CHAPTER 18

LIES AND MORE LIES

The problem with telling lies is you have to remember what you said, or you’re going to get caught.

This of course encourages more lies, until the truth becomes the lie to the liar.

Don’t be an idiot.

Just tell the truth.

The world doesn’t need another politician.

“What do you mean, he went for an evening jog?” Wendell looked at the dressed up musician perplexed. “Didn’t he hear the howling? You’d have to be completely…”

“Don’t say ‘crazy’ or ‘nuts’,” Bartleby cut him off. “That would be inconsiderate and rude, and you my friend, don’t look like either.” Securing the lute case over his shoulder, he gave Wendell a firm stare.

“Fine,” raising his hands in defeat, “I’m sorry. Feller is far braver than I am, I’ll tell you that. I just don’t understand why he’d ask me to go to town for dinner and then just take off like that?”

“Well, my brother is quite the health nut. Never misses his exercise sessions.”

“He going to meet us in the village then?”

The gnome shrugged, “Never can tell when he’ll pop up. But don’t you think the villagers are going to have a problem with him showing up?” Bartleby jabbed his thumb at the ridge hound.

Swaying between them, Mouse looked like a true horse next to the gnome.

Wendell snorted, “If you think I’m walking to town alone, you’re nuts.”

“Hey, didn’t I just ask you not to call me that?” With a wink, he added, “Besides, I’m here, aren’t I?”

Wendell laughed. “As what? A bite-sized morsel?”

Bartleby slapped a hand over his heart, “Ouch. Don’t hold back now, Wendell.”

Wendell chuckled, “Those wolves were going to eat my face until Mouse showed up.” Reaching over, he gave the hound another scratch behind the ears, which got a thankful moan in reply. “Besides, I’m more worried about how people are going to react with me showing up.”

Bartleby gave the dog a sour glance. “Just wish I knew where Silas kept the harnesses he uses. It would have been nice to have this guy carry my lute case for me.”

As if on cue, Mouse gave the gnome a slight nudge, which nearly knocked the bard over.

“Hey!”

Wendell laughed again, “I think you wounded his pride.”

Straightening his tunic, the gnome cleared his throat. “Well I’ve spent enough time in the wild with my father to know that there is a vast number of beasts and creatures with exceptional intelligence.” Bartleby gave a slight bow towards Mouse. “My apologies, good canine. I should have shown more manners and meant no offense.”

Mouse seemed to consider the gesture for a moment, then turned and surprised Bartleby by licking the gnome across the side of the face.

It did knock him over.

…into a muddy snowbank.

“Oh come on!” Bartleby cried out, hacking and wiping the goo from his cheek with a sleeve. “I have to keep up my image, you know,” he struggled to get to his feet. “Clean, reserved, non-magical,” he kicked his leg to the side, trying desperately to get enough momentum to free his backside from the growing wetness of snow. Rolling over onto his knees, he tugged at his bright green tunic that wasn’t so overly bright anymore. “NOW look at me!”

Wendell helped him up, holding the lute case while the gnome brushed himself off. “Non-magical? Wait a sec, are you using magic during your performances?”

Bartleby shrugged, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Technically.”

Wendell frowned. “As a friend of mine says, ‘That’s like kinda pregnant. Either you are or you’re not, there’s no in-between.’”

The gnome laughed so hard, he nearly fell over again. “That’s wrong on SO many levels.” Taking the lute case back, “But alright, I get the point. It’s a trade secret, that’s all. I have a horrible habit of letting things slip when I’m frustrated. Shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything. I just enjoyed your music so much last night—and had a question about the performance.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not sure it’s something patrons would have noticed, but seeing as I have a big screen TV and game consoles from Clockworks, well…”

Bartleby’s smile looked like tiny snakes curling up his cheekbones. “YessSS?”

“Were you hiding speakers in the tavern?”

The gnome gasped.

“You were using speakers!”

“Not…quite.” Then disappointed, “Was it that obvious?”

“No, not so much. It’s just that your music sounded like it came from the lute, but your voice…”

Bartleby grinned, “Came from everywhere?”

Wendell touched his nose with an index finger. “Bingo.”

“Bingo?”

“Sorry, I mean, yes, you’re right. Your voice came from everywhere. It seemed curious, though I would definitely call it ‘magical’. Kept wondering if you had a hidden microphone under your collar or something like that.”

As the light completely vanished from the sky, Wendell grabbed a stray branch from the ground and cast a low yellow glow over the end. It didn’t really look like a torch up close, but he thought it would be easier to explain should someone discover them without warning.

They walked a little while before Bartleby answered.

“I worked for a wealthy family a few years back. Evolu. Lovely people. I was more or less a curiosity to them, but I gave the best performances of my career during that time. Wish I could have stayed in their land longer.

“They were so pleased with the compliments received from their guests, the patriarch asked if there was anything special he could do for me.

“I already had enough coin to last the winter and the next year. The only thing I could think of was my singing.” He looked up at Wendell, his expression worn. “It’s not easy to compete in the bard world.”

“Bards are in high demand I take it?”

His head bounced from shoulder to shoulder, “In some parts of the land, perhaps. Back home we all have a uPod or listen to the radio, or go to the hottest nightclubs. Here on Humär, music is created and truly appreciated by people. It’s not only tap like back home. Humans here appreciate talent—and there is a lot of talent to be enjoyed. So if you don’t have something special…”

“You don’t get the work.”

Nodding, “Exactly.”

Wendell held the light higher overhead as they approached a jagged spot in the path, rocks jutting up from the ground. “You have a great voice.”

Bartleby grinned. “Thanks. But a great voice isn’t enough when you work with a group of musician and storytelling enchanters.”

“Huh. Didn’t know that. Most of them use magic?”

“Maybe not most—but enough to make a difference if you’re not something special yourself.”

“Gotcha.”

“When I explained my dreams to be a singer to large audiences, the Evolu gave me five blue stones.”

Wendell raised a single eyebrow. “They gave you…stones.” Stones, huh? Well, I guess it’s a bit better than magic beens, right? Waaaaait. I wonder if they actually HAVE magic beans around here?!

He shook the thought from his mind.

Bartleby nodded. “Rare stones, used in religious ceremonies among their people. I know, sounds weird—but not when you see them used. It was amazing. They allow orators to speak to large audiences without having to raise their voice. It creates a warm, personal feel over distances without having to raise your voice.”

“Like a microphone and speakers?”

“Exactly. The main or ‘mouth’ stone broadcasts, while the lesser pieces receive and transmit the sound to those around them.” He grinned with satisfaction, “They are imbued with an oration spell. It’s brilliant, really. The speaker places the mouth stone on the podium in front of him or her and the receiving stones are placed in key locations throughout the room where people will be seated.”

“How do you make that work without being discovered at the tavern—especially when I’m told the people around here hate magic so much? Aren’t you risking a lot by using the stones?”

The smirk on Bartleby’s face looked almost sinister in the shadows of the torchlight. “Not…exactly.” Grabbing the lute case back from Wendell, Bartleby tapped his jaw bone. “I took it to a Kutollum artisan and he replaced one of my molars with it.” Tugging at his lip, he exposed his teeth—a hint of blue gleaming in the torchlight. “Cost me nearly two years in wages to get this done and another half year in wages trying to recoup from the oral surgery. But now…” His smirk grew to a full-on grin stretching from ear to ear, “Now all I do is hold my tongue against the tooth and whisper a phrase to turn it on, then do my thing.”

Wendell chuckled, “Then what? Place the lesser stones about the room.”

Now it was the gnome who tapped his nose in reply. “Old Mayson made it easy for me, too. Have you noticed the little wood carvings all painted, displayed on each of the tavern beams? All I had to do was set them behind the figurines already there and TA-DA—instant amazement. The stones are small, so they don’t get noticed.” He patted the side of his lute case affectionately, “And using my ‘Blue Tooth’, I make beautiful music that few will forget.”

Wendell coughed. “Blue Tooth?”

“Yeah, that’s what I call it. You know, cause I had it made into a tooth and it’s bl—”

Wendell burst out laughing.

Bartleby frowned so hard his brows met in the middle of his forehead. “It’s a clever name and makes sense. I don’t see what’s so funny.”

Wendell pat the gnome on the shoulder reassuringly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Just thought it would be cool to be a mysterious voice while performing…patrons can never tell where the sound is coming from.”

Wendell wiped a tear from his eye, “Ever use it for other things?”

The gnome’s brow crinkled. “Like what?”

“I don’t know—maybe for scaring a new friend in the forest?” He held the torch higher, watching for a reaction.

Bartleby just looked up confused. “Why would I do that?”

Wendell didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure how to explain what he’d experienced and had only told Bartleby about the wolves coming after him—and Mouse saving the day. When he did finally answer, his tone was barely above a whisper.

“I think I’m being followed.”

Bartleby hesitated, then looked over his shoulder in an ‘Im-trying-really-hard-not-to-look-like-I’m-looking’ sort of way. His face contorted like a bad ventriloquist as he whispered from one side of his mouth. “On what side of the path?”

“Oh. No. Not here. I didn’t mean now.”

The gnome exhaled loudly. “You trying to freak me out!? Don’t DO that!”

“I meant earlier. When I was out, alone with mouse today, and then again when I went back for Silas’s axe. A voice spoke to me, out loud.”

Bartleby bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “A voice…spoke to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Out loud.”

Wendell sighed, “I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up.”

“Was it…a friendly voice?” Bartleby bit his lip again, but it didn’t conceal the obvious urge to laugh.

Wendell scowled, “I MEAN it! Someone was in those trees back there watching me and when I turned to leave, they… Or he. Or…it, I don’t know. It sounded like a male. I think they sent the wolves after me.”

Picking up his pace, Bartleby clenched the lute case close to him. “Now you’re creeping me out.”

“I think whoever it is, they know I can do magic.”

“That’s…not good.” The gnome dodged a few stones jutting up in the path, then added, “Did you see what they looked like?”

Wendell shook his head.

“Well, that’s not much to go on. Knowing someone’s watching you is disturbing, but look at it this way, Wendell—you’re hardly the only person who uses magic in the world. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” He paused. “At least not yet.”

Wendell cringed.

Yet.

****

Putäyäl was bustling even after the sun went down. Merchants arrived from the valley with their wagon caravans and assistants were rushing about, loading merchandise for delivery. Every brazier along the main path circling the village was ablaze, granting both light and heat to merchants conversing and workers loading wagons.

The sea of bodies parted quickly as eyes fell upon the ridge hound. Mouse seemed altogether uninterested in the large collection of humans, his pace slow and steady. Wendell didn’t mind the attention people gave the canine. It meant less attention on him.

“Wendell!”

Jan hopped down from the back of a wagon and shook the hand of a burly looking man in a heavy brown fur coat. He exchanged a few words and then walked to meet them.

“You made it.” Shaking Bartleby’s hand, “Both of you. Good. Hungry?”

The gnome ignored the stares upon him and nodded. “Starved.”

Jan motioned to tavern. “Silas is settling the receipts and will be ordering dinner soon. He was hoping you boys would show. Mr. Bartleby, will your brothers be joining us?”

“Never can tell. Best to save a couple chairs just in case.”

Though the tavern was bursting at the seam with merchants, their workers and the locals, Silas had reserved a table in the corner. The old man was exceptionally easy to find—patrons making ample room for the ridge hound nestled at his feet.

Tams eyes flickered to any movement that came within body distance to her master, letting out a warning growl you could feel as well as hear.

As they approached, the old man vigorously shook hands with the merchants sitting with him: two finely dressed gentlemen wrapped in long red cloaks.

“You’ll be staying in town then?” Silas asked.

The older of the two nodded once. “We still have an order we’re waiting on. Not all artisans can be counted on like you, Silas. We’re extending our visit two more days.” He looked about, his expression one of open disgust. “Not more than two. This village has always been wanting in amenities and I don’t intend to stay a moment longer than I have to.”

Silas laughed aloud. “You’re getting soft, Malcolm.” But he caught himself and lowered his head in a mock bow, “My apologies. Baron Malcolm. I remember when you’d eagerly sleep in your wagon in my field waiting for your next order.”

The Baron tugged at his embroidered gloves. “Wealth and title makes one aware of the finer things in life, Silas. I’m surprised you haven’t learned that lesson yourself. Surely you haven’t squandered your profits on that farm of yours?”

The carver scoffed. “Wealth tends to make one’s belly too big, the mind too narrow, and twists an independent soul into an overly dependent one when you’re not looking. My life no longer revolves around money…and I plan on keeping it that way.” He waved off the offended look without concern, “I can have your order completed within two days, weather permitting.” He gave both men a wink then, “And if the commoners offend your prissy new atitudes, I still have a clean, comfortable spare room back at the cottage if you and your boy want it.” He paused, staring the man down, “For old time’s sake.”

The Baron’s expression softened.

Holding out his hand again, “Thank you, Silas. That would be most pleasant.”

Silas grinned wide and gripped the merchants hand firmly, “Friends are friends, Malcolm. Head on up to the farm whenever you’re ready. You know where to park the wagons.”

Wendell watched the exchange with a great deal of curiosity.

Silas didn’t seem to play politics or worry about political correctness, regardless of the class distinctions. It was hard not to admire the man.

He’s a person first, he thought. Not any better or worse than anyone else. Wendell found himself wanting to be such a person of character. Someone people could respect and admire. He treats others how he wants to be treated—with truth and a blunt exchange. No wonder people like and respect him.

When Silas noticed them, he waved the three over.

Leaning forward he welcomed Mouse personally. Gnarled and scarred fingers combed through the thick fur, while the canine gave the old man a tongue bath.

“Alright…alright you. That’s enough,” Silas coughed, wiping the slobber away with a sleeve. “Sit down by your mother and keep quiet. Let me talk with the other pups.”

Not surprisingly, Mouse did just that.

Tam nuzzled him tenderly and then both kept a watch on the human traffic around the table.

Bartleby took the chair in the corner, his back against the wall. “Seems a bit crowded tonight, even if it is a delivery week.”

Silas lifted his mug and feigned a swig, “These aren’t all merchants. Most are loaded up already and settling down for the night in their wagons.”

The gnome scanned the room casually, setting his lute case by his side.

Wendell tried to scan the room also, though it forced him to turn awkwardly in his chair. He quickly found himself  averting his stare.

Why…are so many people looking at me?

Many eyes were focused on him.

Too many.

What are they staring at?

“That’s him!” came a shout from the crowd. “Right there, sitting with the short stump of a fellow in the corner!”

Bartleby rolled his eyes, “Lovely.”

A weathered and hunched old man pushed his way through the sea of bodies. Face contorted in what looked to be a marriage between anger and disgust. He gripped a cracked mug in one hand, a gnarled cane in the other—banging into patron after patron, his balance unsure.

“That’s the boy that brought trouble with him,” he snarled, “Parasites—coming to take advantage of this goodly village where peaceful folk like us scratch out livings from the forest!”

Dropping the mug to the floor with a thunk, the old man raised a dirty, bent finger and pointed at Wendell directly.

“You brought this curse on us boy! Bringing those damnable wolves to feed on our sufferings!!” His voice then dropped to a hiss, “My boy died because of YOU!”

A barmaid drifted up silently to the table with a platter of drinks.

Silas intercepted her in motion.

Grabbing two of the mugs, he stepped in front of the old man and offered him one. “Now don’t be going and sayin’ nothin’ you’re gonna regret, Donnell. Now ain’t the time for accusations. It’s time for good memories of those we love and a great deal of drinking. So you take this and sit at the bar. You tell Mayson I said for you to drink your fill, on me. Alright?”

Yellowing, tearful eyes remained locked on Wendell, the distinct sound of teeth grinding emanating from his sneer. “If you say so, Silas.” A shaking hand took one of the mugs, fingers wrapping around the handle tightly until knuckles turned white.

Firm hands turned Donnell around and gave him a guiding nudge towards the bar. There was sorrow and kindness in Silas’s voice, “I say so.”

Letting his head fall, Donnell staggered back towards his seat, patrons making room and welcoming him into the fold.

Jan frowned, “What was that about?”

Silas set his own drink on the table and took a seat. “Seems our young friend here has been accused of bringing the wolves to Putäyäl.”

Wendell watched Donnell sit back down. Gripping the counter, he hunched over his drink…and began sobbing.

Silas lifted his pipe from the table and took a pinch of shredded red leaf from a pouch set in front of him. Fingers trained in the motions, he started packing the pipe with tobacco. “A group of men showed up right after the merchants arrived. Seems they spread out and started asking questions of the locals. They approached me and asked what I knew about a boy and his wolves.” He drew another pinch of tobacco from the pouch. “I told them I had no idea what they were talking about, so they moved on.”

Sils paused, giving the tavern another inspection—people overly eager to share their opinions and theories to anyone who would listen. “Seems others had more to say than I did. Whispers of ‘evil doings’ and ‘dark magics’ jumped from table to table, each story pulled and encouraged by these visitors.”

Wendell dropped his head into his hands. “But I didn’t bring these things running around! That’s…ridiculous!”

“Lower your voice,” Jan warned him. He glanced across the table at Silas, keeping his own voice low. “Trappers?”

Silas nodded grimly.

Wendell looked between them confused. “Isn’t that a good thing? With all the wolves attacking—”

“Have you seen a wolf attack?” Silas cut him off. “When you and the other men were attacked last night—you said a wolf got one of them, but did you see the wolf? Actually see the beast attack?”

Wendell frowned at that. “Well,…no.”

Silas pulled out a small stick from his vest pocket. The wood was red, a small knob on one end, with some white scribbles on the opposite end. Gripping the flat end, Silas shielded it from view and touched the rounded knob of wood to the pipe tobacco. Whispering a word—the tobacco lit up. He puffed a few times, then looked back to Wendell with a wink.

Why you cunning old… Wendell smirked.

“The man was yanked into the darkness. Isn’t that what you said this morning?” Silas clarified.

For some reason, none of what Wendell had experienced sounded credible when said out loud.

“Yes,” he replied weakly.

Silas’s eyes drifted around the tavern as he took a deep draw from his pipe, the smoke curling up and around his bulbous nose.

Wendell followed his stare.

Many faces along the far wall—many standing at the L-shaped bar—were rough and scarred, each dressed like the forest was the only home they’d known. Dirty, scared, animal skin clothes in tattered rags, and expressions of hunger. Not for food or drink mind you, but hunger for conflict.

For violence.

For the hunt.

“I could be wrong,” Silas finally continued, “but I hope I’m not.” He looked to all three of his companions, his gaze settling on Wendell. “Do you know anything about those wolves out there?”

“I do,” Jan started, “They were trapped to be bred with keep hounds to…”

“No,” Silas cut him off. “I’m talking about how ridge wolves came to be, not what they’re being bred for.”

They looked between themselves. That is, until Bartleby slowly raised a few fingers timidly.

“I do,” he replied meekly.

Silas raised an eyebrow as he puffed on his pipe. “Do you now?”

“Part of my youth studies covered rare breeds of animals.”

Silas motioned to Jan and Wendell with the end of his pipe. “Do you mind enlightening these boys, since you have the unique education at this table?”

Bartleby looked overly embarrassed. His face flushed a warm pink, but he nodded in agreement.

“Quick version is—during one of the wars with Mahan, at a time when his forces were sweeping this land, the University of Magic took a more direct role in retaliating. One of the professors, a powerful alchemist named Demetrius the Grey, sought to assist the rulers in their plight. Known as a Speaker, he…”

“Sorry,” Wendell cut in. “Speaker?”

“Someone with the ability to communicate with, befriend and train animals,” Jan replied. Silas shot him a look of approval. “It’s a rare talent, but they’re talked about a great deal in folklore. Those who do have such a talent are usually sought after by those with power and authority.”

Wendell frowned. “Why would they care if someone could talk with animals?”

“There are more unique creatures in this world than the average citizen realizes, Wendell.” Bartleby took both his hands and made a fist, his second hand overlapping the first. “Most on Humär believe the world to be this finite little sphere they live in. All that exists is what they personally experience. But in truth, the world is far more complex, dangerous and filled with wonder.” Drawing his hands apart, he made a motion as if holding a giant sphere over the table, “Like this. Humär may be the largest and most prosperous land, but the very mountain ranges that keep the rest of the world out are also the same mountains that keep the humans perspective from expanding as it should.”

For a moment, the gnome held Wendell’s stare—then looked to Silas and Jan. “I’m sorry, my friends. That was rude of me.”

“For what?” Silas gave him a wink and a genuine grin, “Telling the truth?”

Jan leaned over the table and whispered, “Many claim to be Speakers, Wendell, but few actually are. Excellent trainers turned charlatan prey on those with coin. To answer your question, think how you could spy upon your enemy through a crow or common dog, or in times of war bring the beasts of the forest to your aid. That talent can be used in so many ways.” Jan motioned to the ridge hounds at Silas’s feet. “Silas has been called a Speaker before.”

The old man snorted, “By very stupid people. My dogs are smarter than most, that’s all.”

Mouse snorted from under the table, followed by some yammering sounds that resembled a great deal like complaints. This got the attention of serval nearby patrons, who promptly backed away from the table wide-eyed.

Wendell grinned.

“Demetrius the Grey had a particular talent and fondness for the canine species,” Bartleby continued, “and wanted to breed magic into a bloodline that would naturally turn upon the darker races. The greatest problem at the time was the speed of the enemies movement. Mahan’s forces were able to attack before we could prepare and defend our own lands. Towns were being hit, reinforcements completely decimated by mysterious raiders which were never found. Small raiding parties would appear in the mountains, then vanish once they’d decimate a strategic location.

“Demetrius wanted to track down evil the moment it was manifest in the land.” Bartleby paused as a few patrons lingered a bit too close. “So he looked to one of the forests greatest hunters—the wolf.”

“Wait.” Now it was Jan’s turn to interrupt. “You’re saying that those things running about outside killing people…were created by a mägo?”

Bartleby nodded. “Demetrius befriended a male wolf—one of the giant breeds from Ambasere—and taught it.”

Wendell gulped, “Taught it? Taught it…what?”

“Journals say he was able to enhance its senses, increase its intelligence, and then using his magical prowess, he wove three major enchantments into the beast. The first was an insatiable desire to hunt down and kill evil, specifically anything that used dark magic. He then enhanced the wolfs ability to sense the presence of dark magic and created an insatiable draw to it over long distances.”

“What was the third thing?” Wendell asked.

Bartleby placed both hands flat on the table and looked down at them, averting his eyes. “The irresistible desire to procreate with its own kind.”

Jan chuckled. “You’re saying it…really wanted to make pups?”

Bartleby tried not to laugh, but it didn’t work. He snickered to the point of letting out a snort under his breath. “Yeah.”

Silas ignored them both and leaned forward in all seriousness, “Which is why it’s both expensive and risky to cross breed a keep hound and a ridge wolf. The wolf has to be male, because breeders found the females will eat the pups at birth. Those enchantments apparently help keep the bloodline strong. The males will mate, but there’s a strong risk that the female hound will be torn apart in the process.”

That’s when the truth hit Wendell. “The trappers aren’t here to kill the wolves, are they? They’re here to capture them.”

Silas grimaced. “A cornered wolf is bad enough. Ridge wolves are a whole different problem when challenged.”

Wendell noticed a dozen eyes turn upon him. Ruffians with pitted and scared faces, all staring without blinking. He gulped aloud.

“So why are they looking at me?”

Silas tapped his knuckles lightly on the table. “The wolves showed up about the time you did.”

“So?”

Jan shook his head in disbelief, leaning back in his chair, “The people are looking for someone to blame for all this carnage.”

Silas gave Wendell a stoic look. “Now you see our new problem. Seems when the trappers showed up to grab winter supplies, Sawyer spread his belief that the wolves came to your defense last night. After news like that, the trappers decided to stay.”

“All these men are trappers?” Wendell averted his eyes from the stares.

Jan shook his head, “Mostly locals. Not surprised they want a crack at getting their hands on a ridge wolf to sell.”

Silas took another puff of his pipe, “Or to make a quick coin by selling their own stories.”

“Wherever I go, I end up with the crazies,” Wendell muttered under his breath. And here I thought my problems would get better, not worse. Keeping his head low, he watched the movement of the crowd. The men mingled in small groups, dozens of conversations going on at the same time.

How many of these people actually have a story about the wolves?

A coin exchanged hands in one place, then another.

Each time a coin exchanged hands, there was a quick glance in his direction.

People are just spreading rumors. Figments of their imagination.

“I don’t see Sawyer here,” Wendell noticed quietly. “The first night I was here, he was telling Elsa about another wolf attack. ”

“Not surprised. He’s been trying to get that girls attention for the last two seasons,” Jan hissed. He received a side look from Silas, but waved it off. “I’ve tried to keep my peace, but that boy is no good. It may not be who he is, but when you openly choose darkness, it will become who you are.”

Silas scratched behind Tam’s ear and gave his pipe another puff. “If what I hear is true, he’s being paid to show locations.”

Wendell’s heart sank, “Locations to what?”

The artisan gave him a stare that looked like just as much of an apology as it was a warning, “Where the wolves have attacked.”

“Hello gentlemen,” Elsa said happily. “Mayson wanted to know if you were ready to order dinner? Said with the crowd tonight he wanted to make sure you had a chance to order first.”

Jan looked puzzled. “Ahead of others?”

Elsa beamed at Silas, her dimples making her lovely smile even more appealing. “Donnell is sitting peacefully at the bar, sobbing softly instead of causing problems. It’s Mayson’s way of saying thanks.”

No one said a thing—each man caught in their own thoughts.

“Are any of you hungry?” she prodded.

“Starving,” Bartleby mumbled, though his attention was clearly elsewhere.

Elsa waited another minute in silence and then turned to kneel next to the hounds. “How about you two? You hungry?”

Both dogs whimpered.

“Right then, I’ll go see if I can dig up some bones and a bowl of water. Give me a yelp if anyone at the table wakes up.”

Mouse huffed.

“Have you heard anything about last night, Elsa?”

She stood up to find all eyes at the table suddenly upon her. Wendell was fidgeting, his face now pale.

Without thinking, she pulled the rag from her apron and started wiping the table. “Patrons have been complaining since I started my shift. Locals worried the wolves will soon get tired of goats and cows. Some have asked me if I was okay. If I was safe?”

She gave Wendell and then Jan a nervous glance, “I think folks believe last night was a sample of things to come.”

Wendells heart sank. This isn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to find a job and learn a skill while I took a break from the chaos. Chaos wasn’t suposed to find me! “Then why hasn’t anyone confronted me other than…” he faltered.

“Donnell,” replied Jan and Elsa at the same time.

“Yeah, him,” Wendell swallowed. “If the whole town thinks I’m some kind of doom bringer—why am I still sitting here at the table and not…I don’t know—strung up somewhere else?”

A steady hand gripped his wrist.

Wendell looked over into to Silas’s calm, clear eyes.

“Just because you hear such things, doesn’t mean the whole of a community thinks that way. It only feels like it. Secondly, as stupid as they may be, the people of this village know that unless they have proof for their witch hunt, other villagers like me, will likely send word to the capital. The capital would then send a royal guard to investigate, and in the end, some would hang from a nearby tree as the reward of their unwise choices and accusation.” He gave Wendell a reassuring wink.

“Y-you would do that?” Wendell whispered, shocked. “Turn on your community for a stranger?”

Silas grunted. “Certainly not.” He took a few puffs on the pipe. “But inform the crown that lawless citizens were attacking innocent people because of their own ignorant and unsubstantiated fears? In a heartbeat.”

“Besides,” added Bartleby, “what do you truly have to worry about, Wendell? You have the biggest bodyguard on the mountainside.”

Wendell’s face contorted, “Huh?”

Jan laughed then, “He’s talking about Mouse.”

Mouse yawned and rested his head across the neck of his mother.

Elsa shifted one of the mugs on the table and continued to wipe slowly. “There’s a group of brothers here, mainly bear trappers. They said several beasts have been found further up the mountain, flayed open in the most violent manner. Unlike anything they’ve seen.

“When they heard about the attack here, they started asking questions.” She stood up and tucked the rag back into her apron in a matter-of-fact motion. “The more questions asked, the more tales were told.”

“Great,” grunted Jan, “that’s all we need—a handful of butchers running free, looking for an excuse to draw their knives.”

“And they don’t look to be the forgiving type either,” added Silas, jabbing his pipe at the bar.

Old Mayson had two men separated from each other, pinned against the countertop. A short whistle from the tavern owner evoked the standing penalty for fighting in The Den—a not-so-loving escort out the front door by a seven foot tall bouncer masquerading as a tree.

“Don’t forget to relieve them both of coin, Sepp,” shouted Mayson over his shoulder, “—they both owe for a good line o’ drinks!”

Lifted so both men could only touch the floor with the tips of their toes, the bouncer growled for someone to open the door.

That’s when the screaming started.