Cargo

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Early morn, and the sun is up, though the proof would be hard to come by, for the clouds are low and the color of old dishwater. Bright threads of white flash through them like the shuttle of a loom, and distant rumbles follow soon after. A sudden rush of wind rolls through the snug Moren Valley, tousling the grass and whipping the tall, thin trees.

Little Jace runs through the woods as fast as he can, though the brush grows close and thick and there is no trail. He trips on a stone and sprawls into the ancient leaves and cast-off bark that litter the woodland floor. But he is a small boy and resilient and aside from abrasions on his palms and knees he feels no pain. The urgency of his mission propels him to his feet, and shortly he breaks into the open ground at the edge of the village. “Uncle Nob!” he cries. “Uncle Nob!”

In the village of Moren’s Run, any man is Uncle, and might be father.

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