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.”