Chapter 7
The Gorbs
by Daniel Olarnick
Previous chapter
The Omniscient Voice: The unnamed scribe, the troll Utre, and the mongrel are stranded in the middle of the Desert of Flames, at an oasis, and all that is left of a lake that once teemed with life. And so, our tale continues
***
"Human that is puny . wake up. There is danger in the air." Utre shook the scribe by the shoulders, ignoring the snarling mongrel that tried to protect the sleeping scribe.
"What ." asked the scribe, rubbing his eyes, his dreams fading quickly from his mind, as if they had never existed.
"The scent of the air is filled with an ancient terror . the beast that tracks, attacks and destroys."
"What is it?" asked the scribe, alarmed by the formality of the speech used by Utre as well as the content of his statement.
*
The Feline entered the subterranean underground chamber of the Palace of Moultrance; her eyes illuminated her path, as only a feline's can. She entered the sealed chamber of the entombed and encased Benob the Benevolent. The Feline reached out, touching the huge spherical-shaped lavender-colored crystallized container, caressing it, as if it were a lover of which she had a long and intimate relationship with; as she caressed the sphere, she did it so to stir the sleeping shapeless being from within. Her body changed shape into that of a human-like feline, as she curled her form around the god within a bottle.
"Awaken, Benob the Benevolent, I desire your services," she purred.
A shapeless substance within the container began to form, filling the crystallized vessel with strange and beautiful shapes.
"What is it? Why do you waken me from my rest and slumber, Feline or should I call you by your given name?"
Ignoring his question, the Feline implored him, "Moultrance, your chosen, dreams of the scribe. The accursed one, he is coming across the Desert of Flames to begin The Quest."
"The Scribe died countless centuries ago. It is but a myth being perpetrated and released by the Scribal Priesthood," sang the being within the bottle.
"No, not this time, for The Relic is not using a vessel to house its spirit. I know. I feel it from within my body," she said, caressingly and seductively, as she curled her body around the sacred crystallized container."
"And your desire?" questioned the developing lava-like being, knowing her answer, but demanding an answer nonetheless. "Shanandor," he whispered her name breathlessly.
"Release the creatures of the desert," she sighed.
"Request granted!" the god within the bottle said, filling the chamber with his maniacal laughter.
*
"We must flee," said Utre as he continued to sniff the air.
"To where?" Asked the scribe. "The Town of Vashmak is four days across the desert. We have water for one day, at best."
"Then we fight and die with honor," grunted Utre, grabbing at his crouch, as he pulled the femur of a long-deceased creature from the ground, testing its heft.
"I have a plan, Utre. Should it be successful -- should it work -- I will inscribe your name into a Stone of Battle. Your people will rejoice."
"Utre needs no plan. He stands here, killing all creatures that come to attack him, until he falls and dies with honor."
"Is not victory more important than death with honor?" said the scribe, looking down into a glowing gem, which showed him his plan, as he began to grip the red mud of the dried lake.
"So tell me, Scribe, of your pitiful plan." Snarled Utre, using the human's title as if it were his name, its beastly mind knowing that to die in the desert was without glory to his people, being forced to accept the thoughts of a mere being, such as the nameless scribe, would surely die with the scribe's death. His choice was clear.
"I will make you invisible," said the scribe, rubbing the dried red clay between his hands.
"And I will kill for us both," snarled Utre, "You haven't the _koi-icch_ for it."
"I can -- cannot kill . even if I have to, Utre."
"Do the work of the female then, puny human, clean and skin the dead, for their bodies will be our victory dinner."
*
"What has happened here?" demanded Fallows to Gazine, his second-in-line of succession.
"The _body of Mantel_ has been brought to our entrance. A Stone of Ahimsa lies within its skeletal remains."
"Is the stone's power used?"
"As we speak, Mantel regenerates."
"An act of heresy!" shouted Fallows, raising his outstretched arms to the heavens above. "He stole stones from our treasure troves!"
"No one knows for sure, for the Cave of Forgetfulness reveals nothing, unless we make sacrifice."
"No need," smirked Fallows. "I declare the scribe to be a heretic. Release the beasts. Hunt him down!"
"And of Utre?" asked Gazine. "He is a scribal-priest, and a prince amongst the Trolls."
"Irrelevant," said Fallows, with a wave of his hand. "Do away with the scribe and that accursed mongrel, and the Quest fails."
"As you command," bowed Gazine, backing out of Fallows' chambers, joy etched across his face.
*
Gazine purified himself, scourging his body with a braided cord, as he stood in front of his miniature _God in a Bottle_ watching in fascination as light and heat coursed through the structure, its formless contents bubbling throughout the glass-like structure, forming a being of indiscriminate shape and structure, from within the mass its eyes glowed, sending instructions into the waiting mind of Gazine.
*
Gazine hurried down to the sacred scribal breeding chambers, down, down he went, past ancient tunnels and causeways that had been hammered out by unknown architects and builders, until he came to the portal. He held the God in a Bottle before a flashing light, a door swung open, exposing a repository that reeked with the ages of ancient times, and beheld an ancient heredity repository.
He looked above at the vaulted ceiling that bathed the chamber walls with blazing hues of ancient gems. There, against a gem encrusted wall, the Crystals of Time were encased, each one protected by its own indestructible crystal sheath.
He chuckled nervously as he extracted a crystal, remembering the God within the Bottle's instructions, "_encased within a protective covering, secreted within a hidden recessed wall, and you will find what is needed."_
The crystal's sheath had etched upon it, _Resurrection of Extinct and Fabled Animals_ its scribal author's name having been obliterated. Gazine caressed the inscription, allowing his fingers to trace along the words, feeling for the inscriber's name, a name that had been obliterated either by the inscriber himself, or others, others who feared to allow the inscriber the praise he so richly deserved. It mattered not who it was, Gazine reminded himself, for all these gems belong to the Scribal Priesthood, to Benob the Benevolent, to Moultrance, to the Council of Dragons. He held the crystal, feeling its power coursing through his body. Thoughts of power entered his mind. "Later," he mused to himself.
"Ah, this should do," muttered Gazine, as he thrust the crystal into a crystal receptacle that looked like the floral organs of a female, leading into the sealed breeding chamber. A perfect fit, thought Gazine, as he watched, in fascination, mechanical hands producing fertilized eggs of long-extinct creatures, the feared desert devils.
"Twelve - no, 13 should suffice - yes 13 will be sufficient in number," he said. He pressed the palm of his hand against the crystal, concentrating on the number 13. An electric energy jolt struck the long-dormant cells. Gazine watched with amazement as the cell division grew, split and developed into motes, then into embryos, two became four, four became eight, eight became sixteen, the last three being consumed by the first thirteen, and then they appeared, the two-headed creatures he had long-ago read of, part feline, part canine, tiger-stripes covering its coarse fur, its eyes red with dark orange pupils, a gemstone space within their foreheads awaited implementation.
Gazine implanted the probes, coded gemstones that contained his commands, inserting them into the creatures' midbrain, becoming part of their thought patterns. He implanted his thought-command into their minds, using ancient scribal techniques, "Go to the desert. Kill the scribe; savage the mongrel; tear apart the troll," commanded Gazine.
_Surely_, he thought, the Feline will be pleased with his creative work.
"Let all that defy the Scribal Priesthood be damned."
*
A hunting pride of 13 Tazmanian Desert Devils spread out across the Desert of Flames, following the trail of the scribe and his two companions.
Only ten Tazmanians survived the trek across the desert - or so the written record shows -- until they found the abandoned lake, and the oasis filled with life-giving water. They plunged into the water, lapping in its coolness, one head watching and sniffing, while the other drank its full.
The scent of their prey was prevalent, but the area was deserted. Soon, they would pick up the scent, but only after they had rested. Suddenly rest was very important to them, more important than the stinging, buzzing drum of the implants.
Somehow, their prey had escaped them.
The gemstones within their brains glowed, sending this information back to the Scribal Priesthood, to the Feline, and to Benob, who laughed and laughed.
"This one is rather good." Benob said aloud, "He appropriated near infallible gemstones. How unique!"
*
It was not a great battle, although the scribe would etch a victory of great importance into the Stone of Utre.
The scribe had caused the mongrel to expel the poison within his body onto palm tree leaves, which he submerged in the lake. His plan had worked to perfection. He had foreseen it within a Stone of Dead Reckoning, before the stone burnt out.
He had covered himself and the mongrel in red clay, directing Utre to do the same. "Attend to me, you will, puny human," as the scribe placed his hands upon Utre's body, the Prince of Trolls let out a sigh, enjoying the hands of the scribe upon his body, as he was coated with the red thick mud of the lake that camouflaged them perfectly, even covering their scent. They remained silent against the walls of the evaporated lake and waited.
The scribe would engrave Utre's stone with scenes of a great battle, having Utre standing within the middle of the lakebed, a femur clutched within his hands, as he battled the two-headed devil beasts into bloodied submission, placing his body between that of the scribe and the dog, somehow giving the impression of protecting the two beings he was charged with accompanying onto the Quest.
The devil-beasts slumbered deeply, the poison, diluted by the waters of the oasis made for a heavy sedative. It was a simple matter to wait and then club the beasts to death.
"In this, there is no honor," sighed Utre, who longed for death with honor.
"The honor is in the victory," said the scribe, as he watched Utre club to death one after the other of the slumbering drugged beasts.
"Here is what actually happened," said the scribe, producing a gemstone which showed Utre, Prince of Trolls, as the greatest of warriors, in an honorable battle.
The gemstone's hypnotic rays burned the story into Utre's mind, making him forget what had actually occurred, remembering only the stone's embedded images.
"Remember," said the scribe softly, "A gemstone can never lie."
*
"What now, puny human? Has your mission failed?" asked Utre, as he piled the bodies of the devil beasts together, one on top of the other for the scribe to skin.
"I - I don't know," stammered the scribe, returning to his fawning self. "We need 4 days worth of water to cross the desert. The lake is tainted for, at least, four days."
"Then you have failed," said Utre, licking his lips, feeling the implant within his brain activate.
*
From the middle of the dried lake they came, actually surfacing, as if to be passing through an opening that suddenly appeared; six gel-like beings emerged.
The Troll grabbed the femur he had used as a clubbing weapon, and ran to hide within a cluster of palm trees.
The scribe, not believing his eyes, stood frozen in fascination. Never, in all his readings had he witnessed or heard of such beings. The small gel-beings began to expand, as they advanced upon the now dead Tazmanians, to feed upon the dead devil-beasts. They surrounded the dead bodies and sucked them in, digesting them whole.
One gel-being swallowed - yes, that was the only word the scribe could think of - swallowed one of the Tazmanians whole, striping its flesh off within its body.
Different colored lights emanated from the gel-beings, as if studying the engulfed dead creature. "So malleable," he thought, as the creatures expanded.
"Scribe, hide. The Shapeless ones will eat you," snarled Utre, from behind the cluster of palm trees.
And within the gel-being, the scribe saw the bodies of the Tazmanians being tossed about, side-to-side, digested, blood cell by blood cell, until all that was left of the two-headed beasts were its bones, stripped clean and regurgitated.
Meaningless sounds, brilliant flashing colors accompanied the digestion process, followed by loud belching sounds, and the expelling of intestinal gasses.
"Ugh," cried Utre aloud, "It farts. The smell . my eyes -- they burn."
The gel-creature turned towards where the scribe and the troll lay hidden. The silence of the desert night was shattered as the mongrel howled aloud, and the three companions prepared for battle, knowing that victory was impossible.
*
One of the gel-beings advanced ahead of the others, its colors changing rapidly. Fragmented thoughts passed into the scribe's mind, seeming to accompany the flashing colored lights, "How is it you live?" "Others have come this way and died." "You are not unlike the others that have come, and died, and fed us."
The scribe tried to comprehend the messages being sent out by the gel-being, but only understood fractured sentences, misplaced words.
Finally, he broke the silence, speaking aloud, "What are you? What do you want from us?"
"We are the Gorbs," the creature said in a series of flashing lights, accompanied by musical notes that filled the desert air with its answers.
Utre rushed out, striking at the creature with his club. "No, Utre, don't!" the scribe shouted aloud; the mongrel howled after Utre, standing his ground by the scribe's side.
A glob of gel encased Utre, rendering him helpless. "When he dies," said the Gorb, "I will digest him, his thoughts, and he will join us."
"No!" pleaded the scribe, "he is my friend."
*
"This creature," said the Gorb, "is meant to devour you," lights flashed around the glob that now encased Utre.
"He cannot help himself," said the scribe, advancing on the Gorb, his hand extended outward, showing no weapon.
"I will study you . and the furry thing beside you," said the Gorb, as he expelled another gel-bubble to encase the scribe and the mongrel. "We are one."
Encased within the glob of gel, the scribe began to understand the thoughts projected by the Gorb, fragmented as they were; yet he could not fully comprehend the thoughts, they were beyond the scribe's understanding.
"Others like you have come to our nidus, but have died in battle with the two-headed beasts. You live. Why? I do not comprehend."
"This is your - your nest," asked the scribe, forming the word "nidus" over in his mind.
"Our place to lodge and multiply," said the Gorb.
"And your name," asked the scribe?
"We have no name; we are the Gorbs."
"I will call you Zorn," said the scribe.
Lights flashed from the main body of the gorb, as he absorbed the scribe's thoughts.
"I need no name. We are the Gorbs."
"You are different, Zorn. I know it. What is your purpose?"
"We keep the planet healthy," flashed Zorn the Gorb.
"This name, Z-O-R-N, has meaning," it flashed.
"Leader," whispered the scribe.
*
The ground opened within the middle of the lake; the Gorb carried the threesome down flights of twisting stairs, which he effortlessly glided over, its body safely nestling the scribe and his companions. An underground cistern, extending for endless miles appeared. It had been hidden under the lake for what appeared to the scribe to have been centuries. It had been carved out by the hands of some master builder. He breathed in the air, it was cool and fresh, or was it what the Gorb had wanted the scribe to experience?
The Gorb shifted its shape into that of a gondola, Utre securely absorbed within its gel-like capsule at the helm, the scribe and the mongrel nestled on its deck.
Lights flashed illuminating the cistern. "I shall take you to Vashmak, accompany you on your journey," the creature flashed, "And not digest your companion. I feed only on the dead."
"Free me from sac," demanded Utre, "I'll give you much to feed on."
"To Vashmak," flashed Zorn.
"To Vashmak," echoed the scribe.
"To Vashmak," roared Utre, freed from his gelled sack, vengeance burning in his mind, his cunning mind intent on killing the Gorb, some how, some way.
"To Vashmak," howled the mongrel in a language long since forgotten by creatures that walk upright.
***
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