Kreev's New Job

Stan rode into Wissler the next day. The town was smaller than Dyssa, but was the stepping stone to the much larger city off to the east. Stan didn't think he'd find the dragon in Wissler, but he might find someone who knew something. Wissler's shaman, for example, was much older than he and might know something about the real dragons in these parts.

Unfortunately, for Stan, Wissler's shaman was… an interesting sort of person. The man could talk someone's ear off about anything and everything, regardless of how his listeners felt about the process. He just had no filter at all.

Steeling himself for a long conversation, Stan knocked on the shaman's door. The shaman's hut was just as nice as his in Dyssa, although Stan had not been within its inner sanctum before. That -- of course -- had been reserved for the real shamans at work, not for apprentices.

The door creaked open, and a pair of brown eyes attached to an unfamiliar face followed. "Hello." The young man said. He couldn't have been older than Stan at all, though Stan had never laid his eyes on this man before. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Horatio." Stan said with a hint of a question in his voice. "Is he here?"

"Horatio's gone. Three weeks." The younger man gave him a deadpan look and went to close the door. Stan stuck his foot in the crevice before it shut.

"Sorry… who are you?"

"I'm the shaman. Who are you?" The door cracked open again and a look of annoyance crossed his face.

"I'm Stan, the … shaman…" It sounded awkward to call himself that. He had swallowed "apprentice" before it slipped out. "Of Dyssa."

"Cool. Bye."

"Sorry…" Stan insisted, pushing on the door a little. "I need to talk to you, then, if Horatio is …gone."

The boy sighed. "You're not going away, are you?"

Stan shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Fine. Come in." The boy slid the door open the rest of the way, recealing a dim interior. Stan struggled to remember what it had looked like when he had last visited. It was certainly brighter in his memory.

As he stepped into the cool interior of the home, he realized that all of the windows were shuttered. There were just a few candles lighting the back corner of the room, where a chair and a book sat.

"What's your name?" Stan asked conversationally. The boy was just standing in the entryway awkwardly. Stan wasn't sure if he should go sit near the light or just … stand there with him.

"Kreev." He said. "What are you doing here?"

"My father, Aurelius, used to be the shaman of Dyssa. He died. About a week ago. I'm here looking for information about what happened."

"I don't know anything, sorry." Kreev said, shrugging. Stan half-expected him to each for the door.

"What happened to Horatio, exactly?" Stan asked the boy.

"I don't know. He went out and never came back." Kreev shrugged. "I went and searched. Everyone did. But we couldn't find him, so now I'm shaman."

"Are you… okay with this?" Stan asked. It was liking peeling layers off of a rotting onion to get this boy-like man to say anything meaningful.

"I mean, I guess." He shrugged. "I have no idea what I'm doing, but people have learned not to bother me," He trailed off. "I'd only been apprenticing with Horatio for a month or two."

"Oh." Stan said. That explained… a lot. "Wow. That's… um. Did he not have any other apprentices?"

"No, I was his first." Kreev said. "But I can't leave Wissler without a shaman, so I'm kinda just… stuck here. In limbo. I've been reading the books," He gestured wildly behind him, "But they're not really that helpful."

"Wow." Stan's head was spinning. "Okay, well, let's circle back to that in a second. Did Horatio say anything of note before he left? Like was he headed somewhere?"

Kreev shrugged and gave him a blank stare.

"Okay, well, my father said he was coming here," Stan gestured to his surroundings, "When he went out and never came back. I found what was left of his body in a clearing by the river with a dragon standing over it."

Kreev's eyes widened. "Holy… a dragon?"

"Yes. A real one." Stan's last words were delivered dryly, although he was certain that only he got the joke. "It … flew off when I got close. But, that was a week or two ago. Horatio must have already been missing. What… did you see my father? Did he come by?"

Kreev thought about the question for a moment, then shook his head.

"I don't think I ever saw him, no. Sorry, Stan."

Stan frowned. “That’s strange. I remember him saying that he was coming here. Oh well. Maybe he was murdered before he got here.” His voice sounded so flat, even to himself. “Okay. Well, thanks. So, about the whole shaman thing…” Stan changed to a topic that he could actually get somewhere with.

“I’m new, too. To this whole shaman thing. But I think I have more experience than you do.” Stan said. Kreev nodded agreeably. The boy seemed to be coming out of his shell as Stan was forcing conversation with him. How long has he been cooped up in here? Stan wondered idly. “I can’t promise that I know everything, but I can certainly help you with your village’s issues. So how about this. I’ll come to Wissler once a week to train you. And in exchange, you come to Dyssa once a week, to help me with my village. It’s not every day, like what I got with my father, but at least you’ll be getting some idea of how to lead your village in these… unusual times.”

Kreev was quiet for a long while. “Do you think the village will be okay if I leave for a day every week?” He asked finally. Stan laughed.

“Yes, your villagers should be fine without you for one day a week. In the meantime, maybe we can get you an apprentice,” Stan eyed him, wondering how young an apprentice would need to be to fill the role, “And I will work on getting one myself, too. You can pass on your knowledge to him, and I’ll do the same. That way, as we visit each other each week, our villages aren’t left totally alone if something does happen.”

“Okay.” The boy smiled. “Thanks, Stan.”

“You’re welcome.” He said. “Now, I need to go do a few more things in Wissler before going on my way, but why don’t you come down to Dyssa the day after tomorrow, and we’ll get started?”

The boy nodded agreeably. Stan let himself out.

If the shaman-boy of Wissler hadn’t seen his father, that didn’t mean that the other villagers in Wissler had not. After all, it seemed like the boy was a hermit in Horatio’s absence. And -- this was just a guess, of course -- what if the disappearance of Horatio and the death of Aurelius were somehow related? It certainly seemed suspicious that they had both gone missing within a week of each other.

The blacksmith or other shop keepers might have some answers. After all, maybe his father hadn't visited Wissler to speak to Horatio. Stan left the shaman hut and walked down the sandy, compact path towards the general shop area. In a small village like this, there were only the bare essentials, and most of the villagers raised the majority of their own food and just supplemented with treats, spices, and salts from outside of the town. Wissler and Dyssa were most likely serviced by the same traveling merchants, who worked the Great Road north to south from spring to fall.

For a work day, not many people were out and about in the town. Sure, it was a little gloomy out, but the rain hadn't fallen yet, and the crops were already done for the season. In Dyssa, children were probably out playing games with each other while their parents prepared dinner or took the rare free moment to read a book or work on some crafts.

The smithy was empty when Stan walked in. The bright copper bells jangled fiercely as the door shut behind him, and the blacksmith emerged from the back room, wiping his grimy, sooty hands on his apron.

"Hello, stranger! How can I help you today?" The blacksmith smiled warmly.

"Greetings!" Stan said, repeating his next words in his head to make them not as awkward as the last conversation, "I am Stan, the new shaman of Dyssa. I was wondering if Aurelius, our last shaman, who passed away unexpectedly, visited before his death a few weeks ago?"

The blacksmith's expression changed rapidly, from warmth, to suspicion as Stan announced his title, to sadness as he heard of Aurelius' passing. Stan braced himself for a long apology and condolence speech, which usually came after a revelation like his.

"Sorry to hear that, Stan." The blacksmith was succinct in his expression of sympathy, and quick to move on. "Unfortunately, I don't recall seeing Aurelius recently. He would come in every so often and restock some of his special iron arrowheads when your smithy ran low. That blade you have," The smith gestured towards Stan's belt, where he carried his ceremonial dagger, "I made that for Aurelius."

"It hasn't failed me yet, so thank you." Stan smiled at him. "Before he disappeared, Aurelius said he was coming here. I found his body three days later in a clearing by the river between our towns. I'm trying to figure out what happened between when he left the shaman's hut in Dyssa, and when I found him. I spoke to Kreev already," The blacksmith interrupted him with a sharp laugh.

"That boy talked to you? That's right amazing."

"It certainly took some coaxing." Stan laughed. "But yes, we had a conversation, and he said he hadn't seen Aurelius at all."

"That's no surprise. It took us about a week to realize that he was inside. There's been talk that the boy might actually be dead. He never comes out for food or drink, or if he does, it's when it's dark outside."

"He certainly seems… solitary." Stan admitted. "But I told him that I would come by once a week to help him learn how to be shaman."

"That's mighty nice of you." The smith said. "Well, if I had to take a guess, if Aurelius made it into town, he probably stopped into the Golden Pony for a drink before doing whatever he needed to be doing."

"Really?" Stan was surprised. His father had never really imbibed alcohol in his presence, even at home. And "The Golden Pony" was certainly the most generic name possible for a bar, inn, or tavern.

"Oh, yes." The smith smiled fondly. "Your father was an excellent story teller when he was a deep in his cup."

"I guess I never saw that side of him." A pang of… what? Of guilt? Rushed through him. Why had he never seen that side of his father? Did his father hate him so much that he refused to share happiness or be happy around him?

"That's not surprising." The smith said. "He was always reserved about his family. You're his son, right? You are his spitting image."

"Yes, I'm his son." Stan nodded.

"It's a real shame that you found your father like you did." The smith reached out and placed a large, somewhat comforting hand on his shoulder. "That's no way to find out about a family death."

"He had been missing for three days, someone had to go find him." Stan's voice was steady, but he was a little shaken inside. This was the most emotion he had felt for weeks, and it was ready to boil over. "Well, thanks for your help, sir." Stan changed the subject quickly before emotion overcame him. "I'll head over to the Golden Pony and see what I can find. If you hear of or think of anything else, I'll be here in Wissler once a week. If you can pry Kreev out of his cave, you might be able to relay information through him."

"I'll keep you in mind. And let me know if you need anything at all. I'm the best smith in the region, if I do say so myself." He gave a hearty wink and removed his hand from Stan's shoulder. "And I bet that blade could use a real sharpening. If you leave it with me while you head over to the Pony, I'll give it a quick go-round on the wheel." He threw a thumb behind him, motioning to the back room.

"Uh, yeah, sure!" Stan said gratefully. He unbuckled the belt that held his ceremonial dagger and handed the entire contraption over to the blacksmith. The man hefted it gently over his shoulder, positioning the blade's sheath safely downwards, so the blade wouldn't fall out on its way to the sharpener.

"Give me about an hour, and it'll be just like new." He promised. The smith turned and left Stan alone in the front room of the shop. Stan turned to leave, pausing for just a moment to stare at the iron sculptures that hung from the smithy wall. The smith had made a bow and arrow entirely from iron, and it hung at an angle, arrow cocked and seemingly ready to fly. On the other side, the silhouette of a horse reared gallantly away from some unknown evil, with little black blades of grass and a small mountain filling out the ring that the horse was encased in. For being iron, the detail was amazing. The man was truly a master at his craft.

The door jangled shut as Stan walked back outside and headed off to his next destination. He scanned the rooftops, looking for a sign, or drawing, or statue of a horse, but he saw nothing. He wandered down the street, past the baker, grocer, and cobbler shops, but still saw nothing resembling a pony or even a mug of ale.

He found the bar he was looking for: last house on the left.

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