Friday Fiction: Mighty Mikku

 

Mighty Mikku

 

     Mikku sat in the mud, his eyes burning with shame and anger, fists clenched in rage. He had been named Mikku because, unusually for a Morg, he had been born without a trace of the fine coat of hair all their babies have and had lain there bald and naked and squalling.  His father, on seeing him, had exclaimed "Where'd this little pig come from?" and Mikku, the Pigling, he had remained, and would stay so at least until the full growth of his First Beard, when he might have a chance to change it.

     Garr, who had knocked him into the mud, was Garr, the Mountain, and would probably remain Garr all his life. There was no other name for him. He was the Chief's son and named after the crag in whose shadow their village sat. He had been born the season before Mikku, and at ten years his beard was already a foot long. He stood there running his claws through its coarse hairs and laughing.

     "That's right, Mikku, sit in the mud and squeal. That's where you belong, ain't it? Take a crap while you're down there, make yourself at home!"

     The gaggle of nine or so young Morgs around him snorted and jeered appreciatively. This was high humor as far as they were concerned, and great theater, to boot. Mikku bared his fangs, muzzle snarling. His green eyes glittered savagely. But he did not get up. Garr's iron-shod foot was still threateningly close.

     "Garr! Son! Quit playing!" a voice barked. It was the Chief. He stood with several other farmers, in a knot down the road, sodbusters and shovels in their hands. "We're out to the western fields."

     "Comin', Dad!" Garr called loudly back. He never turned from Mikku. "Gotta go, squeaker. Gotta do a man's work. Little boys and pigs can play in the dirt."

     "Come on, boy!"

     The big boy turned and jogged up to where his father led the group and was greeted with a clout to his ear and handed a hoe. As the band of Morg farmers trundled off, he was almost indistinguishable from the others.

     The other children disbanded and wandered away, the fun over. Mikku struggled to his feet and slapped the mud off as best he could. None of the others had offered to help him up, but then none had dared taunt him further with their ringleader gone. Just as well. There was still murder in his heart.

     To ease his anger, he took a walk through the village, treading the mazy pathways with tight little steps. It did not take long. Five lanes longways and four crossways, and once around the outer circle, brought him at last to his own family's doorway. The mud was barely dry on his tunic, and he was as angry as ever. He went inside and clashed the door shut behind him.

     His madra, who was sweeping the front room with a twiggy broom, looked up startled, then irritated, as if his mood had somehow jumped right across into her. Her muzzle kinked tightly, pruning her lips.

     "Mikku, my krach, you've only been gone an hour! At least give me time to clean up the old mess before you drag in a new one. What have you been doing to get so filthy in so short a time?"

     He looked up at her, eyes smoldering, underlip jutting.

     "Garr pushed me into the mud. He said that's my place."

     This stopped her sweeping. She straightened, turned the broom twigs up, and leaned on the shaft like a spear. She looked at her son for a moment appraisingly.

     Not for the first time she regretted her mate Lesk's loose tongue. He always would say the first thing that came into his head, and never repented of it once. Mikku's fur had come in two weeks later, but the tradition of a father's first words was strong. It had seemed cute when he was just a baby. Now that he was ten, she could see, it just wouldn't do.

     Without a word she reached into her apron, pulled out an apple, and tossed it to her son. Mikku caught it deftly, one-handed, his claws biting into the flesh. Turning the broom over, she began sweeping again. After a moment watching her, he began gnawing at the green, sour fruit.

     "The mountain Garr, under which we live," she began conversationally, just relating facts, as she swept. "The mountain Garr, under which we live, takes a life every twenty years, they say. Its shadow makes a third of our fields barren for half the year. Its scant copper mines hardly cover our needs, and the rockslides and mudfalls make the rainy seasons dangerous. It sits crouching in the way of getting any place worthwhile; to go around is tedious, to go over, treacherous. Garr, the Mountain, is a bloody stupid lump of rock."

     Mikku smiled savagely, but no longer angrily. These sort of words he liked. His grin, as he chewed, went up even to his dog-teeth.

     His madra looked at him. He was stout and sturdy, some had even said squat; but it was all muscle and deepening chest. With a pang of passing time she noticed his First Beard, was, in fact, coming in nicely. She swept harder, teasing a recalcitrant ball of fur out of the tattered rug, to cover her emotions.

     "I wonder," she said. "I wonder if this village is too small and muddy for you now. I wonder if you would like to try to wrangle about on the slopes of Garr for a while."

     "To climb the mountain?" Mikku's eyes widened. "You said I shouldn't," he said accusingly.

     "And now I say you might," she snapped back. She shook the broom at him, dust sprinkling to the floor. "If I say so, who can forbid it?"

     She softened again, but her softness was that of knotted wood compared to cast iron. Her eyes glinted like old gold, with flecks of brown.

     "You might have the makings of a mountaineer in you, my son. Go, and try the lower reaches. There is stone to be mastered there. But go no higher. Remember, every twenty years...! Take your father's stock from behind the door. And be back in time for supper."

     "Yes, Madra!" Mikku's face was alight with his grin, his green eyes sparkling. This was a man's quest, indeed! He grabbed the brass-tipped staff from its resting place and dashed out, afire with the idea, and eager to go before she might change her mind. The door clashed shut behind him.

     His mother shook her head, and sighed a few words to Mog Gammoth, asking that whatever He was doing at the moment that He would think about her Mikku today. Then she started sweeping up the apple core that had burst where the boy had dropped it in his haste.

 

     It was a good trot before one could reach even the foothills in the north, but Mikku was there as the sun hit mid-day. There was a path, dim and weedy, winding upward, little used except for the miners when they straggled down with ore and returned to their camp with supplies. He took it at first, then followed his nose when anything drew his interest aside. For a while he pretended to seek for treasure, then grew absorbed with discovering the secret life he found amidst the rocks. For all that he was home in time for dinner, a somewhat late one it was true, with his clothes more tattered and his skin tanner than when he had left. He ate and fell almost immediately asleep, a smile curling his muzzle. The next day he rose and headed out even earlier.

     All that summer he repeated his visits, one or two times even taking provisions and staying overnight. He came to know the lower reaches well and began making forays ever higher as he grew more confident and craftier. Time and tumbles taught him where the firm grip was, and where the loose scree. If back in the village Garr ever thought about him, he imagined the younger Morg was staying out of his way and puffed himself up with pride for his mastery.

     It was getting into autumn, when the trees had turned and the North wind was beginning to bite, that Mikku found the wounded warrior.

     It was to have been a three days trip, a farewell to the mountain before it locked down with the cold. On the second day Mikku caught a hyrax among the rocks, rolling with winter fat, and was carrying it in his poke to one of his scrapes to roast. There were several places for shelter that he called his scrapes; usually they were no more than a huddle of private rocks. The one he headed to was one of the best, almost a young cave, fringed with bushes, with plenty of old wood and tinder for fire. He had barely set his hand to the dry, screening branches when something came whistling out over his head and shattered on the rock behind him.

     "Damn," said a faint voice from the shadows within. "That was my last arrow, too."

     It is possibly not wise to tear into a place where someone who has tried to shoot you awaits. But Mikku was in an appalling state suddenly, torn between hunger and anger and outraged privacy. He was ready to lash into whatever he found as he shoved the branches roughly aside, but what he revealed stopped him short.

     A Morgish soldier, a stranger, lay on the sandy bottom of the scrape, wincing from the sudden cold sunlight. His conical helmet and scaled armor was hacked and battered, but his rough red cloak proclaimed his rank as captain. A spent crossbow lay slack in his hand and his leg was at an odd angle. He looked at Mikku in surprise and relief.

     "A lad, and Morgish too," he sighed. "You're lucky you're not a foot taller, boy."

     "So are you," Mikku snarled. He held the brass-shod stock out defensively. "What are you doing here?"

     "No time for that." The soldier cast aside his useless weapon and tried to rise. His face went even paler behind his big black beard and he sat flat down again. "Are there any folk nearby?" he gasped.

     Mikku stood down a bit, cowed by his urgent, authoritative manner.

     "There's the mine," he said cautiously, and gripped his climbing stock a little tighter. "There are always five or six miners there."

     The other shook his head and licked his lips. Mikku noticed they were trickling with blood.

     "Not any more," he panted. "I just came from there."

     "You!" Mikku barked, raising the stock. "What did you do to them?" He had liked those men. Sometimes if they passed within sight of each other on the mountain they raised a silent hand in salute. He had known them -- not well, but they were his own.

     "Not me, you little kraddach," the other spat. "It was the Ogru, do you understand, the foul Ogres, that followed me through the northern pass. I thought it was them, come to finish me off, when I shot. The hands of the Black King are stretching out once more!"

     At that nightmare name Mikku fell back and shrank to a shaking child again, the stock trembling in his hand. Of all the servants of Rhalken, none held more loathing to the Morgs than the huge, gangling creatures that strode through the history of their wars like spiders crawling over a corpse. The soldier saw the effect his words had had, and immediately became solicitous.

     "Hey, here now, lad, we're not dead yet. With Mog's help we can get out of this, eh? What's your name?"

     "M-Mikku," he managed. The warrior looked at him strangely, then plunged on.

     "Well, Mikku, I'm Bronn, Captain Bronn, and let me tell you there were fifty Ogres that fell on my company, and now there are only ten. All my lads are gone, but I'm still here, and I've got to get word to young King Thron where he sits in the Gold Tower of Morg City. He'll crush Rhalken's hands before he gets a finger on the South. Are there any other folk nearby?"

     The recitation of these legendary names --the Tower, the City -- put some backbone back into the boy. He was able to answer fairly sturdily.

     "Our village, down in the valley. About three hundred, all told."

     "Any mighty men among them?"

     The image of Garr passed through Mikku's head, and he snorted a short laugh. There is a kind of laugh that a Morg will only use when the circumstances are dark and dire. Bronn recognized it with a grim acceptance and returned the laugh.

     "Only farmers," Mikku said. Including my madra, he thought. The idea dropped ice on his heart. "Most scattered in the fields, and half a day's march away."

     "Still, with enough warning, we might... wait. Do you hear that?"

     Mikku did hear it, a sound coming up from somewhere lower down the mountain. A sound like heavy feet grinding in the gravel, the jingle of harness, and an odd, animal groaning now and then. The wind shifted a little, and the smell of blood and burning assaulted his snubbed, snuffling nose.

     "It's the Ogres," said Bronn. "They've done with your friends, I'd guess. We've got to get moving." He looked around the cave. "Boy," he said, "Give me your stock."

     Mikku clutched it close. It was considerably more battered than when he had taken it from behind the door, the brass dinged and dulled and the black wood chipped, but it had served him well. He didn't want to give it up now.

     "Here, I'll trade you," the warrior said, seeing his reluctance. He reached behind his back, and with a short swift slither drew out a sword from the scabbard on his back. It was notched but gleamed like a gift in Mikku's eyes. "I need to walk, and you need protection. There's nothing like three feet of steel between you and your nearest problem, eh? Go on, take it, boy."

     With only the slightest hesitation the young Morg made the exchange. He hefted the blade in his hand while Bronn painfully drew himself up to lean on the heavy stick. He was obviously in agony, but the fear was greater, and leant him some immunity to the worst of it.

     "Come on, Mikku. Lead me on. We've got to get out of here. Now."

     The young Morg tore his gaze from the blade and looked at the warrior tottering on his twisted foot.

     "Can you really walk? If we stay hidden here, might they pass us by?"

     "Not these hounds of Norda. If you see them, you'll understand. We have to keep quiet, keep ahead of them, and pray the wind doesn't change." He pulled loose a leather strap, and his scale armor fell to the sandy floor of the scrape, like a shed skin.

     "Too noisy, too heavy," he explained to Mikku's wondering look. "Speed and silence are our friends now. Lead us out, and be careful!"

     Mikku went first and scouted around. All his practice of stealth and hunting, played over the summer, seemed like games now they were put to the test. The noises on the lower path were growing louder; he knew in a very few moments that whatever was nearing would be in sight, and that if he could see them, they could see him.

     He was almost paralyzed, unwilling to leave their hiding place; it was gut-grinding to make the decision, but he waved Bronn out and they began scrambling to the next bit of cover. Mikku crouched as he scuttled forward, holding the heavy sword straight out in front of him, and cursed the warrior's every lagging step. They reached a ridge of rock and cast themselves behind it, Bronn collapsing to the ground by gravity rather than any act of will. He sat panting with his head against the rock.

     "That was rough," he said, licking his lips, straining for breath. There were streaks of blood drooling from his muzzle, staining his black beard. He rolled his head towards Mikku. "How many miles did you say to your village? Is any of it downhill, do you think?"

     Despite his fear, Mikku grinned back at the warrior. All the grim stubborn humor of the Morgish race in the face of disaster seemed to be rising in him in response to Bronn's words. Then he turned to scan the lower path and his bones turned to water.

     The Ogres were coming down the path, walking on all fours, their great gripping feet and huge splayed hands grasping the floor and sides of the narrow trail as if they would squeeze the life from it, their bald heavy heads rising on ropy necks to snuffle the air. The elbows and knees of their long limbs, kinked up behind them, made them look like pale, predatory arachnids.

     Their size was daunting. No Morg is much taller than five feet, but now and then, when an Ogre down the line would raise its thick spider-sack body to its feet to crane searching around, it was easily twice that. Mikku could see the heavy, chopping sabres swinging like a sting at their sides; the blades were long, and as weighty as butcher's cleavers.

     But worse was the creatures' sheer loathsomeness. Their flesh was hairless and pale as curdled cream, with purple veins writhing over their skin like worms plunging in and out of bad cheese. Their mouths hung open, gasping, mewling, smacking, showing gapped and spiky needles of teeth. Worst were their eyes. Dead fishy white in the center, with a pale purplish bloom at the edges, they moved in their round orbits with a fell purpose that showed that a thinking, dreadful intelligence was driving that animal bulk of flesh.

     As he watched, unable to move, the lead Ogre gave a cry and held up a hand in signal to the others. He had found something, a scuffle of dirt, a scent. Without a pause he started to climb up the slope, clutching the rocks with vulture claws, heading, Mikku could see, towards his late hiding place. The rest of the line followed, not hurrying, but never stopping or hesitating either, implacable.

     Mikku ducked his head down, released from the horrible fascination of their stalking progress by a renewed sense of urgency.

     "They've found the scrape," he muttered through his muzzle. The soldier nodded wearily. "I think they're distracted with climbing. We should move." He reached out his hand.

     Bronn took it and heaved himself up again, grunting, exploring the feel of weight on his injured leg, leaning heavily on the stock and gripping Mikku's shoulder, the black nails of his claws pinching hard. He shuffled the motionless foot hanging at the end of the limb.

     "Don't hurt anymore," he said. "Now it just feels dead. Not sure if that's good or bad. Which way now? Up or down?"

     "Up, for a little while," Mikku said, pointing ahead. "Come on."

     Bronn sighed.

     "It would be up." He took a heavy step forward. "Let's go."

     For a few yards it was a steep climb, exposed on the naked hillside, and Mikku, looking back fearfully for signs of the pursuit, had to take Bronn's hand and pull him up when his leg locked and simply refused to move. They made it, at last, to the path the boy had been heading for, an old alluvial groove with a wide smooth trail, sunk deep and sightless in the mountainside.

     "See?" He turned to Bronn, pointing with the sword. He began helping the soldier into the ravine. "It runs down. We can walk here, no problem, a good ways."

     Bronn stared uneasily as the walls of the trail rose around him.

     "It feels uncommonly like a trap, boy. We'd better get through and out of this as quick as we can."

     Mikku gave him a twisted grin.

     "You are very hard fellow to please, Captain. No up, no down, no fiddle in the middle."

     Bronn gave a short blast of a laugh, that he forced himself to stifle immediately. He tottered forward, chuckling feebly.

     "Come on," he said. "Let's get moving. Unless you want to try your remarks on the Ogres. They might find you funny, or at least funny tasting."

     The mention of their pursuers sobered Mikku up, and they stumbled on in silence, wasting no breath on jests or questions. Despite the easiness of the way, Bronn's panting grew ever more ragged and short as they went along.  They were nearing the end of the gorge when faint echoes whispering down the walls of the ravine stopped them short. The soft thud of heavy feet and the faint mewling cries of questing voices came curling into their ears.

     "Shit," said Bronn.

     Mikku looked out through the end of the trail. It was a long, bare incline, leading down at last to the lowlands. For miles around there was scarce a bush to hide behind. He glanced back up the mountain, then grabbed Bronn's hand.

     "Come on, Captain," he said. "Up again."

     "No, lad, I don't think I can take it. I'll never out-run that lot. Give me my sword," he gestured wearily, "I'll make my stand here. You run on, get back safe to your people."

     "And lead those monsters to my madra's doorstep? Not damn likely." He tugged harder. "I'd rather let them chase me till my beard grows white and my feet drop off. And what about King Thron and the South?"

     "It's no use, boy," Bronn said, but took a step up, impelled along by Mikku's insistence. "I might as well fight on my feet before I drop on my knees." But he followed him up, complaining all the way as the boy pulled, then prodded, then pushed him up until they reached a higher ledge. Bronn wearily, instinctively tried to go on left, the way they had been heading.

     "No, not that way. No good. From here we double back."

     "Madness," hissed the warrior. "Every step that way brings us closer to the Ogru."

     "What do you care?" Mikku asked fiercely, wiping the sweat down his muzzle till it squeezed out of his downy, dripping beard. He squinted up at Bronn. "A second ago you just wanted to stop and fight anyway."

     "Hur, yes. Well, lead on, Mikku, I guess this is your parade."

     "Quick and quiet, now."

     "Not sure I can be either," the soldier said, trundling into motion.

     The noise of the Ogre's progress grew louder as they made their way backward, the more clamorous as they travelled into it. Their position was horribly exposed, but there was a rock straight ahead that promised a hiding spot, if only for a few seconds. Bronn leaned on the cliffside, head drooping almost to his chest, falling more than walking forward.

     The first Ogre came poking around the corner below, and the Morgs jumped the last few feet in desperation to get behind the rock. They landed almost sitting on top of each other, and sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe but unable to stop panting, waiting for the first cry of discovery.

     There was none. Mikku peeked out, curiosity overcoming caution. The Ogres still marched slowly and steadily forward right below them, but their own noise and their intent on the trail under their noses kept them focused downward. He brought his head back in and gave Bronn an encouraging nod. They sat back, and heard the rock grind, shifting under their weight. They leaned forward again quickly, fearful of the noise. Then something shifted in Mikku, too.

     "Are we gonna die, Captain?" he asked.

     "Looks like it, boy."

     "Then hell, I'm gonna try it."

     To Bronn's shock the boy hopped up and leaned into the rock again, hard. It ground and groaned and shook slightly.

     "Are you crazed?" The soldier said, choking. "Stop that! Sit down!"

     "No! Help me. Push! Lever that stock under there!"

     Bronn looked down at the hulking Ogres. Their line was halfway past. He looked up at the boulder. Mikku threw himself at it again. It rocked a little farther. The warrior suddenly seemed to throw consideration to the wind, and attacked the base of the boulder, stabbing viciously at the ground beneath with the brass tip of the stock. Mikku heaved with all his back.

     "It's no use," Bronn gritted. "It's too bottom heavy."

     "Then we gotta change that. Keep heaving."

     To the warrior's surprise the boy scrambled up the boulder like a squirrel, still clutching the sword, finding grips with his black nails. He reached the top. The huge stone groaned and leaned a bit, then stopped. Bronn desperately heaved, and Mikku leaned into it, but it moved no further.

     "Bloody stupid rock!" Mikku screamed. The last Ogres in the line below looked up, first in consternation, and then in savage eagerness. The boy grabbed the top of the boulder and leaned out into the void over their gaping maws. At the same moment Bronn gave a back-breaking heave; with a deafening crack the rock broke free; and Mikku found himself holding on for dear life, riding down into an abyss full of outreaching claws.

     For a split instant as he fell he saw the Ogres' expression turn from bloodthirst to panic, and the last in the line trying to turn and grab its way past the others. Then the rock hit as if it were a blow from Thoravil itself, and Mikku was tossed to the other side of the ravine. He rolled to a bruising stop and lay still. But Bronn saw the boulder cascading down into the ravine's incline, crushing gross Ogre bodies, snapping gangling Ogre limbs, and splitting bald Ogre heads like pumpkins. It crashed right past the end of the line, and thundered down the mountainside a while, till it stopped with a final distant clattering boom.

     Bronn looked, disbelieving, as the dust settled and the leaking life quivered out of the shattered hulks of the enemy below, then strained impatiently to see to the other side of the ravine. When the cloud at last blew away in the gathering North wind, Mikku was laying there motionless.

     "Damn, boy," he husked. "You did it." Tears started to gather in his eyes. He hadn't cried for any of his company when they fell; there hadn't been time. He rubbed his hand across his face, then took off his helmet and cleared his throat. Looking up at the first star in the fading daylight, he keened out the beginning high note of the death chant for a fallen warrior.

     Which he immediately gagged on when Mikku suddenly shook himself and sat up. Bronn watched in wonder as the boy blinked his eyes, scratched his beard, snatched up the fallen sword and leaped to his feet. He looked down and saw the bodies below, then looked up at Bronn's stunned face on the opposite side.

     "Haaah!" he yelled, planting his legs akimbo, thrusting his fists in the air, blade in hand. He began to dance like a mad thing, laughing, stabbing the air, pausing every now and then to roar derision down on the carrion of Rhalken or triumph up to the sky. "Kicked your ass!" he bellowed. "You pale piles of rot!"

     "Mikku! Well done, lad!" Bronn at last had to laugh with him, head thrown back, in sheer relief at their deliverance. Their combined braying echoed down the pathway.  But the warrior was brought back to his senses by a stitching stab down his leg.

     "Settle down, settle down lad, and listen to me!" he called. Mikku looked at him, still capering a bit, starting to wind down. He couldn't stop grinning, though.

     "I hate to ask this of you, lad, but I'm absolutely knackered. I need you to take that sword," he paused, to show the lad he was completely serious. "I need you to take it, go down there, and make sure they're all entirely dead."

     Mikku laid the notched blade jauntily onto his shoulder.

     "Right you are, Captain," he agreed readily, and made to head down.

     "Mikku, this is serious. You have to be careful. I've known an Ogre we thought dead get up off the battlefield and throttle one of my best men. Be cautious, but be certain."

     Mikku slid down into the ravine and landed right next to one of the beasts with its head knocked clean off. Well, I guess that one's safe enough, he thought. Still, it was eerie down through the ravine amongst the carrion, and the evening gloom gathering shadows in. He walked past corpse after corpse, drawing in a little closer to examine details, the coarse weave of their tunics, the black metal of their sabres. So that's what their brains look like, he observed.

     One Ogre near the front of the line had a big gray sack still tied to his back. His legs were obviously broken and his arms lay slack in the straps. Curiosity over what sort of plunder an Ogre might be carrying drew Mikku close enough to pull open the knot at the top.

     A severed brown Morgish arm flopped to the ground.

     Mikku jumped back, just as the Ogre opened its eyes and tried to bite the boy with its needle teeth. He instinctively swung, and half-severed the ropy neck with a sickening chunk. The Ogre squealed as the boy pulled the blade back, the purple bloom faded out of its eyes, and the head fell slack again.

     Mikku watched as its last bit of life drained away. Always when he had been out hunting, at the moment of the kill, he had felt some pangs of guilt or remorse. He felt none now. He finished his examination in a grim mood, then climbed up to Bronn.

     "Gammoth's beard, boy!" the warrior said. "Your eyes are red as blood!"

     They spent the night camped on the spot, right above the carnage. Mikku roasted the hyrax, now well tenderized from its jostling journey in his poke, and they shared it with the last few sips of wine in Bronn's military flask. Under the soldier's supervision, Mikku was able to make him a proper field dressing and splint for his leg. When they closed their eyes to sleep, huddled back to back in the red cloak, they fell instantly into a deep and dreamless slumber.

     The next day they made a slow progress down the foothills, stopping to rest often. Bronn was filled with the urgency of his message but could go no faster. Night found them only on the verge of the grasslands. Mikku foraged a few late berries, and they were sour sustenance in their exhaustion and just made them thirstier. They started out again at dawn of the fourth day of Mikku's mountain pilgrimage, and were met on the road by Lesk, come in his oxcart to bring his wandering son home.

 

     They returned to the village a lot quicker than Lesk had been driving when he set out. Bronn made them take him to the Chief's house, where amid great excitement a detailed message was prepared for King Thron (since his news had to travel faster than he possibly could now) and sent off by a rider on one of their few horses, to get through the southern pass before the snow could fall. The Chief invited Bronn to stay in his home while he waited, and he was placed under the ministrations of Knar, the healer.

     A band of fifty or so was sent back up the mountain. They cleared the battle site and gave what remained of the miners a decent burial. Old Peq was found still alive, deep in the mine beyond the Ogre's reach. Since he knew the skills, it was calculated that, if he could find a few workers over the winter, the mine might be re-opened in spring.

     Mikku faded into the background. For the first few days he was too tired, just sleeping wrapped in a fur next to the fire, waking only to eat and piss and sleep again. By the time he was up and about, Garr had established himself as the guard of the Chief's house and its guest and the go-between for the wounded hero and let no one bother Bronn while he healed except himself. Bronn was weak with pain and worry about his message, but he still wondered why Mikku didn't come to see him. Eventually he decided that the lad might be forbidden to visit because of the danger he had faced and refrained from talking about it lest he get him in more trouble.

     When they had arrived at the village, Lesk had taken the sword from Mikku and given it back to the soldier as a matter of course. When the boy asked for it back, his father had frowned and said, "Don't be a fool, child," and that was that. As the winter deepened and the mountain was capped in snow, the stock was put back behind the door. Mikku thought about telling the tale of what had happened, but without Bronn's witness, who would believe him? He began to brood.

     At last the day came when a company of mounted riders came to the village, a hundred strong, splendid with flags and scaled armor that glittered in the winter sun. The whole village came out in a throng, to gather round the Chief's house and see the hero off. Mikku skulked around the back of the crowd, feeling ignored, but determined to at least see Bronn once before he left.

     The green-cloaked lieutenant dismounted and stood to attention in front of the rough-hewn ostentation of the Chief's house. The door opened, and the captain appeared, supported on either side by the Chief and Garr, who smirked importantly. Bronn was still limping a little, and his leg was in an iron brace, but otherwise he looked well and strong.

     The villagers cheered, and he raised his arm in a peremptory wave, then closed on the lieutenant.

     "Well?" he asked intensely.

     The lieutenant smiled.

     "The message was in time, the planned invasion thwarted. Ten thousand Morgs under King Thron took the field at the Gates of the Knash, and none of the enemy survived."

     "Thank Mog for that!" Bronn cried, almost collapsing in relief.

     "Now, Captain, I have a little present for you." The green-clad officer snapped his fingers, and an esquire trotted up, a bundle held laying across both hands. The lieutenant lightly threw open the cloth folds. The people gasped.

     "The blue cloak of a general," he announced, holding the fabric up. It glowed like a patch of clear sky in the snowy square. "Along with a general's sword, and new armor and helm, of course. A little present from the King. He thought you deserved it. You are to ride to him at the Gold Tower, and from there to the Ghamen Mountains. There may be trouble brewing there, I hear."

     "I'm ready for it, I think," Bronn said, as the squire began dressing him in his new gear. "Sitting around on my ass in this place doing nothing..." He glanced over at the stricken Chief. "No offense I hope, and thank you for the hospitality, but I must be up and doing." The squire finished, and he stepped forward in his gleaming new array. The riders barked a sharp, wordless roar and clashed their fists to their chests in salute. The villagers cheered.

     "Now before I go, I thank you all for your help. But there is one lad here I must thank most of all," Bronn announced. Garr, next to him, drew himself up, standing on tiptoes and combing his beard importantly. Who if not him, the faithful attendant?

     "One brave lad, who, when he is older, I would like to take with me, who I know would make a good warrior, and who I would like at my side." If Garr could have stood any taller, he would have lifted himself through the porch's roof.

     "Where is the lad called Mikku? I haven't seen him all these weeks. Mikku, come here!"

     The crowd parted and Mikku came forward slowly, uncertainly. Bronn urged him in with a gesture. Garr deflated like a burst bladder, an incredulous look twisting his muzzle. Bronn came down the steps and met Mikku halfway.

     "Here, lad," he said, reaching over to the squire and taking his old notched sword up again. "I believe I gave this to you. Remember, never mislay your weapons. You don't know when you may need them." He handed it over and smiled. He turned to the lieutenant but pitched his voice so everyone could hear.

     "You know, this lad killed ten Ogres, all by himself? Saved my ass, and thereby the whole Southland to boot. We'd best keep an eye on him."

     "Indeed, sir," the lieutenant said.

     Bronn mounted up on the steed they had brought for him, and the lieutenant followed suit on his. When he was well seated, Bronn turned his head and addressed the crowd.

     "I know you call this lad Mikku, but I don't know as it fits him very well now. His First Beard seems thick enough to me. You shouldn't call him the Pigling anymore. I say he is Roth, the Red-Eyed, and the name is well-earned." He grinned down at the boy. "Lad, I'll see you again soon, I think."

     He kicked his horse forward, and the company started up and followed him in well-trained ranks. After they had thundered beyond the town borders, heading east, the crowd started to break up, muttering excitedly and casting sidelong glances at the young Morg with the sword. Garr came stomping down the steps, shuffling angrily through the trampled snow. He stopped and stood right in front of the smaller boy.

     "I don't care what he said," he growled. "To me you're still a pig, and a pig belongs down in the mud!'

     He lifted his boot to kick, but in a flash Mikku grabbed it in a firm grip. His hands, made strong with a season of climbing, held it secure for a second, while he looked straight into Garr's eyes. The older boy saw a glint of red, then his foot was twisted and he was shoved backward onto his butt into a muddied drift of snow. The group of children who had gathered laughed.

     "Damn it, help me up!" the older Morg bawled to his erstwhile minions. The younger Morg held them off with a glance. He started combing his beard and talking dreamily, as if to himself.

     "The mountain Garr, for which you are named, is mired in snow and useless half the year. It makes life hard at any time. I think you'll stay right down in the slush where you belong," Mikku said.

     But it was Roth who grinned and added, "You bloody stupid lump of rock!"

Notes

Mighty Mikku was the first of the new Tales of The Morgs that I wrote. I was very full of the world of Goldfire after I had transcribed the old work on our incomplete novel, and felt inspired to write origin stories for our beloved Morgish characters. I decided "Mikku' (a name from Finnish folklore, the protagonist from The Devil's Hide) would be Roth's birth-name, and this would be the story of how he earned the name Roth.

The story pulled in much of what became Morgish lore after it, from the Seven Beards of life to the colors of military cloaks. It was also the first time I could really get to grips with describing Ogres, relying heavily on a picture I drew all the way back in middle school. The language is a little coarse here and there, but I thought that fitting for this rustic and down-to-earth batch of folks, including the military. And speaking of old pictures, I think Roth's mother (I realize with a pang I never gave her name; it is Kera [Correction: I named her Olind in The Peculiar Wooing of General Roth]. This may well be the first use of madra for a mother Morg) owed a little something to this speculative drawing I made back in the day of a female Orc.