Mason reacted poorly to my return. I burst in with a wild look in my eye. That combined with my sweat drenched formal attire made quite the impression. I tried to answer his questions, but couldn’t seem to get the words out in the correct order.
Mason sat me down and distracted me with an informal seminar about constellations visible from the city, but not from the imperial capital of Cardinal. It was the last thing he read and he continued until I could finally take a full deep breath. He paused midway through "the thief" being half visible for part of the year when my hands stopped shaking.
I explained what I was told. My father was dead.
He sent me to bed that night. It was a suggestion, but I took it as a command. Unable to make any plan for myself, I was happy to offload the decision to him. The next morning I awoke to a packed bag and a horse tied up in the front.
Mason tried to make a joke, to not worry, that he already added it to my bill, but when I tried to force a smile back to make it clear I got the humor, he went silent and helped me prepare for the trip. It was half-way through the first day when I had opened the pack to find it overloaded with wrapped versions of my favorite meals.
I think that was the first time I cried.
Ambry Manor looked the same as a decade ago when I left for the academy. I had only returned one time through the wrought iron gate and I didn’t feel any better pushing it open now.
Years ago, I had finished my courses and came home with a shiny letter of completion. I didn’t expect any fanfare and returned as a final confirmation that there was no bridge left to mend. The two story building had held the ghost of a man who couldn’t look me in the eye.
As expected, I had been greeted by attendants and didn’t even see my father until dinner. He had made small talk about border disputes the empire was having, asked of my final ranking in the class, gave a single congratulations, and retired for the night. Duke Vidal was a terse man outside of speeches. With an audience, he could talk, command, galvanize, and boast for hours, but once he was out of prepared words, he did not have much to say. The energy he showed for the crowd never reappeared behind closed doors.
It was infuriating as I would listen to him go at length about the future for his talented daughter in front of guests, only to fall silent as soon as they left the room. I had often looked for a moment to call him out, more than a moment, I had looked for the courage. He was a war leader, an orator, and a signer of important documents and decisions. I couldn’t help but feel small in front of his accomplishments, even with his eventual failure.
That night had been no different. Even as the shell of a man that he was, he was untouchable. His goodnight was the final word on the matter. I decided at that moment that I would leave permanently. I had to escape this shadow of a man and his tomb of a home. I would never find joy living in the remnants of the family’s past glories with a moving statue.
Today, the manor was completely still. There was a single window illuminated by a faint light. It took three days to make it here and night was already falling. The moon reflected a sinister glow off the brick of the two story building. My father had named it Ambry manor in memory of Ambry castle. It barely deserved the term. It was modest, out-of-the-way, and unmemorable, a perfect reflection of the Empire's goals for my family.
Comfortable, but not too comfortable under the new regime. That's what my father's surrender had bought. The hollow titles were more insult than assurance.
The brass of the knocker was heavy in my hand. I lifted it and let it fall. Slamming into the door, I could hear it reverberate throughout the halls inside. I stood in silence at the entrance. There was a light shuffling, but no other noise coming. I lifted the knocker again. Silver was interlaced in its intricate design and I caught myself memorized by it for a moment as it was pulled out of my hands.
The door opened and a portly man that matched my height blinked back at me. A cream colored shawl was draped around his shoulders and a couple days’ stubble dotted his face. After a brief pause he fully opened the door bowing deeply, the shawl was half thrown over his head, “Please come in… Duchess.”
I stepped inside. With a slow spin, I took stock of the house. Everything looked clean, but unused as if the manor was haunted by the tidiest ghost, which with Mr. Thill, my father’s chief attendant, it might actually be. My eyes fell to the piano. It had an entire room to itself. My father’s centerpiece, it was one of the rare places his face would uncrease. I learned quickly he didn’t take well to being interrupted, but he would allow me to sit and listen. When I was young, I had such gratitude for the piano that later soured into envy towards its attention.
The stool was tucked away under the piano. I had never seen that before. Mr. Thill’s words pulled me away from my memories, cementing the fact for my visit, “Duchess, that means…”
“I’m so sorry. We sent out letters to your last known address. We were never able to get a hold of you,” He stood stock straight, but his eyes were downcast. A crown of white around a balding spot reflected the room’s little light into my eyes.
“How?” My mind raced through the many questions I had wondered and practiced on my trip, but settled on another simple one, “When?”
“I should start the Duchess with some tea. I do believe we have some peppermint still in storage,” he offered, despite his disheveled appearance he was instantly falling back into his professionalism.
I wanted to demand something strong, I wanted to demand answers, I wanted to demand how a healthy man barely fifty was now dead, but fury was tempered by layers of hurt. I simply followed Mr. Thill to a table and his example in manners and etiquette.
The tea was weak and stale. Peppermint had apparently stopped being stocked upon my departure and the cup showed its age. I couldn’t find the energy to comment or care as I took another sip. My patience playing house grated as Mr. Thill tutted around the kitchen with the kettle.
Had he not looked more shellshocked than me, my rage might have found meaningful footing. For now, I indulged in the ritual as it seemed to bring him some measure of peace.
“Almost a year ago,” Mr. Thill began. His shawl was gone and I could see he had been wearing his uniform underneath. It fit more snug than the day I left, “That’s when the attacks began. The Farmer on the edge of town, Jenson, his son barely 15 was found in parts at the edge of the forest. It was an obvious werewolf attack, like something from before the war. No one could understand it, we had sacrificed, given our blood tithes to the empire. Sent those unfortunate souls to their death every year like clockwork. Everyone was afraid, but hoped and was ready to mark it as a freak incident. Kids went home earlier, people carried silver knives, but everyone was ready to forget about it.”
I could feel anger already beginning to smolder in me, “The attacks didn’t stop.”
Mr. Thill nodded grimly, "Three more people were found eviscerated. The first two followed the same pattern weeks apart, but then a third kill happened just a day after. The duke, your father, may not have had any official authority, but he held a lot of respect. He made a call for calm and issued a petition to Governor Briggs."
"And no help came," it was a statement, not a question. We were second class citizens to monsters. I did not expect them to hunt down one of their own, no matter what they said publicly.
"No," Mr. Thill conceded, "Their official response was that the matter was being investigated and for any affected families to request compensation through the official channels. As you can expect, this did little to quell fears. Almost four months ago, your father walked into the woods to attempt to open a dialogue with the werewolf. He reasoned if he could make a peace treaty with a clan of them, he could do it with a single wolf. The next morning they found his body ripped to shreds in a clearing."
The sound of a tea cup clattering against a saucer surprised me, though looking down it was my cup that had so forcibly been returned to its home. The story just reinforced everything I knew to be true. Even playing by the rules, we were nothing but free-range captives of the empire. No amount of tax or groveling or blood would give us safety.
“The governor's response to this murder?”
The attendant’s gaze traced the room, every location I wasn’t. My volume obviously did not help the sensitive subject. I was aware enough to not press harder, but the pounding in my ears stopped me from any more empathetic action.
“The governor sent a missive that he would see to the matter personally. We expect him any day now, but rumor has it he had to meet with an imperial convoy and then there was military business in a nearby city.”
The words barely registered to me. The bureaucracy offered only delays, excuses, when action was more than warranted, it was demanded.
There was only one last question. The gates to rage were flung wide, but one question would answer how much boiled out of me, “How many more?”
“How many more what?” Mr. Thill asked. There was sweat on his brow. I could tell he wanted to answer, he simply couldn’t see the question my mind was screaming.
“How many more,” I took a deep breath, trying not to let my emotions get in the way of conveying information the core of my being demanded, “How many more has the wolf killed since then?”
Mr. Thill looked back at me then away. He pretended to count for a moment. He already knew the number, I knew he knew the number. “Fourteen,” he said softly.
For twelve generations the dining room set had been in my family. It had survived a war, attempted arson, two unsuccessful assassinations, and one successful one, but it would be forever missing a chair. I had shot up causing the antique to slam into the ground and splinter into numerous pieces.
Mr. Thill paled at the outburst, but kept his bearing. I would’ve wanted to commend him, if I could have seen through the frenzied haze and taste of copper. My father would’ve chided the eruption of emotion. He often claimed my passion would be my undoing. A simple remark that often deflated me. Fervent tantrums that were tempered into a sullen mush at every year of my life. As logic and reason came to me with age, they only became sparks to the kindle of my temperament as I raged against the world and system at large.
Now my father was not there to pull on my reins, to quietly rebuke and privately scold. I had spent years of my life avoiding matters of any serious nature. Unable to meet his standards of control, I had escaped into a world of distraction and indifference.
My hands dug into the side of the table. The wood groaned under the pressure. My late father’s butler opened his mouth, but I cut him off, unconcerned if he was going to express worry about the table or me, “Warhost, militia, mob, I don’t care. What would it take to get those willing to fight together?”
Words were being said to me about how dangerous it was both in the immediate and long term. I scarcely heard them. My mind roiled with plots and plans. Anything that was not a step forward on that path of vengeance was superfluous. Concern just sounded like another excuse for inaction. Something, unlike my father, I would not tolerate.
If someone strode into the Cloven Kettle and continued into my room, they would find my trunk emptied. Clothes scattered across the floor with a few keepsakes intermingled. The only item of true importance was in my hands now, a large silver stake. On this chunk of metal I had sworn my revenge on the werewolves for the destruction they wrought, the Empire for the war, and on the Dark Sovereign herself for commanding these damned and evil creatures. Satyres, vampires, ents, werewolves, and more fell under her banner, but soon I promised there would be at least one less.
I would finally put blood into the vow I had made years ago.
Mr. Thill had brought me to the master bedroom after convincing me that the hour was poor for a reckoning. Even if I wanted to grab the village and hurl them at the murderous werewolf, few would open their doors at this hour, less still follow me into the dark. His advice was infuriatingly sound. I remembered many occasions my father had heeded his council. Mr. Thill had sat in almost as many vital briefings and even catered a few conspiratorial collaborations.
It would be my loss to view him just as someone who remembered my favorite flavor of tea. His mind was a vault of political maneuvers and secreted plots. More important than his talent was his intention.
He had always defended me. Very rarely overtly, but he would do his best to protect me. By suggesting an errand for me when my father was in a mood or “explaining” what my father really had meant when he gave a harsh comment.
Mr. Thill never spoke against my father or gave any public inclination that he disapproved of my father’s parenting nor leadership. But I suspected, had the playing field been level, Mr. Thill would’ve expressed many things differently.
I was forever in awe of him for that. Where I couldn’t pretend to be the dutiful daughter, Mr. Thill was unfalteringly the pristine image of a gentleman’s butler. I had no urge to permanently deny a part of myself for any reason, but having that tool ready when needed would have avoided so many issues growing up. I worried about how poorly equipped I’d be without it in the future.
The master bedroom itself was spartan. The late duke had prided himself on it. Austere almost to the point of impracticality, especially since it was seen by no others. A single bed with a firm mattress, a writing desk with a black ink well, and a single chair was all that inhabited the room. That and the lingering smell of pipe smoke. A private habit he hid as he considered addiction a weakness of character.
Mr. Thill left me in the room and I felt as out of place in it as I did years ago. Still, I prepared myself for bed and laid down. Three days on the road had left me sore and even the unyielding mattress was preferable to a bedroll and dirt. Even with every inch of me begging for sleep, my mind wandered. It went through the house opening up closed rooms and memories. Even the good ones soured with my knowledge of the father I had left behind.
I wanted to forgive him as I had grown and learned the humanity of him. No longer the untouchable monolith I had looked up at. I tried to see him for the person he was. The flaws and successes that built up a complex individual. But even trying to mark the inflicted mental scars as accidental collateral damage from a burdened man caused my heart to pound out a war rhythm. I couldn’t absolve the damage no matter the pressures around him.
I wanted to forgive him, but I would never do it. Whatever peace I could give myself in acceptance of his failures could never outweigh my anger. Maybe the man who had raised me before the war could’ve been salvaged. Harsh, but with purpose, at least the suffering felt like it had an end goal. The husk afterward that was cruel with his carelessness was irredeemable to me. Duke Vidal had died twice. This time I hoped he had the decency to not linger.
An hour passed with no sign of my pulse slowing. Every time I stopped focusing on my breathing I would find myself quickly gasping. As if, without focus, all my mental faculties were preoccupied with pumping the bitterness in my chest throughout my body. That even vital respiration was secondary to my caustic vitriol.
More indeterminate time passed and I forced myself out of bed. I wasn’t going to sleep with this acid pumping through my veins. I knew the feeling well and it’d pass quicker if I stretched my legs. Day or night made no difference to the halls of the house. The warmth of the sun never found a way to permeate the building. Even without light, I found my way to the front door as nothing had been moved since it was first placed. The house’s consistency, normally dull, was now useful in the darkness.
The cool night air touched sweat I hadn’t noticed in the halls. I suspected it came with the same thoughts that forced my knuckles white from clenching. I rotated my wrists, another trick I learned from my fussier teen years. The kinetic motion robbing my fingers of their initial plan to snap themselves in half against my palms.
I made my way through an overgrown garden. Almost half of it was starting to die without attentive care. Even partially decaying, there was beauty in its wild selection. The full moon gave them a mystical glow. What was once a few rows of Lantana now established itself as the owner of many sections. I remembered talking with the gardener about some of his choices. He loved the flower and said its inclusion was a selfish addition. It kept away pests like mosquitos.
I couldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid the blood suckers. I didn’t know what would happen to the estate in the coming months, but I’d be happy to keep these small colorful flowers. A subtle nod to all the parasitic blights that would come knocking.
From flourishing life to honored death the garden devolved itself into the graveyard. Famous first names followed by a shared last name had been moved here after the surrender. I had found the process to be vexing. I put no stock in the feelings of the deceased, but the mass movement of the dead made me uncomfortable.
Little epithets distilled entire lives on either side of me. “Honorable warrior, mentor, and friend,” “May the music he made in life carry him on,” “Loving father, husband, bringer of peace.”
I paused at the last one. Alexander Vidal. My father’s first name never looked real to me. He was always Duke Vidal. I could count on one hand the number of times I had heard Alexander uttered. One was a countess who had made some unsubtle flirtations. My father had Mr. Thill remove her from the premises in the middle of a party.
Next to him was another name I knew, though only from story. Iris Vidal “Cherished wife, robbed of raising a child, but not of motherhood.” I never knew how to feel about the line. Mostly I didn’t know how to feel about her in general. I was never furnished with any real information about her. She died in childbirth, but all adjectives I’d been given were vague and deflective.
Sure, she was “full of life” and “passionate about the things she cared about.” But, that wasn’t the woman who would’ve been the other half to my father. When I was young I imagined a softer presence, the missing puzzle piece to my father’s demands. When I was older I didn’t think of her, she was a stranger. Had she rose from her grave at this moment, we would have nothing in common, but a man she chose and I was only linked to through biological conspiracy.
I could feel the biting vinegar begin circulating in my veins again thinking of the two strangers I stood above. One inflicted me with their absence and the other with their presence. I wanted to lose myself in the feeling. For the heavens to burst forth a storm to match my mood. That if I just thought hard enough the world would see everything from where I stood and help me scream.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The crack of a branch brought me to reality. I was standing alone, at a gravesite, in the middle of the night, during a full moon, in a town plagued by werewolf attacks. I felt naked in loose trousers held up by suspenders and a sleeveless undershirt. Unarmed and lured to my death by a rage induced stupor.
The steps grew closer and I crouched low. Academy combat training did not include werewolf specific moves, but it stood vaguely humanlike and I knew what joints and pressure points to pop on a man.
Mr. Thill shuffled through the gate that provided the division between the garden and graveyard. “Didn’t mean to startle,” he said, pulling up beside me as I returned fully upright, “Just heard you wandering the house and wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything.”
Remorse filled me, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t mean to make enough noise to wake you.” Mr. Thill had no reason to suffer for my explosive disposition.
He shook his head, “You were quiet. My mind is just overly sensitive. Just a professional hazard.” Mr. Thill’s eyes, still glassy from recent sleep, scanned over where I chose to stand. I don’t think he needed confirmation, but wanted to double check before he chose his next words, “Bit shit, wasn’t he?”
Had the sun rose and yelled its urge to copulate with the closest mountain, I would’ve been less shocked. I had never heard Mr. Thill use language more harsh than “displeasing.” He had literally described a fire in the kitchen that had destroyed several antiques that way. His insult weirdly had my mind looking for a defense for the man I was only a moment ago cursed.
Mr. Thill pressed on, “He was such a different man in his youth. The ambitious hopeless romantic with an inflated sense of right or wrong. You never got to meet him.”
“I never got to meet the Mr. Thill that spoke so plainly,” I said, recovering from the shock.
He shrugged another move I had never seen him do in my entire life, “Feel free to chastise me for it. Alexander often did, but he never removed me so I assume he preferred it.”
“I will never complain about honesty,” I shook my head, “But I don’t remember you ever disagreeing with my father.”
“Of course not, the truth was reserved for private moments. In public I had a job and a position.”
“Would be commendable if he was not, as you so eloquently put it, a bit shit.”
“I don’t get to decide who commands these lands. The best place to guide him was by his side,” Mr. Thill looked at the grave. I wondered if he was thinking about what would be written on his own.
“Freed from your obligations, tell me about the man I never met,” I could barely find my voice.
“I still remain in service. The estate still pays me and the estate is yours. The only reason I spill any secret is through my duty to you,” he took a deep breath, like an actor about to step onto stage, lines prepared and rehearsed, “By the end I hated him even more than you did. I hated him for his treatment of you, for his inaction on so many things, and for the slow ways he gave up on himself, killing the man I once respected.”
“You already have the job, no need to say just what I want to hear,” I joked, the seriousness of the moment starting to become oppressive.
“You asked for the truth. Even if you hadn’t, my belief in a job well done comes with the words I think you need to hear,” Mr. Thill wet his lips, his wispy crown of hair trailing his head like smoke, “He always wanted to do the right thing, but was so paralyzed by indecision. Rationalizing inaction as preservation of the status quo. His terse demeanor came from fear, fear of saying the wrong thing and causing the wrong result.”
I was unable to help myself, a little sad laugh escaped me, “Your defense to his lifetime of neglect was he was afraid of a little girl who only wanted hear ‘good job?’”
He fixed me a grim look, not to admonish my laugh, but to reinforce his conviction, “You reminded him of her,” Mr. Thill’s eyes fell on my mother’s grave, “He was terrified he would do something to push you down that path.”
The idea of humor escaped me completely. This was the first honest moment about my mother I had ever experienced, “Was she so terrible?”
His mouth opened like a hinge as he chose his next words, “Not at first. She was passionate and decisive. There were some outbursts, but your father was head over heels. He believed that if he just loved her harder, tried harder, he could make everything work. When I saw the bruises one day while preparing him for a gala he took the blame. That he was in the wrong and while it was vicious, it wouldn’t happen again.”
I stood in silence. There was a single portrait of my mother in a side room next to numerous other long deceased members of the family. I tried to picture its frozen features curled into cruel rage.
Mr. Thill continued, the story pouring out of him, “When your mother passed, I admit I was hopeful. Your father had a chance to take back part of himself that he sacrificed to her. The first time you cried all night though I saw him shake. Any note of your displeasure clawed at that scar in him. I tried to reassure him, but he was in constant fear of your mood. That he was the common denominator for anger. He was so scared, he didn’t see you, he couldn’t see you.”
Tears dotted my eyes and I was angry at their appearance. Then I was angry at myself for being angry. A cascade of bitterness welled up in me, “So I’m predisposed to being pissed with it further cultivated by abandonment? A victim of fate and fear?”
I didn’t see it until now, but he was crying. Silent tears that must have started early in his story for they already ran down his cheeks and off the tip of his nose, “That’s why I hated him, because he couldn’t understand that you weren’t angry for some social faux pas or imagined slights. Your rage burned from your father’s passions. A sense of right and wrong. He was just a candle against your bonfire and he was blind to how lucky he was. How so many pieces of broken people had made a real and meaningful human being.”
I thought of all the kind words over the years. The only real human moments I experienced when I was young. Mr. Thill was the orchestrator of all of them. I could not think of a real smile on my father’s face, but even as a steady professional Mr. Thill had found ways to sneak warmth into my life.
I embraced him. He held me back. I could feel his love but also his pain and guilt. Part of me wanted to say something to give him a peace he obviously had been missing. Part of me couldn’t let go of that pain, that it took so long to hear the reason my life had been the way it was. So we stood in silence, holding each other through defining pain, and I hoped for at least now, it was good enough.
I awoke in my old room. After everything it felt like it would be even more wrong to be in my father’s room. Mr. Thill had offered to stay up and make something for me if I didn’t feel like sleeping. I declined. I was exhausted and the space gave me room to think.
As I had drifted off, even now I could not place where my thoughts lay. It was a jumble of conflicting emotions and the kind of self-doubt that can only occur when you discover a defining personality trait may be completely out of your control.
But that wasn’t true, just like the walk when I couldn’t sleep. I knew myself. I knew how to adapt to my body’s reactions. I refused to be helpless in the face of me. If there was a momentous storm inside me. I would be aware of it. I would direct it. There would not be some child standing over my grave learning that I harmed those I loved.
The next morning convinced me that while my body still hadn’t adjusted to seeing the sun rise, the past couple days were burning away my nocturnal habits. Even through my grogginess a sense of purpose permeated every move I made.
Mr. Thill didn’t ask if I still planned on marching to war. There was no question of my intentions. He had removed my father’s sword from the wall, an heirloom that he had festooned to a plaque. No longer interested in its use after the war, but too sentimental or hesitant to part from it completely. I had grabbed my mother’s silver platter. Sleep had given me time to think and a plan. The words “To bring warmth to a full house” was etched along its brim. A depiction of a village in its center.
“The center of town has a raised platform. Stand there with your sword and your stake and you will get the people’s curiosity,” Mr. Thill had laid out his own battle plans, “Gossip is your ally to get the crowd started, but you need to be prepared to whip them into a frenzy. You are not asking them to make a smart decision, but the right one.”
Sleep and time had distilled last night’s liquid and messy lust for vengeance into a firm demand for justice that was cooler to the touch, but just as potent. I relished this crusade. To gather the throngs of those who craved both peace and righteousness. To put a bloody end to a monster that was sanctioned by my family’s greatest enemy.
That is how I had felt an hour ago when I had first stopped at the blacksmith to start melting down the sterling dish. Now standing alone with gathering eyes on me on the raised platform. I felt awkward and silly. That these people would put their lives on the line and risk immediate dismemberment by a werewolf and future issues with the Dark Sovereign’s forces. It felt absurd to expect that just because I was mad, they would be mad as well.
They had accepted my father’s peace. They gave their tax to the empire. Gold and living victims shipped off to their faceless oppressors. I didn’t even know their system of choice. I heard of some towns sending criminals and some sent their oldest members. I’d even heard of lots being drawn, people tying their fate to random chance.
I had heard of some places refusing, but every story ended the same with the wolves enforcing the bloody imperial rule. The blood tax paid on the end of a blade and often in excess. It was amazing how quickly it just became an accepted part of life. Like a bad growing season or unfortunate weather. Death and taxes had become an immutable fact.
I tried to gather up the indignation and boiling venom I felt in my veins last night and so many years of my life. Despite this being one of the first times it would actually have a purpose and a target, it had been diminished with the truth of my father, my mother, the flaws of my family.
So there I stood, impotent rage refusing to respond as more and more people gathered. They looked to me and saw my sword, they saw a noble hunting attire, they must have seen confidence that I knew was not in me, because why else would they wait to hear what I had to say.
I thought of the speeches I had to study. The famous words that had driven wrath and ruin, for good and for evil. The academy had made oratory a regular part of my life, but there was a vast sea between distracted students and this hungry crowd.
My inability to speak had been taken as a refusal that sparked mystery, lighting a firestorm in the gossip mills. I even heard a child telling a ghost story of the daughter who had run off in the middle of the night and now came back a berserker. The crowd had reached a point where even their murmuring was a loud beast unto itself. Hushed whispers echoed a hundred times into a dull roar.
I turned from them trying to collect myself for an extra second. Now was the time, it was obviously the time. Soon mystique would turn to boredom. I had one chance to prove my credibility. That I would lead them to meaningful change and freedom from their terrors.
I turned back a little quicker than I had planned. As I refound my footing, my boot made a half stamp. It was enough to cause a crushing silence. I straightened myself fully. I took a deep breath, I had a sword and a stake and these people had stayed. They wanted to hear violence. They could have no illusion of the words I would speak.
“Peace!” I yelled, feeling my throat protest from the sudden shift from nothing to everything, “That is what we were promised. We weren’t even offered a stop to the bloodshed, just a more controlled version of it. Still we agreed because what choice did we have?”
I felt a rush of bravado fill me as the crowd’s attention remained transfixed. I continued with more vigor, “We were told what peace looked like. It was the choice of who would die, but now even that has been ripped away from us. We bowed and begged for peace and we received the dogs of war in return. We asked for our agreement to be honored and we have received ink in return for our blood. Letters of delay and demands for patience. How much longer do we wait? Will we only find the peace of a grave? Will it be peaceful when the streets are empty?”
The crowd howled. My questions were vague and rhetorical so I heard as many yeahs as nos, but they all responded in favor of my calls for revenge. I appreciated the support, but wasn’t ready for the enthusiasm. The crowd looked at me expectantly. This gaggle of common people, this motley crew, would make my army of retribution.
I asked for the capable, demanded the brave, but truly hoped for anyone. Cheers were easy to come by, but I did not know this town. How many men and women were ready to charge into the woods with what few weapons were available.
It turned out to be more than I expected and more than was wise. I had to turn some away, youths looking for glory or blood. Their hands curled around crude farming implements. I respected their fire, but it diminished my own. To be so young and so ready for violence. I wanted justice, but there was little doubt that some of us would not return. I tried to mentally rationalize a single trade of blood now rather than unceasing blood later.
It took longer than I wanted to gather my troops of varying capacity. I felt incredibly clever though, I had watched the silver platter melt down. “To bring warmth to a full house” morphing and melting into “To bring war” before finally disappearing into a silver ooze with the town now gone. The omen filled me equally with confidence and dread. Everyone who would follow me dipped their feeble weapons and farm implements into the pot. The moment their tools gleamed I saw their resolve emboldened.
Between giving my speech, arming everyone, and mustering my forces, it was later than was wise. This was my one chance though. How many would return tomorrow? Half? Maybe.
I roused my waiting soldiers and marched them out towards a sun that already hung low.
My fingers wrapped themselves around yet another overgrown branch that blocked the path. I bit back a curse, it had been slow going. The burning torch in my other hand barely penetrated the inky darkness of the forest. The paths were long unattended and wild. Looking back, my once steadfast followers barely met my gaze. The fury in the town square had long dwindled as the chill of the night and muttered fears started to get the better of them.
I couldn’t blame them. This was not a lightning bolt of divine justice. It had become an hours-long slog. I gave a shudder because at the end we still had to face the legendary ferocity of a werewolf. They had claws that could tear a man in half. It was a sight that had galvanized many into joining my mob, but now worked against me. The time between gave too much opportunity to imagine oneself as the victim.
To make matters worse, I had seen their “weapons” only a few carried a true blade with them. Daggers if they were lucky, but most took equipment better meant to be used on crops than monsters. It was not like this under her father. Even merchants used to brazenly carry swords back then, but now the werewolves were supposed to protect them and enforce the empire’s rule.
It was true, bandit attacks were less, but who would defend them from their defenders? The wolves were their communication channel to the empire, supposedly their advocates. If they had turned on the town, there would be no voice defending these people in the capital. They would truly be thrown to the dogs.
“We should split up,” a voice came from the back. It was from the middle of a small huddle of men. The bravest of the cowards, I suspected.
I took a deep breath. On one hand, there was strength in numbers. On the other, keeping men trailing them simply to spread fear and panic wouldn’t serve anyone well. Even if we did manage to find the wolf, they’d probably run at the first hint of conflict.
“A good plan,” I said, playing along. The men grinned at each other, “My group will continue to follow the main trail. Everyone who wants to split off and check the side trails, go ahead. It’ll give us a better chance to catch the wolf.”
This was a lie, but it was a lie that those who wanted to leave could use as an excuse. A majority of the attacks including the one that took my father happened in the main path. I tried to calculate how many I would need to convince to stay to give myself a fighting chance. My math was meaningless though, I did not know how dangerous this wolf actually was. What was story and what was fact. I only hoped that one of us brave or stupid would also be lucky.
Thomas Henforth, the eldest son of one of the town’s farmers, spit. He understood the reason to divide the party. But beyond the single salivic outburst, he said nothing else and took the lead on the main path. I had only met him in passing a couple times. None of those had brokered any offense nor reason to doubt him. He had spoken softly, but well. His almost red hair had earned him the nickname “Copper” and he had put extra care into his defining quality. Even with a day’s work mucked into it, the extra attention he gave it was obvious.
His efforts had paid off. He was conventionally attractive, even with tonight’s hate carved onto this face. He would’ve stood out in a much larger city, but in this small town he was the talk of the unwed and the hushed chatter of the taken, but vivacious.
Copper had lost his youngest brother, barely 15, to this monster. He was the first to return with a weapon, first to cheer during my speech. I mused about sharing a drink with him after all this was done. It was a warming thought conveniently passing over the most dangerous part yet to come.
My band of twenty had “split” leaving me with five. Every one of them had lost someone close. Their hatred dispelled fear with a blinding focus. We had barely shared a word, but I felt a bond to all of them. Loss wrote the shared chapter that brought us together. I swelled with confidence. There was a conviction in this group that matched or exceeded my own.
Another hour passed. If not for the repeated glances back from Thomas and his smile, I would’ve considered calling it off. I don’t know if he was proud to be part of the hunting party or enjoyed smiling in a way that earned him attention, but I stole some of his optimism through that grin. About fifteen minutes later, he looked back again and smiled.
I half smiled back.
And then he was gone.
A black shadow had shot out from one side of the path, crashed through Thomas, then disappeared on the other side. A deep inhale, the kind before a scream, was all we heard before being forever silenced by a sickening crunch.
I dropped my torch and drew my weapons. Armed with a sword in one hand and silver in the other, I planted my feet. Everyone around me nervously looked at me and did roughly the same. The flames cracked and danced on the hard dirt.
All eyes were on where the attack had ended, where the body of Thomas probably lay. We strained to see or hear any movement from our otherworldly attacker. I took a step forward, spending the last of my bravery as the reality of the situation set in.
Lilly Gandercast, who came to avenge two children, became the family’s third victim as a flash of movement left her disemboweled and gasping. There was shock on her face as she fell to her knees. Her hands no longer holding weapons, but trying in vain to undo the damage.
Brandy and Damien Plink, twins to a drunk of a mother and recently slaughtered father, both wheeled around seeming to strike out against the darkness. Their shouts were not battle cries but death knells.
I tried to steady myself. I felt my feet slipping in something entirely too organic. The material's previous life escaped as a squelch that I could feel as much as hear.
And it was in that moment on the blood soaked ground, fading gasps, and my own heavy breathing that time slowed for me. My focus, drawn to a singular point this entire night, frayed. I couldn’t stop wondering what if my mother had survived, what if I survived the night?
I stood alone in the middle of the wilderness, in the dark, with no idea what I was doing. I had met werewolves in the academy, but they had hardly divulged any secret weakness. For all the “noble” fighting crafts I had been taught, none talked of how to kill a wolf or any other myth. I had armed myself with rumors of silver and a banner of hate and I now knew how naked I was in the face of this killer. I now knew…
Thunk.
A warmth splashed across my chest. A sputtering of blood dribbled down my chin. I prepared myself for the shock of pain as I felt a great weight push me to the ground. The full heaviness of a body pressed me into the wet ground as I caught traces of dawn peeking between the trees.
I blinked. The body that dragged me down was not my own. A massive hairy corpse pinned me in place. I summoned all my strength and managed to shove it partly off. It lay completely still. A silver steak buried in the dead center of its chest. Its charge must have turned my paralyzed stillness into the perfect defense as it impaled itself.
I stood up and patted myself down. All limbs accounted for as I looked around at the destruction around me. Brushing off what gore I could, the morning’s light revealed a grisly scene where underbrush had been turned into a clearing of death.
The trip back held no solace. The silence was deafening. There was no merry reveling from a successful band of survivors, no cheers for the victorious, somehow there was even no birdsong as if they knew their cheerful chirps would be out of place on this bloody morning. All I had was my own turmoil. I had expected death. I had thought of many versions of this story, even one where I didn’t return. I didn’t consider one where I was the only one walking back.
I had thought of a future where the monster’s death had put the fire and venom that pounded through my veins to rest. That the pleasure of vengeance justly delivered would be the balm to return me to the city with carefree cards and obviously watered down drink. My feet plodded on mechanically as I tried to make sense of my thoughts, of what I actually wanted next.
It was easy to admit my father was dead to me long before the wolf’s claws found him, even the town held no real connection, the only people I shared a bond with lay dismembered in the forest behind me. Mr. Thill was the only face I hoped to see again. Returning would be a temporary measure, I would not remain in the family home. Trying to plan my future moves, I couldn’t see beyond losing myself in whatever celebration the town held and then leaving. I could think of no concrete next step. I grimaced even at the thought of having to tolerate any festivities linked to last night.
Instead, I simply focused on the path I was taking back. Being able to guide the town back to the bodies of the lost and the slain creature gave my mind purpose. Sun to my front, so I knew I was heading east. I looked around for landmarks to use on my return trip. My eyes rested on things that stood out in the quiet morning, a large shapely rock, a tree split by some force of nature, a cohort of heavily armed soldiers.