Aghar! KROG OGRE! Krog!”
Seeing movement, he sped after it, his feet pounding.
Beyond a shoulder of stone, he skidded to a stop. A female
gully dwarf lay there, staring up at him in horror. “Krog?”
she said.
Her voice – the remembered voice and the remembered
face of the little creature – made him hesitate, and his
hesitation angered him. For an instant he felt . . . soft. “Shut
up!” he thundered. “I am Krog! Krog ogre!”
She blinked, and a tear glistened in her eye. “Krog… not
want Mama anymore?”
“I am ogre!” he roared. “You . . . nothing to me!”
Furious, he raised his club high, then hesitated as another
small figure darted out of a shadowed cleft to face him, a
little gully dwarf male with curly whiskers, the one they
called Highbulp. The gully dwarf faced him with terror in
its eyes and an elk tine in its hand, and again Krog
hesitated.
The absurd little thing was challenging him! A snarl
tugged at Krog’s cheek, but still he hesitated, looking from
one to the other of the puny creatures. They meant nothing
to him, nothing at all, and yet, there was something about
the pair . . .
For a moment Krog stood, his dub lifted high to strike,
then he shook his head and lowered it. Wrinkling his nose
in disgust – mostly at himself – he turned and stalked away.
Behind him, the Highbulp Gorge III lifted the Lady
Drule to her feet with trembling hands. They clung together,
staring at the monster’s receding back.
“‘Bye, Krog,” Drule whispered.
THE COBBLER’S SON
ROGER E. MOORE
The Authentic Field Reports of Walnut Arskin
To Astinus of Palanthas,
As Set Down by Me, Walnut,
Foster Son of Jeraim Arskin,
Famed Amanuensis, Scribe of Astinus,
and Licensed Cobbler
(Open All Week Long)
Newshore-Near-Gwynned, North Island, Ergoth
Report Number One
Year 22, New Reckoning
Spring day 12 or maybe 13 (I forget), dawn
Hi, Astinus! It’s just after dawn and I’m now your
newest field recorder, and I’m making my very first official
field report to you on official Palanthas paper with my
brand-new steel pen while wearing my once-holy symbol of
Gilean and my official gray recorder’s robes and my best
walking boots. I’ve even put on clean underwear. I just want
you to know, Astinus, that I will be your best field recorder
ever, and someday I might even become a great amanuensis
like Ark!
It’s pretty cold outside for springtime right now, so my
handwriting is sorta wiggly, but I can still read it. Can you?
I’m a little hungry, as I would have had breakfast by now
only I lost it after Ark sent me out of the shoe shop right
after he made me his official field recorder, which is an
interesting story, and I should write it down in case it’s
important, and anyway there’s not much else to do in this
alley at this hour of the morning.
Ark – known to you as your loyal scribe and amanuensis
Jeraim Arskin from Newshore, but known to me as Ark and
sometimes Dad, and known to everyone else in New-shore
as Arkie – woke me up early and told me to get ready for the
ceremony. I’d been begging him to let me be a scribe for
ages, and Ark said he was going deaf from hearing me beg,
but then something happened last night and he said he had
something important for me to do today, but I’d have to be
out on my own and out of his way. He was awfully nervous,
and when he got me up he looked like he hadn’t slept much,
and he wanted to hurry through everything, and when I
asked him what was wrong, he just said, “Don’t be a kender
right now,” which I can’t help, since I am one.
Ark first gave me a set of gray scribe’s robes that he had
hemmed up, which I put on, and then he gave me some
official paper from Palanthas, where you live, and this new
steel pen and this once-holy symbol that used to belong to a
real cleric of Gilean until he disappeared (the cleric, that is)