"Kren" Part Eleven: Well, there's an eye-opener, and no mistake!

 

Koppa looked stunned. He blinked rapidly and his eyes darted around the clamoring villagers, who suddenly appeared well on their way to becoming a mob. The Hetman took that dismay as evidence of his guilt and pressed on.

“Do you think to stir these people up with your wild stories, to put us off guard as you lay your stratagems? A human king in Morg City? A likely tale. What’s your game? A spy for Bharek? Some trick to rob our town under guise of collecting tribute?”

“I haven’t asked anything of anyone!” Koppa protested. “In fact, I’ve overpaid the barkeeper there for drinks on the house and an under-cooked, rather tough old chicken.”

“Hey!” Pappy looked pained.

“Don’t think you can distract me or bamboozle these men by oiling them with gifts and bribery.” The Hetman’s was stern, his knitted brows an iron bar. “Do you think that just because he is far away that we are not wary of Bharek’s malevolence?” 

He pointed a finger at Kren, who jumped a little. Up until now he had been watching the exchange with fascinated detachment. He saw no reason for the Hetman to involve him.

“Look at this poor fellow, blighted by the Black Lord’s malice! We have a reminder every day of the power of his hatred, of the reach of his arm. There is the sign and seal of his strength!”

Koppa actually laughed. It was a loud, sincere, even joyful eruption that shook his sides and tossed his head back. It stopped the crowd in their tracks, as no mere words could have done. They stood there, mouths hanging open. Even the Hetman looked taken aback.

Koppa drew himself up, cheeks flushed as he tried to regain control.

“I’m so sorry.” He cleared his throat a little, steadying his voice. “But you see, in the rest of the Southlands, that mark is considered the mark of strength, of one that has proved greater than Bharek’s wrath. A badge of honor.”

He put a congratulatory hand down onto Kren’s shoulder. The Morg, who had been listening in wonder, flinched a bit, startled as his entire view of himself was turned on its head. Koppa smiled warmly.

“Where I come from,” he went on, “Such survivors are revered. But there are never many. I’m glad to say that your Mr. Kren here is one of a vanishing breed. Soon, there won’t be any more like him.”

“Oh? And why is that?” The Hetman’s voice was cold and skeptical.

“Because Bharek has been dead for five years now.”