How could it be so hard to find a wolf?

Not just a wolf, but three of them. Not just three wolves, but Threewolf, presumably a being of flesh and blood who required food, drink, and diversion, the same as any other man. Flinzer’s flock ranged all around the icy edge of Blue Fugue Lake and found no sign of man nor wolf.

Whent and Bluddox were back, and there was some joy in that. The boys crawled back on their bellies, exactly as Flinzer foresaw. Whent had a fat, black shiner that was surely Bluddox’s ham-fisted handiwork. There was a pained look in Bluddox’s deep-set eyes. Whatever Whent had said gnawed at him still. It didn’t matter.

Flinzer welcomed both men back and waved away their lame excuses. Reunited, they wasted the rest of the day chasing their tails on a three-league excursion around the half-frozen lake. A thick fringe of ice ringed the shore and, past it, the water was deepest blue.

Flinzer wondered aloud if the Blue Fugue might have been dug by a falling star. The land around the lake was a deep bowl that tapered back toward town, as if Sunnyside shed a tear. They walked the long circuit through black birch and silver firs and found no trace of man nor wolf. As the sun went down, they started back to town.

Whoever named the place Sunnyside had a rich sense of humor. For most of the day, the hamlet froze in the deep shadows of the Saracilor Mountains. There was a brief, golden afternoon, but all too soon, the killing wind blew across the blue and bit them hard. The troop stopped, stunned. They were in the true north now. They hurried to make it to town before nightfall.

Heaven’s Hearth was the only lodge in Sunnyside; humble, but well kept. Flinzer and friends met a far warmer welcome than the night before. The innkeeper was a wide, blue-eyed woman who offered a lagniappe shot of maple-molasses moonshine with every other tankard.

The taproom was empty when they arrived. Their host bustled about, delighted to have trade. She stoked the fire, sat with them, and matched the men drink for drink. Soon, the hearth blazed, and a cauldron of caribou stew bubbled above.

As the night wore on, half the town found an excuse to drop in to get an eyeful of the outsiders. They were a polite folk, as those who lived far from law often were. Flinzer was surprised no one asked what they intended, though it must have been obvious.

He tried to learn more of their target, but his inquiries fell on deaf ears. If he pressed, the townsfolk squirmed and turned to another topic. Sensing it was a sore subject, Flinzer let it slide and focused on having a good time.

His men had the same idea. Whent was caught up in a dice game. Bluddox was on his fourth bowl of caribou stew. Cocker and the town blowhard were trying to top each other’s tales, while Ives, Ames, and some sly locals egged them on. Stripes told a different lie to each person who inquired about his scars.

As the cups stacked up, Ives and Ames stood before the fire and sang dueling stanzas from the Epic of Grimbalgon. They were quite good. Soon, the whole tavern was silent for their impromptu performance. For the final verse, the shepherdsons joined voices in an eerie harmony that made Flinzer’s neck hair rise. The applause was long and loud.

For his part, Flinzer talked with everyone, learned all their names, and pried a laugh from each. The practice had saved his life many times. He learned the town was mostly an outpost for seasonal fishermen. When the lake froze over, the Sunnysiders sallied onto the ice with augers and saws, in search of golden winter roe. The fish eggs fetched an astonishing price from southern aristocrats, who were convinced the golden roe could prolong life.

Flinzer was skeptical as the Sunnysiders had their fair share of crows-feet and gray hairs. Later in the night, once Flinzer swore to keep the secret, a sloshed fisherman confided there was nothing special about the caviar but the color.

A grove of tankards sprang up at the end of the bar, too fast for the pot boy to keep up. Flinzer repeat his impression of Old Man Moraney, and the rafters rang with laughter. He drank deep and let the syrup-thick liquor coat his throat and cloud his mind.

A wise old-timer by the fire cautioned the revelers to take it slow with the swill, but Flinzer’s crew dined like swine and quaffed like sailors. From time to time, a man needed to get rip-roaring drunk and make an utter ass of himself.

* * *

Flinzer woke the next day in a strange bed with a banging hangover. In the dim light, he recognized the shapely silhouette of the pub’s proprietress. To his relief, she wasn’t angry with him or herself. She didn’t even ask him for money.

Wonder of wonders, she rose with a sway in her step and set to fixing breakfast. Flinzer must have acquitted himself reasonably well. He smiled in spite of the hurt in his head. Under all that rust, there was iron yet.

From long habit, Flinzer glanced around for signs there might be trouble. From the way she’d taken after him, it seemed like she might be getting back at somebody, a husband or some such. Again, he was pleasantly surprised.

Though a great many crates and casks had accumulated, the one-room cottage was still far too tidy for a man to be involved. There were dried flowers and lace, everything in its right place. The woman was ample and going to gray, but Flinzer liked it that way. Through the inkblots of his memory, he remembered her throwing her head back as she laughed.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

What was her name?

“Lilleen,” he rasped.

“Why, he’s alive! Welcome back, Sir Flint of Fenwick.”

Flinzer winced. If he’d invoked his long-revoked knighthood, it meant he’d gotten far drunker than he thought.

“Thy beauty drew me back from death,” he crooned to cover his discomfort.

“Flattery is for slatterns. Conserve your breath, sir.”

“My lady, I must confess. I am not a sir anymore.”

“In kind, I am no longer a lady.”

Lilleen took the skillet off the stove and turned on Flinzer with a smoldering look that made him forget all about his headache. Time passed so agreeably that neither of them cared a whit when the eggs went cold. They ate together afterward, all smiles and sly glances.

Flinzer found Lilleen uncommonly charming, even for an innkeep. He was in no great haste to depart.

Past the thick drapes, the wind whipped and moaned. The tea was strong and sweet, spiced with rose hips and cinnamon. Lilleen’s table had just one stool, so Flinzer dragged over an octave of kippered pickerel and perched upon it. The place was packed to the rafters with provisions against the long Albarian winter.

“So, tell me, Sir Flint. Why’s manky Moraney sending for manhunters so late in the season? Has another of his young wives run off with some swarthy steward?”

“I wouldn’t blame them one bit if they had. But, no, we’re here for the big bounty.”

“On me? It can’t be much.”

“Oh, I couldn’t put a price on you.”

Lilleen beamed. Flinzer worried he was overdoing it. He had to get going, after all.

“Actually, we’re after Threewolf,” Flinzer admitted.

“You’re joking.”

In the blink of an eye, her demeanor went dry. The pivot seemed a touch abrupt to Flinzer, but perhaps that was only the haze of his hangover.

“Alas.”

A conversation passed in simmering silence. A younger Flinzer might have mistaken this anger for ardor, but he knew better. A younger Lilleen might have screamed and thrown things to try and sway Flinzer from his course. They were ages past all that.

“Just my luck. I was starting to like you,” Lilleen cracked.

“You can start again in about an hour,” Flinzer bluffed.

“Ha! You should be so lucky. No, I won’t dig deeper into a dead man. I’m a widow twice over. Won’t tempt trice. What a fool I was.” Regret haunted her voice.

To his surprise, Flinzer shared her sentiment. It wasn’t his way to get hung on a fling, but he was hooked just the same.

“I’ll get him. Bounties are my business.”

“There’s bounty here.” Lilleen patted her ample chest.

“If it were only me, I would certainly agree. But I’ve got six men to lead.”

“To their deaths. And yours. Threewolf was here when this land began. He knows the back of every leaf, the name of every beast.”

Flinzer tried to keep a straight face. This again. It wasn’t the first time he’d tracked some brigand the local yokels thought more god than man. The end was always the same. Boring, ordinary bandits hidden behind veils of tall tales. They bled like any other.

Lilleen could see she hadn’t reached him. She pressed harder.

“Threewolf has buried better than a hundred men who came to claim him. Better men than you if I’m being honest.”

Flinzer glanced back at the bed and wondered how many of those hundred might have passed through it. He swallowed some unkind things he could have said. A hundred? The number seemed high. But as he considered it, he could name a dozen men who’d tried for the prize and died. She might very well be right.

“Likewise, I’ve caught ten men for every one he’s took,” Flinzer said. It sounded like a boast, but it wasn’t.

“Why press your luck, then? Leave Threewolf to the trees. Cut your men loose, you’ll all live.”

“I led them here. I can’t leave them to the wind.”

“Look at me, Flinzer. I’m old and fat, but I’m better than any bounty. Wasn’t I good to you? You’d trade my warmth for a frozen grave?”

“We just met,” Flinzer said, too stiff. She flinched, and he felt a fool. The spark was undeniable.

“There’s a cold and lonely winter coming. I’ve got more than enough food for two, or ten for that matter. Look around you.”

Indeed, Lilleen’s cottage was supremely well-stocked. There were neat rows of jars in the larder, fennel and garlic strung from the beams, barley and rye stacked in sacks, rundlets of rum and barrels of ale. Her home was clearly the overflow for the tavern. The widow didn’t mind if her house was a warehouse. She was all alone. Flinzer felt a pang of pity. She stepped closer.

“Famous Flinzer, ran down a thousand men. What have you got to show for all of it, then?” Lilleen drew close and demanded.

Nothing, and no one.

Flinzer was taken aback. Here he was, feeling sorry for her, and she slipped his guard and ran him through. The words dug so deep he nearly hit her. Lilleen’s face was close to his, fearless. Flinzer saw she meant to provoke, wanted an excuse to write him off and cover her emotion with ashes. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her lips. She broke it off with a half-laugh.

“What a waste. There isn’t a good man in this town.”

“Still isn’t.”

The light caught her eyes as she turned away. They were so blue. Flinzer was a fool. Every moment he lingered twisted the knife.

“Thank you,” Flinzer said softly. He got up to leave. She laid a hand on his arm.

“Please.”

Lilleen might have dropped her robe, so naked was her need.

“Once we get him, I’ll come back to you.”

“You won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

Flinzer stepped out of the sanctuary, into the unwelcome morn. The wind cut right through him.