This is the seventh chapter of the Fang & Bone serial; click here to visit the previous installment of Fang of Triseria. Please share your thoughts on the story in the comments, or visit the project hub for more information.
The Barber peered around for a moment after the departure of the Wolf, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the inn. The inn wasn’t much warmer despite a fire smoldering in the hearth. The room was large, with a rough bar on the far end from the doorway, heavy oak supports dotted the open floor, and a half dozen small tables sat with a mismatching set of stools at each one. The wall furthest to the right had two rudimentary booths set on either side of the cobblestone hearth, and the wall nearest the door had a set of the same booths.
Though early in the morning, there were two men, the ones Erryl had seen stumble into the bar earlier, perched at their likely usual booth near the hearth.
At the bar proper, a heavyset man with black hair, flecked with blotches of grey at the temples, was handling bottles, his back to the doorway. Two doorways flanked the bar; one closed and another led to a set of stairs.
“Welcome, pull up if you want a drink.” His voice was as cragged as a stone wall.
The weight of the coins in Erryl’s purse felt a little heavier; he shook his head and stepped up to the bar. He rapped his knuckles on the wooden counter.
“Not here for a drink yet, friend. New here.”
The barkeep, maybe the innkeeper himself, glanced away from the bottle he was studying, peering back over his shoulder at Erryl. Convinced there was a stranger in his business, he turned fully toward the Barber and looked him over. The keeper’s beard was short, kept up by scissors rather than shaved, and there was a scar across his forehead, cutting into an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you’re new. If it’s not a drink then are you needing a place to stay?”
“Perhaps later tonight. I currently have business with your town’s leadership. A captain of the guard? Mayor? Wealthy farmer?”
The barman stared a hard stare through green eyes and huffed a bit, something about the town leadership seemed to spark a reaction. Erryl noted it.
“Afraid we have an ass for a mayor, just down the road, nicest house outside of my inn. What is your business?”
“Between me and your Mayor, but I’ll just say -” Erryl drew a small, rattling bundle from his belt loop and let the bundle settle in his hand – “you’ve got a ghoul problem outside of town.”
The larger man glanced at the bundle in Erryl’s hand, back to Erryl’s eyes, and laughed as he uncorked the bottle he had been holding. He pulled out a small glass, filled it until it overflowed, and shoved it toward Erryl.
“No money for you here, friend, but enjoy the free drink. You’ll be back later once you realize what a pigheaded asshole Corrigan is. Cheers.”
The barman corked the dark green bottle and turned back to the wall, getting back to work. He didn’t speak further. Erryl stood for a second, tucked the bag of ghouls’ teeth back into his belt loop, and glanced at the two other men nearest the fire. Their dark eyes watched him with a mix of amusement and disinterest.
Erryl took a swig of the tart, dark liquor. It tasted of apples and spice. He tapped the glass onto the table, tapped the surface with his fingertips a few times, more thinking than summoning, and then stepped away.
“Thank you, kindly.”
There was no reply.
…
Erryl wasn’t thrilled by what the barman had said. He was pretty good at reading people and there was no love lost between the barman and the leader of the town. As to the nature of his side of the hostility toward the leadership, it struck Erryl as multifaceted. If he knew more there might be an angle to pursue.
He made his way to a tree across from the inn and leaned against it, his arm resting against the bark, his right foot kicked above the knee, the arch resting on the top of his calf muscle. He scratched at his scraggly cheek as he considered what he knew and what he and Fang had observed so far.
This town was in a sorry state. Signage indicated a New Gordhurst, but what the town appeared to be was the detritus of former lives. Something had caused them to flee one home and hastily erect this one.
The prevailing theory now was that the incident involved the undead. The fact he had a collection of ghoul teeth in his possession was a clear enough clue. But, the overall laxness of the town, being so close in proximity to the wandering dead, was disconcerting, to say the least. The proprietor had a strong dislike for the mayor.
And then of course was the fact that Fang had sensed the stench of rot relatively easily. The woods surrounding likely still had wandering dead, but nobody local seemed to be on particularly high alert. The fact he and his road companion were able to enter the town so openly, noticing only a few barricades, was another element that made no sense.
Either every person in the town was a living weapon devoted to the cause of smiting the undead and there was no need to worry, or information was at a premium, and control was exerted by the leadership. Or it could have been a third thing Erryl had yet to consider. At this stage, little lined up, and it intrigued him.
As he pondered, the Wolf approached. His strides were long. As much as Fang tried to obscure his lupine nature, his gait gave him away as something else, even beneath the heavy cloak.
Fang stopped just in front of his companion. A massive furry hand slipped out between the fold of the cloak, with some wildflowers pinched between two gigantic fingers.
The Barber glanced down at the meager bouquet and smirked.
“For me, my friend?”
Fang sighed. “In case you were smelling anything.”
Fang pulled his hood wider and craned his neck back, within the fabric cavern was the reddish-furred face, and along a massively wide neck a bundle of flowers, tucked into a strip of coarse cloth tied around the neck. The wolf pulled part of the cloth over his snout.
“Keeps out the bad air.”
“My nose isn’t as keen as yours, but I expect these may be useful.” Erryl tucked the flowers into a crumple into a small pocket in his vest.
“I thank you.”
Fang sniffed. The werewolf glanced around and took in the silence.
“Quiet place. Nothing masking the moans in the woods. Puts me on edge.”
“Yes, I think I agree with you.”
Fang sniffed again.
“Don’t think I can’t smell the drink on you, Barber.”
Erryl stepped back and raised his hands in a gesture of defeat.
“I assure you I did not spend a single coin; the drink was a parting gift from the innkeeper, he was convinced we’d be back after a talk with the town’s leader. Some man named Corrigan.”
“Doesn’t sound good for us.”
“No, certainly doesn’t, so what say we tilt those odds?”
Fang kept a wary eye on the road ahead, in the direction of where he indicated most of the moans and the foul odors were coming from. After a moment he turned his hooded gaze toward Erryl.
“You’re not serious?” The Wolf’s voice was low and almost nervous.
Erryl stepped back onto his heels and gestured at the length of Fang’s body. “You’re too mighty and intimidating to be hidden away, my friend. Your countenance alone may be just what we need.”
The Wolf grumbled. “Not sure.”
Erryl shook his head.
“Given they spare no thoughts to the dead in their midst, what fear is a werewolf such as yourself going to cause?”
Fang was silent for a moment. His hooded face glanced north, at some fixed point Erryl could not identify.
“We’re on the borders of the kingdom. Others like me… did a lot of killing.”
“You’ve done a lot of killing, my friend.”
Fang said nothing. After a moment, he pulled down the hood and two pointed ears emerged. He threw the right side of his cloak over his shoulder, exposing the hilt of his massive blackened iron sword.
“Whatever your scheme is, Barber…”
“No scheme. Not yet at least. And please, call me Erryl.”
Fang sighed.
“Now, follow me, we need to talk to the man in charge.”
Click here to visit the project hub for Fang of Triseria; click here to read the next installment of Fang & Bone.
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Merc bar stuff! Grimy.