Kren: Complete and Edited

 

 It was a hot, blue sky. The few clouds there were looked like a white scrim on the horizon, determined neither to rain nor to interpose themselves as shade between those toiling in the bronzing fields and the beating sun. Kren paused to wipe his brow for a moment, dashed the sweat away, then swung the scythe again with a grunt. He began grumbling the Fiddle-dee-Fiddle-da song in his throat to give his stroke rhythm.

“Fiddle-dee, fiddle-da,” he rumbled.

“Fiddle-dee, fiddle-da,

I had a fine house once.

Its rooms were a solace come winter or spring.

Fiddle-dee, Fiddle-da, fiddle-da-a-ah,

One day I was careless

while frying some fish up,

And now I am homeless and go wandering.

Fiddle-dee, fiddle-da,

Nothing is certain;

Fiddle-dee, fiddle-da,

All things fly away;

Fiddle-dee, fiddle-da,

The world is a curtain

And what lies behind must await the reveal.”

It was an old song, the oldest song he knew, and it could be adapted a hundred ways depending on his mood: comic, philosophic, angry, or grim. The only thing that never changed was the chorus. He had learned the tune from his mother, one of the only things he had from her, and the chorus was the one truly true thing he knew. She had taught him that with her death.

Not that Kren was thinking about that now, not anyway any more than he usually thought about his life and situation. Right now, he was only thinking about getting the harvest in. He did not particularly care about the crop; he was only one of a dozen or so that the Hetman had hired to reap his fields. But the sooner he was done the sooner he would get paid and could retreat to his home at the edge of town. As a manner of honor, though, he meant to be faster, neater, and more industrious than any of his fellows. And that was because of them all he was the only Morg, the one Morg in a village of Men.

There were stories about Morgs, of course, about how the squat, hairy, muzzled folk had come from over the sea in their ships, lost and wandering, and settled plop in the middle of the richest lands in the south. They built cities bigger than the divided human peoples had ever made, ‘elbowing’ Men further to the East and Western Coasts. It was darkly murmured that it was the Morgs who had brought the wrath of Bharek upon the land, and that they, at least, somehow deserved it.

Kren had learned long ago that if he was even to have the tolerance of the village folk, if not their acceptance, he would have to be twice as good as the best of them, and humble about it to boot. The paradox of it, he knew, was that it made them begrudge him more, as it left no obvious hook to hang their resentment on. He swung his scythe with grim satisfaction as he drew ever more ahead of the other reapers.  His Stain glowed red in the sun under his exertions.

The Stain, a mottled cranberry blotch that covered half his face, was proof to the villagers that he, the Morg, lay under the wrath of Bharek. He and his mother had come to them with a batch of six or seven others, fleeing Bharek’s Breath, a plague from the North, before finally succumbing there in Far Reach. The Breath had also killed three of the villagers, which made them curse Morgs all the more. The fugitives were dropped hugger-mugger in a mass grave outside the burying ground, marked with a rough stone. Kren was the only survivor of the group, hardly old enough to toddle but somehow tough enough to live, stamped with Bharek’s wrath by the Stain.

“Hey, Kren! Hey, you! You, Morg!”

Kren paused and turned blinking, sweat streaming down his head. It was Brallig, the next nearest reaper to him, a man with a body like a lumpy bag, his face contorted with anger and annoyance. For a brief second Kren imagined slicing through that solid body with a single swing, just a follow-up stroke from his work, as it were. He wiped away the image with the sweat from his eyes.

“What?” he panted.

“Didn’t you hear the Hetman? He’s called it a day. Time to turn in your scythe!” The man scowled. “I for one want to get to the inn and throw some ale in me.  But maybe you want to hang out with the ladies when they come to gather in the evening? The pay’s the same either way. Hah!” He turned and tramped off in the direction of the spreading oak tree where the workers were already collecting to put aside their tools and get their day’s pennies.

Kren said nothing, but sighing quietly so as not to be heard, shouldered his scythe, and headed in. 

Kren was last in line for his pay and lingered near the end of the straggling line of workers heading back to Far Reach. As they entered the village many turned into The Guesthouse, a ramshackle building called for courtesy’s sake an inn, but which was mostly an alehouse with a few stalls of straw for drinkers who accidentally overstayed their visit. Others passed it and went into their own homes. Kren trudged on after them all until he came to the end of town and Old Man Mosshide’s place.

Everyone still called it that, even though Mosshide had been dead for fifty years now. He had already been Old Man Mosshide when Kren’s mother had passed away and he had taken the young Morg into his care. Even now Kren couldn’t quite figure out why he’d done it unless it were a mixture of pity and loneliness. The old carpenter had been a bit of a recluse, and mostly treated him like a combination of a dog and a pet parrot in the early years.

As Kren grew up and Mosshide grew ever older, the aging man taught him more and more of his business, pegging boards and setting stone, cutting shingles and thatch, mixing mortar and placing struts. At first, he felt like another tool in Mosshide’s apron, then an assistant, and finally an apprentice, but never like a son. He finally accepted that such a family feeling couldn’t be between them, though he believed that the old man loved him in his own way.

Still, it was a surprise to him and the whole village to find that when Old Man Mosshide finally passed away he had left the house to Kren. It had always been assumed that when the crotchety hermit was dead the Hetman (after the nominal fees and rites) would subsume the place into his multiple holdings. But the will was found to be indisputable and binding, burned into a board with a hot iron and surrounded by the usual oaths and curses which even the Hetman could not set aside.

In the end it was deemed just as well. They still needed a village carpenter and there was no-one else with the skills. Mosshide’s place was small, and, by the usual paradox that governs many occupations, was the least cared for in Far Reach. The Hetman consoled himself with the thought that Kren might leave, or, failing that, die himself someday, and then the property would be his. The Hetman had grown grey waiting until he was even older than Old Man Mosshide had ever been. The village had forgotten, or perhaps never knew, about the fabled long life of the Morgs. Kren himself remained inhumanly hale for his age, another point of resentment.

The first thing he had done when the house was his was to patch up all the things that Mosshide had let go, and in the fifty years Kren had lived there he’d made constant improvements. He had little else to do with his spare time. The building he returned to now was small but one of the sturdiest and neatest in town. He ran an appraising eye over things before he went in; it seemed untouched. He nodded, grimly satisfied, then went in.

The first thing he did was slide out of his sweat-soaked leather tunic, hanging it over a chair to dry. Then he took his day’s pennies over to a workbench covered with pots of paints and glue. Selecting a clay jar marked by a skull in relief and half-full of black-colored water, he unstoppered the wax lid and plunked the money in. That jar had helped him over many a dry spell when jobs were thin. He set it back among the paint, turned to the nearby water barrel, and drew himself a large tin cupful. He walked over stiffly to the dead fireplace and sat down in the squat chair there. He took a long sip of water, some of which trickled down into his trailing beard, and finally allowed himself to breathe. 

Kren sat there for nearly half an hour, simply breathing, taking a sip now and then, cooling off. A thin line of sunlight intruding through the shuttered western window crept along the floor. He watched it with dull eyes until it reached the edge of the flagstone undergirding the threshold. It looked like a long pointing finger. He shook his head angrily and stood up.

“Fiddle-dee, fiddle-da,” he began. “The gold day is ending …”  

His voice tapered away into silence. He shook his head again, as if to clear it of cobwebs, and looked around the room wildly. The walls seemed to be pressing in around him like the sides of a grave. The Unrest, which had been growing inside him with the lengthening of autumn, and which he had sought to quell with the hard work of the fields, was still a stifling weight in his gut, right under his heart.

He stood a moment, wagging his heavy head like a stymied goat, beard sweeping to and fro across his chest, eyes squeezed shut. Then with a coughing snarl he sprang forward, seized his still half-drenched shirt where it hung, and slung it over his head as he stomped forward. He slammed the door after him with a bang that shook the dust from the rafters. In the empty room, the line of sunlight crept forward a little more.

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,” the old man said, tongue flicking nervously around his dry lips, eyes blinking. “We don’t see you in here very often.”

“Actually, Mr. Brallig suggested it,” Kren said ironically, voice raised, gesturing toward the man who sat nearby with several cronies. Brallig 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.

As he sat quietly sipping his ale, the talk in the room began to slowly return and grow merry again. Kren did not really blame their caution. The first time he had ever come to drink at the inn he was quite unused to it, and it had taken five burly patrons to pacify him at last. He still carried a chipped fang in his jaw as a souvenir of the experience. Incidences in a little village where nothing exciting ever happened made long memories to be endlessly chewed like cud and were never really spat out. Kren sucked the tooth as he finished his jug, then unobtrusively stood up and went back to the bar.

“Another,” he said quietly. “And what do you have to eat?”

“Got a trayful of sausages in a buttered split loaf, ready to go,” the bartender said, turning the tap. “Been standing for a while. If you want to wait another half-hour, there’s hot squab on the spit.”

“The sausages will be fine. Two, please.”

“Right ye are.”

Pappy reached under the bar one-handed and with a clatter of plates drew out the order just as the jug reached the brim. He stopped the tap and handed everything over to Kren, who retreated to his corner. He noted as he set it down that it was ‘his’ plate, easily recognizable by its constellation of chips and cracks. He shrugged and settled down to eat.

The level of talk in the inn never changed while he did so, and indeed was beginning to get a little high as evening drew on and much ale was consumed. He was almost done with the second sausage and had paused between bites when his keen ears picked up the word “Morg” out of the babbling conversation.

Kren froze. Slowly moving his head so as not to draw attention, he started to triangulate where the annoyingly familiar voice was coming from and wound up facing a table to his left. Three people were sitting there: the burly Eekim, built like a barrel with a pumpkin on top of it; his jackal Liffy, cackling and flipping a flop of brown hair carelessly out of his eyes; and Foxglove, a girl who made her living cadging drinks at the Guesthouse and going home with a different patron every night.  

It was Eekim’s voice that had caught his ear. It was lowered now as he leaned into his little circle, eyes gleaming as he seemed to be making a furtive, wickedly humorous suggestion. Liffy reared back guffawing and Foxglove’s voice rose in an amused shriek.

“No, not for any money!” she crowed merrily, shocked. “Unthinkable! What man would have me after? And then there’d go me living!”

The crowd nearby burst out laughing with them, and glances were shot Kren’s direction.  He pretended not to notice, but his ears were burning.  He could feel the Stain on his face glowing with anger and was surprised it could not be seen shining out of the shadows where he sat. He looked down at the shriveled nub-end of sausage and soggy, buttery bread in his claw, then devoured it viciously, savage thoughts in his head. He followed it with several long gulping draughts of ale that did nothing to cool him.

He sat there, paw convulsively gripping the handle of the heavy jug, wondering if today would be the day that broke his control, when suddenly the inn door swung open and life in Far Reach was changed forever.

At the brisk squeal of the hinges several of the married patrons turned their heads like guilty things. But there in the doorway stood only an unfamiliar young man, weather-beaten with travel, but smiling, his plain brown clothes draped in a dark blue cloak that spread wide as he opened the door.

“Hello, friends,” he said evenly, gaze traveling slowly over the astonished drinkers faces, giving them a chance to take him in. His smile broadened in the silence. “Well, this looks like the place for a merry evening. I hope I can join you folks.”

 He let the door shut behind him and advanced firmly but cautiously to the bar, as if he were walking through a grazing herd that might panic and scatter at any moment. Booted feet were scuffed out of the way as he approached Pappy, who stood blinking but frozen in the act of wiping a mug. Kren sat motionless and staring squint-eyed from the shadows, as astonished as anyone else. Strangers were few and far between here in the southlands, and their appearance seldom boded well.

The young man – almost a boy, still – stopped a discreet distance from the bar and brushed a sweaty curl of dark hair from his face.

“Greetings. My name is Koppa,“ he announced, loud enough for all to hear. “And I’ve come all the way from Morg City on my journeys. Might I get something to drink, good sir? The road is dusty and long.”

“Well, a’course there, young feller.” Pappy shook himself awake. It might be strange circumstances, but business was business. He reached down and reflexively picked up a clean mug but stopped short of pouring it. The old man coughed.

“Um. Could I first see your penny, sir. Sorry you know, but policy …”

“Oh. Of course. Now let me see …” The young man pulled open the leather pouch at his side and began rummaging through it. “A penny, a penny …” he murmured. He looked up at Pappy. “A copper penny?”

“Aye, sir. We’d prefer it.”

“Well, I don’t have anything so small on me.” He pulled out a new coin that gleamed dully in the bar lamp. “Would you take a bronze krett? That’s going for about twenty pennies back on the City exchange right now.”

Pappy’s eyes went round.

“Oh, yes, sir, Mister … Koppa, was it? But I’m afeared I can’t properly change it into outside money for ye.”

“Quite all right,” Koppa smiled. “Why don’t you just use the rest for a round all around, as they say? And maybe a plate of something for the hungry wanderer, eh?”

“Oh, yes sir, coming right up, sir.” Pappy poured the ale with a trembling hand; seldom had he had such a good night before. He handed the foaming mug to the stranger, who thanked him, took a deep draught, sighed happily, then turned to the company to find himself a seat. 

He was met with a blank wall of suspicious, mulish faces. It seems that his offer of a drink had done nothing to win their good will. Koppa turned back to Pappy, but the old man had disappeared into the back kitchen. Kren grinned at the poor fellow’s dilemma. He had not come to the right place to make friends. The young man cast his eyes around the room, trying to find a crack, a way into that wall.

Perhaps it was the gleam of his fangs in the shadows that drew Koppa’s searching eyes. He turned to where the Morg sat at his lonely table and with a sudden cry of surprise and delight advanced on the astonished Kren.

“Well, here’s a friendly face!” Koppa exclaimed. “You know, I haven’t seen a Morgish muzzle in two hundred miles! Fancy finding one all the way out here.”

Before anyone knew what was going on he grabbed a nearby chair and swung it over to Kren’s lonely table. Kren stared at him round-eyed, then his toothy grin got even wider. The stranger certainly wasn’t taking the best way to ingratiate himself in town. But he was ready to play the game and see how far it would go.

“Well, howdy there, stranger!” he replied enthusiastically, pouring it on thick. “And what brings you out to Far Reach so late in the year?” He glanced over at the tables. Nobody had moved, but they were obviously all ears. He might as well ask the questions they were all dying to know but were too stubborn or cautious to breach. Besides, he was curious too.

“Ah.” Koppa sat back and looked a little embarrassed. “Well, to tell the truth, I’m sort of acting as a herald for the King in Morg City.” There was a low impressed murmur from the crowd. Pappy, who had returned with a roast chicken, paused in wonder as he sat the plate down. “He’s tasked me to search the distant parts of the realm, see how things are going, look out for stray Ogres and whatnot. In short, to check on the state of the East and report back.”

“Old Thron, eh?” Pappy said, wiping his hands thoughtfully with his greasy apron. “And how’s he holding up?”

Koppa raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, my. You folks really are far behind the times here, aren’t you?” He set his mug down carefully and looked around at the crowd. “Thron has been dead for nearly five years,” he announced in a solemn voice. “King Taryn rules in Morg City now.”

There was a stunned pause, then babbling shouts as the men leapt to their feet to the banging of overturned chairs. Kren noticed how Mr. Ventil, the Hetman’s saturnine overseer, who had been sitting quietly in the back, went banging out the door under cover of the abrupt uproar. He wasn’t surprised. This was news indeed.

The stranger, ostracized before, was overwhelmed with questions, eager voices that canceled one another out as all crowded near Koppa’s table.

“Thron’s really dead?”

“He was king forever!”

“How did he go?”

“What’s King Taryn like?”

“Long live the King!”

Kren wrinkled his nose and took a long draft of ale while he watched Koppa striving to pick which questioner to answer first. He wiped the foam from his muzzle with the back of his paw.

“Taryn?” he asked. His low, calm voice seemed to cut through the chaos. “Taryn? That doesn’t sound like any Morgish name I ever heard, though granted I haven’t heard many.”

Koppa turned to his tablemate, looking relieved to settle on one asker.

“Ah,” he said brightly. “That’s because the new king isn’t a Morg, you see. He’s human.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then the men broke into a mayhem of joyful whoops of celebration. Kren sat stock still, dumbfounded. There had not been a King of Men, he knew, since Worthin fell before the fires of Drang. That one should have taken over the ancient and powerful city of the Morgs … it implied vast changes.

“Looks like we’ve come into our own, boys!”

“Our time is here!”

“We rise!”

“Sorry, Kren, it seems your folks been knocked off the throne at last.”

“Son of a dying breed, our friend there!”

Koppa looked startled and leapt to his feet, raising his hands for silence.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I think you have the wrong idea! King Taryn …”

The inn door suddenly banged open. There were Mr. Ventil and Mazzak, the burly bondsman, cudgel in hand. They shuffled off to either side, however, and the Hetman himself stepped through. He stopped, cold grey eyes raking the room. The cheering crowd went silent.

Kren looked at him uneasily. The old man had apparently rushed over when he’d heard the news, for he lacked the hat and cloak that he usually wore in public. Without them, his ancient balding head was all too skull-like, his body thin and frail. But there was command in his step, and he held his head high as he advanced upon the stranger.

“Yes, young man.” The Hetman’s voice was firm, even threatening. “What were you telling these men about ‘King Taryn’? I’d like to hear it, too.” He held out a claw-like hand as if demanding an answer. “I am Balanus Thane, the Hetman of Far Reach. And you are?” 

Koppa snapped to attention then bowed low.

“Greetings, Belanus Thane. My name is Koppa, acting Herald for Taryn, now High King of Morg City and the Tributary States.” He straightened himself. “My mission is to travel the lands of the East…”

The Hetman raised a thin hand sharply.

“Have you any identification?” he demanded. “A scroll of commission, or a badge, or even just a herald’s rod?” It was apparent to Kren that the youth had no rod on him. Such a thing couldn’t be hidden.

Koppa was taken aback.

“Well, uh, no, as a matter of fact. I’m not here to demand anything, or enforce anything, or even to announce anything. I’m just to examine the lands out this way and report on the state of things to the King.”

The Hetman’s lips curled a humorless smile.

“This ‘King Taryn’ of yours?”

“Well, yes.”

“A human King in Morg City?”

“Yes!”

The Hetman’s eyes blazed.

“And not, say, Bharek, the Black King of the North!”

At his words the room erupted in a sudden hooting panic. Chairs overturned and mugs went crashing. Ventil and Mazzak took an ominous step closer to the stranger, as if to shield their master.  

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. And 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.”

For a moment there was an incredulous silence. Kren could hear the creaking of the floorboards under their feet and even the slight hiss of the candles burning at each table. Then all pandemonium broke loose.

Beyond a pious wish and a sigh, no one had ever really thought of a world without Bharek, any more than they thought that the moon would fall out of the sky. Kings came and went, but not the Black King, who had reigned … well, Kren thought, for well over a thousand years. They attributed every misfortune from a stubbed toe to a spring flood to the Dark Lord’s malice, and that certainly included every disaster in the last five years.

Oddly enough, Koppa’s good news had filled the crowd with anger, and even scornful laughter, as if the youth had finally taken his tales a step too far. It was even worse than when they thought he was a spy; somehow, he had insulted their intelligence.

“What a load!”

“Boy, you got us all worked up for nothing!”

“You expect us to fall for that one?”

“Yes,” the Hetman hissed. The men settled down a bit to hear his words. “You want us to believe that this Taryn of yours, a mere man, killed the Black King?”

Koppa looked embarrassed, flushing a little red.

“Uh … well, no. It was actually … someone else.”

The Hetman pounced.

“Then why isn’t that one King?” he asked triumphantly. “What a farrago of nonsense!”

There were mutters of agreement.

“Look!” the Hetman barked, and at the sound of his voice all were quiet. They could tell a judgement was coming.

“I don’t know what you are, evil agent or trickster or just a wandering madman, as seems most likely, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. You can’t deceive anyone with your tales now anyway. But if you’re not out of town by sunrise, you will be run out, and that none too gently. Is that clear?”

Koppa humbly bowed his head in acquiescence, but his eyes were bright. Kren, who was closest to the man, thought he saw a glint of amusement there.

“Yes, Hetman Belanus Thane.”

“Very well.” The old man straightened up and cast a commanding eye around the inn. “Now I suggest everyone go home. It’s a busy day tomorrow. The harvest continues.”

He turned on his heel and strode out, the burly Mazzak at his side. Koppa sat down slowly at Kren’s table, glancing sideways at the Morg as he did so. Kren smoothed his beard, took a sip of ale, and said nothing. The villagers shuffled out muttering, and casting darkly suspicious looks back at Koppa. Mr. Ventil went last, glaring around to see that everyone had left. He ignored the stubborn Kren, shutting the door behind him with a threatening bang. 

Koppa looked after them, face solemn.

“Well, that took a sour turn pretty quickly.” He sighed and finished off his ale. He cocked a humorous eye at Kren. “It seems I’ll be leaving your friendly little town in the morning.” He turned. “Innkeeper! Do you have a room for the night?”

Pappy scowled.

“Not for the likes of you, I guess.” He leaned forward mulishly, hands planted on the bar. “You heard the Hetman. I don’t need no trouble, sheltering a madman or worse. You’d best leave, mister.”

“You wouldn’t like it, anyway,” Kren stuck in. He grinned. “Too many fleas. You’d be better off in a nice clean haystack in the fields.”

“Now don’t you go sticking your muzzle in,” Pappy growled, shaking his bar rag at him. “I’m closing up. You can bugger off for the night, too.”

“With pleasure.” The Morg scraped his chair back and stood up. He stretched his back until it cracked, yawning and showing all his teeth. He looked at Koppa, then clapped a paw down onto his shoulder.

“Come on, Mr. Loony. You’re going to spend the night at my house.” He glanced over to the flabbergasted Pappy. “You can tell the Hetman that I’ll keep an eye on him and see him off in the morning. Far Reach can sleep safe in its bed tonight.”

Koppa rose slowly to his feet, watching Kren speculatively as if to judge whether there was any malice in his offer. Then he smiled.
“Let’s go,” he said. He turned. “And a good night to you, my merry host.”

The two left, shoulder to shoulder. Pappy watched doubtfully until they shut the door behind them. He walked over, muttering to himself, and put the barring plank into its braces. It had been a strange evening. He began going slowly from table to table, extinguishing the candles and gathering up the empty mugs.

Out in the silent streets of the village, the nearly full moon in the cloudless sky had bleached out all but the strongest stars and turned the night into a patchwork of silver and shadow. Kren and Koppa walked wordlessly past dark houses, the youth now and then cutting his eyes over at the striding Morg to gather which way they were going to turn. The only sound was an occasional cricket’s chirping that would stop abruptly as they moved quietly by.

Eventually they came to the edge of town and the squat darkness that was Kren’s house. He stepped forward to undo the bolt, then threw the door open wide. It gaped like a portal from night into night. Kren moved back and with an exaggerated, almost mocking wave, gestured for Koppa to step in. With a small but equally sardonic bow, the man walked fearlessly over the yawning threshold. Kren followed and shut the door behind him.

Koppa stood silently while Kren cracked a shutter and by the streaming light of the moon kindled a couple of candles using the banked fire in the chimney. As the light slowly grew, the man looked around the house with interest. When Kren was done the Morg finally turned and cocked an eyebrow at him. It was seldom he had anyone inside, let alone a stranger. He waved vaguely with one paw.

“Well,” he grunted. “Welcome to my house, I guess.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kren.” Koppa bowed slightly. “You’re a carpenter, I see. Thanks for bringing me in.” He paused, eyes challenging. “Tell me. Why do you trust me?”

Kren shrugged.

“Not exactly sure I do. But you tell an interesting tale. Besides, what’s a night?”

Koppa’s face was wry.

“Your friends might look askance at you for sheltering a dangerous fellow like me.”

The Morg barked a short laugh, beard wagging with the force of it.

“They look askance at me now. Now tell me your whole tale. I’m very interested in Morg City.” He pointed invitingly to his own deep chair next to the fireplace. “Have a seat.” He pulled a wooden chair out from under the workbench and swung it over to the hearth. He hesitated before sitting.

“Do you want something to drink? I’m afraid I’ve only got water.”

“Thank you. Perhaps later.” Koppa sat, spreading his cloak behind him with a grateful flourish, settling back. He sighed rather theatrically to indicate his comfort. He paused, steepled his fingertips together, and pointed at the Morg. “Now, what exactly do you want to know, Mr. Kren?”

Kren hesitated a moment, then sat down on the creaking chair opposite the man. He put his paws on his knees, bowed his head, and took a deep breath. He looked up again, hairy brows furrowed.

“First of all, tell me about Bharek and how he was defeated; about how the Black King who had reigned a thousand years and his Ogre Horde were finally overcome, when all the best efforts of the combined Races had failed before.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I imagine it must be quite a tale.”

Koppa smiled, but Kren noticed a hint of pain lurking in the corners of the young man’s eyes.

“It is indeed quite a tale, and if I were to tell you all about it, we would be here until morning and still not be done with the telling. And then, of course, I’d have to leave Far Reach and you’d never hear the end of it. It’s been made into a saga, though. Perhaps someday you’ll hear it in full.”

Koppa shifted in his chair.

“However, I can tell you the short version. About six years ago – it was in the Fall, just as it is today – when Bharek’s armies came marching out of the North again, after staying mostly penned up behind the Norkult Mountains for two hundred years. There had been raids and incursions, of course, and the waves of Bharek’s Breath every now and again, but this time it seemed the Horde was intent on our final destruction and came in hosts innumerable, so that Morg City itself was finally besieged. King Thron was old and the realm ill-prepared and it seemed certain that the South would at last be overwhelmed.”

Koppa paused, clearing his throat.

“You know, I think I will take that water, please.”  

Kren snorted incredulously, taken aback.

“Oh, no, Mr. Herald!” He wagged his head sharply. “You’ve started your tale, now you have to finish it! Then you’ll get your water!” He sat back glowering. “With things looking so bad, how was the Dark Lord defeated?”

Koppa bowed his head wryly.

“It was a miracle, of course,” he said. “And like all miracles, it took a lot to set it up so it could work.

“You’ve heard tales of the wizard Dunwolf, of course? Well, while Bharek was busy launching his attack against Morg City and the South, Dunwolf had formed a small company who travelled to the East with a different plan. He knew, you see, that this new push into the Free Lands was finally too strong for the weakened South to resist, that the Ogre Horde could very well overwhelm us all at last. Even if we survived, Bharek always found a way of coming back. So, he decided this company must travel to the East, to Thoravil itself, and strike down the Black Lord where he sat on his dark throne.”

Kren looked appalled.

“Shyreen’s Shit!” he breathed. “What made him think they could do that?”

“What, indeed?” Koppa raised his eyebrows and sat back, clearly enjoying Kren’s reaction. “Dunwolf himself had never been powerful enough to go toe-to-toe with his old master through the centuries. And he was growing old, while Bharek was being preserved by his cursed armor, the Blackmight. But now he thought he knew where he could find the Goldfire.”

“The Goldfire? What’s that?”

“I’m not surprised you never heard of it. It was a powerful talisman, lost for ages and nearly forgotten. But now he thought he had it traced at last. With his young apprentice, as well as Taryn – General Taryn, as he was then – and the warrior Roth and the scholar Korm – both Morgs, like you – and a handful of brave men, they journeyed to the ruined city of Worthin, where the dragon Drang sat on his hoard of desolation. Here they hoped to find the Goldfire.”

“Now, Drang I’ve heard of,” Kren acknowledged. He looked skeptical. “But from what I have heard, entering his nest would be nearly as hopeless as walking through Thoravil’s front door.”

“Nearly, but not quite,” Koppa conceded. “In the end, the fire-drake was slain, but after a terrific struggle in which it was thought that Roth was lost.”

“But they got this Goldfire doohickie, eh?”

“No; that’s the pity of it. Before his death Drang revealed that nothing like it was in his hoard. Now, dragons never lie. They’re so powerful that the race never learned how, and a dragon knows what’s in his pile to the last penny. Even though the beast was destroyed, the company was left in despair.”

“They broke their venture into two groups, then. Taryn was to lead his men to the garrison town of Steepwater, to try to rally their people to the defense of Morg City, where Bharek’s hardest blow was sure to fall. Dunwolf and his apprentice first returned to Wosehome to alert that kingdom to the failure of the quest and of new peril approaching, and then meant to use magical means to return to the City to help defend against the Dark Lord’s sorcerous lieutenants.

“But something happened then that the old wizard had not anticipated. When he and his apprenticed entered the mysterious Domain of Doors, a mystical nexus connecting portals all over Ortha and beyond, something in the elemental nature of the place triggered an unknown power. The youth began to glow! It seemed the foolish young man had been wearing the Goldfire all along, thinking the dull leaden disc he bore was just a keepsake from his mother’s family.

“But this was the third and final time that the Goldfire’s power had been triggered. It could not be stopped and must be used quickly, while the mortal body of the user might endure it. Once expended, it would be gone forever. In desperation, Dunwolf used a last mighty spell to unlock a portal to Thoravil, the Dark Lord’s fortress, which had been sealed for hundreds of years, and which he had never used because he knew that Bharek would outmatch him. He opened the door but died in the doing of it. The apprentice stepped through and found himself almost immediately in the dread presence of the Black King.”

Kren suddenly became aware that his jaw was hanging open. He snapped it shut, then gestured for Koppa to continue.

“Even with the Goldfire it was a hard battle. Bharek still wore the Blackmight, the enchanted armor that had sustained his life through the ages. And it was his long cunning skill against the apprentice’s naked will. But in the end, it was no match for the Goldfire’s potency, and when the last flare of its power flickered out, Bharek-a-Rhalken was no more.”

Kren sat back, whistling out of the sides of his muzzle, but he didn’t quite relax. He cocked his head at the youth.

“And you’re sure about this?”

Koppa smiled.

“Oh, most certain sure.”

“Well, the Hetman’s right then!” the Morg exclaimed. “Taryn shouldn't be King, but this wonder-hero! Tell me, what’s his name, and what is he doing now?”

The young man fidgeted nervously.

“Ah, now that’s the embarrassing part.” His smile twisted. “You see, his name is Koppa, and right now he’s acting as Herald for the King, and, well … talking to you.”

For a moment Kren stared at the youth, eyes round as an owl’s. Then he burst out with an immense braying laugh. For a moment he couldn’t stop, bent over double again and again.

“You?” he choked the word out at last. “Well, sir, that was a fine bedtime story while it lasted. You had me going there for a moment! The tale is certainly worth a night’s lodging.” Kren chuckled. “What do you say we hit the hay for the last few hours of the night so you can be on your way before Mr. Ventil comes along with his cudgel to roust you out of town?”

Koppa’s face was sober as a judge, almost insulted.

“I sense a hint of doubt in your voice,” he said flatly.

Kren snorted.

“Oh, come on, boy. You say you killed the Black King, and yet the Hetman stymies you and almost sets his thugs on your tail? Then even Pappy can kick you out of his bar! And I’m supposed to think such a powerful wizard would allow that?”

“Well, I must admit I was rather exalted beyond my reach when I did it. The Goldfire, you know. Still, I’m powerful enough to take care of myself if I need to.” Koppa shrugged. “But I’m here as a Herald, not as a wizard. Every rooster is king of his own dunghill, they say, and your Hetman can crow as he likes. Time will reveal all truth eventually. I’ve done my duty and told the facts.”

He cocked an eyebrow at the Morg.

“It’s up to each to decide whether he’ll believe them.”

Kren sighed heavily and ran a tired paw from brow to beard-tip.

“Look, I’d like to believe you. Okay, maybe Barek is dead. Maybe a man rules in Morg City now. Fine and dandy. But that you did all that … well, amazing claims demand amazing proof, my old master used to say.” He yawned. “Look. It’s been a long hard day and I’m too sleepy right now to argue about it. So, let’s close things down for the night, shall we, and get some rest, Mr. Wizard?”

Koppa laughed.

“You may have been raised among humans, but you’re pure Morg, through and through! Skeptical to the bone. But I can’t have you thinking I’m a liar; you're involved with me now. I suppose a little demonstration of power is in order.”

The young man tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes bright as he mused.

“But what to do? Magically light a candle? Too little, perhaps, too mild. A country fair sort of trick. Blow up the town? Satisfying, maybe, but a bit extreme.”

“A bit,” Kren agreed wearily. “Look, can we just get some sleep?”

“Sleep,” Koppa said, catching hold of the word. “Sleep … dreams … memories … I have it!” He straightened up in his chair, shoulders squared back. He held out a hand, with the thumb and little finger pointing at the Morg’s eyes. “Remember!”

“Look,” Kren began, starting to stand up, but a wave of dizziness suddenly took his head, and he dropped back heavily into his chair. He blinked. The room seemed to him to be expanding, or that he himself was growing smaller. The surroundings blurred and oozed, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the reeling discoordination. He clutched his head.

“What did you do! What’s going on?” he barked, and out of the darkness beyond his pressed eyelids he heard an utterly unfamiliar voice.

“She’s dying.”

His eyes flew open.

Kren was no longer surrounded by the low darkened walls of the familiar workshop, but instead looked on a lofty, wooden chamber. It was brilliantly lit on all sides by several lamps, familiar in design but unusually large. But what really astounded him were the other Morgs.

Kren had always imagined that any Morg would look like more or less like himself, except perhaps for his discoloring stain. Nothing could be more different than the pair that loomed before him now. One was old, thin as a fencepost, with a mahogany face that looked like a mask set in the wilderness of his white hair and beard. The other was muscular but fat, but the bags of skin hanging from his arms argued that he had once been fatter still. His beard was a foxy red that almost blended away into the scarlet stain that was already blooming on his face.

But the most shocking thing was that they looked to be about eight feet tall.

“We’re all dying,” rumbled the fat one. “Some just faster than the others. The townsmen are already digging a hole for Rist and Trell, and we’ll very likely be joining them.”

“Avert!” The old one sketched a hasty sign in the air. “You never know the Will of Morlakar! Don’t go buying trouble, Ferrit.”

“And yet you say that she’s dying,” the other pointed out.

“The last signs are on her.” The old Morg stroked his white beard sorrowfully. “It takes no prophet to judge her future. Come. We must do what is necessary.” He turned and crooked a finger. “You. Child. Come with me! You shall bear Witness.”

Without any remembrance of rising, Kren found himself on his feet and stumbling wide-eyed and mute towards the towering pair. He felt as if he had no choice.

“Do you really think he’s old enough, Pon?” the red one asked.

The old Morg shrugged.

“What choice is there?” There was watery pity in his eyes. “Besides, it may be his last chance …” He didn’t finish the thought, but instead took Kren’s shoulder with a firm hand and began guiding him to the door that suddenly loomed behind them.

“Come, child, we must see your mother.”

My mother? Kren wondered helplessly as he was propelled forward by the steady claw of the elder. Then they were through the door, and he suddenly realized where he was.

It was the back room of the Guesthouse, dimly lit and furnished with one shaggy pallet of hay. He knew it intimately, having repaired it several times over the years; to his workman’s eye there was no mistaking it. But it was nowhere near as cavernous as it appeared. Suddenly his perspective swirled, and he saw how things really were. The room seemed to shrink and the giant Morgs became of normal size. It was he who was smaller.

That realization happened in a split second. Then his entire attention focused on the figure lying on the straw.

For years Kren would have sworn that he had no memory of his mother. But his heart gave a shattering cry of recognition as he looked at the tossing, groaning Morgess writhing under the patched blanket that barely covered her body. He ran eagerly to her side but stopped just short in fear.

Her clothes were crusted with sweat and her skin seemed to be weeping blood. Her raddled hair was writhing and twisting like snakes on the straw with each spasm that shook her head, red-rimmed eyes rolling wildly. Even from where he stood, he could smell the foul odor of her panting breath, the stench of the soiled bedding beneath her.

But what stopped him was not disgust, but a wave of pity that suddenly overwhelmed him, the feeling that he dared not touch her lest he somehow add to her agony. He stood there transfixed for an instant, when suddenly the old Morg’s voice came rumbling from behind him, stern but not without compassion.

“Boy, behold your mother. Be her Witness.”

The words caught the sick one’s attention and her eyes suddenly focused on Kren as if seeing him there for the first time. Looking on him, he saw, brought her into a shuddering, supremely harrowing mastery of her body, which, while still wracked and twisting, contracted into a feverish restraint.

“Kren, my child.” Her voice was hoarse, nearly a whisper. She stretched out a trembling, yearning claw. “Come take Madra’s hand.”

Still, he hesitated.

“Do it, boy,” came the elder Morg’s voice. “All the damage is already done. You’re in Great Mora’s hands now.”

Kren stepped forward and took her claw with both hands in an instantly desperate clasp. Her paw felt like a bundle of twigs inside an old leather glove, and it seemed to him that even his apparently childlike strength might break her fingers. But he held it as tight as he dared. She raised her head.

“Kren, my beautiful boy.” Her hoarse voice was still tender, her rasping tongue dry in her muzzle. “When … when this is all over, go back to Morg City. Find your aunt there. She will care for you.” Her red eyes brimmed with tears. “But never as much as your Madra does. Remember, child. Love reaches out even over the Great Dark. My love, and yours.”

She turned her head away wearily and collapsed back into the straw.

“Take him away now,” she whispered. “And do not bring him back until it is finished.”

Her claw suddenly vanished from his grip and the room was plunged in darkness, closing in all around him. Kren cried out, a great bellow of pain and grief, and suddenly he found himself back in the old carpenter’s house, the candle still flickering and the wizard boy looking at him anxiously.

“What did you see?” Koppa asked.

Kren gaped at him, staring eyes still wide with his vision, beard trembling on his chest over his racing heart.

“I,” he began, then gulped, throat dry. “I saw my mother dying.”

Koppa looked stricken and started to rise.

“I am sorry,” he began, voice concerned. “That spell was supposed to show the memory that you most wanted to see …”

“No, sit down, sit down,” Kren said, gesturing dismissively for silence, still distracted by his vison.  Koppa studied him worriedly while the Morg sat processing his thoughts, only his eyes moving as if watching it all over again. Eventually he raised a paw and began slowly stroking his beard.  He looked up at the youth, eyes gleaming under his deep brows.

“I think it was what I most wanted to see,” he said gruffly. “Or at least what my heart knew that I did. I had no memory of my mother’s face. Harrowing as it was, as horrible as it felt, I must thank you for that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Koppa repeated, still worried. “Look, I’m sure I could summon a more pleasant memory of her for you …”

Kren bowed his head and sighed deeply.

“No need, no need,” he said quietly. “She told me what I most needed to hear. That she loved me.”

He looked up, eyes firm with resolve.

“And that I must go to Morg City. When do you return there?”

Koppa was taken aback.

“Not for a long while, I’m afraid.” He hesitated. “I have far, and farther to journey, following the King’s business. But come spring I should pass through here again, and we might travel together then.”

Kren shook his head.

“Not soon enough. I’m late it is.” His set his jaw. “I’ll go alone if I must.”

Koppa stared at him, appalled.

“You mean you’d set out alone, on the spur of the moment, on the verge of winter, no less, and travel all the miles from here to Morg City, where you know no-one – because of a memory I showed you?”

Kren snorted.

“Why not? There’s nothing for me here except more long years to the grave, working for people who care nothing for me.” He smiled a twisted grin. “Besides, my mother told me to. She says I have people there.” The thought suddenly struck him.

“A family.” His voice was slow with wonder. “A real family, waiting for me.”

“Well, maybe,” Koppa began cautiously. “You must remember it’s been a few years, I guess, and we have had a war…” He snapped his mouth shut at Kren’s sudden glare. “But they might very well be there,” he went on quickly. “What was your mother’s name? There are probably still Life Witness records that remember when she fled the City. That could put you in touch with your family.” He paused, curious. “What was her name?”

“She called herself Madra,” Kren said proudly.

“Oh, dear.” Koppa shook his head sadly.

“What’s the matter?  Have you heard of her?”

“No, Mr. Kren. It’s just that ‘Madra’ is simply the Morgish word for ‘mother’. You must have been very young when she died not to know that. You can’t go marching into Morg City basically asking for Mommy and get any useful answer.”

Kren was taken aback for a moment, then quickly rallied.

“I heard other names,” he snapped. “Pon. Ferrit. They travelled with her. Surely, I can triangulate her name by knowing them.”

Koppa grew thoughtful.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you could.” He stroked his chin. “And if you left now and went fast enough, you just might catch a trade caravan heading for Morg City. Or at least hunker down in a nearer town until spring.” He looked at Kren. “Do you have any money?”

“I got some,” Kren replied cagily.

Koppa laughed.

“Well, you’ll need it, at least while travelling. Once you’re at Morg City, a good carpenter can always find a job. Even after five years, we’re still rebuilding. And if you can’t locate your old family, well, you can always start a new one.” He looked around humorously. “I don’t think you have a wife here in Far Reach.” 

“A wife.” Kren’s eyes went wide as he stared inward, rolling the thought around in his mind. It had never seemed possible, and so he had always shut the idea down in his head, especially when the Urge was on him in the spring and fall. It had been too painful to think about. But now at the mere hint the impulse leapt out of the darkness and washed away any lingering doubts he might have had.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he announced, almost angrily. “I may not go with you, but I am leaving.”

Koppa laughed out loud. It rang strangely in the darkened room.

“You may have been raised among humans, but you’re a Morg through and through! Your folk are nothing if not positive about what you want.”

Kren grinned.

“Then I should fit in pretty well then.”

“If not, I’ll bet you’ll make them fit around you soon enough.” The youth yawned hugely, then looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to hit the hay, if I’m to be out of town before the sun comes up. And if you’re leaving at the same time, you should get some rest, too.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Kren leapt to his feet. “I’ve got some packing to do first but let me show you to bed.” He strode over to what appeared to be cabinet doors set in the wall and pulled them open to reveal his own bed, hidden in the recess of the wall. “I hope you’re not afraid of closed spaces.”

Koppa got to his feet and moved sleepily towards the plain but comfortable-looking blankets.

“Believe me, I’ve slept in worse. Hmph.” He sat on the edge of the bed and paused before settling back. “Oh. Before I forget. Do you have anything like a small towel or a facecloth you could spare? Something clean and white would be best.”

“What? Oh yes, of course. Just a minute.” Kren turned to a cubby nearby and after a brief rummage came back with a linen napkin about two feet square in his claws. “Need something to lay your head on, eh? Will this do?”

Koppa accepted the cloth and held it up by its corners.

“Nothing so dainty.” He smiled. “Now catch!”

With a shake and a toss, the boy threw the cloth into the air with an impish smile. To Kren’s surprise it flashed into flames at the top of its arc, and against all common sense he flung out his paws to catch it before it could hit the floor.  

“Hey!” he barked, but the fire was out before he could even clap his hands over it. It was cold already, but he patted it automatically as if to extinguish any stray sparks. “What was all that?”

Koppa's smile widened.

“Open it up and take a look.”

Kren stared at the crumpled mass. There seemed to be scorch marks running all over it. He grabbed it by the edges and unfolded it, then gasped.

There, etched into the fabric, was a clear map, showing rivers, mountains, forests, and of course cities, marked plainly by names in neat but miniscule letters. The space between Far Reach and Morg City seemed dauntingly wide when laid out so plainly, but not unattainable. He looked up at Koppa in awe.

“That’s for your journey, to help guide you on your way, as I won’t be with you. That should be the first thing you pack.” Koppa yawned even wider. “And now I really must sleep. It’s been a long day, and I think I’ve used more magic this evening than I have in weeks. Don’t worry; I’ll wake up by myself when I need to. It’s a little knack that I have. You pack, then get some sleep as well. You’ll need it. I’ll get us up to start out on our journeys. And now, good night.”

The young man drew his legs in and closed the cabinet doors himself, and Kren suddenly found he was, for all intents and purposes, alone with himself, his sudden compulsion, and a magical map clutched in his hands. He sat stock still for a moment for the abrupt strangeness of it all. Then he slowly folded the map, put it in his pocket, and began, almost in a trance, to gather his things in the dim flickering light of the guttering candles.

It was if he had somehow been planning it all his life. Quietly, without hesitation, he took out his largest leather tool bag and emptied it until it held only the most basic and necessary instruments. Then he folded his two warmest sets of clothes and tucked them in on top. The weather would be growing colder from now on. He went to the jar of black water, emptied it, and dried the coins inside. They seemed a pitiful handful now, but it would have to do. He slipped the money into a leather bag and hid it away in the folds of his jerkin along with the tinderbox he took from the table. He cleaned out his cupboard and stowed the meager contents in with his clothes. He exhumed his ancient, hooded fleece jacket from the back of the closet, climbed into its stiff baggy folds, and grabbed his sturdy black walking stock from behind the door.

He sank down into his deep chair before the dying embers under the mantlepiece and folded his paws together. Peering out of the hood, he felt like he was already in a tent in front of a campfire. Only then did he feel himself thinking.

Tomorrow, the town would wake up with no carpenter, their odd duck wandered from the chicken yard. For a moment he thought of Old Mosshide and considered whether he should leave some sort of note or testament, if only to say, “I quit.” Just as quickly he dismissed the thought. He didn’t feel like he owed the begrudging townspeople any explanations, and that the Hetman would have no problems subsuming the little house into his own holdings. Let them patch their own roofs and mend their own doors as best they could this coming winter. He was leaving nothing behind that he wanted to return to. Even Pappy’s outstanding bill would more than cover his evening’s debts.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t sleep, but wandered the dim pathways of his thoughts until, in the grey hour before dawn, the young wizard arose without a word. Kren silently offered him a harvest apple for breakfast. Before they left, the Morg undid his trousers and pissed in the fireplace, dousing any live embers that may have remained with a sighing hiss.

They left the little house on the outskirts of town and were almost immediately wandering into the untamed lands beyond its bounds, following a weedy, little-used footpath. It was only when it joined the ancient broken highway a mile away that the young wizard turned to speak to Kren.

“Well, here we must part,” he said quietly, offering his hand. “You to the West, and I to the East. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Kren took his hand and shook it firmly. The boy smiled wryly.

“I only hope I haven’t set you on a wild sort of quest.”

“If you did, I’m walking into it open-eyed.” Kren grinned back at him. “Good luck on your mission. Look me up when you return to Morg City.”

“I will that,” Koppa replied. He paused. “You do know how to forage in the wild, don’t you? Trapping, finding journey root, and all that?”

“Please,” Kren laughed. “I’m a country boy.” He looked around at the wild grasslands surrounding them, still shrouded in the morning fog. “Far Reach is only one step up from all this.”

“It is that.” Koppa smiled. “Well, fare well and good luck! May the Wanderer’s Blessing be on you!”

“That should mean a lot, I guess, coming for a wizard.”

Koppa shrugged.

“Not particularly. It’s all in Mog’s hands from now on, I suspect. May he guide your steps.”

“Fare well, Mr. Wizard. And thank you.”

Koppa nodded in acknowledgement, turned, and in a moment was lost in the fog. There was not even the sound of fading steps to suggest he had ever really been there.

Kren stared after him a moment, then hitched his bag over his shoulder, gripped his walking stock, and headed resolutely out the other way. As he stumped along the weathered, broken stones of the road, the sun slowly rose behind him, and his long shadow went striding before him. The growing light burned off the fog and showed fields glowing with late autumn gold, here and there dotted with clumps or single trees rising in scarlet and bronze. The air was fresh and coldly invigorating, and he felt, despite his lack of sleep, that he could go miles before he needed to rest. After a while he began rumbling cheerfully in his throat, a song that at last broke into words.

“Fiddle-dee, fiddle-dah,

The long road is beckoning,

To wander through lands

That I never have seen.

Fiddle-dee, fiddle dah,

I leave without reckoning,

To return to a home

Where I never have been.”

 

And so he went singing into the new day.