklypclink-

The weather sported an especially sardonic mood today. A forceful pour of hail had apparently erupted within the minute.

The warlord left the throne dais and strode to the left side of the hall. There, lined along the steep wall, stood curtained alcoves with lofty statues within. He counted till he reached the fourteenth: a tall, wing-helmed bloke with a grim visage and barrels of carven mail encasing its frame. He twisted the statue’s right hand. The stony wrist pivoted on independent hinges, rolling onto a posture that would have made a sculptor tear his hair and return at his anatomy books for a few extra years. With a faint click, a black gap appeared in the alcove’s rear wall, indicating the outline of a slightly open door. The wall, pedestal, and effigy swung noiselessly aside on well-oiled hinges. A gawping corridor just wide enough for his unwieldy shoulders was revealed. Luckily Lord Khran-Av’ees was not wearing armor. Otherwise someone would have needed to detach the fellow from the doorframe with the aid of hammer and chisel. His fist grabbed a lever on the corridor mure, and the fake door slid back shut with the faintest of snaps.

This hidden passage was one of those curios that usually can be discovered only by random accident. Though, Khran-Av’ees appeared to have a bit of a natural knack for spotting concealed elements, whether it was a stealthy cave in the shelter of thickets or one of those narrow wriggling tunnels that let you crawl into the hollow centers of ginormous bushes. So perhaps the slightly puzzling details in the objective picture sought their way into his awareness in a faster manner.

He had found the passage scarcely three days after the conquest of Rha-ghi’Leh, during the evaluation of the hall’s statuary. Standing alone and sipping at steaming ghylmgaljh, he had purposefully been looking for signs of the Khran household heraldry in the vast jungle of symbols imprinted onto the likelinesses of bygone noblemen.

There was a whopping blank patch in his family history. Nobody seemed to recall these days what the runes in the ancient family heirlooms - those that the Dusk’s corrosion had not yet devastated - stood for. This was probably due to the many generations of illiterate warriors that preferred to chop off heads to immersing into the wonderfully nerdy world of scholarly pursuits. Still, no other family in the Schonda’Rha-baggohian district bore such distinct emblems in their weapons and armor as the Khrans did.

Well, at least Khran-Av’ees liked to imagine himself being of baronial descend, however distantly. Mommy Ghodigh'irm shrieking and thwacking daddy Khran-Ddu’h over the head with her huge rolling-pin hardly fell into the category of lords and ladies. Thusly Lord Khran-Av’ees was very much of a self-proclaimed lord, yet nobody needed to know the exact details. Bragging and offering pints for everyone in the tavern usually made the general scum hail you as the supreme ruler of the uni- and beyondverse.

So, he had peered at the sculpture in hopes of finding traces of the khorzhz-rune. It resembled the family emblem most, even though the latter most likely was some sort of heraldic symbiosis. There appeared to be a bunch of extra twirls and swirls embellished around the major zigzag-spiraled rune letter.

But nought of the sort was to be found. On his leisure, Khran-Av’ees had studied a medium dose of the few ramshackle documents of the aristocratic pedigrees available these days. Hence he had been able to recognize the family lines of some of the immortalized characters.

Most predominant had been the schorkh-rune sheathed inside two harvest moons - the insignia of the brothers Lhurb and Ghorv, who had become the forebears of whole nations. The moskh-rune getting eaten by a very stylized ghamyrluuschk head had also been notable. It had been inherited from the archaic line of Rhu-iga’Utsch to the descendant families of Dhur’zakhe, Zugabuikh, and Bhrim, with slight variations in the coat of arms. The eight-star cupola of the royal succession had goggled at the warlord from above several engravings. The old house of G’Uhageid and its descendant lines Ll’Ohigeid and Muiguschop all carried the twinkly thing, along with a rune shaped into something that would have made teenlings giggle hysterically. There had also been the florid jumble of Len’doghal... and a morphologically incorrect statue hand... and then the skull and ankh of Bhu’schuli...

At this point Khran-Av’ees’s eyes had gone blinkity-blink, and the gaze had shifted back to the oddly wonky limb. A few experimental fumblings, and the fake door had been uncovered. Whoever had used it previously, had been in a great haste and forgotten to lock it properly. Most likely Lirbutiliiyui or one of his trusted men.

The discovered passage, long and winding, had led into a paneled chamber several floors below via another bogus door. It had been arranged into the form of a study, but Khran-Av’ees had instantly adopted it as his sleeping chamber. The sheer idea of having a secretive skulking shuttle service attached to his lodgings had made him rub his hands together gleefully. One of those darklordy essentials, it was. If the poor sod had experienced a lack in the dungeon department, at least one of his wishes had been fulfilled.

After some observations, he had assumed that nobody else around was cognizant of the loophole. Henceforward it had been kept efficiently concealed. It gave him the great asset of flying back and forth the Great Hall and his bedstead without the necessity to consult the dratted door-wardens all the time. Plus the extra impression that he was able to conjure scrolls and quills out of thin air. The custodians had noted that their lord was often surrounded by such extra bric-a-brac they had not spotted anywhere nearby on their previous visit, and Khran-Av’ees had certainly not stepped out in a good while either.

The palace was assumingly like a giant apple in the hands of a worm army. Or in the tentacles, as these squirmy chaps usually do not possess such advanced manual mechanisms. In any case, he was determined to unearth every single one of these juicy hidey-holes. And who knew what potentially powerful secrets they might enclose, having possibly been forgotten ere the Kings fell... Such fantasies overfed Khran-Av’ees’s wild imagination, granting him a glint beyond manic into his green gaze, every time he merely heard someone vaguely yammering about tunnels.

***

As the statue wall had slid shut, one major problem had arisen. The corridor was as well lit as the inside of a golf ball. Grumbling, Khran-Av’ees raised a hand and riveted. If only that tetra-cursed sky would shut up...

A petite, purplish ball of light began to swirl above his palm.

Now, this was supposed to be one of the simplest things... he had gotten it right before. If he only could harness the concentration...

BRAKAKABOUMMM! BRRRMMBOUMMM!

The vapid sphere dissolved with a small, flabby flrrt, leaving behind a trail of fume. The man attempted to re-perform the spell several times, but it was like trying to give ballet lessons to hippos.

It HAD worked before... Though, how many failures there habitually were between two successful castings, he could not tell. It was all about the environment, the possibility to concentrate. Zounds, why was this forcibly such a hardship? He had the potential, all right, but you apparently had to be some sort of professional bookworm to get it right.

Nay, this did not do. He had to be able to ram through the mental barrier and stitch up the flapping fragments of focus. It ought not to be this grueling...

More futile moments passed in the architectural intestine. Schpifft, schzifft, flurrpf, went the drooping glow on and off, as though someone had played with a dying lighter. In the end, he grabbled at the wall to find the lever, dashed back into the Great Hall, and sullenly returned with a torch in one hand.

On occasions like this, he wished he never would be obliged to face a really adept wizard. Then a mere swaggery impression would not be a satisfactory act. He would seriously need to labor over this issue...

The notion evoked some of the conclusions he had managed to amass during the thunder-spoiled studies. Wizards... the letters disclosed a few times this condemned morsel of filth called Gha’ugonak. He had been known for his apt talents in the battlefield, not due to eloquent swipes with a broadsword or an axe, but because of skillfully cast energy blast and suchlike. More unnerving, aside from the plain name, was the fact that he seemed to be alive against the common belief. Hundreds and hundreds of moons ago the strongest rumors about his passing had roamed in the cesspools of life. Ah, the joys of cleverly crocheted cover stories... what a merriment for the one willing to hide his trails most efficiently.

For cover stories the old hearsays plainly were, based on the diverse truth of these novel tidings. But whence had they egressed, and where malingered the culprit now...?

Khran-Av’ees turned a corner and strode down another flight of steep stairs. The torch’s glow swept past roughly hewn stone and sloping patches of unplastered ceiling. Not the slightest hint of the public halls’ flamboyant décor existed here.

So, where might such a lowly larva of sewer-skanks lurk... naturally in the same confounded chuckhole as the author of the letters. He never used a clear signature, but there had been a cracked quarter of a seal still attached to one of the papers.

Indeed, that had surfaced as a bit of a slap on the ear... Khran-Av’ees had anticipated aught but the eight-star cupola frowning at him from the wax. Nobody would dare utilize such a house insignia, unless they bore the bloodright to it. False endeavors of usage led to a forever damned fate and the fading of bloodline. Even a suckling knew that.

The so-called regal lineage, that had carried its diverse progenitor symbols under the star cupola, was supposed to be gone for good. At least there were no records made of its existence for eons. Additionally, it had been factually epochs ago when Lord Khran-Av’ees had made copies of some of the scrolls that had been in the collection of the ex-mayor of Rha-gar’Addi. The mayor’s hobby had been to operate as an unofficial population registrar and genealogy researcher before he had, by an ill chance, gotten himself decapitated by Gh’alowazahrh. It was not the slightest bit unveracious to say that Khran-Av’ees’s blood-guiltiness was immense, and that the nearest history knew none who had plowtered in such an ocean of ill deeds as he.

But however numerous were the bisected threads of life, the royal line’s existence did not depend on his actions. Or, at least so he believed, even though in the light of these letters he could not be ascertain of the full credibility of any source at all.

As a general remark, one did not need to start hassling here about hidden magical rings or swords that would be re-forged from the shards of whatever-deuced-tin-trinket-with-a-sniffy-name. Besides, why did such things as lost kings always have to pertain to some wretched swords or rings? Why not magical mathbooks or sparkplugs or flyswatters? The fantasy world seriously needed some more inventiveness in it, over all the fifteen megazillion dragonriders, scar-headed pipsqueaks who lived, fairy godmothers, and poisoned apples. Poisoned rambutans and fairy codfathers started to sound already a bit more exotic. Or maybe magical mystery loos...

The sounds of the storm were growing ever fainter, as the brooding man descended deeper into the mountain. Logically it would have been ideal to select a study chamber in the lowest parts of the palace. However, Khran-Av’ees had not yet gotten past the immense obsession of showing off, while having such a flashy space as the Great Hall under his utmost authority.

He squinted in the flickering gloom. Aye, that was the last staircase before the sleeping quarters...

Notwithstanding... how was he now supposed to interpret these uncanny tidings about the ancestries? The case of Schav’uschil’s house was definite, the least. That royal sideline had evanesced ere the doomsday of those-who-must-not-be-named. Then there was the diminishing house of Sch’Indhigeid, descending from the G’Uhageids via several different family names through some murky connection in the manner of ‘her roommate’s ex-boyfriend’s second cousin trice removed’. Yet fie, however distantly blue-blooded the Sch’Indhigeids ever regarded themselves, they had cut the eight-star cupola from their coat of arms. The latter knowledge did not seep through ancient documentaries. Khran-Av’ees simply had a sergeant with the name of Schimbuh Sch’Indhigeid in his ranks.

What a crux. As if there was not enough discommode with feeding an immense army and keeping the wannabe-careerists muffled down. This was his Rha-kan’Ocka, his to-be empire! The days of those addlepated skunksniffers with their twinkle-winklers were over, trampled into the mould where the dor crawled and bones of old rot! Idiotic! Pathetic! Fool! Rha-kan’Ocka was his! His own, his precious! With fifty exclamation marks in the end!

Uncountable miles of mud and ragged hills, under an everlasting bloodstained darkness...

“Oh, halt thy hampering! Begone from the noble halls of my head, thou nagging usurp! Thou dost not have a part in me, nay, and ne’r!” Khran-Av’ees gave a slap to the side of his head. On occasion, this mostly irksome inner voice had the habit of interfering with his scheming. Whence it bubbled, he had no idea. But it was on his mental to-do list to get permanently rid of it. Meditation practice would undoubtedly be the ace solution to all his asperities.

The warlord had reached the destination: a dull slab of brown stone serving as the fake door to the bedroom. A similar kind of lever to the one that opened the upstairs lurkhole jutted on the nearby wall. A veiny hand grasped it, and soft blue light splashed into the corridor.