"Kren": Part Four (Into the Inn)

Kren stalked through the empty streets, eyes burning, head down, seeing nothing until he suddenly found himself drawing up short in front of the battered door of The Guesthouse. He put one heavy paw on the handle but stopped at the sudden burst of laughter from within. It seemed the folks inside were growing rather uproarious. He only paused an instant, smiling wryly, then pushed on in.

The laughter stopped immediately. The patrons looked at him astonished, rather blearily; most were his fellow reapers. Even Pappy, the bartender, looked surprise. Kren was not a regular customer, barely even an irregular customer. The Morg looked around the room and smiled a sharp, toothy grin.

“Good evening, folks,” he said flatly, and headed for the bar. The laughter sprang up again, muted, but with a new hint of amusement, even mockery, as whispered comments in sun-burned ears were exchanged around rickety tables. Pappy looked uncomfortable as Kren approached, his eyes darting into every corner rather than at the advancing Morg, who stopped with his palms flat on the board in front of him.

“Well, hello, Mr. Kren,” he said, tongue flicking nervously around his dry lips, eyes blinking. “We don’t see you in here very often.”

“Actually, Mr. Kegs suggested it,” Kren said ironically, voice raised, gesturing toward the man who sat nearby with several cronies. Kegs looked offended and stuck his face in his mug as if to hide. “Ale, please.”

“Ah. Pitcher or a tankard, then?”

“A pitcher. Your biggest too.”

Pappy hesitated.

“Can I see your penny afore I draw it? Policy, you know.”

Kren slapped his pocket, suddenly realizing he had tromped out without any money. He frowned.

“I’ll have to owe you,” he growled.

“Can’t do it.” The old barkeeper seemed almost relieved. “Sorry, there, but house rules …”

“Look!” Kren leaned in, muzzle quivering, a minatory claw raised. “You still owe me for work on your roof, and if you don’t serve me a pitcher now, I will march your marker right over to town hall and turn it in and go home with a barrel of ale, which I very much doubt you can spare a month before the autumn brewing. Or I can come in with my pennies tomorrow.”

Pappy gulped.

“You may have a point there, sir. One pitcher coming right up.” 

He served the pitcher with a shaky hand, offering a pewter mug which Kren refused. The Morg took the pitcher to a dark corner, to the single table that the regulars called Hermit’s Hole. He settled back and took a long pull straight from the pitcher. He waited to relax, or at least to quit thinking.