Captain Eric Wolfgang of the 5th Royal Dragoons loitered on damp brick steps and watched the sunrise as he rolled a cigarillo. His fingers fondled the dirty brown tobacco paper like a long-lost lover. The familiar roughness of it against his calloused hands gave him little comfort. He stretched out one long leg and drove a well-worn boot heel into the tender earth. The muscles of his thigh ached with masochistic pleasure. It had been a long night ride across rolling hills.

On the horizon, the sun had begun its lazy ascent. Blood-orange rays spread across the purple sky. Eric gazed absentmindedly off into the distance. The day’s first light revealed the hill's true color, emerald. A brilliant, serene emerald that soothed his tired eyes.

As he put the finishing touches on his cigarillo, the men of his troop plucked villagers from their red-brick homes and corralled them in the village square. Young and old, men and women, be they invalid or rich with health, all had eyes akin to sheep and they bleated just the same when his wolves bared their fangs.

He watched the unfolding scene with wry amusement. The poets will sing of this one day, thought Eric as he placed the cigarillo between his lips, The Doom that came to Tresgalt. This notion nudged a chuckle out of him. No songs would be sung of this day. Tresgalt was nothing more than a hamlet, one far from beaten paths, and this raid was but a footnote in the war. Historians might debate the merit of his deeds, decades down the road, if any record was even made.

He lit his cigarillo, smirking all the while, as villagers watched him warily from the corners of their eyes. Any that met his frigid gaze snapped their heads away as if slapped by an invisible hand. Few could match his icy blue eyes. A hard voice cut through the stillness of the morning air, “Sir! We’ve found him.”

A pair of dragoons approached. Their jackets were a crimson hue that lapped up blood. A color perfect for their profession, noted Eric as he puffed idly on his cigarillo. They dragged an elderly man in black iron chains between them. His gray mop of hair swung back and forth as the tips of his boots dug furrows in the ground. The villagers stirred with sudden courage which was then swiftly placated by a handful of raised carbines.

One fool still dared to cry, “Wilhem! Let him go! Let him go, you bastards!” The bold voice came from an elderly woman with tears welling in the crinkles of her eyes. She resembled a wood witch with her wild white hair and bloodshot eyes. Her cries for mercy were joined by the voice of a young blonde maiden who wept unabashedly at the sight of her father in irons. Eric observed it coolly, Leverage.

He rose slowly onto still-stiff legs and gingerly stretched out his aching back. With a farcical, hacking cough the captain of dragoons cleared his throat. “Sheriff Wilhem Kant,” he asked in his best rendition of a proper commander’s voice, “Is that correct?”

The old man did not look up but answered all the same in a raspy voice, “Aye.”

“Take him into the gaol,” ordered Eric. Then to one of his lieutenants, he said, “The two women. Separate them from the rest.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And,” followed Eric, in a booming tone, loud enough for all to hear, “If anyone resists, shoot them up, and take their head.” Blood fled from half the faces in the square. Others stared at him with fury in their eyes. Oh, thought Eric as he bit back a smirk, You’ve only just begun to hate me. Wait until the day is done. His troop of dragoons acknowledged his orders without any visible reaction or emotion. All had played the game.

Satisfied, Eric took a final drag from his cigarillo, put it out against the doorframe, and followed his men and prisoner into the gaol. They made to stick the sheriff into one of the gaol’s two cells, but Wolfgang lazily waved them off and ordered them out. “Do not disturb me,” he ordered. “No matter what.”

“Aye, sir,” said the pair in unison. Their acknowledgment echoed throughout the gaol as they departed. Captain Wolfgang slammed the door shut behind them and turned to the sheriff. The man’s gaze remained fixed on the floor.

“Sit,” ordered Wolfgang. “Behind your desk is fine.” Wordlessly, the sheriff slumped into the chair behind his oaken desk but still did not look up. He plays the beaten man too well.

“Look at me,” commanded the captain of dragoons in a voice that tolerated no defiance. At last, Sheriff Kant looked up. His right eye was milky-white and the good one blazed with fury. And now we dance.

“Do you know why we are here?” queried Wolfgang as he studied the sheriff’s face. A dull purple scar twisted like a winding river from the center of the old man’s chin to his right temple. It danced each time his pale lips parted.

“You are the king’s men, this is the king’s country. You go where you are willed,” answered the sheriff.

“A true statement. Not an answer.”

“My mind is the only one I know,” rebuffed the decrepit sheriff.

Wolfgang snorted. “Are you a poet? Do you speak only in platitudes?”

“I am not. I do not. And I can not guess at why you are here,” replied Kant calmly. Embers of hate crackled in his one good eye.

“Do you hate me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

“But I do,” answered Kant, “I have known many of you. Do you think you are unique? You are wolves in the guise of men. Carrion-eaters born of war.”

“You are a poet,” chuckled Wolfgang, “Albeit a poor one. Trust me, sir, I eat only from my kills.” The old man made no answer and so Wolfgang continued. “Have you met with Leopold?”

“I have met with many men, but none by that name. So far as I know.”

Wolfgang waved a hand in front of his face as he said, “I’ve heard that he wears a helmet in the shape of a lion’s head.” His description elicited no visible reaction from the prisoner.

“A strange man,” replied Kant as plainly as if he were commenting on the odds of rain.

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“A wicked one as well. Do you love your daughter?” Sheriff Kant’s face contorted with momentary rage at the question.

“Of course I do,” he snarled, “What father doesn’t?”

And I take the first round. Wolfgang twirled his cigarillo betwixt his fingers. “She’s a pretty girl,” he said wistfully, “I’ve always had a soft spot for golden hair like hers. It looked soft as silk.” Kant’s mouth began to open, but before he could speak Wolfgang cut him off with a wagging finger. “Oh no, no, no,” he teased, “You will not interrupt me. What is her name? I think she looks like Anne. Perhaps Annabelle.”

The sheriff spat at him and growled, “Go to hell.”

Wolfgang crossed the room in three long strides and stepped behind the desk. It was an unkempt thing. Where paint failed to peel away it gathered like nauseating globules of white mucous. He squatted down and smiled, inches from the sheriff’s fuming face.

The captain twisted his face into a wicked grin as he asked, “Would she like it if I called her Annabelle?” Kant unleashed a bestial cry and bolted upright with alacrity that took Wolfgang completely off guard. It seems I touched a nerve, he thought as he took a single step back from the raging sheriff. Good. A right hook from the captain returned the old man to his seat.

“Why do you make me do this?” howled Captain Wolfgang with glee, but he wondered, What is wrong with me? Have I gone mad? Three, five, six, seven, he had lost track of how many villages, hamlets, farms - all pitiful bastions of sheep - his commander had sent him to raze. The second had been the hardest, but now, he was an old hand at the game. All the sheep were the same. They were rats and liars, traitors and thieves. A disease to be studied and then purged. He struck the old man again and again and again. Each time with his right fist until his blood-stained knuckles begged for a reprieve.

Wolfgang panted like a dog as he rubbed his aching hand and studied the results. The left side of Sheriff Kant’s face was a bloody mess. His one good eye was swollen shut. If it’s even still good. Eric felt giddy and sick and needed a drink. With none at hand, he lit his cigarillo and inhaled deeply. “My orders,” grunted the captain of dragoons between ragged pants, “My orders…”

Kant moaned and his head rocked unsteadily. An open-handed smack to the cheek stilled him. “Listen!” snarled Eric, “Listen. My orders are to torch this hole. You were dead before I came. Along with as many of your people as I decide. We know. We know you are treacherous filth. We know you harbored the enemy.”

Breathless, Wolfgang ceased his speech, lit his cigarillo with the speed of an old hand, and took a long drag from it. He blew smoke into the sheriff’s face. “You know where they are,” raged Eric as he spat out words at a breakneck pace, “Tell me. Tell me and I will put you out of your misery. Tell me and your wife and daughter will live. Tell me and I won’t fucking kill them all.” Or don’t. Not as if I care. Not as if it matters.

Kant turned his head to one side slowly, with painstaking effort, and spat blood out on the floor. In the scarlet puddle lay a pair of broken, yellowed teeth. “Promise…” groaned the old man weakly. The sounds of his pain were almost pathetic enough to tug a speck of pity from Eric’s heart. “Promise me…” He stretched out one shaky hand flecked with liver spots and grasped the captain’s black overcoat. “Let them live, please. They did not know. They weren’t...a part.”

Wolfgang forced Kant’s hand free. Compared to the dragoon, the sheriff’s grip was that of a child. “You have my word,” he said in a low voice. The lie came out effortlessly. They all came out easy now. As naturally as breathing. He undid the knot in his stomach with a swallow. “Where are they?” he pressed.

“Volksmarch,” grunted the old man. He spat again. The scarlet puddle grew. “They’re going to Volksmarch.”

“How many?” hissed Wolfgang through clenched teeth.

To his dismay, Kant began to chuckle. “All of them,” he answered, “All of them and with the lion at the helm.” His thin shoulders rose and fell with laughter. “Go. Go and be damned.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Captain Eric Wolfgang stood upright, drew his revolver, and sent a single bullet through the old man’s skull. A cacophony of screams pierced the gaol in response to the blast. Wolfgang gazed down at the corpse. The gray mop of hair was now painted red. An idle thought crossed his mind, Not a canoe. He took aim and emptied the final five rounds into Kant’s head, reducing it to mindless gore.

No, no, no, thought Eric as the revolver slipped from his shaking hand. Pink bits of brain and slivers of bone littered the room. A hazel eye leered up at him. No, no, no. He grabbed the quivering wrist with the other hand and tried desperately to steady it.

“I am cold, I am calm, I am ice,” he muttered to the empty goal. “I am cold, I am calm, I am ice.” The third time through the refrain slowed his shakes. By the fifth, his breathing had returned to its normal resting rate, and by the sixth, he was prepared. Eric took a deep breath in through his dry mouth. It filled his lungs with stale air that stank of death.

He exhaled slowly through his thin nose and picked up the revolver. With dexterity born of necessity, he emptied six spent shells and replaced them with live rounds. Captain Eric Wolfgang holstered his weapon and stepped outside. Thick gray clouds now obscured the morning sun.

“Rolf!” he barked and a skinny youth in an officer’s uniform darted forward. His dirty blonde curls bounced with each step. The youth began to salute, realized his mistake, and snapped into a position of attention with his face flushed red.

“Sir,” said Rolf in a boyish voice. The captain watched him with veiled disgust. I must transfer this child at once.

“Torch the place. Pick out five men, three women, and Kant’s wife and daughter. Bring the ten here. Drive the rest off,” ordered Wolfgang as he surveyed the town square. Any guard dogs had vanished at the sound of his revolver’s report. Only pale-faced sheep remained.

“Aye sir!” shouted the young lieutenant. Despite his obvious nerves, Rolf spun on one heel and began to issue orders as vigorously as a veteran sergeant. Wolfgang returned to his perch on the gaol’s steps and puffed at his cigarillo. With each hit his hands shook less and less.

A hint of pride stirred in his breast as he watched his troop carry out his orders with proper enthusiasm. The villagers were driven off with much wailing, screaming, and gnashing of teeth. Some dared to resist at first. Some always did. Rifle butts and bayonets smothered the embers of their courage.

He watched as five of the village’s men, all of fighting age, were marched up to him and forced to kneel. Fighting age, scoffed Eric to himself, They’re closer to scarecrows than farmhands. Two of the scrawny men wept like babes. The others were admirably stoic.

They were soon joined by Kant’s witch of a wife and golden daughter. Each woman was resigned to her fate. They should be grateful, thought Wolfgang coldly, All they will suffer is death. Three more women were brought forth, two young, one old, all teary-eyed. He gazed into their eyes one by one. Blue, hazel, amber, each pair distinct in shape and color. Eric blinked them away and when his eyes opened again their features blurred together into nothingness. Who can tell the sheep apart?

Happy flames had begun to dance on the rooftops as mounted dragoons flung torches high. They tumbled head over heels as they arced gracefully through the air. And now it ends. Wolfgang flung his cigarillo away and rose. “Leave the gaol standing,” he commanded in a sonorous tone and motioned for four dragoons to join him on the firing line. He put one round each through the three stoic men and then the wife and daughter as well. They deserved as much. Fire danced in their tears as his bullets struck true. My word is counterfeit, thought Eric. Sorrow gnawed at the hollow of his guts.

“Finish the rest,” he ordered as he reloaded his revolver, “We ride for Heimdaug.”

One by one five shots rang out. Doom had come to Tresgault.