Lore of the day #4: Meet Mister Hamyx

The latest from my online epic, Lore of the Underlings.
Chapter 1 continues:

A blanket of silence fell upon the field as all wondered what they had witnessed. But from that muffled moment a foul murmur rose.

“We’ve been played for fools.”

“If only the Guard were here.”

“But maybe it’s them. Maybe they test us.”

“You are the fool, Boxbo. How could that be?”

“They are in disguise.”

“What, as flappy flying things?”

“No, you woodwit. Them. Do you recognize those three?”

“Well, not the tall ones.”

“Isn’t the other your cousin Yoz?”

“Shhh! Do not speak that name. He was a leaver.”

“Oh! Forgive me, Ixit. I didn’t know. How long?”

“A score of seasons. Five years past the Treasuror’s fall.”

“Then we shall not meet him again.”

“Shut up all of you! These are strangers.”

“Mother Mayly may be right. She knows her beans from stones.”

“Though if that’s so, then what’s to do?”

“And how, who?”

“Who knows?! But someone should do something soon.”

“Or the Guard will have us in a stew…”

“Boiled to hell with your cousin’s bones and a cabbage head or two like you.”

“Then this is it.”

“Yes, surely so.”

“The time is here.”

“Here we go.”

“But where are my manners…”

“Please, be my guest…”

“No, after you…”

“Oh, I insist…”

“Hold on. Could it be? What luck!”

“Here comes Bylo Hamyx. Look!”

“Good for him!”

“Bless the Finder!”

“Get them, Bylo!”

“We’re right behind you!”

A fleshy bald man had shoved his way clear and into the middle of things. He staggered, out of breath and blood-flushed, the red of a rutting snarl hog. Sweat streamed from the blotchy dome atop his head, as drops of it dripped from a furrowed brow to wet his huffing, puffy face.

“Where is it?” he growled, yellowed eye whites wide, flashing this way then that. “Where is it?”

Someone called from the crowd, “Bylo! What do you seek?”

He paid no heed and lurched ahead to search the circle of souls before him. “Weeds, all of you. Weeds to pluck from this blood-fed field.” He cast his glare across the lot of them, face to face to face. The tall ones. The fruit of Hurx. He spit on the ground. He spat at their feet.

“Weeds to pluck and boil…” He paused, then suddenly raised a quaking hand and with one foul finger, gnarled and encrusted in a bark of scab and sallow pus, stabbed at the air.

“You!” he roared, baring a row of broken black teeth. “You are the thief!” Again he jabbed a pointy nail and jerked himself that way, lumbering over a lonely wildflower of gold. “Now for your crimes you shall pay.”

More to come. To read this chapter from the start, click here.

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