This is the eleventh 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.
Business was not good for Erryl and Fang. Most citizens of the town had sequestered themselves in their homes, most likely. If there were even that many left, given the local ghouls. The meeting with the mayor had gone nowhere.
Those who did populate the simple road that made for the main thoroughfare of the town had largely avoided him and his companion. No doubt part apprehension of strangers, no doubt another part being the beastly countenance of Fang. Triseria, the fallen kingdom, was not too far from Gordhurst, or New Gordhurst, and surely there were tales of wolves, men, and those between.
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.”
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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