From the thickest limb of an ancient black cypress, a well-concealed watcher eyed the switchback path. As the simpletons stumbled downhill, he scratched his brow and wondered how the suckers kept coming. Seven! And so late in the season. Fools for certain, doubtless doubly desperate, and that meant triple trouble for Threewolf.

Though hard and overgrown, Threewolf’s head was still firmly attached to his shoulders. He intended to keep it there. As the sun set, he pondered the problem. Moraney’s puppets kept coming, ‘til their strings were cut short. Something must be done.

Threewolf’s true name was Rodeff Semalot, but no living men knew it any longer. Moraney had outlawed him a decade ago, but even before then, he’d had few true friends. At the start of the dispute, Threewolf had resolved to simply hide until Moraney died. Moraney would not oblige.

As the years dried up, a bitter brace of enduring hate bound the old man’s bones together until rancor became his sole purpose. Routine hardened into ritual and pursuit became perpetual. The hunters kept coming.

Every spring, a ream of newly inked bounties was thrust into the unhappy hands of the least-favored son of Skywark. The unfortunate page would spend his season roaming the realm, tacking bounty bills to town halls and tavern walls across the Arc. The hundred ducats had long since been paid in ink, vellum, and boot leather.

Still, the pages went out, perennial as phlox. They could not be stopped at the source. One year, Threewolf intercepted the waybill boy, relieved him of his entire stack, and sent him back unharmed. Moraney had the boy beaten bloody and sent out twice as many bounties under armed guard.

The cycle continued.

Threewolf dutifully slew the fools who tried to track him down and hoped word would eventually get around. For many years it had been clear the hunt was hopeless.

Sadly, the supply of suckers seemed everlasting. Every season, a troop or two of rubes would bite on the bait and climb the Snake Road to Skywark. Shivering at the summit, they stood at the bitter end of the drawbridge and were snubbed, just as the men below surely had been. Usually, it was four or five fools, though Threewolf had seen ten, and once as many as twenty.

On occasion, some single-minded, self-righteous sap would show up on his lonesome and proclaim himself the long-awaited legend-slayer. Come one, come all, the result was the same, pain without gain. It would be the same for these seven. The sun began to set at Threewolf’s back as the hunters approached.

The timing was almost perfect. With the sun in their eyes, they would not know where the shot came from. Threewolf took care his great weight did not shake the tree when he lifted his bow and nocked an arrow. He waited for the hunters to get close enough to be sure of his shot.

In a decade of being hunted, Threewolf had learned it was better to wound than kill. A dead man demanded revenge. A lame man was a drag, in body and mind. Many would gladly die for glory, but none would trade an arm or a leg for a handful of coins.

Just out of bow-range, the bounty-men began to bicker. The hunters were too distant to hear, but Threewolf could read much from their posture. Brusque, unhappy movements. Hung heads, leaden steps. They were half-beaten before they’d even begun the hunt.

One of the men hurled a stick at the other, and the graybeard had to break up a scuffle. His hand cut the air as he chided them, but his touch was light. Soon, the others were laughing. This was their leader. One of the men folded his arms across his chest as the graybeard spoke.

Threewolf raised an eyebrow. Dissent in the ranks. Perhaps he didn’t even need to attack. If he managed to spook one or two, he could pick this squabbling squad apart at the seams, split the pack, and turn them back. The idea of ending the hunt without bloodshed was appealing. Threewolf had no love of slaughter. It all got old long ago. The hunters tried to read a map in the dying light, gave up, and began to pitch camp.

So much for the ambush!

Threewolf tugged at his thick black beard and recalculated his approach. If the bounty hunters posted a single guard, he could put an arrow through that man’s throat, rush the camp, and perhaps rout the rest. He didn’t like it.

Melee was a good way to get wounded or worse, and he was no berserker. These men didn’t seem green enough to set a one-man watch, either. With two lookouts, the other would surely sound the alarm. It could get complicated. For want of a better idea, he waited.

As smoke curled from their campfire, Threewolf’s thoughts rose up Snake Road to Skywark Keep. He knew the garrison’s routine by heart. By now, the banners were furled, the bridge was drawn. Two nightmen walked the rampart with lanterns. The real enemy was up there, burrowed between those tall walls.

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Since this business began, Moraney had kept himself completely sequestered. He hadn’t set foot on Snake Road or even left the keep. Everyone who passed through Skywark got the same rough treatment. Even pilgrims and traders were rudely ushered through at pike point.

Skywark Keep was built ages ago, to shield Adder Vale from the hordes of northern Albaria. But for ten generations, the tribes had been too occupied fighting amongst themselves. With no foe to fight, the sleepy garrison should have been a choice post.

Old Man Moraney made everyone miserable. Convinced his keep was riddled with spies, he subjected his soldiers to surprise inspections and had them whipped for the slightest infraction. By his decree, no animals were allowed within Skywark Keep. No dogs drowsed by his hearths, and no sheep bleated within his walls. Moraney would not even permit birds to roost on his roofs.

His archers spent their days fletching arrows and pot-shotting pigeons. Threewolf knew the subjects of Skywark considered Moraney’s precautions pointless paranoia, but they were wrong.

Night settled over the sad little camp, and the bounty hunters got a stew going. At one point, the graybeard stood apart from the others and stared into the tree line, straight at Threewolf’s branch. Threewolf didn’t flinch.

He knew the old ways to remain unseen, speak with beasts, and pass without a trace. Though he was invisible in the boughs, the graybeard’s gaze lingered. Threewolf winced with regret. In a way, it was worse than if he’d been made. Some uncanny intuition guided that one. He had the knack.

Threewolf peered back and wondered if peace was prudent. An arrow through the graybeard might save them all a great deal of suffering. Painfully slow, he raised his bow, but the wind shifted against him. Threewolf could not be sure of the shot. There was a call from the fire, the stew was ready.

The graybeard rejoined the others and said something. The whole camp laughed as they dug in. Up in his tree, Threewolf felt a pang of envy for their fire and company. He shook his head. Sentiment was expensive.

Time whistled away with the wind, and the posse posted their watch. Two, as expected. Threewolf waited for his moment. If either sentry fell asleep, he could slip over, slit both throats, and set upon the others in their bedrolls. Their chase would end before it began in a great, red waste.

Threewolf scowled with distaste. He was almost relieved when the watch transitioned. True to his hunch, the bounty hunters were a disciplined bunch. The first shift shook their replacements awake and they switched. Watching the tight exchange, Threewolf was sure the others would make no mistakes.

There were other ways. Behind the veil of clouds, the moon approached her apex. Threewolf’s breaths grew long and deep. He allowed the wheel of thoughts to grind down and disperse until he was still inside. In tranquil acquiescence, he dispensed with the pretense of himself, any idea of a distinction between man and land. All was one.

He felt the wolves first, his friends far away. He only had to call them, and they would come. Together, they could make short work of the seven. But the bounty was a thing between men. It was wrong to pit bow and blade against fang and claw. He focused on the copse and let his awareness seep outward like spilled ink.

There was a fox burrow below his perch. A lone vixen curled within, too timid to serve his purpose. Threewolf quested on. He sensed a saw-whet owl one tree over, but they were secretive birds and preferred to be undisturbed. Perhaps the owl might change his mind if offered a fat mouse or a juicy vole, but Threewolf had neither.

It seemed no allies were at hand, but at the limit of his insight, Threewolf felt a bird blink awake. A great murder of crows roosted in a tall yellow pine near the trailhead.

Surrounded by the smell of sweet vanilla sap, the flock was holed up for the night. They’d begun their migration that very morning. Countless shadows lined the limbs and dreamed crow-black dreams. Threewolf smiled and pursed his lips to the wind.

“Mischief,” he whispered.

The yellow pine fluttered with interest. Dark brown eyes shot wide, and black beaks clacked with curiosity. Threewolf composed his thoughts into a form the crows could appreciate, wary and contrary, flitting and free. The blithe blackbirds needed no bribe.

Once they understood his intent, the murder riffled with delight. Dark wings climbed the night until they blotted out the stars. The host of crows wheeled overhead three times as it composed itself.

Now!

The murder fell upon the bounty hunters like a cloudburst and sent the camp into cawing, cackling chaos. Panicked, the sentries screamed an alarm and fled for the brush. Blinded by haste, they made a horrible choice and hopped in a hawthorn. The other hunters awoke and were dive-bombed from a thousand directions. They raised sleep-weak arms to protect their eyes and rolled over as black beaks pecked their bedrolls to pieces.

The graybeard was the first to act. With his eyes visored by the crook of his arm he flew to his feet and flashed his sword about in the firelight.

Disperse! Threewolf willed, keen to avoid casualties. The crows were of a like mind. In a cacophony of mirth, the murder scattered to the treetops and cackled at the ravaged camp. The strangers were riddled with peck-marks and scratches. Their clothes were tarred with guano and tufts of wing fluff. What a rout! One final touch, the crows all croaked in unison.

“DOOMED! DOOMED! DOOMED!”

Even Threewolf felt an eerie chill at the sound of so many inhuman voices. Grinning with glee, Threewolf beamed praise at the murder.

Superb birds! When you return, come to my valley for a feast.

The sharpest crows puffed with pride and spread their wings wide in triumph. The others caught on and flapped along. Below the preening flock, the would-be beheaders milled about in a state of shock. Satisfied, Threewolf climbed down from his own perch and slipped off into the night. At his back, the crows cried on.

Caw, caw!