Arcfire
Chapter Ten
By E. E. Bowers
A few of their erstwhile comrades-in-arms had finished their life journeys—at least, in this life. Meanwhile, the others still had business needing to be accomplished. Normally, there are preparations to be made. Provisions to be had. Plans laid. The like. But again, we are talking of Lord Morkudum’s ilk. They wish to do something, they simply go about doing it. No planning boards or maps or anything of the sort.
That said, they made their way down from the castle in a less-than-meaty way. Castle. Floating castle. Many of you wish they would have something like a rainbow bridge or having their korth sprout wings. Like unicorns! Oh, and perhaps some forehead cornices while they are at it. Again, there are no unicorns. No dragons, fairies, wizards… Stop while you at least have the semblance of being somewhat more intelligent than a servant of that lord.
Speaking of intelligence, there is more than one kind. No-no-no, we are not speaking of the ersatz definitions of intelligence concocted by the buffoonery of your entertainment industries. Emotional intelligence, you say? Gives idiots an excuse to feel intelligent in some way, even if such a feeling is a total and absolute lie! Then the drug-addled, inbred, spoilt-rich idiocy of your entertainment industries go ranting about emotional intelligence and decorative intelligence and all sorts of other stupid, stupid harebrained bastardry from junk science…designed to make stupid, uneducated television viewers feel good about themselves. Worse still, the likes of them all to often have it spelt hair-brained—all likely due to perhaps the idea of follicles growing into their cerebrums, thus being an excuse for their folly. And should you heed the asinine words of morons, buffoons, and the like, then you deserve your life of idiocy and weakness!
That said, there is another use for the word intelligence. Such usage belongs to the strong. Politicians and generals will speak of gathering intelligence on other governments or international entities. Such may be gathered overtly or covertly. By public means or means secretive, for those humans lacking the other form of intelligence to comprehend such. You need intelligence to understand gathered intelligence. But we can put those both to a side for the moment because Lord Dumb-Dumb’s korth riders are lacking in both.
We should not belabour things by again explaining how very lacking the before-mentioned buffoons would be. Or how they are. For reminders of such, perhaps one should take a visit to the meaty new geographical features found in the immediate vicinity of the floating castle?
As for the other form of intelligence—and none of the celebrity-bred idiocy in tow—they would be lacking in that as well! Think of it! They spend most all of their time galloping the land in collecting gifts and baubles for their lord. (All of that korth riding. Juddering about on those hard saddles. Six pounding hooves instead of four. Rattles their brains something awful, that.)
Always riding. Always galloping. And if they are especially bored, they will go about chopping guts or lopping necks. So goes because there are just some people in the land who are just as bored and also just as idiotic as Lord Moron’s ilk. Heads full of fantasy lives of having sword-duels and riding ride-beasts, adventuring throughout the land and thinking themselves heroes.
And there you have yet another flaw! For all of your arse-stupid fairy tales of thrones and swords, of sorcerers and dragons (of which neither are real), of absolute sub-morons always riding about and fighting about and going on quests and doing whatever, there is one massive plot hole. Such is a plot hole large enough to fly an entire fleet of airships through. (Because none of your arse-stupid fairy-tale heroes never thought to fill bags with hot air and use steam power to power ships over enemy positions.)
For all of those sword-swinging arse-holes always riding about, for all the emphasis based on knights and warriors, who keeps society going? Who plants the crops to keep everybody fed? Why are there more sword-swinging idiots and amour-bearing buffoons than there are farmers and artisans? All of that gallivanting madly about with all of that endless war, such a society could not exist!
This, no more than magicians and fire-breathing giant lizards! The only wizards in existence are the so-called leaders of American racist-terrorist organisations! For additional points, consider how the idea of race is just as foolhardy! Regardless of your skin-colours, all of you humans have the same nutritional value. Something to bear in those tiny minds of yours should that species of extraterrestrial giant insects arrive a billion years or so early.
Oh, but do keep your little eyes and even smaller minds kept in rapt attention to the sayings and doings of celebrities. Keep you from being less of an obstacle for those who would conquer your species.
In the meanwhile! We have the korth riders going throughout the immediate land—not having much in the way of one form of intelligence whilst gathering the other. Floating down from the low-gravity well between castle and land, hitting the land at full six-legged gallops, they were on the move and spreading out. They were out to find out what made the pretty!
Which brings to attention that distinction made earlier in regards to that only other definition of intelligence—of intelligence gathering. The overt versus the covert? Overt means of intelligence-gathering, such is fickle. Should other nation-states come to find out about your efforts, then prepare to have your efforts greatly polluted with misinformation. (Our ranks of soldiers, you ask? Oh, we’ve trillions of troops, so you’d best not tangle with our lot!)
Overt intelligence-gathering. Fie upon it, and fie upon all who should attempt it! Now, such is why covert intelligence-gathering is the best of intelligence-gathering. If you are going to seek information on the opposition, it is best that the opposition not find out—for such would be intelligence in their favour.
…
You could easily imagine how things could have gone. But, you need not do so. We’ll tell you of it straightaway. Such will give you great exercise in regards to maintaining pessimism. Which is to say, things will tend to turn out worse than what you could hopefully expect. This goes especially so when dealing with humans. Plenty of Lord Moronically Dumb’s korth-riding idiocy riding hereabouts, plenty of things to go abysmally wrong.
Such as this gaggle of buffoonery right here. There they go, leaning forward on their korth as if doing so will make them go any faster. Make the korth go faster. As for themselves, those of small wits are prone to acting in haste regardless. As the ancient saying goes in regards to minds and wise thoughts, slow rivers run deep. The inverse holds true and definitely so at the moment. If one of them were to fall off their six-legged steed and be trampled by those of their fellows, they would not notice one jot.
“Fi-i-i-ind the pretty!” shouted the one who so happened to be the swiftest—also being at the front of the pack.
You do recall what we stated in regards to the proportional relation between speed and wisdom, correct? Fast rivers being shallow rivers? Fast people being intellectually shallow people? There you have it! This declaration was made quite a few times as they came in sight of a settlement just beyond the limits of the city—out here on the dusty plains.
Yes, a collection of cottages and perhaps a few machine-huts. A jolly pall of steam coming out from a chimney. Again, far from the city. Easily done given how grow-kilns tend to grow out from the ground most anywhere they are needed and even in places they are not. Food, water, and building materials—the same. Makes it easier to set up shop far away from imbeciles. Unfortunately, this does not preclude intermittent harassment from morons. Speaking of which…
…
He did not need to consult views from any long-sight crystals to know that there was a group of korth riders headed in this direction. The collective chorus of many heavy hooves made their onrushing action not only audible but slightly palpable. Hard, dusty plains. Not too much going on out here to make a ruckus—especially nothing in the way of trains or airplanes. None of those things for dozens of light-years yet. Even so, such primitive vehicles only belonged to species who were just barely capable of communication. Such species spending an inordinate amount of time cracking each other over the head to emphasise their talking points, or partaking of chemicals to simulate similar effects. Their favourite state of mind is not having much of a mind going on at all. Oh, too much for you?
When the baker’s dozen of korth arrived with a dozen korth-riders, one of the primary inhabitants feared the worst but prepared for the best. He’d already prepared a small purse of distractive goods to be rid of his (hopefully temporary) guests. Meet and greet them outside, that was the way to do it.
Yes! Outside! Would you prefer invite those mental failures in for a light conversation over goldgrass tea and protein biscuits? You really would, wouldn’t you?
This one was not of a like mind, especially since he does not have the option of watching things from beyond the veil of this reality. This is his real life. Unlike the computer-based virtual-combat entertainment antics enjoyed so much by your blood-thirsty adolescents, there is no coming back to life at the computerised wave of a hand.
They came to a galloping stop. The one at the front of the pack had less brain-power than the animal he was riding on, but he was doing the talking nevertheless. After all, korth lack the verbal apparati to tell their human riders where to get off.
“We are looking for the pretty!” declared the korth rider. And he left it at that. No vast bit of explanation or detailing as of yet.
“There is nothing much pretty around here,” went the tall man staring up at the korth riders. Keeping his patience in check.
Yes, a tall man. No, not short and mighty-muscular and therefore not a dwarf. Yes, someone else’s settlement. No, not Master Fromm’s crystal-craft settlement. Yes, he would still have to deal with them by using these.
So goes because there is more to plains living than Master Fromm’s place. Which is to also say, this man is not Master Fromm. He will, however, have to use tactics similar to what Master Fromm would use in dealing with these korth-wits. Their brains rattled so…
He held up the small woven razorgrass sac full of cut crystal. Such things were capable of producing random flashes of light. “I have some pretty right here.”
“This makes pretty?” asked the lead korth rider. He took up the sac of lapidary delights, bits of gem-cut quantum-capable matter that would put rubies, emeralds, and diamonds to shame. “This is lots of pretty!” Holding up the sac. “I have the pretty!”
Cheers all around as the korth riders seemed to have fulfilled their quest. If they had the means of rapid communicating with their fellows across the land, they would have sent word that they had succeeded. Yes, the current will of their lord had been fulfilled! They had found the source of the pretty! Everyone, back to the Floating Castle with No Name! (Such is a title that these intellectual weaklings have not adopted. However, we are not subject to their demands. We are also neither subject to their kingdom nor their empire.)
…
Ah, yes. You seem perplexed yet again. Still so easily confused. It is a most prominent issue before you in regards to one of those most prominent issues before the people of this nameless planet. Why do they not have telecommunication? For goodness sakes! They have crystals capable of technological and engineering feats far beyond anything your world has! And yet, they do not have something so simple as telephones?
Therein lies a crux of the matter! A landscape of people with crystals capable of controlling nanotechnology, crystals able to manipulate energy itself, and crystals able send organised energy as a means of seeing from afar. Furthermore, these descendants of a space-faring humanity were simply given the same upon inhabiting this world. So with all of that said, why do they not have something so simple as a set of wires and controlled electrical impulses as a means of transmitting sound? Or, why not rig up something with those seemingly miraculous tele-sight crystals?
Yes, such would be immensely helpful and just so utterly practical in their day-to-day doings. Yes, yes! We left off also revealing to you that the crystals with synthetically manipulable quantum properties could very easily transmit sound as well. We speak of quantum entanglement, and such crystals could therefore transmit organised patterns of light and sound faster than Einstein’s dogmatic assumption regarding the speed of phenomena in your universe! Oh, and for an additional bonus, that Einstein of yours denied an entire classification of scientific endeavor—that of quantum mechanics.
So there you have it. The answer lies straight before you. But as we must explain it to you humans, insofar as we must explain most everything, we shall have at it. We must now go about stating the somewhat less-than-obvious. This most recent truth is especially visible through quite a thin layer of implication. There is in fact the metaphorical equivalent of a dotted line labeled in multiple languages, open here to understand. You nevertheless need this thing opened for you, as a child would need a bottle of sugary beverage opened.
To explain, they do not have telecommunication…because they are humans. And humans are stupid. Too stupid, in fact, to apply the simplest and otherwise most obvious principles of universal physical laws to their advantage. If humans are stupid, and stupidity prevents immediate usage of physical laws, then humans are too stupid to use the most obvious principles of physical laws to their advantage.
To dumb it down for the humans in the audience, humans are too stupid to use tele-sight crystals for communication. Humans have been historically too stupid to dissect the dead to find facts that would save the living. Humans have been historically too stupid to heat bags of material to gain elevation for the sake of air travel. Humans are currently too stupid to use genetic engineering to stop the ravages of disease which have plagued generations of humanity since there were generations of humanity at all. And yes, among such diseases would be that most devastating of maladies, stupidity. To quote one of the more intelligent among you—an actor in fact—You are made of stupid.
Getting back to it, then. Such is why the korth riders could not send word that they had found the source of pretty. Never mind if they sound a source of pretty. It was also not the source of pretty that produced the pretty witnessed by Lord Morkudum.
…
Meanwhile, elsewhere across the land, more of Morkudum’s Morons were doing what they did best. Which is to say, they were korth riders riding their korth. And by saying best, we say this is an optimal even because—exactly while they are in the middle of nowhere in particular—they are not doing anything overly destructive. There is an expression amongst certain human laws of your world, a threat to others or oneself. In which cases, they would be put away in mental-health facilities.
Guess what? Guess again! In those oh-so-loved medieval fantasy worlds you seem to love, those worlds of totalitarian fascist rulership, there are no mental-health facilities. The idiots in charge are too stupid to recognise mental-health issues when they see them. Instead, such things are explained away as being evil spirits or people just being bad. In which case, the inbreds in charge would just as soon have them galivanting about the landscape and raising Hell for the peasantry.
Such as is what comes to pass now. In your world, they would have been subject to arrest, given appropriate therapies, perhaps some psychotropic medications, and then sent back out to cause more mayhem. A more sensible solution, yes. But this is not saying it is a proper solution. Just sensible. There is a difference.
Which leaves this band of buffoonery shouting gibberish above the thunderous sounds of their six-legged alien steeds on the way to harassing subjects of the empire. They were out to find the source of the pretty! And if nobody helped, then they would be chopped! So how it goes. And the way things go, some thing happen faster and sooner than one would expect.
…
Just as that proverbial million-strong legion of arm-beasts banging away on type-machines can reproduce great literature by dual dints of luck and persistence, it was inevitable that a gaggle of Lord Muck’s korth riders would find the only cliff on this planet and promptly ride off it! There they go! One of them saw their comrades-in-stupidity go flying off into oblivion, screaming sweet nothings to the air, and they followed suit! And this last bit of nonsense is also as bad off as that last bit of lies we told you not too long ago! Every single last statement declared with an exclamation, total lie!
Because there are no cliffs. The only chasms on this planet are the internal mental landscapes of nobility. Vast, fast gulfs of mental nothingness. Which, by the way, is perfectly in line with the nobility of your current time period. Nobles, repeatedly elected political officials, no difference there. Throw in some rocks and the occasional sea cucumber, and that would raise the intellectual stakes high enough for them to beat their political opponents in the next staged debate. As if it matters. All the gullible idiots will always vote the sea cucumber ticket, come what may.
And when you finally figure out what a sea cucumber is, do yourself a favour and remember that they are highly poisonous. On second thought, helping yourself to a heaping pile of those uncooked creatures just might do the galaxy some good. Save the giant beetles a trip of rendering your species inexistent ahead of schedule.
Then again true, there were some of you who finally lit onto the fact that genetic engineering and cyborg technology are good things. Better still when such things are used to lift humanity out the morass of moronics and onto the stars. Then a dollop of so-called pure humanity can be dropped off onto an otherwise featureless planet with more than one moon, where they can partake of neo-feudal antics until whenever.
Moronics and antics such as this one. Now bear in mind, this gaggle of korth riders were unfortunate enough to not have ended their not-so-illustrious careers in being fatal demonstrations of gravity and terminal velocity. No, they were going to be slaughtered by killer robots. Of course, we know this because we can travel in space and time as easily as we can delving into your miserable blobs of neurological matter…. (Oh, dear goodness. Nasty thought, that. Best wipe the dog hairs off the workplace toilet seat before the co-workers are wise to things.)
And then, let’s say…some of those korth riders take on the idea to go straight to Master Fromm’s crystal-craft settlement. What? Did you expect things to just go idly about in this fashion forever? And also, let’s say that some trans-dimensional entities were to plant that very suggestion into one of their tiny, tiny minds…
One of the korth riders gave a hard shake of his head. Something happened. Then he said, “I say, fellow! Let us go straight away to Master Fromm’s crystal-craft settlement!” And with that burden of intellectual overdrive from that bit of thought, that very korth rider was mute for the next few hours as his brain cooled off.
“Because why not!” agreed another one of the korth riders. With little thought of their own, they were all too willing to copy those of others. And absolutely none of them would consider something so unthinkable, so unlikely, so utterly ridiculous as the idea of certain trans-dimensional entities planting certain thoughts amongst them. Slanderous declaration, that! Utterly slanderous!
…
That said, it was likely pure luck that the korth riders went absolutely straight away to the settlement of Master Fromm. Why, it was all good fortune that they had suddenly the immense and intense focus of mind to not be distracted by the loss of a comrade-in-idiocy or by sudden urges to drink and distraction. (Cyclical, that. The more one goes to distractions in town, the more one drinks. The more one drinks, the more one is convinced that the distractions are worth it.) They were absolutely driven to being there, getting there to Master Fromm’s location. In fact, they were likely never more focused in the entirety of their lives—as easily distracted and foreshortened as those lives would be by absolute idiocy compounded with stupidity.
Yes, there is a difference. Idiocy is simply a lack of wit. It is a severe shortcoming of mental prowess. Just as being weak is a condition in which one lacks muscle, idiocy is a condition in which one lacks might of mind.
Now, look to stupidity. (Why-ever not? Practitioners of the before-mentioned surely love the attention. Just look at your celebrities! Not a jot of intellect to be found amongst them, given their ignorant, inbred, and self-destructive lives.) Stupidity is an inability to mentally respond to external stimuli for the benefit of the organism. Stupid people are not only idiots, they are also incapable of resolving the matter—of bettering their lot. That said, stupidity is a partner to idiocy in that it compounds the condition.
A weakling may learn the value of exercise. A weakling can become a not-weakling by doing press-ups and lifting heavy weights frequently and also running long distances. An idiot may work to being a not-idiot by acquiring wisdom—by which one has the means of obtaining knowledge. Now do you understand? No? It’s just as well. Meanwhile, we have been busy mentally manipulating those korth riders to make things all the more interesting. It’s more…fun that way.
Another meanwhile, you are too stupid to realise that this just might be against the so-called rules. Additionally, you humans are too stupid to do anything about it! What, are you humans suddenly going to realise again that science and technology are highly valuable and vital to the prosperity of your species? Are you then suddenly going to develop the means of manipulating the fabric of time and space to your advantage? As if! Why, your current age of civilisation is too deathly afraid to manipulate the failings of your own genetic structure, let alone going about manipulating the fabric of the meta-physical universe. This, just as the ancient peoples before you were deathly afraid to open the bodies of the dead for the benefits of the living. Stupid as you have been, stupid as you are, and ignorant you shall be!
That said, we are perfectly free to go about manipulating these korth riders as we see fit. We may touch their minds. We travel the ways of time and universes. We control. There is absolutely nothing that you can do about this turn of affairs. Nothing in the least. Go on! Stay shouting and crying like the mental children that you are. Impotent rage all about. Meanwhile, the korth riders have arrived to do their thing.
…
Master Fromm was not totally unaware of their approach. Just as before, he had set the crystalline machinery to make him aware of their presence. Master Fromm and other crystal-smiths are capable of crafting crystals of moderate mental might. Not so smart as humans, dwarves or skyborne elves, mind you. But, they may perform simple tasks such as doing maths or organising acts of other crystal machinery. Of course, this includes perhaps even recognising roving bands of korth riders. Simple instructions. Look for groups of idiots astride korth. Of course, there must be crystal enough to learn what korth look like. Such is less difficult than recognising what idiots look like. Why, you human see them most all the time. You do have mirrors, after all.
That said, sitting here in the tele-sight room, he reached for the usual bit of materialist frippery. Picking and choosing among a few sacs of razorgrass goodies for the adults of mental-child maturity, he decided upon…this one. Why-ever not? It’s as good as every other sac full of…ahem. When someone is a crystal-smith, it may as well be full of korth powder—the way that cut crystal and jewels are treated. Leave it to nobility to treat crystals as mere bits of shiny to ogle over. Simple pleasures, simple minds.
Which gave him pause. Being the meandering morons that they are, Lord Moron’s lot tend to move about moronically. If told to go somewhere, they will go to every other elsewhere before doing so. Oh look, a bit of drink! And thereabouts! Let’s tarry with that wench. Multiple wenches, for there are plenty! (And be quite assured that mucking about with the before-mentioned professional company will earn oneself a week’s worth of vasi coating resolve the resulting warts. Vasi heals, but vasi does not prevent. It is the responsibility of the other head to do that.) So very much else to do!
Which is what is so very unusual about this particular soon-to-be visit—for it is always too soon whenever Lord Malicious’ korth riders are upon approach. They were not meandering, moronically or otherwise, not in the least. The tele-sight crystals that Master Fromm had set in plains rocks were being triggered in an unusually orderly way. He knew this because he had a sort of kiln-wood map upon the wall with corresponding bits of crystal illuminating whenever corresponding tele-sight crystals were triggered. And they were going straight-away in this direction.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Skyborne and skyfall legends bespeak of animals capable of flight. That, and devices able to do the same. If they were flight-beasts or flying machines, the korth riders could not have come on any straighter. It was as if…they were guided somehow. Moreso given how korth riders do not rely upon navigational aids. The floating castle is visible from the city, the city is large enough to be seen from anywhere in the vicinity of the floating castle, and all the settlements in-between are incidental.
This is all worthy of speculation and such, and a dwarf with a great deal of mental power will do a great deal of it. Best to consider multiple factors before coming to an incorrect conclusion. Be it in dealing with crystals or korth riders, it is best to not be wrong in either case.
Nevertheless, Master Fromm has never seen this sort of behaviour and could see no immediate cause for it. It is not as if he were ever made aware of trans-dimensional entities mucking about with the mental machinations of Lord Morkudum’s mental midgets. (Short of body he may be, Master Fromm is tall and grand of mind—as are all dwarves.) And when things are unusual or otherwise seemingly without immediate cause, it is best to prepare for the worst.
He stroked a tool-calloused hand across a bit of wall—revealing a series of bureau drawers that seemed to not have been there otherwise. Hidden doors for hidden rooms. Of course there would be hidden places. Why? To hide things, of course! His apprentice was on his way to having something in the way of wit and wisdom, but he was not there yet. Best not let the young ones have hold of things that could harm them. He could hide things such as the arcfire in a basic shop, but some other devices are best well away.
They resembled a set of wide, thick rings. Unlike the ornate idiocy that would bedeck the knuckles of fools and morons alike—all of them nobles—these were rather simple. These are not geegaws. Nothing in the way of silly tooling for curlicues or other useless aspects. The purpose of each of these rings was to hold a particularly crafted bit of crystal.
We did mention…dangerous objects, did we not? And when it comes to making dangerous objects, look no farther than masters of crafting. Keep your sword-swinging simpletons and crossbow-bearing bastardry. It’s the smart ones with smartly crafted weapons of energy that you must be wary of. Some kinds of weaponry can be viciously more dangerous—so much so that their existence is not especially advertised beyond the ranks of crystal-smiths throughout the land.
…
We should warn you, what comes to pass is more a matter of misunderstanding at first rather than malicious menace. If Master Fromm had steered things ever so slightly differently, then perhaps things would not have…
Ah, well. Let’s leave it to you watching this encounter and the results to follow. The more cliché combination would be watch and learn, but that second bit tends to be often beyond your capabilities. Being human is only part of an excuse in that regard. A few humans are capable of learning, so there goes that bit of deniability. And if Lord Morkudum’s marauding mess of morons had taken to learning instead of questing, perhaps they would have gone on to do things more productive with their lives other than serving fascism. Doing something like going into investment banking or taste-testing animal waste products. (We said more productive. We did not say non-evil.) And if they had done something other than serving fascism hiding behind the banner of monarchy, then so many of them would not have ended up dead.
Your Americans have a saying. Nice guys finish last. Such is just as well. Who wants to be first to finish their lives? If it is a race to ending one’s life, then the not-so-nicest amongst you are quick to reach the finish line. And the dumbest and meanest amongst you? First place!
So in any event, this bit of procedural formula began normally enough. Master Fromm ambled out of this crystal-craft settlement building to greet his visitors. Greeting them far enough from the building that collateral damage would not be overly much, but not so far as he could be away from the deadly traps he had laid in place… Oh, did we ruin the surprise?
“Greetings to those who serve the best tyrant in all the lands!” declared Master Fromm, raising his left hand in greeting. Such should have been clue enough, for the right hand is raised traditionally to show that one is not armed.
But again, Lord Light-of-Wit is not the brightest knife in the drawer nor the sharpest candle on the shelf. The same goes for his minions. Knowing their right from their left is not a daily occurrence, especially since so many servant-people and so much in the way of peasantry do so much for them.
Such would be a lesson to the wealthy people amongst you, having servants do everything for you—so much so that you even forget how to think properly. But wealthy humans and wealthy beings overall are far, far from being brilliant. Takes no brain-might to inherit treasures, after all. Just luck. Such would be the sort of luck that Lord Mole-Wit, Lord Micro-Mind, Lord Arse-Hole had upon being born. All that sort of luck, and so many wealthy beings do so much in the way of destruction—both of themselves and others.
The lesson not learned, Lord Morkudum’s korth-riders just grinned and snarled their acceptance of the left-handed greeting. They also mentally stopped at the word great in the sentence.
Their limited mental capabilities did not quite process the word tyrant—or the equivalent batch of sounds in this world’s language thereof. “So what brings you here?” asked Master Fromm.
“Stupid manlet! Can you not see from down there? Korth have brought us here!” declared one of the korth-riders. This set up a roar of laughter.
And when the sounds of humorous uproar were low enough, Master Fromm tried a different tact. Must verbally tread carefully, you know. Their wits are not particularly capable. “No, I asked, Why have you come to visit?”
“Oh, right,” went another korth rider, straining his already heated cranially contained matter. “We are searching for the pretty!”
“We want the pretty!” shouted another of them. You can guess what happened next. Yes, they all had a go at using the phrase.
Which set a cold concern in Master Fromm’s mind. When the korth riders said that they wanted pretty, there was the source of the most pretty at the moment which stood out in Master Fromm’s mind. The sort of pretty with a delicate-cute elfin face of huge eyes and pointed ears at the sides. A pretty with slim pretty looks and tresses of moonsilk. Pretty can mean a great many things to many people—especially if such is not defined. So to Master Fromm, it seemed as if Lord Morkudum’s korth riders were finally looking for something they should not have—the freedom of a skyfall princesse.
“You want the pretty? You cannot have the pretty!” shouted Master Fromm. “Now you turn yourselves right-straight around…return to that anti-gravitational mountain-sized bit of adolescent, addle-wit nonsense you call a fortress…and you tell your living atrocity that you cannot have her!”
This led to a bit of confusion amongst the ranks. And by the way, we use the term ranks both quite loosely and quite literally. Quite loose, given how their sense of structure is rather nonexistent. And by rank, we do mean that in the olfactory sense. (Even with only one means of detecting odours, you humans should know to do better at times!) Confusion, because this has never happened to them before—not in memory. And never mind if their memoires were as robust as their sense of structure.
How and why? Why, we won’t bother with a direct explanation. Let us go with a metaphor. A story! You do so very much love a good story-time. Just settle yourselves down on the story-time carpet with your little bit of snack-time biscuit and…
And the metaphor goes, there was a story in which a human struck a rather sizeable and rather wild animal. In the face. Whilst living in a rather heated land in which animals can be especially aggressive indeed. The man was easily half the weight of this jouncing, bouncing bit of wild nature. And in a state of nature, there are neither laws nor constables to stop acts of murder. (Oh, help! My house-mate was clawed up and swept away by a bird of prey! It happened near home! Niceton Road, Third Tree on the left… Yes, yes! I said, a tree! Green leaves! photosynthesis! All of that good stuff! Where else would a squirrel live? Yes, I live in a tree! Yes, I am a squirrel and… Hullo?)
An act of aggression by a mere weak-bodied and otherwise-tasty human, and what did the animal do? It did what any especially confused animal would do. It stood there, continuing its very own state of confusion. The mouse biting the cat. The fly stinging the spider. The still-living hand-beast leaping full-length from the pot and tearing a goodly portion out of a human’s throat. Such things are not only not supposed to take place, the very notion is just so very much beyond contemplation that it simply seized most all other thoughts!
That said, their lack of understanding is more or less understandable, you see. Or you do not. You simply wish to hear that they were utterly confused—more so beyond the usual bouts of befuddlement making for their individual riding partners. And death. Can’t forget death. Happens all the time to the less-than-wise…just as it is set to occur right about now.
And was that a touch bit much in the way of foreshadowing for you? Right, then. Let’s get on with it. Nothing more satisfying to you humans than a bit of the old ultra-violence.
Which began with a crossbow bolt to the back for Master Fromm. Of course, such severe injuries never feel that way unless they happen at certain angles. It felt as if someone particularly stupid had tapped him in the back. But there was no-one else on foot here but himself. So he reached back, felt the appropriate object, and did what you are not supposed to do when something has embedded itself in your flesh.
He pulled it out. Pulled out the crossbow bolt, not his back--which was still firmly in place. And then, being a craftsman and ranked master-craftsman at that, the dwarf considered the quality of this object. Pity about the blood preventing a proper inspection of the bolt-head and all that. Otherwise, it was a fair bit of kit. Significant symmetry. Well-balanced enough. It is easy enough to purloin good-quality metals from grow-kilns, but the strength lies in mixing other metals throughout. (Alloys, they are called in some of your world’s languages.)
And because the korth-riders were even more confused still—not understanding as to why this attack did not bring down the dwarf closer to the earth than his low height already permitted—they did so again. It was another stout tap in the back for Master Fromm. Who still did not fall.
He did not succeed in pulling this one out, however. He tried, but then he felt…less than well in doing so. Moreover, he was feeling less well by the… Was that a second or a moment?
If this was to be his moment, he was going to make the best of it. His last moment, he knew. When the korth riders wish someone gone, they would not stop coming until he was. An unfortunate truth of this world was how stupid people have higher fertility rates than smart. This is to also say that there is no shortage of idiots to fill the ranks of Lord Morkudum’s Dumb Idiots. Even if he were to stagger back inside and make it into a vasi vat—ready to go and all that—they would keep coming. And oh, how he wanted this moment anyway. Finally, a chance to be rid of those twice his height by not even half his intelligence.
“Want another serving of Tokar’s fine bolt-snacks, little man! Eh, wot?” went the korth rider presumably affiliated with that name. That, or Tokar was the craft-smith who crated the bolts for that moron.
“Snacks, you say? We’re not hereabouts to feed dwarves!” declared yet another moron. And evidently, the idea of metaphor was just lost on him—just as you cannot tell the difference between that and simile.
But fret not! You are human and therefore a moron as well, which means that you are in like company. Still unable to distinguish the difference between socialism and communism, then confuse fascism with racism whilst at it. (Still convinced that democracies cannot be racist, then?) Moronic behaviours and death, the common plight of your species—especially given your scientists’ dead-firm refusal (so to speak) to cure both the latter and the former by way of so-called unethical genetic manipulation! Yes, death it shall be—and not just for the being who stands at crouching height.
There was a flash of… What was that? Oh, never-mind it. ‘Twas gone now—along with any hopes of these lack-wits climbing any higher up the chain of evolution or scale of intelligence.
“One more serving, ’twill be!” declared the moron affiliated in some way, shape or form with the name Tokar. He tried slipping another bolt into the crossbow, but then the weapon simply slipped down and away from him.
Of course, the thing to do was to either reach for another crossbow or climb down from his korth to fetch the dropped weaponry. The finest crossbow in all the land made from the finest razorglass filamentation, that crossbow. Then again true, every crossbow was said to every moron. Best step down from his high-korth and fetch it.
The strangest of things happened next. In his mind’s eye, he had picked up the weapon. And then he had tried letting loose with another bolt. But it would not let loose, for the thing was still upon the ground. So he then tried to…you know, pick it up again.
But the accursed bit of kit would simply not be picked up. Crouching down, trying to get a grip. And then, something vaguely resembling logic with a side-dish of perception allowed a very, very faint glow in his otherwise-shadowed mind. (And no, simply because a human brain is physically enclosed in darkness does not mean there are not organs of information-gathering attached. Do you lack appreciation for metaphor?)
What had come to pass was…? Well, do you recall that brief flash of light? Of course you do! Or should, rather. It was not especially long ago. That flash of light which came to pass when that moron of the crossbow was unable to fire the thing?
Well, that flash of light was the direct cause. That was because it had directly separated his right hand from the rest of him.
Happened so fast, happened with so little sensation, he did not realise what came of things. But with his crossbow on the ground and his right hand along with it, that left him unable to do what he wanted to do immediately. And if you think that is a sad and sorry state of affairs, just wait until he realises that his neck has befallen the same fate as his right wrist.
But you’ll await until the end of the universe, for his already-dim wits had already passed into death. Do keep waiting, then. Waiting will keep you out of trouble.
Master Fromm did not bother to laugh, for he knew that his already-menaced insides would not be wont to produce that sound. He instead focused his remaining physical wherewithal in focusing additional blasts of light from his fist of crystal-rings.
The act of severing heads is like consuming flavoured crisps. You cannot just have one and be done. No, friend. You must have more of the same!
So there you have it! One…two…three! Three more round-shaped hair-topped neck-caps were bound for the ground. (At least in these cases, they lacked the velocity to make meat craters.) But the korth-riders had gone for so long without using those bonces that their bodies just went about their business for a little ways. Eh, wot? No brain-works upstairs? Never noticed otherwise, actually. So they rode their korth for a few trotting paces before finally realising that…come to think of it (so to speak), having sufficient blood-volume just may be vital to the vital organs. So their hands flew up in the vicinities of their neck-stumps and tried to keep the red stuff where it belongs. But to no avail, for they too dropped from their korth.
“Appetizers, that! Now, for the main course!” painfully muttered Master Fromm, staggering a step but still standing with both boots planted. He raised the rings on his left hand and clattered them like so. He also coughed a bit of blood, but that wasn’t important right now.
The clattering of crystal-rings, that resulted in a set of shiny metal heads bursting from the ground. As those three erstwhile korth riders would tell you, what good is a head without a body? And so, those shiny metal heads were followed by metal shoulders and just about everything else of electro--mechanical metal and crystals set in various places for maximum control. Those crystal-powered golems we once mentioned but left alone? Why, here are just some of them. Why not? Chekov’s gun and all that.
The cut and crafted crystals of even the greatest crystal-smith alive could not match the quality of what the skyborne had been able to create. (Given how moronic behaviours abound on this planet, it was just as well. Consider it as important as keeping nuclear hand-grenades away from toddlers.) This would include crystals capable of craniums for fully self-realised and sufficiently intelligent robotic beings that could pass for human.
Then again true, a great deal of brain-brawn need not apply. Your attack-beasts do well enough in defending their human masters. The same goes for these crystal-powered wonders. They know their creator upon sight, and they also know trouble when they see it. Lord Morkudum’s malicious morons have a distinctive style of dress that seeks to intimidate. But now, it only served to further distinguish them from the sole protagonist.
An actual protagonist, none of that psychedelic-fueled nonsense of there not being any good or evil. And if you think laws, ethics, and morals are only good for being social constructs, then feel free to allow your neighbours to dismember you—leaving you able to do nothing whilst they feast upon the organs of every member of your family whilst you watch. Still think distinctions between good and evil are wishy-washy? Thought so.
Their neighbors would not dare taste the insides of those korth riders. No, not with their dietary habits. Korth riders eat well enough when sober, likely to eat most anything else barely edible or otherwise when not. But such is a pointless discussion given how their insides are now outside. Happens when absolute laser beams cut through korth-rider armour as easily as surgeons’ scalpels through birthday cakes. Just so…swish-swish!
And look, the silly sods thought they could actually get away with their lives and bodies intact! It took a half-dozen of their number down to understand that this was not a battle they could win handily—especially with hands being lopped off along with various other aspects of the human anatomy. Oh, dash it all. Entire regions being excised.
This led to some rather amusing outcomes such as Swordsman Drekk of Some-Such only riding away with his lower body on his korth. His upper portion was trampled into the plains-dirt by the half-dozen hooves of the nearest animal.
Then… Oh, would you look at that! That one has no arms left. He would probably only declare it a flesh wound otherwise. He would, if the upper half of his head was sill connected to the rest of him. Now instead of declaring that, he was only capable of saying something along the lines of grrk-grrk-argle-bargle, grrk… Ad nauseum.
Then there was that one over there. That one became two when a crystal-beam blazed vertically rather than horizontally. Now he is simultaneously twice the man and half the man he used to be! Two halves, in fact! Har-har!
A wet meaty slurp of sound, and both halves went off the korth—left and right. Who says you can’t be in two places at the same time?
And if you think that’s the worst of it, then try thinking again. This time, perhaps without thinking so loudly. So goes because things were getting a lot worse in terms of Lord Miserable’s korth riders. But also, becoming a lot better in regards to the overall pool of brain-power on this world. Be rid of the idiots, imbeciles, and morons. Watch the overall average intelligence go up. Think of it as if the headmaster has expelled half the football team after they jury-rigged a school water-closet to do something unwholesome. Let it be known that it would be the headmaster’s very own water-closet, and the very one adjacent to his bureau. No excuses lie therein.
No excuse need apply, for these korth-riders would ride no more. Of course, there is the rather sloppy matter of that one over yonder. His mount is in high-gallop and moving quite apace with those six legs. Or should we rather say, eight legs? The korth-rider’s own two lower limbs were still present upon the steed—still attached to the hips. How else do you think those things could stay in the saddle? Never mind if the upper half of the korth rider is still silent in regards to all declarations asinine. Quite difficult for you humans to have any words from your dead. This goes especially due to your so-called ethical protestations regarding genetic engineering and brain-cyborg technology.
Which largely leaves the shortest of all battlefield participants to remain victorious. The last man standing? Make that, last dwarf standing. And proud of his existence at that! A smart worker. A hard worker. And he has always been the latter because he was the former. Expect no less from someone of height in the least!
Quite a victory, indeed. You humans have your brainless buffoons belabour the reputation of boffins by insisting that—in matters of war—intellect need not apply. You are otherwise lacking in notions. But when the few of them you have do coalesce, among them would be the notion that all it takes is being fierce of heart and strong of arm to win the day! You are all too quick to tell the spectacles-and-whitecoat crowd to put away their slide-rules, pack their calculus, pick up weapons, and have at it. Never mind it if those slide-rules and calculus created the very same weapons which have been used to win all three of your world wars. Feel free to shout through your beards and pound your fur-clad chest whilst robots rain down laser-death upon you. Rather difficult to reach an AI-powered drone with a sword.
Now in this case, Master Fromm need not have had his golems take flight. He simply needed them to turn the korth-riders to neatly sectioned chunks. And such was quite handily done from down here on the ground…
And only then did Master Fromm come to understand just how so very comfortable a hard plain could be. The many hooves of the korth most have softened things quite a ways. He could see…a bit of the sky just past the piles of carnage. But never mind that. With the day’s work done, he could finally close his eyes… His mum and dad were calling him. Never mind if they were both long dead. So was he.
…
Oh, do stop your whingeing! The only issues resolved with tears is that of dry cheeks—which will be dry again soon enough soon as those liquid emissions are done and gone. Speaking of which, are you quite done yet? Having yourself quite the sob-session, are you? Taking a hefty pile of over-priced napkins to soak up those dew-drops of misery? Go on, then! Have another! Then another after that! Shredded tree-flesh, those napkins. How do you think the trees felt upon having their kin converted to absorption material for weepy, short-lived humans? (Trees measure their lives in centuries. You? Mere decades, dependent upon your level of stupidity.)
Have you ceased well enough to listen? Those wracking, choking chest-spasms and wet facial orifices are especially unbecoming of a species that thinks nothing of feasting upon dead animal flesh. This, whilst the corpses of your deceased most always go to waste! Think of all the monies to be saved if you stocked your Frigidaires with the flesh of the dearly departed! Just a thought. You have few thoughts of your own, so feel free to have some of ours.
…
Master Fromm was now being poured into a fancy, ornate crafted razorglass urn. What? How? Ashes, you see. Master Fromm is no longer a dwarf-sized mass of meat and bone—bloodied as it was. He was made a perfectly neat cone of off-whitish powder. Given his lack of height and therefore mass, such was not an especially sizeable cone of ash. If he was pint-sized before, now he is all the more portable still!
We will say this again, given not your lack of hearing… Those of you without functional auditory organs are all the more fortunate, for you will never have to hear the bleating idiocy of your fellow humans. The very moment that cybernetic ears are grafted to your auditory nerves, you will beg for an off switch—preferably one that is voice-activated. Activated by all voices. Which means you will not hear any of the stupidity.
Now, as for Master Fromm being made closer to the composite elements from whence he came, it was certainly better. You see, this world has only recently been infested by humans or any life. Only a short time, speaking in frames of cosmic events. There are not billions of years of microscopic flora or fauna evolving and reproducing to affect decomposition. No flying beasts to speed things along with multicellular digestion, either. Which is to say, Short Stuff could be out there for quite a time—speaking in frames of human perceptions, then.
What’s that? You seem quite incensed at our comportment. What do we care? You wish to condemn us to… Hmm. Rather interesting, that. Threatening us with a thousand years of infinite darkness? An oxymoron if there ever was one! In any event, it would be your species staring down the glittering blade and long shaft of the Grim Reaper’s scythe, for your pitiful excuse for scientists will still insist that immortality is unethical.
Therein lies a pitifully small scrap of common thematic and argumentative ground. What, metaphors still not your cuppa? Then let us put it in even terms that you can understand. We happen to agree. Immortality for homo sapiens-sapiens truly would be unethical! Making humans immortal would mean that the universe would have to tolerate your accursed presence all the longer! If Master Fromm could speak, he would thank the lord for having ended his existence amongst your kind!
Which now leaves the crystal-empowered electro-mechanical golems to remove this conical pile from the plains. Using their metal hands, they were being sure to get as many granules as they could. Would be a waste otherwise. Bullion cubes be damned! Dwarf-dust makes a fine addition to any soup!
No, we jest on that last part…more or less. Why no, we have not flavoured our sups with the powdered remains of dwarves—master crystal-smiths or otherwise. And we would therefore certainly not tell you that the flavour and palate is adjacent to…hmm (slurp), something like gamey garlic. A fresh container of the stuff to add to more stuff. Plenty of servings to be had.
But not at the moment. There is yet more drama to be played out. The razorglass urn has a top. This top was then affixed and sealed with a circumambulatory path of laser-light from a crystal-powered golem. Hermeneutically sealed. Keeps the moisture out and the freshness in! Don’t like that statement? Why, that’s just tragically too bad! Have another! Seals in the flavour.
Same said for the coffins. Unlike you, whenever we feast upon corpses, we have the decency of table manners. We never spit bones or bits of brain upon the table. And on the matter of dining upon the genitals, we do so with our pinkies, tentacles, or equivalent prehensile appendages properly extended. Not that this shows respect for the dead, not that corpses have anything like feelings. It only shows respect for one’s table-mates. And if that dunderheaded stripling youngster of an apprentice accidentally adds his former apprentice-master to something so horrid as thyme-broth, then such would be brutally rude indeed. (Only Arsenal fans would appreciate something so atrocious.)
We could say that they did some things so amazingly atrocious as attempt to punt the works down the way—urn, ashes and all. But with golems having metal feet and such, that would have resulted in the urn shattering. Oh look, Fromm dust everywhere! Try adding it to American barbecue. (Those Americans will add most anything to anything regardless of gastro-intestinal consequences. Cannot put anything past them.)
We could then move on to say that they did what you would have done. They could very well have taken out some of those omni-present smartphones and took selfies holding their erstwhile master’s remains. Certainly! Just hold that glittering jar of garlicy-flavoured powdery substance, hold out two fingers in a V and just…photograph away! Then you can feel free to add as many virtual dotings of approval. (Accursed human spell-check. Dotings certainly is a word. Your miserable software craft-masters cannot even craft a halfway decent means of inspecting how words are spelt! Yet more evidence of just how little progress humans continue to not make.)
But none-such took place. No selfie smartphones. Such also means, no selfie-sticks—by which certain amongst you deserved to be beaten within inches of your lives. No treating of the urn as if it was a football during one of your beloved Arsenal games. (If you give the slightest praise to Manchester United, then perhaps there is an ever-so-slight sliver of hope for your species yet. No? Our arguments amplified, then!) None of those antics. Just a procession of crystal-controlled golems carrying out their master’s instructions should something like this happen.
Korth riders, you see. Atrociously dim-witted buffoonery with sharp objects. With enough of them doing enough deeds in the land, there was the strong chance they were to put an end to him eventually. Lightning strikes, tripping over shoe-laces and falling into singularities, bad encounter with korth riders… See that? Just one of those things to be on the look-out for.
Meanwhile, the golems found their way to Master Fromm’s previous residence. Not his anymore, for dead people own nothing but eternal peace of mind. Free from the idiocy of their fellow humans, such as no longer having to witness sub-morons attempting to chew off the backs of their own heads. (Gnashing their teeth and spinning in circles until dizzy, then going about the whole business yet again.) No, no, none of those antics to ever be tolerated yet again.
So upon reaching the door and its crystal-controlled mechanism, the way in was opened. The door’s simple crystal-mind recognised what this was all about, for there was no other reason that the once-buried golems would be above-ground and carrying custom crockery. Certainly not a house-warming, this.
Oh look. They are not even bothering to kick the plains-dust from their metal feet. The very gall of it all. (Note the spelling. We said gall, not Gaul. The French are masters of manners.) No, they simply went clomp-stomping in with that curiously ponderous pace. Their steps synchronised, and the same was true for the dirt they were leaving on the kiln-wood floor. If not polished anew, those planks will simply have to come up and be replaced by more of the same.
Not caring for performing home renovations at the moment, the golems promptly found the water-closet and flushed the remains away… Joking, joking! We did say this was an antics-free moment and perhaps something of a serious one at that. Certainly nothing more in the way of Master Fromm having a…short temper. You could say that he now has a…dry sense of humour. So goes because he is simply dry. Shavings for the korth-sables, here. Sup up the moisture and mess leaking from the korth bodies after they rest.
Rest? Oh, right then… They put his pottery down the loo after all! Joking again! No, they opened their golem-mouths and discovered that they love the taste of humans after all. Another jest! Cannot go about calling them cannibals if they do not go about eating their own kind. So, feel free to eat dwarves all you like, for dwarves are not human. Vice-versa upon your death and all that.
Oh, all right. The urn-bearer found a slot in the appropriate storage-room wall—for every owner of the settlement has been handled in the same way. Why-ever not? You feel free to give bottles of yeast-urine better treatment than you do the remains of your own dearly departed! At least here, he is not scattered to the winds or buried in the ground.