Fang of Triseria

The road itself was overgrown, with deep ruts of ancient wagon tread filled in with small blades of grass peppered with the occasional hardy weed. There was a more defined path, that of previous patrols. Corea hadn’t expected to see a sign of her brother, yet, but she felt a great pain as she marched. A pain that she would never attribute to Egg’s punch.

Eryll cleared his throat again, and she turned; he flicked his hand forward, and she picked up her pace again. This would get old, fast.

The sun had crossed the middlemost part of the sky by the time something happened. Fang, yards ahead, had stopped suddenly, and yelped a dog’s whine, like when someone stepped on a hound’s tail. Corea herself had stopped and began to approach, but Erryl cleared the distance and held his hand back toward her, blocking her progress, his rapier extended.

Errly then whistled. It sounded like a bird’s call, but she didn’t recognize the bird. Corea and Erryl stood as Fang took several steps back and turned his back to the road, toward their destination. He looked miserable and hunched, walking back toward them. Erryl lowered his blade and strode toward the Wolf. Corea followed.

“What?” was all Erryl asked.

Fang looked sick, his ears drooping. Corea thought that he would have looked pathetic if he hadn’t looked like he could kill her with a glance, otherwise.

Fang whimpered and buried the tip of his nose into the back of his hand.

“Slime.”

Erryl sighed. “You are the most vicious fighter I have ever had the pleasure to work with, but I marvel at what actually fazes you sometimes.”

“A slime?” Corea asked, stepping toward Fang. He ignored her, breathing through the fur on the back of his hand.

“A slime, young Corea, is one of many monsters that are found in the world. Putrescent little living puddles. They are not uncommon; I am surprised you have never heard of them.”

“I’ve heard, but I don’t see it? Also, my brother killed one once.” She glanced at Fang. “Why is he scared?”

At that, Fang looked at her, his eyes sharp, annoyed. He grunted.

“Not fear.”

Erryl shook his head. “Our friend has a tremendous sense of smell. That comes at the risk of sensitivity. It’s why I carry wolfsbane on me.”

Fang grunted and peered behind him, his ears moving, trying to pick up movement.

“How would you describe what you smell, my friend?”

Fang stepped further back down the road whence they had come. He now had his nose buried into his forearm, draped by the cloak. It was as though the scent had pushed him away.

“Imagine every dead thing a vinegar jelly picks up and let’s rot inside it.” 

Corea swore she heard him gag. She gagged, too.

Erryl turned to her. “What do you know of them, Corea?”

“I know their acid can melt just about everything over time, but you can use it for a lot of things if you treat it right.”

Erryl smiled, and Fang grunted. Erryl continued, “spoken like a farmer, but a good observation regardless. Let me ask again, what do you know of the creature itself?”

Corea wasn’t sure what he was asking, but she answered as best she could. “Well, they are these jelly things that wander, eating whatever they can pick up as they move. They don’t really have a shape, and they don’t think. They don’t have brains or anything. They can slip into any gap they find. If they roll into a critter’s warren, they can fill the whole thing up with their… I guess you’d call it body?”

“Not bad, but if you are going to travel with us, you need to learn to hunt. And you are wrong on one key thing. No, they do not have brains, not as we understand them, but they do think, and they think quite hard about how to eat everything and anything.”

Erryl glanced down the road.

“And I want you to kill it,” he added matter-of-factly.

She stared at him for a moment. His smile was not quite friendly or reassuring, but something severe and forced. It was inscrutable.

She glanced back at Fang for guidance, but he had already retreated several more feet back down the road, staring past her and Erryl. His ears drooped, and he still had his cloak in front of his snout. He would periodically shift, looking for the source of the smell.

Corea looked down toward her waist and drew her knife, holding it up. She felt stupid holding it in place and standing in silence. She felt like a child playing pretend in the moment.

Fang’s sudden yelp caught her attention, and she glanced at him as he took several steps back, eyes locked on something ahead of the party. She turned to look up the road, and that is when she saw the slime ooze out from the brush. The green, jelly substance rolled up on itself, settling into place like a broad bubble, like on the surface of a stew.

Erryl glanced back and shook his head at Fang. “It’s a small one, you ferocious beast, you.”

Fang said nothing, simply shaking his head. After a moment, he hunched over, wretching and stumbling.

“Well, he is going to be as useless to us now as tits on a goose. Alright, child, listen closely.” Erryl crouched and pulled his bag from his shoulder, setting it on the ground. The sturdy leather held the bag’s shape as he ran his fingertips through various pockets, pouches, and what appeared to be a wooden case within.

As Erryl continued searching for something unknown, Corea glanced back toward the slime. It continued its slow approach, seemingly indifferent to the presence of herself and the two men.

It was an ugly, but fascinating thing. She watched as what was essentially a pale green bubble undulated slowly across the road. She couldn’t make out anything specific from this distance, but the surface shimmered as the slime seemed to wiggle forward, and less than an inch at a time. Within the pale green translucence, she swore she saw the remains of a rabbit suspended in the gooey body.

Or at least what was left of a rabbit.

“Ah, here we go.”

Corea turned her gaze back to Erryl, who now had his rapier unsheathed. She noticed he was rubbing something across the surface of the blade – not the entire blade – but a measured, practiced distance. She realized it was chalk.

“These foul little slimes are acidic, as you so astutely mentioned earlier. On most contacts, the acid is very weak, but where there is one slime, there can be several, and enough acid will eat into your steel.”

He stopped chalking the rapier and held the chalk to her in his open palm. She grabbed it. It was a simple stick, like what Mr. Gorten used at the inn.

“We neutralize the acid with chalk. There are a few other things that’ll do it, but it’s always wise to carry chalk. Not just for killing slimes, but you always want to find as many uses for what you carry as possible. Understand?”

Erryl glanced past Corea, where the slime had emerged; there was rustling in the nearby brush. A moment later, another slime, around the same size, sloshed through branches and leaves and bubbled up onto the road.

Fang barked. “Would you get on with it already? There are two of them now! They stink so much!”

“Ignore him.” Erryl rose to his feet and smirked at Corea. “Another thing to know is how to kill these things.”

Corea stood up next to Erryl, applying chalk to her knife tip and along the blade.

“Since we have a new guest, I’ll show you what to do with the first one. Walk with me. Keep my pace.”

Corea nodded. Erryl crept forward, not exactly at a tiptoe, but each step was deliberate and placed at an even pace. As they approached the slimes, the stench grew worse. For a time, Corea had considered that Fang had been overreacting, but at this distance, feet away, the smell turned her stomach. She’d smelled rotten meat that was more pleasant than this – and Fang had been right about the vinegar element of it, too. She stumbled a bit and noticed even Erryl had masked the scent with his left wrist beneath his nose.

He glanced toward her, his eyes watering. She felt her eyes water too.

“Look into the slime’s body,” he whispered. He nodded toward the slime that was only four feet from them. “Creep closer, but no sudden movements. They will lash out.”

She moved forward a couple of steps to where she could clearly see several things within the bubbled surface, including the remains of the rabbit – it almost appeared wrung dry.

“There is a bubble inside the creature. Think of it like a heart or brain. It’s not very big, but it is distinct. You need to pierce it. Have you ever played marbles?”

Corea glanced back, and she took a few steps back toward his side. “Yes. I have some in my pack…”

He shook his head and seemed to smirk. She’d missed something.

“It’s like poking a marble with a stick. Get through the jelly and tap the marble. The thing will practically melt.” 

He readied a stance with the rapier angled downward. She took a couple of steps to the side and watched him shuffle forward, almost like a crab; his upper body was locked into place, but his legs slid across the road in an odd, weaving shuffle.

She had barely caught the actual strike; it had been so fast, all she had seen was his arm expand outward and retract back into his stance. But the effect was immediate, and the slime began to bubble along the service and seemingly melt, as though the jelly had been exposed to the heat of a forge. There was a small hiss of acid and a puff of foul scent, but the thing was apparently dead.

That, however, caught the attention of its companion, and the other rancid bubble began to inch toward the remains.

“Now you.”

Erryl stared at her and nodded toward the slime.

“GO.”

Corea did not hesitate and approached the bubble, slowly. She noticed now that the slime had seemingly picked up speed, excited by something, and she wondered how that had worked. Within a couple of feet, she glanced over the dome-shaped body, seeking the marble shape beneath the slick surface. She found it floating in the ichor near the corpse of a bird hatchling. She held her breath and stabbed into the ooze, aiming for the internal bubble.

She retracted her blade but noticed nothing had happened. She stood, puzzled, for a half second, and then yelped as a slime-tendril lashed out from the seemingly placid surface. She felt the jelly whip her across the hand as she retracted her knife to her body and felt the hand tingle.

She took several steps back.

“The surface of the bastard is going to throw you off, so you’ll need to adjust. I find it tends to be a little deeper than you’d think. Try again.”

Corea shook her hand, adjusted the blade, and moved closer to the again-placid bubbled surface. She thrust the knife in deeper this time, to the point where her fist plunged into the surface. She felt an immediate tingle and nearly let go of her knife, but as the slime began to dissolve around her hand, she regained her grip.

“Good, now, hurry!” Erryl had swept in beside her and thrust a small vial toward her. Collect the ichor, collect the marble. Hurry, before the acid is useless.”

Corea’s hand still tingled, and it was very uncomfortable. It was like she had fallen asleep on it. She dropped her knife and fumbled at the vial, popping the latched cork and glancing at the rapidly liquifying remains of the slime.

Her first real kill, she thought. Then she shook her head. No time.

She found the “marble” in a mass of jelly that hadn’t quite liquified just yet and scooped up the little ball with as much of the material as she could on a couple of swipes with the vial. As she had scooped the small, round object in, she noticed it was soft, not quite as gelatinous as the rest of the body, but certainly not hard, like glass.

She held the glass vial to her face to get a sense of what this was. She hadn’t even noticed that Erryl, crouched, was already applying something to her hand. She didn’t know what it was, and nor did she care at that moment. She was too intrigued by what had been her first battle. 

It wasn’t much.

But I‘m not much, either, she reckoned.

“What you have there, child, is something very valuable, as you are already aware. Slime ichor is very potent, with a thousand uses. The trick is to keep the organ with the slime. The innards neutralize quickly when exposed to air, but keeping the organ, even pierced, with the slime will slow the reaction down and preserve it for a little longer.”

Erryl rubbed some form of ointment on her tingling hand, and she immediately felt a cooling sensation. She glanced down, noticing how red her skin looked across the back of her hand. Whatever poultice he applied had started to soothe the irritation.

“What you are feeling is the mint.”

She nodded and reached for her knife, but didn’t see where it was. 

The roadman held the knife toward her, handle-side first.

“Your blade. Thank you for not stabbing our mutual friend with it this time around.”

Corea flushed, embarrassed still. She took the handle and drew the knife closer to her body. Erryl rose to his feet. He continued speaking.

“You should know these things can get quite big. I’ve heard of one as big as three houses roaming the plains of Sanara that nobody has managed to kill. Some say larger ones still haunt some dungeons and caves all over Aurin.”

Corea nodded absent-mindedly. She hoped she’d never see a slime as large as that the Barber mentioned.

The smell had begun to diminish and was not as overwhelming. As far as Corea had figured, whatever caused the slimes to melt seemed to also cut their stink, and she was thankful. She still smelled decay, as now the remains of whatever the slimes had been digesting were exposed to open air, but it felt less intense.

She knew it was less intense as Fang’s thudding footsteps approached from behind her and Erryl.

“It still reeks here. We need to move before-”

A rustling from the undergrowth along the road further ahead made Fang pause. Within a moment, three more slimes shlorped their way onto the road, in the direction of the party.

Fang took several steps back.

“Fuck.”

“We seem to have a migration, my friends.” Erryl sniffed. “Interesting.”

“Migration?”

Erryl turned back to Fang, seemingly ignoring Corea’s question. She looked back as well, and Fang, covering his snout as best he could with two massive cupped paws, nodded solemnly.

“Damn,” Erryl added.

Corea asked again about the migration. But Erryl was still quiet; he seemed unsure of what to say. It was Fang who broke the silence through the muffling of his hands.

“They’re drawn to death.”

Corea wasn’t sure why Erryl couldn’t rattle that out. He was quite talkative. Why did it take the Wolf?

“Well, we just killed these two slimes, right?” she asked.

Fang was silent. He stared at Corea, his eyes appearing almost concerned… about her? She wasn’t sure what he was getting at. It was something that frustrated her immediately – some knowledge she was too simple to be let in on. She hated that.

“A slime migration moves toward battles. Nobody knows what draws them there, but if there is mass slaughter, they seem to find their way to it. Like carrion birds. No… more like a tide.”

“This was a battle, though, right?”

Erryl shook his head.

“This is nothing. Migrations are always aimed toward a significant number of deaths – that is why they come to battlefields and consume the dead of armies if left undefended. There was a fight in this area, somewhere on the way toward the old town, and it appears several people died.”

Corea suddenly understood and stared at the emergent slimes, inching their way toward her. They would consume what they could here and continue toward the old town.

She prayed silently that Garen would not be among the remains that drew the local slimes.

Derobed, the thin, desiccated body was no longer identifiable as who they once were, because, like their constructs, the Necromancer had long since had foreign flesh and bone stitched onto what was their original form.

Nude in the flickering torchlight, the Necromancer struggled to recall who they were before the work had consumed them. Things slipped in time, especially given the sacrifice of the work. How was I remembered? That was the nature of the work. The power to raise the dead was among the most potent of magics, but every construct slivered the soul.

The gods could be lenient. This world was a harsh one where everyone gave up a little bit of their soul to survive – the Necromancer remembered that much of the other faith they had once followed. Damnation was reserved, truly, for the most wicked, they had been told once. Who had said that? But the sheer volume of the work carved away at what the Necromancer once was. I was human once.

The sound of clattering bones on the marbled slab interrupted the drifting thoughts. By now, the construct created to tend to the Necromancer had removed their shattered hand. The Necromancer was impatient to get back to work, but there was a need for new fingers – fingers that were delicate, ready to work. Fingers that were special, strong, and nimble.

The construct was one that the Necromancer had seemingly known as it awakened. How did I know this thing? Its form was specialized, suited for the work of keeping the Necromancer in the condition to keep up the great work. Long, delicate fingers, constructed of five finger bones each, rested upon four hands, placed upon four arms. Each slender finger curled and flexed in four places, bone and sinew exposed, twisting in ways fingers did not twist and bend in life.

The Necromancer watched the construct split the skin at the fingers of the severed hand, like splitting open a bag,  plucking cracked shards of bone. Beautiful, delicate, new finger bones were attached, and the fingers were stitched anew. Shredded skin was replaced with patches of the best quality skin gathered from a recent band of scouts out of the town down the road. It had been three so far. The fool feeds the work.

The parts had been a boon. Mostly fresh parts came from wandering bandits who could put up a fight. Constructs inevitably would fall, be dashed to pieces. But as each of the ghouls fell in battle, those pieces would be collected and brought back. Reassembled, they would rise again to complete their tasks for the great work.

Because all that there was was the work. The Great Work.

The construct finished reattaching the wrist to the Necromancer’s arm, and the Necromancer’s thin form hopped off the slab with a click as bony feet hit stone. The construct bowed and skittered back into one of the spots in the wall where long exhumed corpses had been stored. Did I know them once? The construct would wait until needed again.

The Necromancer plucked their robe from the table and held it out, looking at it. It was large and formless; there had once been a belt or sash, but that had long since vanished. The robe was more practical than stylish, and the Necromancer wondered why it had these thoughts. Am I vain?

Why did the robe matter so much? It was dirty. It was torn. It was… purple? A hint of an elaborate pattern to the fabric remained. 

Flowers, weren’t they? No time for flowers.

The Necromancer stood, thin and bare, contemplating the nature of a robe. Finding no further need for one, they cast it aside and sat down at the stool before the slab, setting back to work.

“Master?” A wispy voice emerged from the darkness of one of the radiating tunnels. A construct, mostly fleshy, stepped into the chamber. Its voice was weak, thin. Three new sets of vocal cords would fix that. The Necromancer stared toward the Herald.

“From the south. Another scout. Dead. On the way.”

Speech was very taxing on the dead. It was best used sparingly, but the Herald was a necessary construct – even for simple updates such as this. A voice is a voice.

The Necromancer thought about speech. Even the slivered soul felt something. Was it loneliness? Am I lonely?

The Herald approached from the tunnel. It had once been a young woman, mostly. Parts were parts, and the broad chest that had belonged to a man worked well with the bellows that collected the air to force the words out. The Herald pushed the bellows into the chest, collapsing the pumps, filling the bladders that replaced lungs in life.

“Saw Wolf. Triseria. Swordsman. Enter town.”

The Necromancer had only recently felt a new sensation for the first time in decades. Curiosity. Leylines radiated across the land, down to thin veins of coursing magic, and there had been something. A spark. A sense of something at least – something not of the land.

It had been distant and small, but it was new. Is this doubt? Is this fear? ‘New’ merited study, and the Necromancer had pulled constructs from the Great Work to investigate. That had explained the expanded patrol from the town, but the patrol had not been the source.

Triseria. The word was familiar, but the context was not there. It was something of a story from a life formerly lived, but there was one clear association. A wolf. A prize.

Several constructs were reported to have been smashed to pieces, teeth removed. Why teeth? It was curious. It was a sensation. The work consumed, but now too did the question.

What draws the wolf to these lands?

The Necromancer had stopped their work for long enough, but then felt compelled to look at the delicate replacement fingers, flexing them and feeling something else. You are so vain. They turned their attention toward the herald.

“Anything else to report?” Each word required tremendous effort.

The Herald pumped the bellows twice. “Crow fly south. See wolf. Swordsman. Girl. March north. March here.”

Had this been the Mayor? Is it him?

The Necromancer paused. They could not remember a name, and suddenly, a new sensation arrived. An auspicious day, to be sure, but the sensation was painful. Not like the pain of the work – not like the compulsion. This pain was sadness.

The Necromancer rose from the stool and walked toward a door behind their station. A door that led into a deeper crypt. The heavy stone door required effort to move, and the Herald approached to help. The flexing of the chest inadvertently pumped the bellows and let out strange, soft wheezes as Master and Herald pried open the heavy door.

Within the chamber was a long hall of holes where coffins once rested. Centuries of some bloodline tied to these lands; tied to the town above. Which bloodline the Necromancer could not quite remember, but it seemed connected. Within moments, constructs clattered out of the dark spaces. Hundreds. The work begins.

The Necromancer stood to the side of the door, pointing toward the tunnels at the other end of the chamber where the work was done. Chattering skeletons and lumbering ghouls pushed out of the chamber, flowing around the marble slab that served as the Necromancer’s station. Atop which sat a bell jar, tangles of filament rising to the ceiling of the chamber and down the tunnels. Within the jar, a green miasmic haze pulsed regularly.

The Necromancer watched them wander into the tunnels.

A truce was broken. But why did the Necromancer feel sad?

If the Egg was not a roadman, he was a bandit who had found his way into the graces of the town, leaving the roads and woods to his kind who were not as clever as he was – and Fang could tell, the Egg was a clever one. The heavy sag to his pockets said as much, and the man slipping on a pair of iron knuckles from them put a point on it.

The man’s scent may have been the most unusual thing about him, from Fang’s perspective. There was an acrid taste of fear emanating from the man, but nowhere near as great as it should have been – given the nature of his opponent – given the nature of the blows that had exchanged so far. Instead, there was a spicy scent, a peppery note of adrenaline. The pale man was looking forward to this fight as much as Fang was.

As soon as Eghart began his dash toward Fang, the Wolf eased onto his back foot, expecting the iron knuckles on the first strike. Instead came a kick to the hip with such impact that Fang twisted against his will, falling off balance, allowing for the knuckles to come down to the top of his shoulder with a heavy thud. The explosion of force sent Fang sliding into the mud and grass. Eghart followed that opening with several stomps to the same shoulder.

The pain was exquisite. The Wolf began to growl, and Eghart’s foot obliged the Wolf again, right in the shoulder.

Now, though, Fang seized the opening of the repeated strikes and threw his other arm across his chest, raking his claws on Eghart’s foot as it slammed into his shoulder, placing as much pressure as possible to catch the large man on his other foot, unbalanced.

Fang’s claws were sharp. Fearsome. He’d made short work of many with them, and he’d always understood them to be agonizing, dagger-like points. But there was no cry from Eghart, and any resistance to them felt delayed, like the man learned his foot had been pierced seconds after the fact. There was no flex to the muscles.

Fang glanced back at the dumbfounded Eghart, who was staring at the claws in his foot, registering what had happened, but not feeling it.

The man felt no pain.

Fang raked regardless, shredding his claws through the man’s foot and rolling away. Eghart’s balance faltered, and he landed forward on the shredded foot and tumbled forward into the mud. Fang, having rolled into his back, seized the opportunity to bring a heavy fist square to the back of Eghart’s bald and scarred head, shoving his face further into the mud with the strike.

Fang was already trying to get back up to his feet as Eghart pulled his face up from the mud, who was now sputtering grass and gunk, hoping to catch his breath. He wiped away what we could with a heavy forearm and saw the Wolf begin to rise to his digitigrade feet. Fang glanced down and just caught the impact of the iron knuckles on his ankle, dropping him to his knees with a muddy splash.

Fang yelped as the heavy knuckles buried into his hip bone and again in his ribs. He felt his lungs deflate at the sound of a crack. Without thinking, Fang lashed out, raking again and finding purchase on some muscle he couldn’t quite see. But again, there was no sound or reaction from Eghart. Fang raked again, drawing claws through meat, and then gripping, using Eghart’s flesh as leverage to push himself away. The Wolf scrambled forward, pulling himself along the mud, grass, and blood until he was able to look back, seeing he had made a mess of Eghart’s calf.

But now, Eghart had already been turning to right himself, and Fang had done the same, rising onto unsteady feet as his ankle throbbed. The two took a moment to size one another up.

Fang had just barely caught a sign of movement behind Eghart when he heard a familiar squelch.

Eghart took a step forward and had already taken a second step before he noticed something had happened to his thigh, as he dragged Corea along, who had her knife buried deep into his flesh. The weight shift was what he had noticed, not the point of the blade.

He looked down at her, confused, unsure of what he was seeing.

…

Corea stared back at Egg, his eyes were wide, and his brow raised. He didn’t look like he was in pain at all, and Corea doubled down, putting all the weight she could against the knife, plunging it deeper. She felt hot blood bubble up and burst across her hands. She pressed her full weight into it.

Her eyes shut tight, she never saw his hand reach for her hair. One second, she clung to the blade; the next, she felt a fire across her scalp. She kicked her legs, not feeling the ground, and as she opened her eyes, she saw the ugly face of Eghart, staring, furious. Before she could spit in his face, she felt a heavy strike right into her stomach. She felt herself curl up into a ball and hit the ground. Her vision doubled on her as she lay curled tight in the mud, her belly throbbing.

She glanced toward Eghart. He smiled wickedly and shifted his attention to her, so many feet away – how far had he thrown her?

She caught sight of Erryl, the scarecrow man, leaping over her, his thin, reedy sword drawn, making his way toward the giant man.

But Erryl never made it.

She saw Fang leap from the blurriest end of her vision, land on Eghart, and watched them slide out of her sight. Fang’s roar split the air like a thunderclap. She shut her eyes to stop the world from spinning.

…

Erryl came to a sudden stop as his companion’s gigantic form collided with Eghart with such ferocity that it nearly sent Erryl himself reeling back. He felt his grip falter on his sword, Lancet, as both massive combatants vanished from his view, only to right his grip as he scanned to his right, seeing Fang perched down over the Eghart. The man’s bulbous head rested in the Wolf’s slathering jaws, and the jaws were now tightening.

This had gone too far. Fang’s eyes, yellow, shone with a feral aura that Erryl knew all too well. The jaws clenched, and the sound of bone splintering was clear. Fang wanted to kill the man as painfully as possible.

And yet Eghart did not scream. He wrestled his thick fingers against Fang’s muzzle and tore at the jaws, but it was the struggle of a man trying to break free to continue the fight, not of a man on the verge of having his skull crushed. There was no fear, just simple anger.

Erryl whispered a minor prayer to Armastrid, Raven of Roads, as he thwapped the flat of the rapier against Fang’s face, right at the bridge of the snout, just above the nose. He’d had an aggressive dog once, and the snout had been useful then.

“Don’t you fucking dare kill him! Spit the bastard out.”

Eghart’s head was still clenched between Fang’s jaws, and the yellow eyes focused on Erryl. There was a flash of predatory menace and the hottest rage one could imagine – as though Fang wished death upon him – but Erryl stood his ground, raising his rapier aloft, and staring right back at his partner.

Without a warning, Erryl struck again, the same strike in the same place. Eghart continued to grab at Fang’s maw, and Fang squeezed his jaws together tighter. The pale man’s face was covered in blood.

“Fang. Stop,” Erryl pleaded.

The werewolf paused for a moment and loosened his grip on Eghart’s skull. Fang whimpered slightly, his eyes wide in alarm and confusion. He opened his jaws fully, and Eghart’s body dropped to the mud. The man laughed.

“Good dog,” Eghart muttered, spitting fresh blood from his mouth.

Fang rose to his feet, and Erryl observed a slight limp. He would need to inspect that ankle once they’d made some distance.

 Fang wandered off, pausing for a moment to observe Eghart and then Corea. Erryl saw him pause, hang his head, and limp over to his belongings discarded for the fight. He’d never seen someone put up this much of a fight against the Wolf. That terrified him.

Erryl turned his gaze back to Eghart, who was grinning and breathing heavily on his back. Erryl took in his features, committing them to memory.

Erryl pointed the tip of the rapier at Eghart’s face. The man did not flinch. Erryl began to speak.

“Next time, I will not be there to save you; I do you this kindness as a medicine man. If you approach us again, you will die. I’ll do it myself to spare you my friend’s full fury. Do you understand?”

Eghart, still on his back, collapsed under his massive bulk, wiped blood from his face, flicking it at the feet of Erryl, dashing red streaks across his boots. Erryl did not react. Then the giant spoke.

“People have tried to kill me for years, barber. Best you kill me now. I’ll come for you, the mutt, and your little bitch, all.”

Erryl stared at the man, his toothy grin reduced to small yellowish islands in a pool of blood. His eyes were wide with the fervor of a predator, not unlike Fang.

Erryl shook his head and stepped away, seriously considering putting the rapier through both of the man’s eyes and down his throat for good measure.

…

Corea was still curled up and winded as Erryl approached. He tapped at her rear with the tip of his boot.

“Can you stand?”

“I can’t breathe,” she choked out.

“We are leaving now. Before any more violence breaks out. Get up.” His voice was emotionless. Couldn’t he see she was in pain?

“Get up, or we leave you here.”

Corea did her best to uncurl her body. She tried to take in some breaths and felt her midsection burn. She coughed up some blood onto the grass and curled up again.

“Get. Up.”

She uncurled and rose slightly, looking at Erryl’s severe face. She saw no concern, and it angered her.

He looked at her for a couple of moments, shook his head disapprovingly, and walked off. At that, Corea scrambled to her feet, though it left her breathless and throbbing, falling to her knees. She glanced around. Eghart was still breathing heavily in the grass. Her knife was left where they had been standing before Fang…

She glanced around. Fang was already several yards away, and Erryl was gaining ground on him. The Wolf had just walked with his arms full, not even pausing to set his chains or shoulder his cloak.

Corea rose onto unsteady feet and trudged swervingly to the knife. She picked it up, slick with blood, mud, and failure. She glanced back over to Eghart, who had turned his head to look at her. He smiled at her as blood poured from his mouth. Several large punctures ringed his head across the crown. After a moment, he turned his gaze back up to the morning sky, and Corea did her best to jog after the Wolf and the Barber.

…

“The good news is, the ankle is not broken or sprained. Now my specialty is not werewolves, but it’s stiff because you took a big chunk of iron right fucking to it.”

Erryl tightened the lacing leather cuffs Fang wore around his ankles. The Wolf growled at the sudden tightness, but Erryl simply continued his work.

A low, rumbling “Thank you” came after a time.

 Erryl smirked. “For the ankle, my company, or stopping you from killing that man in a shower of gore?”

Fang was silent.

“You keep your temper remarkably well, given your affliction. What set you off?”

Fang continued to sit in silence, almost sulking. Erryl slapped Fang’s ankle, making him yelp.

“Fucker!” he barked.

“You don’t get to do that – be silent and brooding when you are a goddsdamned powder keg. I travel with you because you have a handle on it, but you terrify me, you great big bastard.”

Fang glanced directly into Erryl’s eyes. Erryl continued.

“Between us, me and the child, even as fearsome as she is, we know you are the things parents warn their children about in the dark. I know that’s not all you are, but you fucking terrify me. What happened?”

Fang shook his head and hung his gaze low, not wanting to meet Erryl’s eyes suddenly.

“The girl… the man hit her. It was a stupid thing she did, but she reminded me of my son.” Fang glanced back up at Erryl. “I miss my boy.”

Erryl fell back from his crouch to sit on the grass. Taking a moment to think.

“Didn’t know you had a son. How old?”

“Little older than Corea.”

“Shit. That would do it, I suppose.”

The Wolf said nothing further. He nodded to the girl as she limped up the road toward the northern gate – toward the two of them. Erryl gestured for her to sit, just as Fang rose and wandered past the gate, onto the larger road. He would take watch in case trouble came to find them before they left.

“I see you decided to join us,” Erryl said tonelessly as he rose to his feet.

“I’m really hurting.”

“Serves you right for your second stupid assault with a knife today.”

“He was attacking…”

Erryl slapped her.

Corea rubbed her face, her eyes wide in shock. She looked stupid and betrayed. She looked like a child.

Erryl hadn’t wanted to do that – to strike her. Especially given what Fang had said, but the Wolf did not react to it. This was a lesson she had to learn.

“At this point, Corea, you are a liability. You are the weakest link in our chain, and that will change. Either that changes, or we set you loose and you die on the way. Understood?”

He stared into her eyes and saw that they were watery and red. The change occurred almost instantly, with a blink and a hard gulp. One moment, her brows were drooping like those of a spoiled girl; the next, they were furrowed and angry. Good. He could use that.

“Understood,” she said.

He knelt to look her in the eyes. “Good. May I check your stomach? You took a strong blow from that monster.”

“Fang didn’t hit me.”

Erryl glanced toward Fang, noticing an ear twitch. Good. He needed to hear that.

“I meant the albino,” he added.

“Oh, right…” She looked at Erryl, then past him, toward Fang. “Did he hear me say that?”

“Absolutely,” he added. ‘I need to feel under your clothes, it is just the stomach and the lower ribs, understood?”

She nodded and untucked the shirt from her breeches and lifted the tunic. A dense, rectangular bruise emblazoned the pale skin of her stomach, just below the ribcage. There was a chance that had the strike been higher, her ribs would have shattered.

Erryl shook his head and lowered her hands that held up the clothing.

“A nasty bruise that took the wind out of you, but you’ll be fine. I’ll give you something for the pain.”

He handed her a ginger root that had been dusted in crystallized bloodshroom sap. “Chew as we walk. We leave now.”

He stood up as he slung his bag over his shoulder and reached his hand down to her. She took it and rose to her feet, tucking the shirt into her pants. Erryl had already begun walking, and she came up behind him.

Fang stood outside the gate, a few yards away. He’d finished wrapping his chains around his massive body and throwing his cloak over his shoulders, latching the pin. He turned to face them as Erryl stepped past the gate that made up the northern entry to the town.

Corea hesitated. Erryl continued moving, perhaps not really noticing in the moment, or perhaps knowing this was a moment she needed to do on her own, when he thought back on it years later.

…

Corea had never ventured along the north road, having been told by Mr. Gorten that he would tan her hide for even approaching it. He was a mean man in many ways, but it was the meanness of someone caring.

She felt bad that she had left so quickly after letting him know his mother had died. She wanted to help him tend to the body, but there was no time if she was to find Garen. He’d take care of her. He’d put Grandma to rest.

She felt bad about it, but in at least a couple of ways, she was relieved Grandma Nettie had passed this morning. Corea was free now to do the work that so few others would do. And uncle Nathan – Mr. Gorten –  would be too distracted to tan her hide for what she was about to do.

She took a deep, painful breath and stepped past the gate. She hung there for a moment, in silence and doubt. She touched her tummy and winced. Was she ready for this, really? The Wolf and Egg had made short work of her twice this morning, and she would be traveling with the Wolf. He was scarier than she had thought he was last night – this morning it had been claws, teeth, and blood.

She tried to breathe again, and just as she let the pain settle, she saw down the road that the Wolf and the Barber were waiting for her.

She started walking.

The two roadmen of Fools’ Errand paused in their tracks. They turned to look back at the girl, shocked.

“Mr. Nathan’s words, I just agree with them,” she added.

“No love lost amongst the family, I see? Just how related are all of you here in New Gordhurst?”

Corea thought about it, her face scrunched as she combed through all the names of surviving lines in town. Erryl watched her think as Fang glanced around and along at the edge of the muddy thoroughfare that made up the route through the village. It was still sunrise, so there were few people out, though two guards at either end of the road, on some sort of patrol, glanced at him. How could they not?

“Well, there were about eight families sprung off the Gordhurst name. That family isn’t around anymore. I think they were ancient. Right now, there are Gorses, Gortens, Gorvals, Gordursts, and Gordanes. I think the Gaerigs are an offshoot. Mr. Donnel is the last of them. There were also Gourlings and Gaenneths. I sometimes play with Ms. Eslpeth’s kids. They are Gaenneths. We also have some outside folk who moved in, and there are a few of them left here from the old town. But you were just asking about the big families, right?”

“Yes, exactly right, thank you, Corea. Would you say the big families are always in charge?”

“As far back as I can tell?”

“Yes, has it ever been different?”

“Well, I guess Mayor Gorval’s dad ran things before him.”  She thought a little more, then continued. “I know that Mr. Nathan – he’s a Gorten – is a cousin to the Gorvals. He’s my uncle… my grandma’s first son. My father was a Gorten until he married my mom and they combined their names. Gorten and Lorse. Gorse. That was kind of a scandal, the way my grandma told it. Apparently. Oh, and Gorten was a mix of Gorval and Mauten. Gorten. That was a scandal, too. Garen told me he heard father and uncle talking about getting as far from the Gorval name as they could. Nobody likes the Mayor.”

“So that would be a no, then.”

Corea realized she’d nearly ignored the question.

“Oh, yeah, that would be a ‘no,’ I think the Mayor’s family has run things forever. Though I guess he’s my family, too. I don’t like that.”

Erryl nodded and glanced over to Fang, who stared at him impatiently. Fang sniffed at the local air and grimaced at something foul in the distance. “Done with the local gossip?”

Erryl smiled. “Our little fighter is a wealth of information.”

“Don’t see the need to pedigree the local farmers.”

Erryl continued walking, plucking an apple from his bag and tossing it to Corea. She caught it easily. Her reflexes were good.

“And that large, pale gentleman, the walking Egg. What do you know about him?”

Fang’s ears perked up, and Erryl glanced over toward the Wolf, who had been trudging dutifully alongside him.

Corea took a bite of the apple, chewing as she spoke. She was clearly famished. “That’s Mr. Eghart, just don’t call him Egg to his face. I saw him punch out Mr. Sott’s teeth one time.”

“Eghart, is that his first name or family name?”

“Family. I think his first name is Mulluck. Mulluck Eghart sounds about right.”

“What do you think of him?”

“His name sounds like a frog. He’s a cunt, too. ”

Fang laughed.

Corea glanced up at the giant werewolf striding ahead of her, and Erryl noticed the slightest hint of a smile on her face. It might have been hard to fathom her stabbing a beastman four times her size moments ago had he not witnessed it himself.

“A lady ought not use the word,” Erryl replied. “Where did you pick that up?”

“I work at the Inn and bring people their beers. I heard you use the word twice when you were drunk last night.”

Erryl shook his head. He laughed to himself.

The trio approached the mayor’s home – the sizable, defensible home that it was. To Erryl, where he stood in the street, it was a shell, and a meaty, spineless thing sat within, cloistered away, fat, happy, and secure. Ripe for the taking, if the opportunity and proper leverage were applied.

…

“How many men have you killed, Wolf?” asked the child.

“Many.”

“Yes, but how many is that?”

“How many men have you killed?” asked Fang.

“None,” Corea scowled.

“I’ve killed more than that,” Fang replied.

Corea stomped up the broken stairs to the covered porch of the Mayor’s home. She glanced at the broken step. “I wonder what happened here?”

Fang was silent.

She leaned over the railing that surrounded the porch.

“Is your friend really going to try to get money out of the Mayor to rescue Garen?”

“He’ll try.”

Corea had absentmindedly pulled out the kitchen knife and dug the point into a section of the railing. After a moment, she glanced over to the Wolf, who stood on the grass, keeping watch. He didn’t seem to notice the knife was out.

She had felt bad for a moment and considered putting it away, but instead turned her attention to digging the point into the wooden railing.

“So what are you watching out for?”

“Danger.”

“I thought a talking werewolf would be more interesting.”

Fang shook his head and turned toward her. He caught a glimpse of the knife, scanned what she was doing, and then looked back at her. He lowered his hood to show his ears.

“Perhaps if you were quiet, you might pick up a thing or two yourself.”

Corea stopped carving. She had made a cross so far. “What are you picking up?”

“I hear sounds from inside. I am not in the room, but I am at their meeting. Erryl and your Mayor.” He gestured to the window out front. “They’re there now, just inside, peek into the window if you’d like.”

Corea raised an eyebrow, skeptical of Fang’s boast, but crept to the window. Sure enough, from the corner, she observed Erryl and the Mayor. They were shouting, maybe, but it wasn’t distinct to her. It was muffled anger through thick glass.

She walked back to the stairs that led down from the porch and looked at the Wolf. He seemed to be smiling, if one could call it that, on a wolfen face.

“Are all your senses that strong?” she asked.

Fang nodded.

“I smell the dead, girl. All around the town. Within the woods,” he paused briefly, staring her in the eyes. “On you.”

She felt her heart claw its way into her throat. He knew? Is that why he hadn’t killed her for stabbing him? The monster pitied her?  She felt herself stumble for a moment. Fang continued to look at her, his brow noticeably softened.

“Her cloak, yes?”

Corea nodded.

“Was it a long sickness?” he asked.

“Two years.”

“I see.”

“Garen is all I have.” She began to cry. She raised her hand; her fist trembled. She readied to strike herself, but a sharp whine came from the Wolf. She looked at him, and he had stepped closer to the porch where she stood.

“Corea,” her name rumbled out of a fearsome bark. “Many battles ahead. Don’t fight this one.” It didn’t feel like yelling. It didn’t feel angry.

She unclenched his fist and slowly let her hand fall to her side. This was the first time he’d said her name, from what she could remember. No “girl” or “child.” It was comforting. She watched him turn and trudge back to where he had previously stationed himself.

“Mister Wolf, what was your name again?”

Fang turned around and lifted the left flew of his snout, exposing his many teeth, tapping at a fang with a claw. He glanced at her.

“Your name is Tooth?” she asked.

Fang stood there for a moment, confused.

“I know you mean Fang. I was joking.”

Fang’s brow furrowed, and he huffed. “I chose it after everything that happened. I realized I would be stuck like this; it seemed fitting given the circumstances.”

“What were you called before?”

“Hush.” The command was a growl. Corea wasn’t sure what had happened. She stared at the werewolf, who was now crouched, alerted to something. Then she noticed his ears shifting – two triangles on his head – focusing on something.

Without warning, he snarled and tore over the railing of the porch, directly toward the window where Erryl and the Mayor were meeting.

…

“Fuck you” was all that slipped from the Mayor’s lips. It had only been five minutes since Erryl had talked his way back into the home.

Erryl shook his head, puffing at his pipe. He sat back on the exact cushion where he sat yesterday afternoon. The room was still a mess, and there was still a layer of dust all over Mayor Corrigan Gorval’s study. Some new things had appeared, notably papers. There were also a couple of trunks that had been opened, the contents being removed and set into nearby piles.

Yesterday’s visit has sparked something in the Mayor. His eyes were red and puffy.

Erryl reiterated his point, “Mr. Mayor, surely you wish to see a rescue party formed, especially when there is a nephew’s life on the line. The descendants of old Gordhurst have met untold, sprawling tragedy; surely you can trust us to prevent another? We can even take your Mister Eghart along to ensure the deal is honored. As I understand it, he is the captain of the civil defense? We’d be grateful for his accompaniment. Anyone you can spare. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

The Mayor glared at Erryl, and Erryl observed the man’s face screwed into a red pinch from a sea of doughy paleness. The man opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. The effect was that of a fish plucked from the water – flummoxed and desperate. Erryl continued to puff on his pipe.

“You’re a godsdamned fool if you go looking for the old town, or anyone who was lost on patrol. You think we haven’t tried rescues before? We try, and they die – that’s how it has been. You may be handy at dispatching a couple of ghouls, and maybe your guild is as notable as you brag, but…” 

“… but, you hadn’t had myself and my companion at your service,” Erryl interjected.

The mayor stood up and walked around behind the seat where he had been sitting, back toward his desk. He stumbled a bit, still in the haze of intoxication. He leaned over the couch, digging his fingers into dusty fabric. He shook his head. He was exhausted. Desperate.

“I am the only reason you are safe here. The only reason anyone is safe here. I keep the monsters at bay – the bastard who killed my wife and son and razed the town, he keeps us here because it hurts me. Do you understand what I am sacrificing just to keep everyone here alive? You and your wolf, and that poor girl you plan to drag along with you, my niece, no less. I’d just as soon have you all killed where you stand to protect you from something far worse. You don’t know the evil out there as I do – and when you die, I will mourn the girl you drag down with you, you fucking arrogant scarecrow prick.”

Mayor Corrigan backed away from the seat and walked over to his desk, piled high with tomes and bric-a-brac. He glanced out the window that framed the desk. There were two empty bottles of drink on the desk… two bottles that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“I regret the loss of the boy. I do. I regret the loss of the others, too. Don’t you see it? My family, my town, it’s all dying a slow death. We rarely lose anyone on a patrol, not for years – there is an unspoken truce. Of course, I am troubled by the loss of this one. Five good men! One of them was my brother’s child!”

Brother’s child? 

Corrigan whirled back toward the desk, his eyes redder now. He’d been crying at the window. He leaned toward the desk and stared deep into Erryl’s eyes. It made Erryl uncomfortable – his whole countenance was off – frenzied, not just angry. Erryl had inspired enough anger towards him in life to know the difference. This was… feral.

“It wasn’t until you and that damnable Triserian arrived, you know? The patrol went out around the time you must have been traveling into our lands. It senses you, I think. It responded to you. You’re inserting yourself into something that you think you can so easily destroy. The Necromancer sees everything. You think I hadn’t acted before? Tried to get people out?!”

The mayor leaned down and drew a heavy crossbow from behind the desk, pulling the bolt back and locking it into place as he swung his arms up, aiming it squarely at Erryl.

He pulled the trigger. 

The Wolf crashed in from the window.

Erryl hadn’t even noticed the bolt miss him, as he had been too struck by the sight of Fang barreling into the glass pane and clawing his way out of the frame. The window was large, but it wasn’t large enough for Fang to simply slide through. Erryl watched Fang’s jaw gnash with every bark as clawed hands tore at the wooden frame. Glass shards, still lodged in the frame, tore through the wolf’s hide with a sickening ripping noise. After a few seconds, with a huff and a puff, Fang’s body was through. He stumbled in and, to find balance, he put his weight upon the desk, which promptly collapsed, knocking the Mayor back as he had been fumbling with a new bolt for his crossbow.

With a sudden strike, Fang, still off balance, grabbed the mayor at the chest, gripping the man’s robe and holding him two feet aloft. Corrigan scrambled and kicked, but without letting the man drop once, Fang found his footing, raising Corrigan several more feet from the ground, the man still flailing. He had even gotten a few good kicks to Fang’s ribs as Fang drew him closer to his own face.

Without a second thought, Fang then hurled the Mayor to the other end of the room. Erryl had to duck at the trajectory, nearly being clipped as the Mayor flew overhead. The man crashed violently into a wall of books, breaking several shelves. The impact knocked nearly every book off the wall.

Erryl scrambled to his feet, climbed over the seat, and fell to his knees, checking to see if Corrigan was even alive.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Erryl hissed.

“He was going to kill you.”

Erryl searched for signs of life. Corrigan was dazed, barely alert. Perhaps his head had hit the wall. His bell had been thoroughly rung.

Shit.

“I almost had him, I’ll have you know. He would have paid us.”

“He wasn’t going to pay us, and you knew that, Barber. You wanted your silly little mystery.”

“It can be two things!”

A whistle from outside grabbed their attention. They both turned to look back at the window, spotting Corea looking into the room.

“Fucking Hells,” she whispered.

Erryl glanced back at Fang, who looked at him. The Wolf was breathing heavily.

“One of us is going to have to talk to her about her language,” Erryl said.

Fang grunted and picked up the crossbow from the floor where the Mayor had been standing. He held it up. As Corrigan wielded it, it appeared large and deadly. As Fang held it, it looked like a toy.

“Do you want this?” the Wolf asked.

“The poor man has had it hard enough already. I’d prefer not to steal his things.”

Fang dropped the crossbow to the ground with a bored expression, and the crossbow clattered loudly on the hardwood. 

“Fine.”

Erryl watched Fang stomp off to the door to the house, still breathing hard. It was a minor bloodlust. Erryl observed the chaos of the room, ensured the Mayor was still alive, and rose to his feet, following. He paused at the side of the seat where he had been sitting. A single crossbow bolt was buried in the wooden frame.

…

The shattering of glass threw Eghart into a panic. The clamor pulled him away from a warm bed and into the early morning air. Erupting from behind a building and onto the main thoroughfare, he saw the werewolf climbing through the window into Gorval’s office. Eghart hadn’t equipped himself for the day as he had paid Elspeth his usual visit, still lacing up his trousers as he watched the attack.

Shirtless and bootless, he ran to the scene, fists clenched and heart beating fast. As he approached, he spotted the waif from the inn step up toward the window. The fucking girl with the dead brother brought this on. He wondered if he could get away with beating her to death for the trouble, even if she were Corrigan’s niece.

He arrived in front of the house just as the werewolf had stepped to the front door on his way back out – Eghart had never wanted a spear with him in his whole life more so than the moment he locked eyes with the beastman. Without a moment’s hesitation, Eghart tore up the broken steps and threw his body at the werewolf’s midsection, bowling the beastman over.

The man and the wolf collapsed into a heap in the foyer as Eghart began pummeling. The wolf’s grip on the door had ripped it from the frame, and it fell on them both, creating a bizarre pile of man, beast, and wood. Eghart elbowed the door, sending it sliding to the floor with a clatter, and he continued to rain blows upon the beast.

…

The speed and intensity of the fists had caught Fang off guard. The weight of the pale man did not help, either. Fang had thought the man was fat, clearly heavy, but this weight was dense; it was pure muscle, and the strength the man carried was transferred from punch to punch. Each violent impact on his face and neck sent the back of Fang’s skull smashing into the wooden floor. The blows kept coming, steady now, as the man dug his fingers deep into the soft hide that covered Fang’s throat. The man was smart, choking him to the best of his ability, and stabilizing himself for maximum leverage on each punch.

This was a real fight. It had been a while. Fang was thrilled. 

As another heavy blow came down toward Fang’s face, the werewolf swung a massive arm to block it, colliding with the pale man’s arm, throwing him off balance, and resulting in him collapsing onto Fang. The sudden shift of weight was rough, but the instability allowed Fang to lift his right shoulder from the floor and turn over, pinning the large man between his body and the stairwell.

Fang rocked the opposite direction, creating space and scrambling to his feet as best he could as the pads on his fingers and toes slid around. Fang had to dig his claws into the floor outright to gain some traction, using a wall as a handhold to rise to his feet. Aloft, finally, he glanced at a dumbfounded Erryl and smiled at him. Hot blood trickled around the edges of his mouth. It tasted good.

Fang stepped over and grabbed the wrist of the pale man, and with a sudden jerk pulled him from the floor, hurling him out the front door into the mud and grass. With luck, his shoulder would be dislocated.

…

Eghart had never been airborne before. The sensation was alien, but he could barely dwell on it as he hit the ground after two seconds. The mud and grass had cushioned the blow, barely, but it still took the wind out of him.

He lay on his back, breathing out the force of the impact. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt Eghart. But the impact was still felt, physically,  like a laden cart hitting a wall. The ringing in his ears began to fade, and he rolled himself over to his knees, rising from the ground as the wolf hopped from the porch to the damp earth, his weight generating a pile of mud at his feet. Eghart looked up at him, spat up blood, and slowly shifted his weight, raising to meet the wolf. 

The wolf nodded, unlatching his cloak. Beneath the cloak was a sizable length of heavy iron chain, which the wolf also discarded. Lastly, the tremendous broadsword that had been lashed to the back of his leather vest collapsed on the pile of chain and fabric.

Eghart flexed his fingers and wrists, loosening up. He slid his heavy right forearm across his mouth to sop up as much blood as possible. He repeated the same with his left arm, leaving red smears across pale skin. Raising his arms, he took a defensive stance, his fists raised, poised to strike.

“Is that all you have, dog?”

The wolf flexed his own fingers and then closed his fists.

Neither of them moved for several moments, sizing one another up.

Eghart was not a small man. He was taller than most, but the wolf towered over him by at least a head. It was intimidating, especially given the monstrosity that stood before him. But Mulluck Eghart knew monsters. He’d been one most of his life.

Fang straightened up and plucked his sword from the wall where it rested. He parted the cloak slightly away from his back, wide enough to lift the enormous blade and slot it into the reinforced leather loops on the back of his vest to hold it in place. Erryl watched an arm as thick as a tree trunk lift the blade overhead as though it weighed nothing. Erryl knew, though, that the blade weighed a great deal. He’d nearly thrown his back out trying to lift it once as the two sat drinking while camped one night.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been hungover.” The Wolf slid the massive blade into place to punctuate his point. The sound of the crossbar hit the leather with a thunk.

“It is done in any case, no way to avoid her tagging along now.”

“We can leave now. We find her brother – corpse or person – and bring what we find back. We honor the deal. That is as far as we go.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Surely someone is watching over the child and won’t let her follow. Surely this strange town is not that ignorant to let a child wander.” Erryl tapped his foot on the dirty floorboards at the stable entrance. “Though given the brother…”

“Stop. Erryl. He signed on and did his duty. Not a wandering child. You were a year older when you killed your first man. Did you not?”

Erryl glanced over his shoulder as Fang approached. He locked eyes with the tremendous werewolf as he crossed into the morning air to the outside of the stable. The Wolf turned back to look at him.

“I don’t see why my history has any bearing on this situation,” Erryl paused, “Wolf.”

Fang shook his head. “Boys become men early these days. We’re both examples. The brother, Garen. Another man chosen.”

“Yes, but what of the brood? This whole strange town?”

“No conspiracy to the brother’s fate. Its the way of the world. Blame the gods.”

Fang locked eyes with Erryl, and Erryl noticed the wolf’s brows were furrowed and seemingly sad. His companion’s eyes were still a shining yellow and intimidating. But there was also an apparent sadness. The eyes of a survivor.

They were eyes Erryl knew he himself possessed. Eyes that no doubt were common among most people of Aurin. Dying, corrupt, and deadly Aurin.

 Erryl rubbed some sleep from his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He walked up to the werewolf, who had resumed his ineffectively obscuring hunch, and looked him in his wolfen face.

“I’ll need to stop by the Mayor’s place again. Surely recovering a body would be worth some coin – especially if he is a ‘man of the people.’”

Fang nodded and began to step toward the other side of the inn. “Make it quick. We need to get out of town before she returns. I’ll lie low at the north path.”

Erryl began to follow. He expected this to be a wild goose chase.

What he did not expect was a small figure, draped in red, to run up and stab Fang in the thigh.

…

She had heard them conspiring to leave with her coin, break their contract, and leave her to the village – to abandon her. 

To abandon Garen.

Before she had thought it through, she found herself rushing toward the giant beast, knife drawn back with both hands, and thrusting it forward, burying the point as deep into the thick thigh that kept him standing. She had hoped he would topple, but Corea was not strong, and she held the knife in the Wolf’s thigh meat, glancing up at him.

She watched his head turn and ghastly yellow eyes narrow on her, as though he had been bitten by a bug or louse. He simply twisted his body, and his natural strength ripped the handle of the knife from her grip, the blade still buried into his leg. As she fell to her knees, off balance from losing her handhold, he took several steps back, seemingly, perfectly calm. 

She glanced up from the mud and grass, and now the scarecrow, the man named Erryl, had swept into the space between them, his blade drawn and pointed directly at her face. His own face seemed dark and furious. He didn’t move a muscle as Corea stumbled backward from him, scooting away as her hands pulled her along the moist earth.

Neither of the mercenaries moved, still, as she scrambled to her feet. She would be the first to speak.

“You were going to leave me here. You were going to steal my coin! I heard you!”

Erryl flicked his rapier upward. “How long were you listening?” he asked.

“Just now! I just heard you.”

Erryl shook his head and turned to look back at Fang, who stood silently, staring at her. Erryl glanced down at the knife, still lodged in the Wolf’s leg. The stillness of the Wolf terrified Corea. She could hear his deep breathing.

Erryl looked back at Corea. He looked mad at her. He pointed the blade at her again, and she flinched. He swished the blade around a bit before tucking it away.

“If I had pulled that… If I heard something I did not like and came out swinging, as you did, I’d have died thirty times over by now. Idiot.”

He pinched his brow, just above his nose. “We were not going to steal your coin. We were going to honor the contract; we just weren’t going to take you along. You’ve certainly made the case for us now.”

The man trudged over to the Wolf, who continued to stand motionless. Corea could see his yellow eyes fixed on her. The eyes did not shift, nor did he wince, even as Erryl ripped the blade from Wolf’s thigh.

The knife landed with a wet thump in the grass at her feet. She glanced down at it, the coating of blood suddenly made her a little nauseous. She began to crouch to pick it up, but her eyes met the Wolf’s again, and she stood back up.

Erryl began to tend to the wound.

I heard them, she thought, didn’t I?

…

Erryl glanced at the wound. Fang’s stillness was not so much shock but a calculated choice not to immediately lash out at the child. Erryl had seen this reaction twice before. It made his fingers tremble.

Fang’s affliction, what else could it be called, was like traveling with a keg of spark powder. Erryl had treated enough accidental spark burns to know careful handling was paramount.

“My friend, I need to touch the wound to make sure I do not need to stitch it. May I?”

Fang’s gaze suddenly jerked from the child and down to Erryl. His eyes were wide, and Erryl felt agitation radiating from them, held back by the beastman’s not-informidable willpower. Care was very much needed.

Fang huffed for a moment and let out a low “Yes.” 

Erryl tore at the breeches a bit to get a clearer look at the wound. It was hard to tell beneath the dense and coarse fur, but Fang’s legs were thick, and his skin was tough. After a couple of moments of delicate prodding, he noticed the wound wasn’t incredibly deep. He considered the knife and what he remembered as he ripped it away from his companion’s leg in a blind rush. There wasn’t that much blood.

“Not deep, I can run up a simple poultice, and we can patch your trousers, and you’ll be good.”

Erryl, still crouched, pulled his healer’s bag from his shoulder and set it on the ground. He looked back toward the girl.

“I need clean water and some fabric to patch the trousers you ruined. Go.”

Corea nodded, taking a couple of steps back, her eyes darting between the knife and Fang. She paused for a moment and then scampered off.

As she was out of earshot, Erryl glanced up at Fang. “Please don’t eat the child. We don’t need to live a fairy tale story.”

Fang sighed and released some tension from his body. “There’s been enough death already.” He sighed.

Erryl was busy sorting through pockets and small boxes of herbs and medicines, but paused for a moment. 

“Her brother?”

Fang shook his head. “Someone else – close to her. A smell on the cloak, on the girl. I smell death.”

Erryl clipped a stem of stinging nettle and milked an acrid fluid into a bowl, and then pulverized mint leaves into the mixture.

“I suppose you would know better than I, friend,” Erryl said as he continued to pulverize the mix.

…

It was a few minutes before Corea returned, clutching a shirt. She approached the pair, keeping her distance while holding the shirt out to them. She held a bucket of water at her side.

Fang sat on a nearby stump, seemingly studying her as Erryl approached and took the shirt and bucket from her. He nodded toward the knife.

“Pick it up.”

She dutifully made her way over to it and plucked it from muddy grass. Erryl already began tearing at the shirt, shaping a rough patch.

“It was Garen’s,” she said, meekly.

Erryl said nothing. Corea watched as he handed the shirt to Fang, who began to take in the scent. He paused for a moment and glanced back at her. His expression has softened, but it did not do much to make him look any friendlier. He seemed curious, though, by Corea’s measure. She wiped at the knife with the end of her cloak and tucked it into her belt.

She was unsure of what to say or do, and just watched. By all rights, they had all the more reason to leave without her now.

She watched Erryl wash the wound with a mixture of water and some liquid from a flask he carried, and then apply some muck she didn’t recognize. Apparently, the man was a healer of some kind. There hadn’t been a healer in New Gordhurst since she was five or six. She watched him work.

“Stinging nettle, mint, antlion blood, and mud.”

She had been watching his hands, and she hadn’t noticed him looking back at her.

“Stinging nettle helps the flesh swell. Mint soothes the wound. Antlion blood is a common treatment for healing, as its blood can wash away sepsis. Mud binds them together.”

“Where did you learn that?” she asked.

“I didn’t say you could talk. Watch. Learn. You’re going to need to carry your own weight.”

So they were going to leave her behind? It was fair. She had been stupid.

Fang tucked Garen’s old shirt into his own satchel and sat calmly as Erryl began to sew up the trousers. The Wolf’s massive elbows rested on his legs as his hands hung limp. He stared into the distance, waiting for the task to be done.

Erryl sewed with practice hands, and Corea recognized the specific stitching. She had learned them from her grandmother before she had gotten sick. Before she died. She felt tears welling up and quickly tugged on her ear as hard as she could from beneath her hood. She felt like she could have ripped it off had she tugged just a bit harder. The pain replaced the sadness.

She glanced back at the two roadmen. Fang was staring at her. His eyes narrowed to inhuman yellow slits. She stared back at the Wolf. She could not guess what he felt, beyond anger, she supposed.

Erryl spoke again as he got up from the long crouch and began to stretch his legs. “The price has gone up. You’ll pay it upon our return to town.”

Corea shrank a bit. So they were honoring their word and doing the task, but she would need to stay behind. There was no case she could plead for them to take her along.

“If we’re to escort you, the price has got to go up,” he added.

She knew it was a slim hope, but with those two roadmen, the search was the best possible chance she had of finding Garen. And Garen was smart. He was so smart. Garen was brave, too. He had a chance, and now she had a chance to help him.

She tried to avoid clattering and too much noise in the hovel as she packed. Grandma was resting quietly. She would ask Mr. Nathan to keep an eye out for her – she was his mother, after all. There was still stew from yesterday on the hearth, simmering over dying coals. He was welcome to some as he wished.

Corea darted back outside, brought in some branches she’d gathered recently, and tucked them into the embers. She paused, waiting for them to burn. She glanced at the mark of Helatros, God of Hearths, chiseled into one of the flat rocks that made up the hearth ring. After a few moments, the branches began to smoke and finally lit up. As she watched the branches alight, she realized some dried dung would also help. She tossed in a couple of the nearby chips and then wiped her hands on her morning gown.

She threw the gown off and over her head and grabbed at some breeches that had been Garen’s when he was smaller. She hiked them over her narrow hips and looped a corded belt tight around, just above her waist. She made her way to her small pile of clothes, throwing on an old linen shirt, one that belonged to Garen before her – like many things she wore. She tucked the shirt into the breeches and laced and tied the neck that exposed the thin wraps that made up her undergarments. Finally, she threw over a bluish-grey tunic she had received as a gift from Mr. Nathan for the Northwinds a year or two back. It was a little stiff and scratchy, but it was thick, and it was warm. She cinched it just above her waist with another belt – this one pounded leather. She balanced against one of the load-bearing pillars of the thin shack wall as she threw on her boots, tucking in the breeches

She hurriedly funneled what she could into a pack – the one that carried what few possessions Garen had managed to fit in upon the escape from the old town. She took what little food she could spare, a waterskin, and a small blanket. She stood, confident she had prepared adequately for what was ahead as she looked at the pack. But still, a girl needed a weapon.

She moved toward the hearth that made for the small kitchen and drew the sharpest knife she had from the small wooden tray that held the utensils. Corea held it aloft, studying it. Maybe a few inches shy of a foot, and only a little nicked in places. It will do, she thought.

As she tucked the knife into the space between her tunic and belt, she began to notice something. In all her flurry, there had not been a single familiar cough.

Silence.

Corea stopped, staring into the hearth. Tears began to well in her eyes as the silence roared and made her ears hurt. She was conscious of every noise but the one she expected – the one she’d known for two years, now. The pops and crackles from the branches only punctuated that terrible silence. A roaring void of still air from the small room where her grandma slept.

She approached the alcove. Each footfall seemingly echoed without the accompaniment of a rattling breath, a severe snore, or a sick whimper.

Corea paused at the simple door that gave the old woman her privacy. She gripped the handle, a simple leather loop, with trepidation. She stood there, the moment suspended in the absence of noise aside from a weak crackle of a fire a few feet away. She pulled open the door slightly, seeing the old woman’s frail body on her side, back to the hearth. She was still. Corea dared not open the door further and reached inside, not looking, gently resting her fingertips on her grandmother’s back. Her ribs were protruding, and the skin between each ridge was motionless.

That is when Corea knew that she and Garen were alone.

She fell back, letting go of the leather loop and landing on her rear with her back to the hearth. She began to sob. There was a crackle. 

She glanced at the hearth, wiped away her tears, and slapped herself in the face. She sniffed and felt another tear roll down the ridge between her cheek and nostril. She slapped herself again.

Time was everything.

She moved to the hearth and folded her knees beneath her, kneeling, staring into the embers. She held her hands to the wall of warmth and began to pray.

Fire heart, Helatros, hear my prayer. I bend my knee before your hearth, your heart on Aurin, gifted to us from the heavens.

Your warmth fills our homes. The flames lick at and cook our food. In the cold, you shield us. In the darkness, you help us to see. In battle, you guide the fallen home.

Fire heart, you are the father of all homes and the keeper of order. We maintain our hearth in respect and as a plea that you will fill our home with life.

And when needed, you carry our dead into your everlasting warmth.

Her prayer concluded, she glanced one last time toward the thin door and rose to her feet. She would tell Mr. Nathan on the way out to meet the roadmen that his mother had died. She shut it.

She knelt at her bedroll and worked it into a tightened bundle, lashing it to her pack. She picked up her belongings, adjusted the straps on her shoulders, and approached the door into the wilderness ahead.

As she had just about left the vestiges of home, her first foot through the threshold, she looked to the hooks on the wall to her left. She threw a red cloak over her shoulders. It had belonged to her grandmother in life. 

In death, it was a final token of love.

“She’s a little small for me,” Fang added. “Doubt she would feed me past midday.”

The girl frowned and marched back toward the stable door. She pointed at the lock.

“Let him out, Sir. He promised to help me find my brother.”

There was a whine within the stable, “I promise nothing.”

“He already accepted my payment.”

“I accept nothing.”

Erryl’s head pounded at the back and forth between the Wolf and the girl. He shook off what he could and pinched at the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes.

“Someone, preferably an adult, please explain what happened.”

“A wandering child shoved a coin into the shed. The child wants us to find her brother.”

The girl looked at Erryl and nodded, slapping at the door with her palms. Fang roared in response, and the girl stood straight, clearly alarmed. Erryl clumsily searched his person for the key, but finding it was not on him, excused himself from the scene, promising to be right back down.

…

Erryl stumbled out of the back of the inn minutes later, still a bit hungover. He made his way back to the stable, where he observed the child arguing some point he didn’t care to hear while Fang remained silent inside.

Erryl placed his palm on the door to steady himself. He rocked slightly as he fished the key from under his shirt, pulling the string necklace over his head.

“You wouldn’t believe it, friend. Had the thing on me the whole time.”

A sharp bark shot out from within the shed: “Open the godsdamned fucking door you sodden shite.”

He glanced down to his left and watched as the child grabbed the key from his light grip. She quickly unlocked the chains and pulled them out of the door loops. They clattered noisily to the ground. She tugged the leftmost stable door outward, nearly stubbing Erryl’s toe in the process. She bent down and scooped up something from the wooden door frame, which he recognized as a coin. Then, with tremendous force, or as much as a starving girl could muster, she hurled it at Fang, who was still chained up within one of the stalls. The coin slammed into his snout, and he began to bark in response, rattling his bindings against the wooden supports.

“There’s your godsdamn coin, Wolf, you’ve accepted it!”

Fang continued to bark. Soon, the girl entered, staring him down. Erryl watched, unblinking, as he swung the right door open and then leaned against the door frame, watching the wolf argue with some waif.

“It’s too early in the morning for this horse shit,” he said to nobody.

After a few more moments of unsettling bickering between an adult werewolf and the young girl, Erryl sighed and strode toward them, snatching the key away from her and settling down to one knee to unlock the chains. Before he put the key in the lock, he glared at Fang. Erryl’s face screwed up into a questioning pout as Fang simply glanced over, wolfen eyes wide, and shook his snout toward the girl, signaling that she had started whatever this was.

“Unbelievable” was all Erryl said. 

He loosened the lock and cleared one of the links from the metal rod and rose to his feet, slipping Fang the key between two of his enormous, pinched fingers. Erryl took several swerving steps back and, upon bumping a barrel with his rear, hopped onto it, sitting – observing.

The girl stood in front of the Wolf, tapping her feet as he sat there, doing nothing. After a moment, he huffed out air from his snout and began to rise, unsettlingly slowly, clearly savoring the tension. He rose to a crouch and unbound his left manacle, rolled the free wrist around, and slipped the key into the now free hand. He made quick work of the second manacle and then flicked his arms, dropping the heavy iron bracelets to the floor and rattling the chains as he began to rise to his feet. In moments, he was at his usual height – his poorly disguised hunch meant to not draw attention to himself, though at his dimensions, it most certainly did not help. 

The girl took a few steps back, suddenly aware of the size of the thing before her.

The wolf snorted and then began to straighten his back. Hunched over, he was well above six feet. Now he seemed to grow taller, straighter, and fully stood over seven feet tall, glancing down upon the girl who took further steps back, nearly at the door of the stable. For emphasis, his head was back, snout pointed to the sky. Then, with a sudden jerk, he cast a wicked, wolfish smile at the child, his face pointed down toward her. She yelped.

Then Fang began to laugh. It was a horrific noise, and one that Erryl had never gotten used to in their travels. A laughing dog was surely some ill omen.

“You can stop scaring the child, Fang. You’ve made your point. You’re very frightening.”

The Wolf settled down back into a hunch, his arms hanging limply down, simian-like. He looked over to Erryl. 

“Just needed a reminder.” He glanced toward the doorway at the girl and continued, “This little shit is stubborn. And foolish.”

At that, the girl strode further into the shed. “You’re a bully.”

Fang pointed a clawed finger at her, inches from her face. She came to a stop. Then, with a flourish, he apparated the gold coin between the tip of his index claw and thumb claw, brandishing it before her.

“You’re a bully for throwing this at my nose, child. Away with you. I’m done.”

The girl stood there, defiant, and now it was Erryl’s turn to become involved. He drew his rapier and swished it absentmindedly, making every motion audible. He paused with a flourish and turned his gaze to her with a sudden jerk; she had failed to notice, still staring at Fang.

He sighed. “Young lady? Your name, please?”

“Corea Gorse.”

Fang snorted at Erryl and cast a dark glare. Erryl understood what the Wolf suggested through his yellow eyes, but Erryl was a creature of curiosity and curiosity compelled further inquiry.

“I see, and what deal have you made with my hirsute friend, Miss Gorse?”

Fang growled for a moment and then, seemingly acknowledging defeat, stepped back into the stall and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, sulking. The wooden beams creaked under his weight, as did most wood in this town, it seemed.

Corea watched the Wolf slink off into the rear of the stable and turned her attention to Erryl, who continued to flick and swish his thin blade.

“I hired you two to help me find my brother. I’ve heard roadmen do their business passing through, and I know that one gold coin is more than enough to search out someone nearby. You gave me this last night as a tip, and I am sure you’ll be wanting it back as nobody tips gold. Nobody but drunks and bad men, and I don’t think you’re a bad man.”

She held the coin forward in the palm of her hand – her palm was rough and scarred from daily chores – and rocked the coin back and forth, the coin catching a glint of early light.

“I can’t say as much about the Wolf,” she added.

Fang growled again… or was it a chuckle? How odd, Erryl thought, and I’ve fought wizards.

“Well, I am afraid, my dear, that all negotiations must go through me.”

Erryl slipped off the barrel and threw the flat of the rapier over his shoulder, aiming for dapper, but stumbling slightly, came off as very much hungover.

He coughed slightly and stared down at the coin in her hand, and then glanced at Fang. Fang eyed him carefully, his gaze unsettling and predatory by the nature of his affliction, but his uncrossed arm and a sweep of his hand boded Erryl to pursue the conversation. Ever unsettling the sprinkles of humanity from that which was inhuman in most senses.

“Alright, Miss Gorse, what exactly can you tell me?”

…

Fang arrived a few moments after Corea had told her story and laid out the facts as she knew them. Erryl pondered what he had heard, and the Wolf distributed the potatoes from the kitchen; they had been quickly fired over coals with a light sprinkling of oil and dusting of salt and local herbs. He dropped one into the hands of the girl who winced that they were still very much hot. She bounced the potato between her hands until she scooped up part of her morning gown to catch it. Fang tossed a potato to Erryl, who grimaced a bit at the heat but quickly began gnawing away at it, the starchy pulp softened just enough by the simple cook.

The remaining three were for Fang as he sat down on the dirt and straw-covered floor. The girl had commandeered his stall, cloak, and blankets. He glanced at her, annoyed, chewing on one of his potatoes. She didn’t notice. Instead, Erryl could feel her eyes boring into him as he continued to chew.

If he didn’t answer her soon, he feared, her eyes would bore a hole into his skull and cook his brains.

He finished his potato and turned his attention to Corea, who sat comfortably among Fang’s things. He scraped some leftover oil from his mustache and nodded to her.

“Alright, based on what you’ve told me and my companion, it is more than likely, I am afraid, that your brother may be either dead or possibly hidden in the old village. If he hasn’t made his way home yet, he, being a smart lad, as you suggest, probably is waiting for an opportunity to escape.”

His face soured and his brow furrowed.

“But, that is the best possible case I can consider. It’s been four nights now. Time is running short. If we do this, Fang and I must leave, now, especially as Umbra is at its zenith and moonlight will be our enemy.”

Fang shoved another potato into his mouth as he watched Corea rise to her feet. As she passed in front of the Wolf, he handed her the third potato in passing, which she tucked into the nook of a shawl. Fang glanced at his palm, then back to her, and then back to his palm. He snorted.

Erryl stood still a moment, dumbfounded, and she reached the threshold of the stable door without so much as a word.

“And where are you heading off to? We need to negotiate the price and establish terms.”

Corea Gorse stepped out the door and looked back at Erryl. “I accept. I’ll be packing my gear. We’ll leave in an hour!”

The girl darted out of sight, and Erryl glanced back at Fang, dumbfounded. The tremendous creature rose to his feet, approached him, and dropped the gold coin onto the barrel lid next to Erryl. He placed a heavy, hairy paw on his shoulder and shook his head.

“Payment was rendered,” he said. “She slipped it into my hand as I gave her that godsdamned potato.”

As the fingers plunged into Herman’s neck, arterial spray shot out as the man’s cries became a gurgle as he began to drown in his own blood. He began high-pitched, an almost pig squeal, and then began gasping and choking as the two ghouls pulled him into the mud and rotting plants. Donnel saw convulsing legs as the undead swarmed him, with a third stumbling over and falling into the grotesque tussle.

The sputtering cry ended, and so did the thrashing in one violent, final jolt. A horrific sound of tearing arose from the tangle of bodies. Donnel sank further against the tree, sliding down the trunk. He collapsed onto his rear and felt the wet mud soak into the breeches.

He thought of his Ma and Pa, and his baby sister. He thought of a ghoul tearing a chunk of her skin from her forehead as she screamed, and he ran. It was too late for Sylvy, and it was too late for Herman.

Donnel had an inkling that it was too late for Donnel.

He began to cry as he let his spear fall slack to his side. But a hoarse whisper from the tree line drew his attention.

“Donnel, get over here! Hey, get away from them!”

He glanced into the trees, recognizing the whisper as Garen, the youngest member of the patrol. The newest, too. What a godsdamned clusterfuck this all was.

“Donnel,” Garen whispered, “get your arse out of there.”

Donnel clutched his spear and fell belly-first into the mud, keeping his body low as he crawled over; he would glance back, seeing the ghouls still prying at Herman, dismembering him in a strange bit of strength not common to ghouls. They had yet to notice him worming his way from them. The two minutes of crawling to the tree line left him covered in mud, where he found Garen crouched low, his hand extended outward.

“Was it Herman?” Garen asked.

Donnel just nodded. Garen helped Donnel to his knees and guided him to a spot behind a tree.

“Gods. I lost track of everyone. Saw Spencer get pulled down by a group of three emerging from some hole in the ground.” Garen’s voice quivered. “One minute we were walking, and the next I saw a bunch of hands pull him into the undergrowth.”

Garen wiped at some of the mud that coated Donnel, continuing, “I – I stopped long enough to jam my spear into Spencer’s neck. I think I was able to kill him before they could. I think.”

Garen flicked watery mud away from Donnel as best he could.

“Glad I’m not alone here. Glad you made it.”

Donnel swallowed for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad you’re safe, too.”

The two young men were crouched in silence, wary of any sound of motion. Any sudden snap of a twig, crow caw, or rustle of leaves or grass kept them on edge and their leg muscles taut, ready to explode into a run at a moment’s notice. After a couple of minutes, and some scouting by Garen, they moved further into the woods, still crouched, still silent.

“What happened with you and Herman?” Garen asked as he crept into the husk of an outlying shack. They were close to the old town now.

Donnel stepped in and sat on the stone mount of a crumbling hearth. He could have sworn he recognized the place, despite years of rot and overgrowth.

“I’d stepped into a trap. One of those fucking bandits had rigged one up.”

“What kind of trap? I don’t see any blood.”

Donnel shook his head.

“Alarm. Loud, jangly bits strung up. Dinner bell – draw the rotters and then loot the remains after.”

“Gods.”

“Before we knew it, we was being chased by a group of four, maybe five, but only two of them was in any shape to follow. Then that was when we hit the other trap.”

“Another alarm?”

Donnel shook his head again, this time slower, more hesitant.

“I got a light step. Herman not so much. Iron jaw snare.”

“Fuck.”

“Shattered his ankle, and they was on us. I couldn’t pull him away – I couldn’t…”

Donnel began to sob and folded over himself, his head between his knees. He couldn’t help it. Surely there was nothing to do, was there? The rotters were on them both, and Herman had no chance. Absolutely not. And yet…

Donnel continued to cry, but the feeling of Garen’s hand patting his back gave him pause.

“It’s not your fault, Donnel.”

Donnel looked up at the young man, who was leaning over him. He smiled a smile that appeared to take effort, more for Donnel’s benefit than his own. Donnel hadn’t really known much about Garen Gorse, but he seemed like a good kid. Much too young to be here in this shit.

Donnel wiped his nose with a muddy bracer and had to wipe away the mud from his face with the palm of his hand.

“I don’t even know why you’re out here, Garen. Ain’t you the Mayor’s nephew?”

Garen stepped back a bit, shook his head, and then spat at the ground. “Not by choice.”

The kid’s sour expression said a lot. There was no love lost between Garen and his uncle, it seemed.

“I’m not sure what we’re doing out here. The fucking Egg just sent us into a trap. Has it even been this bad out here for you, Donnel?”

Donnel stood up from the ruined hearth and propped himself against his spear, thinking back.

“I’ve been doin’ this for a few seasons and ain’t seen it this bad, kid. The things never get that close to town, and if we see them, it’s maybe one or two. The fact we’ve been chased this far toward the old town is pretty scary.”

“Maybe we can slip past them and get back home? We can tell the Egg we’ll need a cleanup patrol. More than four of us this time.”

Donnel nodded. The kid was a natural at this – this decisiveness – so unlike himself. He’d take Garen’s lead.

“I think you’re right. I just worry, it was five I saw, and you saw three, that was…”

“Seven.”

“Yeah, nearly ten, yeah? That’s the most I’ve seen out here since, well…”

Donnel thought back to the night the ghouls swarmed Old Gordhurst. He shuddered and rubbed the heel of his palm hard against his forehead. His skull was pounding.

“How old were you when it happened?” Garen asked.

“About 13 or 14, I think? I don’t really know how old I am.”

“Younger than me,” Garen added. His gaze was empty. He looked between the gaps of the ruined shack.

“Right now, my sister is about the age you were then.”

“Ah, yeah, the one who works at Nathan’s old place, yeah? She’s always kind to me. Certainly works harder than I did when I was working for him.”

“She works hard. Too hard. It’s why I am out here. Extra shares from the pantry. Also, maybe to see if I can scrounge up something while out here. Look at these.”

Garen’s child-like excitement as he opened a small bag to reveal a handful of mushrooms struck Donnel. Moments ago, Garen had the bearing of a leader, someone Donnel would follow. Now he was a child again, excitedly showing off the meager bounty he’d gathered in the surrounding woods.

Donnel chuckled.

Garen glanced up, meeting Donnel’s eyes.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothin’. Those are some good mushrooms.”

…

Donnel wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed as they lay low in the ruined shack. Both of them had taken turns scouting the surrounding area, and as near as they’d figured, Old Gordhurst was northeast of their position. That made the plan simple: avoid heading that direction and hope that the ghouls would wander further into the woods. As long as they kept quiet and did not draw attention to themselves, they’d eventually find a window to escape the pack that they knew of.

It was the other ghouls in the area that they were not sure about, though. Occasional moans would carry on the wind, driving the periodic caws and chirps of the local birds into silence. The effect was nerve-wracking as the sudden silence of the birds put Donnel’s neck hairs on end. He couldn’t be sure if the ghouls were closing in or not.

Garen kept calm, at least he appeared calm; Donnel could tell he was afraid. Nobody in their right mind would show no fear here. Perhaps if they were seasoned veterans and masters of ghoul-slaying, they would not be so on edge. But Garen was still a child in many ways, and Donnel was a coward in most ways.

What little light carried across the woods on an overcast day was fading, and the sky was growing red. By Donnel’s count, tonight would be one to three nights before Umbra was full, and the purple moon was always a bad sign. He hoped he would be back home by then. From there, he would quit the patrols and find a different job. Mucking shit again seemed preferable to being surrounded by the dead. 

They were dumb, not a mind between them, but in groups, they seemed to overwhelm. What chance did he and Garen have against a group?

He shook his head and put the thought out of his mind. As long as he and the kid were cautious and saw to one another, they had a chance. Maybe.

After a few worry-filled minutes, Garen spoke up, his voice low, trying not to draw unwanted attention.

“You mentioned a trap earlier. Iron jaws, right?”

Donnel nodded. “Bandits out here have been using the dead to pick off wanderers and robbing remains after they clear the area.”

“The bodies don’t get up on their own feet?”

“Nobody sticks around to see. At least from the village. There was a traveler who came to town, and we were thinking he was a bandit who tried to sell off some stuff. Nathan got him real, real drunk, and he spilled his beans.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“A while back, maybe two or three years after… You know. I was a chore boy and heard it all as I was working. Nobody told me nothing. Nobody knew I was listening. Saw Nathan slit the guy’s throat, knew he was a bandit the whole time.”

Garen shuddered. “How do you think they survive out here?”

Donnel stepped toward a gap in the shack wall and peered outside, warily. “They’re road folk. They’re built different than us. Hard lives make hard people. Something I heard Egg say once when he was real fucked up.”

Garen shook his head. “I don’t think this patrol stuff is worth it.”

Donnel sighed and leaned against the shack wall for a moment. It creaked.

“It really isn’t-”

The wooden wall, aged and rotten, crumbled under Donnel’s weight, and the clatter echoed among the tree line surrounding the small clearing. Donnel yelped as he fell over shin-high slats and fell on top of the pile with a further crash. The sound was apocalyptic, and Donnel immediately scrambled to his feet, and Garen rushed over to steady him.

“Oh gods, no. No,” Donnel muttered.

The air was still, and the woods around them were silent. Then, as though to punctuate their doom, one moan sounded out from the trees in the west, and other moans from the south. In moments, the first ghoul stumbled from between an oak and a tangle of brush.

Then another, a dozen feet along the tree line. Then more.

Donnel wasn’t good with numbers, but he knew when he had more than ten. How many more, he wasn’t quite sure. But this was far, far more than ten.

Within seconds of entering the clearing, a cacophony of guttural howls filled the clearing, and the ghouls began lurching toward the shack. He froze, his legs nearly giving out on him.

Donnel felt something shoved into his hands and saw that Garen had thrust Donnel’s own spear at his chest. The kid somehow managed to grab it from inside and make sure Donnel had it within seconds.

Then, Garen grabbed at the bindings that kept Donnel’s armor laced at the chest and pulled at him as hard as he could.

“Run!”

The wall of undead meant there was only one place to go – Old Gordhurst. Garen began to run at full speed. Donnel glanced at the incoming ghouls, cursed the gods, and followed after the boy. It was all he could do.

While the wave of ghouls had come from the opposite side of the clearing, away from the old town, there were sure to be ghouls ahead. The pair pushed through the trees and brush, aware of every snap of a twig and crunch of the leaves. Behind them, moans faded into the distance, but ahead, new moans grew louder.

“We need to find shelter,” Garen shouted back, “we can regroup and find a way out.”

Donnel said nothing. He felt his stomach drop and felt his knees crack. Garen kept shouting ideas, rallying Donnel as best he could, but all Donnel could hear was the torrent of blood in his temples and his own choking gasps. He slowed down, then, pausing to cough, and Garen came to a skidding stop and ran back, pulling at Donnel, who pushed him away.

Garen screamed at him. “Gods damn it, Donnel. Fucking run!”

“Go, go. Get out of here, kid.”

“No! We’re getting out of here!”

Garen took a few steps back. It looked like the kid was fighting the urge to leave him, and Donnel just wished he would. Garen’s eyes kept darting between Donnel and the scatter of trees that they had run through. Garen looked nervous, and the sounds of the ghouls crunching through the brush explained everything. Soon, Garen was bouncing in place, waving Donnel over, and practically whimpering – but the kid was falling back, more and more. Soon he’d give up – leave him. Donnel wanted that.

Garen continued to shout and holler. He pleaded, but Donnel didn’t heed it.

Then, a moment later, there was a crash of leaves and a yelp. Donnel glanced up to find that Garen had fallen into a pit and was clinging to the edge, unable to climb up under his own power.

“Fuck! Help!”

Ghoulish noises seemed to echo out from the pit, and in an instant, Donnel threw himself toward Garen and saw the hole was far deeper than he’d thought. He also noticed it was not just a hole – there was a tunnel.

As Donnel reached down to grab Garen, the boy lost his grip and fell many feet with a horrible thump. Without thinking, Donnel stuck his spear into the dirt just at the edge of the hole and lowered himself down, landing a couple of feet from the kid. He knelt.

“Are you okay? Can you walk?”

“Yes, but we need to get out of here!” Garen pointed to the tunnel behind Donnel. “They’re in here too!” 

Donnel didn’t glance behind him. It didn’t matter.

“I’ll help you out, come on!”

He pulled Garen to his feet and began to help him climb out of the tunnel. In front, as he lifted Garen over his shoulders, he saw shining eyes in the dark, approaching slowly.

Garen had just hoisted himself up and over the lip of the pit and belly-turned back around, throwing his hands back in to help Donnel climb out.

But by then, the first three sets of greasy hands had found purchase on Donnel’s armor and began pulling him deeper into the tunnel as Garen watched helplessly. Donnel’s eyes went wide for a moment as another hand grabbed at his hair.

Donnel smiled briefly, and as he was pulled into the dark, he said his final words: “I hope you get to see her.”

Corea felt sad again. She felt the warm pull of her bedroll as it offered some measure of comfort. But life in Gordhurst offered no such comfort, not really. If one didn’t work, one would never really recover from the break. For now, the household, as small as it was, fell to her, and work had to be done.

She turned her head to her left and saw the small golden coin from last night. The one given to her by the tall, bearded man. The talker who tipped well and seemed to have no fear of his companion. The one who travelled with the Triserian. How was the beast so seemingly calm? She swore she caught a glimpse of him with a book. She couldn’t even read.

The coin sat dull and cold near where her head rested during the night. It had been undisturbed and had offered promise as she had turned in after her time at the inn and bar..

Perhaps.

She took one last longing glance at Garen’s bedroll. She sighed. 

She got to work.

….

Today was the day to handle the straw within the stable, but the presence of the lock suggested that she would not be able to complete this duty assigned by her uncle Nathan. She was puzzled for a moment, but recalled that she’d overheard that he had rented the stable to the wolf. Somewhere within the old shack, the monster waited, undoubtedly. But it was very, very quiet. It was still dark this morning, and Umbra’s purple light had cast an ominous purple pallor over the town.

Corea’s breath had caught in her throat for a moment, and she gasped and sputtered, realizing she had stopped breathing. She was a good distance from the stables, which were thoroughly locked, yet the bumps on her arms and the hairs on the back of her neck suggested she was in danger. It had happened so suddenly, like an aura of menace radiated from the small wooden barn.

Yet, she heard nothing. No sound. No bestial snoring. Not even a doggish whimper. It was dead silence.

She stared at the stable. So many stories. So many tales of bloody ends for errant children. 

And now a great beast seemed content to sit in silence in a locked shed, like some farm hound kept out of a heavy rain. Corea had grown up hearing tales from the locals about the fall of the Kingdom of Triseria. In her own short lifetime, there had been sightings of wolves in the woods, and the town had shuttered with the few guards keeping everyone locked away here and there. But in recent years, the wolves had gone silent, perhaps eager for different prey. Perhaps pushed back by the living dead that wandered out from the old town.

She found that funny. She knew the woods were the hunting grounds of the ghouls. Rarely did they enter New Gordhurst proper, but there was always that threat. It was an uneasy thing between the ghouls and the town, and the mayor had said it was through the hard work of Egg and the patrols. Growing up, there were rules, things to be done after sightings. All the while, young men would patrol the woods, keeping wandering dead away from the town. That’s why Garen had joined – to keep the monsters at bay. But he was not here now, and she was inches from the den of what seemed like a true monster.

The wolves of Triseria were so much more different than the ghouls. The town panicked at any rumored sighting. Even last night, an unease crept over every conversation she heard among the old men in the tavern, whether they actually saw the wolf or not. The company of the wolf made everyone nervous, but he seemed perfectly normal by her witness. At this point, she didn’t really know what she actually thought about him. He was scary – how could he not be? But she didn’t exactly find herself afraid.

She looked at her arm again and saw the small bumps. It was surely just the cold, wasn’t it?

She clutched her coin.

Was this right?

…

Fang wondered what the girl had wanted. He’d sensed her outside the barn, clumsy-footed in the damp and dark outside. How could he not? There was no stealth, and her caution gave way to lurching, unsure steps as she crept closer to the stable that he had asked Erryl to lock him in. He could smell her, and her breathing was easily heard just a few feet from the locks. It was hard to sneak up on a lycanthrope, and doubly so for a scared child.

He glanced around the shed. He’d managed to avoid some beams of moonlight that came in through small holes in the wall and thatched roof over the night, but the threat of a clumsy, foolish child sneaking her way in filled him with dread. Was it her intention? It was still dark, and the moonlight cast errant beams as it journeyed from one horizon to another. Dawn wouldn’t approach for a while yet, and there was still much danger of things growing terribly, terribly wrong, lock or not.

The lock would help ease the minds of most who knew of his presence in the town. But it was a simple panacea. This barn would not hold him should the worst possible thing happen. The chains he carried, tempered and formed for him at his specifications, were the greatest defense of the townspeople. But even then, those heavy chains would easily snap the support beams that he had them wrapped around, should the worst happen.

No, the locks, the chains, the isolation within this shelter… they were for his own protection. It was the showmanship that put the curious and paranoid at ease as he traveled from here to there in Aurin. Surely if he were locked down, chained up tight, they would be safe. They just needed to not tempt fate. They just needed to stay away, and everything would be fine.

But this girl, this foolish child, had him terrified.

After a few moments of silence, she had not moved. He sensed her staying in place, thinking of something; her breathing had a lurching rhythm, air caught in her throat as she seemed not to breathe for moments at a time. Her purpose was unclear, but she was driven by curiosity. Curiosity carries its own scent. It would be hard to describe to anyone, even Erryl, and Fang only ever knew the scent after he’d become transformed from the ritual that brought down the kingdom; the smell of curiosity was like a mixture of fear and bravery. Bloody, acrid terror, and the cold damp of resolve.

Fang did his best to clear his throat, but what would have come off as clear if he were still human could be confused for a snarl in his wolfen body. He hoped that would be enough to startle the child off. She was afraid of the monster, so the monster could lean in and play the part – the safe exchange.

He heard her step back. He heard the small gasp. He heard a thud of something small on the damp grass. The smell of fear grew.

Then after a moment, the smell of resolve returned. Curiosity had won out.

Damn it, Fang thought.

…

Corea picked up the coin from the grass and took another step toward the door. She was suddenly aware of the sound her footfalls made, even on damp soil. She winced as the ground squelched beneath the sole of her boot.

“Stay away.”

For a moment, she thought she had heard a thunderclap. The early morning silence was cleaved through in two small words. The voice was curious to her. It was a low rumble, but calm. It almost sounded like pleading? She took another step forward.

“Come no further. It is night. Wolves are scariest at night,” the voice paused. It somehow grew louder and rumbled lower as it continued, saying, “under a full moon.”

She took another step.

“I really must insist you leave me be. Is the moon still out?” Had the beast somehow just grown more articulate? The voice sounded a little unsure, as far as she could tell. Corea glanced toward the diminishing Umbra on the horizon.

“Yes, wolf. Umbra is going to set soon.”

“… and Argent?”

“It’s still up, but Argent is not full.”

“… I see.”

There was silence for a moment. Corea continued, “You’re a strange werewolf.”

Silence again. Then the deep voice responded. “How many werewolves have you met, child?”

She felt a little foolish. “Just you, actually.”

…

There would be no getting rid of her now. Fang sighed. The exhalation, like most of the actions of this wolfen body, was fantastically strong. The moment he exhaled, errant straw several feet away shifted in front of him. If he chose to howl, something he was still considering, it would carry for miles. It would scare her off, undoubtedly, but rile up the town. He’d rather leave in a few hours without incident.

So he simply sighed. He continued speaking. “If the light of Umbra touches me at all, I will be very, very dangerous. If you value your life, you’ll not come closer.”

There was a small “okay,” and there was a slight tremble to the voice. She was a girl, on the cusp of entering early womanhood. No scent of blood. Fang thought of his sister and her first blood. Before the curse. But she had passed long before then, hadn’t she? A mercy.

Fang pulled the horse blanket over his head and shoulders, draping it over himself as he sat up. The heavy chains scraping against the wooden supports sounded like sawing. Sure enough, he glanced at notches in the beams where the chains had rubbed across the wooden corners, like jagged rat teeth tearing at a hovel’s foundation. He sat as comfortably as he could, his legs crossed. Undoubtedly, a strange look given the wolflike bend of his legs.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want to hire you, wolf. You and your friend.”

Fang nearly choked as he heard the request.

…

“You want to do what?” The wolf’s voice cracked. He garbled gravel, and the words came out slurred. Corea had almost thought that she had heard it gasp.  Any pretense of fearsomeness seemingly vanished at the moment, and he sounded strangely human to Corea. She pressed the issue.

“You and your friend are roadmen. You are looking for work. I need help. You can help me.”

There was a strange sort of snuffling from inside the stable. She pinched the coin between her finger and thumb, staring down at it. 

“We need to do nothing.” Chains rattled from the barn. “We leave in hours.”

Corea stepped forward again, closer to the stable door. She heard a sharp and violent rattle of chains and a long, low growl.

“I have gold.”

“I don’t care.”

“But you are a roadman.”

“And you are a little girl. Go home. Be with your family.”

Corea felt the warmth of tears trickling down her cheeks. She took a sharp breath, hoping not to let the fear and sadness bury her.

“All I have is my brother and my dying grandmother, and my brother hasn’t returned from the patrol in days. I… I need to know if he’s dead.”

The wolf was quiet. She heard some shuffling of chains and the shifting of a heavy body, but mostly she heard nothing from within the small barn. 

From within the stable, his low voice carried in the air. She could feel it on her skin. But it carried a strange softness as well. “You are surrounded by monsters. Many. Too many. If you feel he is gone, you are probably right.”

“Mr. Eghart had sent him out and refused to try to find him…” she swallowed, “or whatever is left.” The mayor, a relative, nor his captain of the guard had been any help.

“And if he is one of the ghouls? What then?” the wolf asked. The voice was firm. Direct.

“I want him not to suffer,” she answered meekly.

“My companion tried to offer our services to your mayor. He refused us. We are moving on.”

“The mayor is an arsehole.”

There was a sound that almost sounded like a laugh from within the stable. Had the wolf actually laughed? It sounded horrid.

“You speak from experience, child?”

“Mayor Gorval never liked us. I work for his cousin, my uncle, Mr. Gorten, at the inn. We met last night there. I served you and the tall man you travel with.”

There was silence for a time. When the wolf spoke again, his voice was lower, as if there was a secret being discussed. A whisper from a mighty chest – it might not even have counted as a whisper. Not really. “What is your name?” the wolf asked.

“My name is Corea Gorse.”

…

Fuck.

The minute Erryl learned of this, he would drag Fang into a provincial mystery. Fang was already exhausted. Not physically, but in his soul.

Erryl had spiraled last night, talking of some vague family conspiracy in the town, positing connections to the isolation of the town and the fate of the original town, and the similarity of the names of people within the town. The “gor” in so many of these names convinced him there was some form of family conflict and secrets lurking around every corner.

Where Erryl saw conspiracy, Fang merely saw a brood. He spent much of his childhood in a provincial village where he was one of the few people with no blood ties to existing families, which all shared some variation on the name “Marrok.” For a time in his childhood, Fang had been Fain Maerok – he had been adopted. It was a name he carried with pride until the curse turned him into a monster. It was better than being a nameless bastard, which he had actually been at birth.

But the “gor” of these names, the relationship between these parties, and the strange nature of the village’s connection to the roaming dead were all too coincidental. Fang saw that, truly, but had tried to dissuade his traveling partner from pursuing it. Mysteries rarely paid.

The story, as Erryl had relayed it, was that the necromancer who caused the original Gordhurst to fall was still alive, still controlling the undead. The necromancer had a past with the mayor. The name of the original town was Gordhurst. This was ‘New’ Gordhurst, cobbled together from survivors. All the players of the fall of the old town were still very much at play.

There was a mystery here. Fang fucking hated it, and the minute Erryl caught wind of this conversation, he would set out to investigate. Fang liked Erryl, so he was obligated to help keep his companion alive, despite how annoying he was most times. Erryl was one of the few who almost treated Fang like a human. He listened to him when it mattered. It meant a lot.

Well, Erryl listened most of the time. When there was a mystery between his teeth, he wouldn’t move past it until the inevitable bloodbath that tended to be the end of all mysteries of Aurin.

“Gods fucking damn.”

The small voice of Corea Gorse, relative of Mayor Gorval, who was responsible for the fates of those within the town of New Gordhurst, who had been mayor of old Gordhurst, who had been connected to a necromancer, who had surrounded the town with the roaming corpses of the townsfolk of Gordhurst, admonished the Fang from outside the stable. “Language.”

Fang sat in silence, contemplating links between names and events he wasn’t entirely sure of. The scraping of a gold coin between slats of wood caught his attention. He watched the coin land with a tiny thud on the wooden frame just behind the stable door. It rattled in the morning silence until it came to a stop, and the sound of gold on wood punctuated the visitor’s simple request.

“Will you help me?”

As the grey day took on the faintest tone of orange, approaching the late afternoon, Fang suggested they find a place to stay, with some urgency. His condition warranted some extra precaution tonight. Umbra, one of the moons, would be full, and that always exacerbated his condition. Beneath the purple light, Fang would be more susceptible to the feral nature he strove to obscure.

“No worries, my friend,” Erryl reassured him as best he could. He’d remembered Willimun torn to shreds, approaching the wolfman despite the early guidance not to. It had ended up a long and bloody night. Erryl knew to listen to Fang on these matters.

Erryl took hold of the tabard that rested upon Fang’s massive sword, which he had jammed into the muddy ground. The tabard depicted the familiar mark of Fools’ Errand – the embroidered skull capped with the twin-tails of a jester. Fools’ Errand had built up a reputation that preceded them most anywhere. Even this far east, Erryl reasoned. He rolled the tabard up tightly as Fang scraped at the muddy end of his word.

“To the inn?”

Fang still had his snout covered by the cloth bundle of herbs.

“We’d be better off in the woods. I don’t think they would take too willingly to me spending the night in their village.”

“You’re a remarkably well-behaved dog; surely they’ll see that.”

Fang glared at Erryl. Erryl smiled, showing a crooked tooth. “But just let me do the talking, yes?”

“You’re not nearly as likable as you think you are, Erryl.”

Erryl tucked the tabard into his bag and walked toward the inn. “You’ve not killed me yet? That must count for something.”

Fang sighed and trudged along after him.

“You’re my emergency rations.” The wolf’s voice was a low rumble.

Erryl snorted.

…

What little conversation could be had in the small tavern of the inn had evaporated as the Wolf stepped into the darkened, smoke-filled chamber. His weight strained the floor, making an audible squeak of wood against wood, and when the few customers caught sight of him, they must have feared the floor collapsing.

Erryl broke the silence. He stared directly at the barman. 

“That mayor is a cunt, isn’t he?”

Nobody said anything, but after a moment, the barman spoke.

“Here for that drink now, hm?”

Erryl flashed a crooked smile and glanced at Fang, who towered above and behind him. The wolf gestured to a corner away from the fire and most people. He nodded and made his way over to the chosen corner as Erryl approached the bar. As he leaned over the counter, he watched two old men shrink in their seats as Fang passed. After a moment, they looked as though they felt safe enough as the werewolf lowered himself into a too-small chair, which creaked audibly. Fang sighed, a breathy snuffle from oversized lungs and a large mouth, removing his bundle from his face. He pulled a small tome, comically small, from his bag. The wolf settled in to read in the dim light. It was the same one with the strange, thin cover and even thinner pages – the one in the language Erryl hadn’t been able to decipher.

“Big fella, your friend is, isn’t he? He, uh… all there? Ain’t seen a Triserian in a while, much less one that sits in chairs.”

The barman slid a glass to Erryl, who gestured to the bottle the man was already holding. The barman poured. “He won’t be trouble, will he?”

“Not at all, friend. I seek to keep him indoors and out of Umbra’s gaze. I am certain you have a room, yes?”

The barman couldn’t help but stare at the wolf.

“For you, sure, but I’d get strung up in the streets if I so much as offered the beast one. Folks don’t take to his type here – what with the massacre and all.”

Erryl knocked back the amber colored swill. It was certainly a brew that would have benefited from further aging.

“I noticed you had a stable behind your business here, and not a nag or pony to be seen. Surely we can come to an arrangement for my friend?”

Erryl waved to Fang, who either chose to ignore him or was too engrossed in his book. Erryl waved it off.

“As you can see – harmless.”

…

It’d been a few moments, but Erryl had negotiated a room for them both. Himself in one of the rooms upstairs. Fang in the stables. Erryl had regaled Fang with the negotiations as he sat across from him, mentioning the barman’s name, which he’d just learned: Mister Nathan Gorten. The wolf simply set down the strange, papery book and stared directly into Erryl’s eyes. It made Erryl uncomfortable.

“I guess that is the best I can ask for. I need to eat quickly and make sure there’s no chance of Umbra’s light through the slats,” he said in a hushed tone.

“I’ll see to it myself. So let’s enjoy a meal, we have some time, yes?”

Fang picked up his book, continuing from the page where he left off. He didn’t look at Erryl. “Maybe an hour. If it gets too dark, cover me and pray as we head out to the stables.”

“Of course. You can trust me.”

“I trust you to not want my jaws around your throat if you can avoid it.”

“Exactly.”

The two sat in silence as Fang continued to read and Erryl fished out a pipe, puffing away dutifully. After a few moments, a girl approached. She was childlike, but her face had a hard quality to it, and any of the innocent lustre had dissipated from her eyes. She’d had a hard life in a short time.

She also made a show of not showing that she was intimidated by the hulking presence of the werewolf. Nor Erryl’s own rather fearsome countenance. There is a certain look to killers, and Erryl knew he carried it with him.

But to her credit, the girl stood straight before she approached, set about her duty.

“Are you looking for something to eat?” she asked. The quaver in her voice betrayed her. She was terrified. She kept trying not to look at Fang, who sat there quietly, reading to himself.

“Yes, my dear. What can the kitchen drum up quickly? We need to feed my friend here.”

Unprompted, still engrossed in the book, Fang rattled off “mutton.” The girl nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Aye, yes, we have mutton,” she replied. “We also have potatoes and bacon.”

Erryl took a long puff from his pipe and glanced at Fang, who had not noticed the girl staring at him. Erryl tapped his fingers on the table where his arm rested, and she turned her gaze back to him.

“Mutton for my friend, the potatoes and bacon for myself. A glass of wine for me, and…”

“Beer,” Fang added, still not pulling his eyes from his book.  The damn book Erryl couldn’t read.

“And there you have it, miss. Thank you.” Erryl slid a gold coin to the edge of the table. “For you. We’ll settle the food with the rooms in the morning.”

For as dull and as fearful as her eyes had been, they suddenly shone as brightly as the gold on the table. She paused a moment, glancing at the Wolf and then snatching the coin away, hurrying to the kitchen.

“The girl was terrified of you; you could have been friendlier.”

“What girl?” Fang asked. He had yet to look up. He turned a page, muttering something about a “haw-bit.”

…

Erryl was always a little afraid of Fang. It was hard not to be. Especially when they ate, as Fang took a whole shank of mutton and tore the flesh off the bone in one practiced, fearsome flash of teeth. The effect was made alarming because the serving was for that of a person, and Fang was far beyond that – it was a single bite for his massive jaws. The Wolf then dropped the bone to his plate, scooped up his tankard as though it were a child’s cup, and began to lap at the beer, undercutting the menace for a moment. Erryl snorted, and Fang glanced toward him, furrowing his brow and fixing his gaze on his companion. He growled slightly, and Erryl turned his gaze to the rest of the tavern.

The regulars, there were rarely travelers here as far as Erryl had figured, had not quite gotten over the presence of the Wolf in their midst, as quiet and unassuming as the pair had tried to make themselves. He and Fang had conversed in low tones and made no sudden movements. Fang’s chair squealed terribly under the strain of even the most passing, momentary movements of his body. Erryl had no idea quite what the Wolf weighed, but surely two to three times what Erryl himself weighed. And Erryl did not consider himself a small man; maybe thin, but height carried its own weight. He’d nearly cracked a rib the time the werewolf had slid down a hill, landing on top of him. Since then, Fang usually took the lead in the wilderness.

Fang cast a glance at the thick, green window across the room. He appeared nervous about the time, and pretty soon Erryl would need to chain his companion up and ensure no moonlight touched him, lest the worst happened. Fang shifted in his chair, unleashing a horrible creak, and he stood up.

He did not stand his full height, as the tip of his ears would touch the ceiling. In truth, the wolf’s posture was always hunched over, not just within any homes or encampments, but in general, as though he wanted to appear smaller than he was. But his height was unmistakable to all who took in his form.

The Wolf tucked the small book – that confounded book – into his bag and edged around the small table.

“It’s time.”

Erryl nodded, jamming a fingertip into the basin of the pipe to snuff out the embers. He rose to his feet, sliding the pipe into a pocket.

“Well, holy hells, he’s a big one. You’re fucking feeding it, Nathan? Why not just offer up the kid and get the frenzy over with? You fucking fool.”

Erryl turned to the sound at the door to the tavern. A pale, bald man, tremendous in size, stared past him at Fang.

“We have assurances from the reddish blonde fellow that the beast is safe and their coin is good. We can’t all pick from the stores at will. Some of us have to buy food, Egg.” Nathan – Mister Gorten – barked back.

A pink hue seemed to wash over the man’s pale, round face in uneven splotches. A sore spot, it seemed.

“Say it again, prick.”

“It’s either Egg or chickenshite. I figured I’d be nice about it.”

The man, Egg, short for something, Erryl was sure, had whipped his massive body toward the barman and nearly began an approach. He stopped and then turned back to Erryl and Fang. He tensed his back and straightened his heavy form, staring at the Wolf. His gut, discernibly solid, didn’t tremble as he moved. It was largely muscle. Fang made no motion behind Erryl. This wasn’t a new experience for either he or Erryl.

Egg – an apt name – had the feel of a mercenary. A killer recognizes their own, after all. His ornamentation, a tin pin run through his jerkin, indicated he was the law of this small town. Erryl narrowed his gaze at the pin, making out the telltale symbol of a hammer, set against a small shield. Not a crude forgery. It was the real deal, but it seemed clear that it wasn’t forged for him. He likely had inherited his role, and the town was all the worse for it.

“Mister Eghart, I’m not comfortable with that thing here either, but Gorten’s telling the truth; they’ve been quiet as the grave, actually.” One of the old men near the hearth had leaned over the side of a threadbare chair, speaking to the guardsman. “Just let them be, and they’ll be gone by morning. Heard it myself.”

“You’re about to hear my boot to your head, you shit, this is a security issue.”

The emphasis on “security” from Eghart said everything. Fang continued to remain motionless as possibilities threaded themselves through Erryl’s mind. Something was wrong here, and “security” made for a good justification to control the locals. To what end, Erryl had yet to figure, but the grasp of an iron fist around New Gordhurst began to make itself known.

“You talk to my customers like that again and I’ll throttle you and make a meal of you, Egg,” Gorten continued.

The nickname again. Egg.

The pale man boiled. He took a heavy step toward the mercenaries, glancing over at Gorten.

“Just so happens word from your brother, the Mayor, is that they’re leaving soon.”

“They’re paid up for the night. I pride myself on my service. Last I heard, the Mayor doesn’t run my inn. It was here before him. You too.”

Eghart laughed. “Staying at this shithole?” He clomped heavily past the young girl from earlier. She had just barely gotten out of his way, carrying an armful of tankards and cups. He hadn’t noticed her, or he just didn’t care. Neither mattered.

Eghart brushed past Erryl and looked up at Fang, who hadn’t moved. The Wolf had at least a foot over the man, but with his hunched profile, Fang’s eyes were just slightly higher than Eghart’s.

“You get yourselves out of here by morning.” Eghart glanced over to Erryl, their eyes meeting. Erryl was just a few inches shorter.

“You and your dog,” Eghart continued. He turned his eyes back to Fang, who had continued to be silent, saying nothing. The mercenary’s demeanor belied a calm befitting someone who had dealt with this before. The restraint was palpable. His eyes merely bore through the pale man.

“Understood? Or do I need to piss on a tree to send you the message, dog?”

Erryl shook his head. Fang rolled his shoulders and, sure enough, Eghart flinched. After a moment more, Fang strafed to his right and stepped around the pale giant. He made a deliberate, slow arc as he balanced his broadsword over his shoulder, just barely clearing Eghart’s head.

“Erryl, time’s up,” Fang growled.

Erryl nodded and doffed his cap with a flourish as he backed away from Eghart, following his companion out the door.

…

For an unused wooden box, meant for horses, the stable was in decent enough shape, used more for a storeroom than a place for travelers to rest their mounts. The roof seemed solid, and the slats had been tarred together. There was some evening light that had filtered in through some gaps nearest the barn door, but tacks and old linen bags helped plug them.

Meanwhile, the central horse stall appeared to be the safest place to avoid moonlight, the raised dividing walls providing a little extra cover. An old horse blanket strung across the stall by Erryl provided some cover above and made for a childish and rudimentary tent. Fang opted to pull it down and layer the blanket over his cloak.

Fang settled down into the stall, removing the long chain and manacles he had wrapped over his shoulder to his hip across his body. He thrust the chains toward Erryl with one hand, but Erryl required both to bear the weight of the heavy links.

“Don’t give me room to wander around in here,” Fang said. He held out his wrists. They were larger than Erryl’s arms at their thickest.

Erryl clamped one of the shackles across Fang’s left wrist and then looped a length of it around a support beam on one side of the stall. He stretched the length of the chain across the stall, made a loop across the matching beam, and then finally shackled Fang’s right wrist. There was enough give for Fang to sit and lie down on the floor of the stall, but little else.

“I don’t know if I trust the wood.”

“Provided no moonlight creeps in, it won’t matter. I figured you would at least want a little give for that small book of yours.”

Fang was silent for a moment, then glanced up toward Erryl and nodded.

“Thank you. Best leave now. Get some rest.”

“In a moment. What did you think of the pale man?”

Fang shrugged and scratched at an armpit from under the cloak and blanket. Chains rattled and scraped across the wood. He was silent for a moment.

“Known men like him. Smell death on him, too. He was a roadman before. Felt like biting him, if I’m honest.”

Fang sat cross-legged on a pile of old sacks, picking at one with a claw. “We’ll be leaving by morning, yes?” He continued, “No gold to be squeezed out of here.”

Erryl leaned up against the support beam to Fang’s left, at the entrance to the stall. He plucked out his pipe, but didn’t light it; instead, he seemingly conducted his thoughts with the mouthpiece dancing in the air in front of him.

“No, I don’t suppose we’ll get much work here, but I may try to meet with the Mayor once more. I have a thought.”

Fang snorted. “Best put it out of your mind. We’re not wanted here. Best to move on.”

Erryl continued waving the pipe in front of him, lost in thought. “You know, I think it’s in the names.”

Fang sighed loudly. A curiously petty sound coming from the stoic wolf. “What about the names?”

“Well, Gorten, Gorval… this being Gordhurst. Curious, isn’t it?”

Fang stared up at Erryl, who glanced over, seeking confirmation that Fang was tracking what he was saying.

“And. What of it?”

Erryl tapped his pipe against the support beam to punctuate his point. “Centralized power among a family, and an old family at that. Divided. The Mayor was guarded about the circumstances regarding what happened in the old town. Eghart, the enforcer… an outsider. There was a power grab among a divided family in the building of a new town, after some shameful lapse in judgment. Remember what I mentioned about the Necromancer? There’s a thread here… all the players sharing some ancestral name. And the one in charge uses that Egg-shaped prick to push away travelers. That and the nearby undead. Maybe there’s a wedge I could-”

Fang shook his head. “Rambling.”

Erryl snapped his gaze upon Fang. “Don’t you see? This is some sort of family affair. A brood controlling the village. Don’t you find that curious?”

“You grew up in a big city, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Tradewind, born and raised. And?”

“Take it from someone who grew up in a village. Everyone is a cousin. Everyone is related. No mystery there.”

Erryl scratched at his chin and licked his teeth. “But the ghouls in the woods?”

Fang furrowed his brow for a second and then leaned back, falling onto a pile of bags, settling in.

“Didn’t say that wasn’t a mystery. I’ll give you that one.” Fang scratched the side of his leathery nose and threw the horse blanket over his bare feet. “But if they aren’t paying us to kill them, then it is none of our business.”

“That’s a good point.”

Perhaps he was already back at home now?

The basket contained some rock-hard bread, some apples, and and salted pork wrapped in a rough cloth. She also managed to talk Mister Garven, one of the town guards, into a couple of small onions and some beans. It would be enough for a decent stew to last a few days.

More than anything, she was relieved that it was not Mister Egghart at the collection today. He was too pale, bald, and gigantic, like a massive ghost. He stared too long. He smelled like ale. He looked like a goose egg. 

She never called him “Egg” though. Never to his face, and even in the darkest hours, late at night, or in the smoky corner of the inn, she never said it, afraid he would be summoned through the very wall like the phantoms whispered about by the men and women behind their pints and tankards and peppery stews as she worked.

Corea rounded a simple shack and stepped onto the main road, careful not to tromp through any puddles. The road would take her past the Mayor’s home. She had never met the man, and her appeals to his guards fell upon deaf ears. His door was rarely open.

As she crossed in front of the nicest house in the town, she saw something she hadn’t seen before. Then again, at 13 years old she did not have a great deal of experience with the world. Much less experience with monsters.

But sure enough, as she slowed down to take in the stranger, she saw he was a wolf-man. Like a beast from a fairy tale.

He stood silent, observing the road. He glanced at her, but more through her. He seemed to have no interest in her, but she had an interest in him and the cloth worn across his snout.

She dared not approach. Stories of beastmen were frequent conversations in the dark and drunken hours. Her home wasn’t a terrible distance from the fallen kingdom, as the wolf ran. The stories about the beastmen warned the children and seemed to mean something to the men and women in a way that Corea had not quite come to understand. For her, and the other children forced to grow up too soon, they were the threat of the night itself, a monster in the dark.

The dead were more like the weather, and just as the weather can turn sour, so could the ghouls that kept to the woods outside of the town.

But the wolves were terrifying and dangerous in a way she had never considered the ghouls. Supposedly some towns weren’t always surrounded by the rotting, walking bodies of friends and family. She wondered what that was like. The ghouls were a fact of life – there hadn’t been a beastman seen since before she was born, but the fear remained.

And she remained on the street, staring at the wolf. She wondered if he had noticed she hadn’t left. After a while of watching him stand and observe, she noticed his demeanor change as the door opened, and a thin, hairy man stepped out. She wanted to know what they were saying to one another, but there was no way she would get closer.

She began her walk back home. She still had a pot of stew to cook, and then she would get to work at the inn.

But as she walked, she thought about a story from her childhood.

…

Once upon a time, to the north, a mighty kingdom ruled the surrounding forests, the coast to the north, and the plains to the south. The Kingdom, known as Triseria, was home to a proud people, who venerated the moon and were said to be as fierce as wolves.

They were not wolves then, but one day a magic spell altered the kingdom, and the wolves emerged, hungry and mad. But the wolfmen of Triseria had always been there. When the Kingdom fell, it struck many folks that it was about time, and that old fairy stories and bedtime tales had been preparing children from generation to generation, as to what to do when it came to the wolves in the night.

The story that Corea remembered most was “The Wolf and the Wheel.” She wouldn’t say it was a favorite story, but it was memorable. It also became all the more relevant for the past couple of generations.

Corea diced up her meager spoils from the storehouse and began to fry them up in a pot. She recounted the story as she worked.

“One day, a merchant took a small cart and nag off the main road, to the edge of the wolfwoods. He had been warned about this several times by other travelers.”

Or was it the townspeople? Somehow, she felt it didn’t matter who warned him.

“The merchant was in a hurry, he wanted to reach the next down to sell his wares, but did not heed the warnings about wolves in the woods. He had heard that hadn’t been seen as of late. As someone who didn’t believe…”

No, wait. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe, she figured; it was more he was from another land and didn’t heed the locals. That was it. She diced some bitter and salty roots and scooped them into the iron pot.

“He wanted to make his sales and be onto the next town, so a rough path in the woods, overgrown, but on the map, called to him. Along the way, the road grew winding. Roots tripped him, his horse, and his cart. Branches tore at his hair and his clothes. Crows mocked him – caw caw. The distant howl of wolves filled the air. Awooo!”

She glanced around the home wary of anyone noticing her cawing and wolf calls. Grandmother was probably still asleep.

“The merchant felt despair until a stranger approached him. A man with kind eyes. He asked the merchant if he was lost.”

“I am indeed, these roots and branches have trapped my cart and I seem to have lost sight of the road.”

“Oh, you are not far from the road here. I can show you the way there.”

The food was still sizzling in the pan. It would make a decent stew. Corea walked to a basket on a shelf for anything else she could add. There may have been more peppercorns and thistleweed.

“The two men freed the wagon and horse from the tangle and made their way toward the road. He asked the stranger about wolves and men who became wolves. The man laughed. He told him stories about men who were wolves and said they were just stories, but wolves were real enough this far north. After a while, the merchant grew nervous, but in time the road emerged.”

She ground and scraped at the peppercorns and thistleweed.

“Ah, here we are, if you follow the road to your left it’ll get you to the nearest village.”

“Sir, you have been so helpful. Do you live in that village? Can you accompany me there further? I must say I am nervous.”

“The stranger smiled and offered to join the merchant. In time the village came into view it was getting dark. When they arrived, the village was quiet and empty – the homes crumbling and windows dark. The merchant wondered if this was some recent calamity and turned to his companion, but only saw eyes shining from the shadows. In time, the wolves began to howl and they would be the last thing the merchant would ever hear.”

She poured water and wine into the pot and felt steam meet her hand. She supposed it wasn’t a good story, honestly, but it certainly carried a message. Maybe the flaws came from the retelling. Maybe the stranger was a wolf the whole time? She wasn’t sure.

Corea took a few quick stirs in the pot and took a sip of the stew.

“Could have done worse.”

Erryl exhaled a stream of smoke as he spoke, “Corrigan, you were saying something about the origin of these ghouls?”

Erryl watched the mayor’s expression sour and the involuntary shifting in his seat. Keep needling him. Keep him off-guard.

“I assure you we have it in hand, Mr. Nick, but if it will help satisfy your curiosity, I can relay what happened to the town a while back, the night we found ourselves under attack.”

“Yes, please. There may be a clue for my companion and me in your recollection of those events.”

“I doubt you’ll glean much beyond what those who survived have come to understand, but who am I to deny you the opportunity to waste your time?”

The mayor scratched at his round chin, figuring out where to begin. After a few moments, he leaned back into the dirty seat and crossed his arms. Whether he was protecting himself, or being standoffish, was hard to tell.

“It was about ten years ago, and some months when the ghouls struck and overrun us. Though I suppose it goes back further, a few years before, when a strange magician arrived. Best to start there I suppose. I don’t recall the name now, but the magician dabbled in dark arts. Vengeance magics, necromancy, all of that foul stuff.”

“Foul indeed.”

“Right. Well, a few years before the incident, he comes to town. Gordhurst then was a lot bigger than what we have now. A lot less temporary. Fine stonework for most of the center of the town, built around a Lightsworn Abbey, which was the faith of the area for a long while, though that faded just before the kingdom to the north fell to the dogs. Moon worshippers, them. By the time this necromancer arrived, the abbey was more – I guess you’d call it a town hall than a place of any real worship.”

“Not a religious man, I take it, Mr. Mayor.”

“What good would it have done me given the circumstances?”

“Fair, I suppose. A lot to occur in only a couple of years.”

“This necromancer came to town, claiming to be a religious scholar of some kind, out of Tradewind, who was cataloging old ruins, abbeys, and the like. Said he’d heard of our little place and added it to his list. We had no real way of knowing whether that was the truth or not. Triseria was gone to the dogs and all, we were isolated.”

The mayor paused for a moment, his eyes rolling up toward the top of his skull, as though searching for some lost memory.

“Anyway, to my great shame, my wife and boy took an interest in the man and his studies. She was brilliant and the love of my life. Gone now. Boy was the same way. Took after his mother. I never had much in my head for books and theory, but Gods know I provided for her, and then him, as best I could. But the stranger offered them a bit of culture I could never deliver.”

“Your boy is gone, too?”

The mayor was silent. Erryl didn’t press further.

“They… they took up with him on his studies, and in time he started showing them magic. Ancient stuff, beyond little tricks everyone knows. With enough time I could produce some flame, as I am sure you are. She found it fascinating and took to the craft. So did he – my Harriet and Martin. They were happy and it all seemed harmless. The stranger gave them something. Anyway, in time, he had sort of become a feature around the town. Started healing folks. He really built up this reputation as a kind, learned man who came to love the place. But the whole time he was secretly engaging in his dark arts.”

The mayor lifted from his seat a bit and twisted, seeking a little relief from the weight he carried. He sat back down and leaned forward, continuing his story.

“He spent a lot of time at the abbey but also exploring the tombs on the abbey grounds. Even petitioned for the grave keeper’s key to do his studies in private, exploring them for hours at a time. I didn’t think much of it given what he said he was there for, but it was a lie. He started casting spells and digging within the tomb of old Ser Gordhurst himself. The man established the town at least two centuries ago and I am the one who destroyed it because I was loose with a tomb key.”

Erryl continued to watch every little detail of Gorval’s body language as he spoke. Every glint of sweat. Every errant twitch. The mayor’s story rang out as largely truthful, but there were moments…

It wasn’t so much anything like an explicit tell, but rather a combination of pauses and gestures. Erryl had yet to come up with anything concrete, but it was something about his wife and child that seemed to trigger him in a curious way. It was touchy, undoubtedly, but there was more than a sense of tragedy in tone and involuntary movement.

Just what, remained to be seen.

“What sort of experimentations and magic was he doing? He never gave you a name?” Erryl asked.

“The name he gave was likely false. I’ve since forgotten it. I’d uncovered his credentials with Tradewind just as things had gone south and whatever his plan had been came to fruition. I looked into the name on the papers after the fact; murdered. Never left the city. Papers probably ended up tucked in an old drawer back there, or burned up in one of the fires.”

Gorval drew his finger across a dusty portion of the table between the two seats. He drew a single circle and some rough runes within.

“What I remember was this, carved into my boy’s chest.”

Gorval continued drawing. When he was presumably done, he withdrew his finger slightly from the surface and lingered briefly before wiping the dust on a pant leg.

The rune itself was unfamiliar to Erryl. He was sure he had seen it’s like before, but the details were unclear. Perhaps a transcription error that was born of time and trauma. Regardless, it was unsettling. The runes evoked older magics he had barely contended with himself. Fools’ Errand, as competent as their merry band of assholes was, had only ever experienced the practice of ancient magics a time or two.

“Familiar to you, Mr. Nick?”

“Not particularly so,” said Erryl, half truthfully.

“By the time I had begun piecing things together, he’d already moved forward with his plan. The dead rose. Those whom he had cured and came to know – they died too and were born again of necromancy. My Harriet and Martin…”

The mayor clasped his hands together and his knuckles grew white.

“I found him trying to conduct something fowl with them, already dead. I hoped to kill the man, but by then he’d already surrounded the tomb with the rotting horde – they rose and I fought through, I don’t know how. I managed to reach the center of the town and hurried off survivors and helped to rally whoever I could to provide an escape. It was a death march, we were hounded by ghouls for miles.”

“And yet they leave you be, here?”

“You don’t understand. These aren’t normal undead. They pushed us out of the town. He wanted the place – the abbey. When we were far enough away, they only seemed to leave us be. We made our way to the inn and lodge down the road and established this new town. The ghouls never enter town, merely patrol the woods between here and there. They’ll kill a traveler or two, outsiders, but leave us be unless we do something he does not like. They are his eyes and ears.”

“So you’re hostages.”

“You speak as though there is a possible escape, Mr. Nick. We’re here to keep people from his lands. Without us, there are questions. We’re safe as long as we uphold his wishes.”

Erryl coughed a bit.

“Grotesque. One might question the leadership, no?” 

Mayor Gorval rose to his feed, his face red.

“I warn you and your mongrel… leave us be, go back the way you came. Stay away from the signs we’ve made that mark the lands of the dead. If you push this, he’ll see to it that we are killed. We’ll have failed our one purpose for the necromancer. Our blood will be on your hands.”

Erryl rose to his feed and tucked his pipe into his vest.

“You know, Sir Mayor, it sounds a bit cowardly to me.”

“I believe I gave you the mistaken impression that I value the opinion of mercenary trash. There is no gold for you here. If you press on this issue I’ll have you seen as a disturber of the peace.”

Gorval’s face grew redder still. His voice had risen considerably. Spittle flew from his lips. 

“Just because the ghouls surround the town, doesn’t mean we haven’t gotten good at destroying them when they wander in. The only difference between you, your dog, and them is the smell. You all are just meat at the end.”

Erryl stood silently. He showed nothing on his face for a moment as not to give the mayor a self-perceived win. Instead, Erryl slowly broke out into a narrow-eyed smile, threateningly friendly. Pointedly considerate.

“We won’t tarry where we are not welcomed, I assure you. We’ll just take payment for the ghouls we’ve slain and be on our way.”

Gorval was quiet for a moment, his eyes wide, his face plump and crimson. His senses had almost seemed to leave his body. When he came to, he angrily swept his hand across the table, scooping up the ghouls’ teeth and hurled them into Erryl’s face. They bounced off and clattered to the table and wooden floor.

“Damn you, fucker. If you are still here tomorrow I’ll have you arrested. Your dog should be so lucky. Leave. Now.”

Erryl smiled, nodded, and made an exaggerated bow, his legs bent. Almost courtly.

“Good day to you, Mayor Gorval. I take my leave.”

Given the other buildings rested on split logs, sealed with tar, or stones fitted together and filled with mortar, this home stood out  – it was for a mayor at the very least.

Fang stood near Erryl and grumbled slightly, sniffing at the air.

“Are flowers a bit overwhelming for you, friend?”

“You know my nose is sensitive, prick,” said the Wolf.

Erryl chuckled to himself as he continued to study the building.

“Curious home, is it not? I believe they call this a porch.”

“Yes. Had them in the old kingdom.”

“Did you, now?” Erryl knew little of Triseria before the fall.

“Triseria wasn’t always a wolf’s den.”

Erryl spent a second considering how little he knew about a place that had changed so much. “Fair enough.”

Fang stared at the raised wooden platform. Erryl noticed his companion consumed in thought.

“What is it?”

Fang glanced at the wooden planks that wrapped around the porch. He leaned forward and down, seeming to take in the construction of the platform, the vertical beams, and the roof. He measured his height to the railing and studied the wooden rods that rose from the deck to the railing.

“Defensible.”

“And?”

“Smash the stairs and no ghoul can climb up. Gaps in the supports are good for pikes or blades. Could survive a siege here. Pick off the dead.”

Erryl glanced over the details that Fang laid out. He stepped back and took in the whole of the home. Or was it a fortress?

“The prick lives in a fortress.”

Fang snorted – perhaps in agreement, or perhaps not. Werewolves had too many little gestures and quirks to take in. At least, Fang did, as the only werewolf Erryl had met that hadn’t tried to kill him.

Erryl continued, “One would hope his constituents could fall back to this position given the shambling corpses nearby.”

“Doubt it,” Fang’s voice was a low grumble.

Erryl agreed, saying nothing. After a moment, he began to climb the stairs. He found it curious that he towered over Fang as he turned back to glance at the wolf, who stood stubbornly in the dirt near the steps.

“Are you coming?”

“Not welcome.”

“I insist. I need you there to make me look legitimate.” Erryl stepped onto the deck and toward the door.

Fang glanced around. If Erryl didn’t know better, the wolf appeared nervous. After a moment of apprehension, Fang’s heavy, padded foot met the first step with a sharp creak. He winced and pulled his foot back.

Erryl tapped a toe impatiently. “Hurry up.”

Fang took a step again and the creak became a crack as he placed his weight on his left foot. He grunted and cleared the stairs in two steps, the first step audibly splitting the wood at the moment his weight was fully on it. Fang shifted uncomfortably on the groaning boards of the deck and glanced at the first step, a dark fissure splitting the board and leaving it uneven.

Erryl smiled. “Dear me, I seemed to have split that first step.”

Fang looked to Erryl for a moment, his brow furrowed in apparent confusion. After a moment the fur across his brow evened out.

“I see.”

The Barber rapped at the door. Fang sidled up behind him, but Erryl gestured him away. 

“Not until the door is open. For dramatic emphasis,” he whispered.

Fang grunted and stepped to the left, out of sight of the door.

After a few moments, a raspy voice called out from inside.

“Who the bloody hell is it? Egg? Egg is that you?”

“We bear no eggs, we are but humble travelers who have done you and your constituents a service, good sir.”

There was silence on the other side of the door and an audible creak of the presumed mayor shifting his weight.

“I won’t be having solicitors.”

“Then it is good we are not solicitors.” Erryl took a chance. “We were sent by the Innkeeper to make good for our service to the town. You have a bit of a pest problem in the woods and he sent us your way.”

 There was another pause. There was more creaking.

“Fucking Nathan! That son of a whore!”

The door swung inward and a round man emerged. He smelled of liquor, sweat, and snuff. His eyes were wide, which only served to make his puffy lids billow outward. His thick mustache’s twirled tips were uneven and his thinning hair appeared to have once been combed over, but now it flopped angrily and leaflike over a reddish, wrinkled forehead.

“That son of a bitch can’t be making unilateral decisions like that without my – wait, who the hells are you?”

Erryl snapped his fingers on his left hand which dangled at his side. He pulled his hand up and rested it on the hilt of his rapier. Fang’s massive frame emerged from behind him silent and strong.

“Why, Mr. Mayor. We’re the solution to your ghoul problem.”

The mayor’s eyes did not leave Fang and Erryl felt he might as well have been invisible. The message of his and Fang’s presence was pointedly clear.

“Er, fine. Come in. Leave the beast outside.”

Erryl felt a heat radiating behind him from the wolf, but it quickly subsided. Erryl wouldn’t press the issue, Fang had played his role for the present. Erryl would fill his companion in later.

Erryl glanced back to Fang, who towered over him and gave a quick nod. Fang slowly turned and walked toward the stairsteps. He stood with his back to the door and folded his arms, pushing up his shoulders and giving them even more volume than they normally had.

The Wolf would keep watch, just outside the door.

Erryl noticed that the mayor’s eyes were still wide, yet his brow simultaneously pressed down on the fat above his sockets in some sort of seething anger or resentment. This was good enough. He had proven an easy read.

Erryl brushed past the mayor and stepped into the door. The mayor did not take his eyes off Fang. After a few seconds, he finally closed the door and began to lock it.

Erryl coughed. 

“Do you think that would be any help? I assure you, you have nothing to fear from us.”

The mayor stopped, sighed, and undid the initial lock.

“I suppose you’re right there, mister…”

“Nick. Erryl Nick. Barber-surgeon and member of Fools’ Errand, at your service.”

Erryl bowed deeply with the flourish of his free left hand darting above and behind him. His right hand rested on the hilt of his rapier, the pointed end reaching upward, much like his free hand.

The mayor responded. “Corrigan Gorval, duly elected mayor of New Gordhurst.”

Erryl promptly cut the bow and returned upright, hand still on his blade. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a little tobacco on you, would you, Corrigan? I must admit I am rather nervous, I’ve spoken to very few men so above my station and I don’t wish to misstep in my proposal. A nice smoke would soothe my nerves.”

The mayor stomped past Erryl past a bannister and stepped into a doorway to the left. Erryl followed. The mayor grumbled.

The room was a sitting room with a hint of pretension. The furniture was clearly the nicest that could be found in New Gordhurst. This space held what few things had been recovered during the assumed calamity, or things traded for in the time since. The desk was once ornate and delicately carved with floral patterns but now appeared scuffed and dusty.

Much of the room was dusty. Not much official business done here of late, it seemed.

Erryl watched the mayor rustle through a couple of desk drawers, grunting and muttering. He glanced around the room for a moment and huffed at the recognition of something. He shuffled to a shelf and picked up a small box, opening it and holding it out to Erryl. Erryl’s pipe was at the ready, plucked out from a vest pocket.

“Not tobacco, but mirebloom. Bit stale. Don’t smoke much. Will this work?”

Erryl took a couple of pinches and packed them into his pipe.

“Absolutely. Thank you.”

Erryl patted his pockets, unable to find a match. The mayor struck one and held it out, and Erryl lit his pipe, taking a few quick puffs to get the bloom to smolder. The mayor gestured sharply to a pair of threadbare couches in the center of the room. Erryl nodded and took a seat and the mayor slumped into the opposite couch, clouds of dust rising and falling for a few brief seconds.

“How can the town of New Gordhurst help you, Mister Nick? You said something of a pest problem?”

“Oh, of course, Corrigan! Yes, specifically, ravenous dead lurking in the woods around the town.”

The mayor coughed.

“Ah, that. Well, I understand your concern. Appreciate it even. Oh, I believe I failed to mention my name as Corrigan Gorval.”

“Oh, no, you mentioned that immediately.”

Gorval huffed.

“Well, I do appreciate your concern, Mister Nick, I am not sure what use a barber is to us. Or the beast for that matter. We have things well under control with the, er, pests. I am sure you saw our defenses on the way into town.” 

Gorval paused for a moment. “Speaking of which, I am sure you have someplace more important to be than our little town. I can understand if you and your… friend… need a place to spend the evening. I am sure Nathan at the inn can accommodate you. Beyond that, I am unsure of what business we may have.”

Erryl puffed away.

“Oh, I can understand you have your defenses, but I must say that my companion and I had an encounter just outside your town with a trio of nasty things.”

Erryl shifted on the couch grabbed his small bundle and spilled the teeth onto the table between the couches. They clattered against the wood.

Gorval grimaced at the sight of filthy ghoul teeth on the dusty surface.

“We encountered three ghouls on the way in. Surely as the leader of this town, you would want to ensure safety for travelers, correct?”

The mayor said nothing as he stared at the pile of broken teeth. The man’s countenance had changed. There was a twinge of something that Erryl could not quite read on the man’s face, which was cast downward at the table. 

Curious.

After a few seconds of silence, Erryl took a quick puff and continued.

“Tell me, Corrigan, just what is the source of these local ghouls? You ask what business a Barber and a Wolf have with your town. We are here to help cleanse the infection… for a small fee.”

Mayor Corrigan Gorval said nothing. He simply stared at the teeth.