This is the twelfth 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.
It was still dark when Corea awoke and had to get to her daily chores. Grandmother still slept a wheezing and tremulous sleep, and there had still been no sign of Garen. His bedroll remained rolled up near the wall where he normally slept, opposite Corea’s own space on the wooden floor.
Periodically, as Corea came to, she would hear a half-whimpered groan or cry from her grandmother, from behind the thin curtains that kept her bed, the only proper bed in the small home, isolated in darkness and providing relative warmth. The fire had fallen to mostly ash, but the dying embers within the stove did help to keep the chill out, despite the thinness of the walls.
Maybe when Garen returned, they could patch up the walls, stuff straw between the slats, and maybe even find new wood to layer over the draftier walls.
When he returned.
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 “Artos.” For a time in his childhood, Fang had been Fain Arturson – 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?”
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