The Wolf

Prince Mikhail drew his newly refilled mug of ale closer and glared down at it as if waiting for the foam to settle. He was not the only one in the tavern with his hood pulled far enough down to hide his face.

Just outside of Pirchburg, a half day's ride from the northern road leading to the Chelblade Mountains was a small town not marked on any map. It was little more than a tavern, an inn, a few farms, and a half-dozen stone huts. However, a thriving trade was done in the unnamed village-- mostly because it was done under the table without paying the required taxes to the Empire.

It was not surprising to find the blacksmith in such a place. He dared not return to Chelblade, and it appeared that his welcome in Pirchburg had worn out as quickly as his coin.

The man sat a few tables away, nursing his own mug of ale with a red and scowling face. Many seemed to know him and would nod in his direction in greeting as they entered, but he no one joined him at his table.

A young woman whose face would have been somewhat pretty, if not for a large boil on her cheek, laughed loudly from the bar and hefted her tray of mugs onto her shoulder.

"A monster, you say?" she scoffed again. "You should speak to Dahlman about that! I haven't time for those sort of stories!"

Several voices groaned in unison at her words, and the blacksmith sat bolt upright on his bench, glancing around sharply like a dog that had scented something interesting.

"Who? Who here has seen one of them?" the blacksmith demanded. "Did it have red eyes? Did it speak to you with the words of a man?"

"Now you've done it, Traz!" complained one of the patrons loudly.

"Once Dahlman starts, there'll be no end to it!" complained another.

"They laughed about monsters in Chelblade as well!" Dahlman insisted, raising his voice. "They laughed until those dark creatures slipped into the village one night and stole their sleeping children from their beds!"

A chorus of angry and argumentative voices erupted at his words.

"Might as well of been monsters, the rebels killed every last man, woman and child!"

"The soldiers I saw were Unarian men! The Emperor sent 'em because they were hiding the rebels!"

"My nephew died in Chelblade- he was no rebel! I'll black your eye, you foul-mouthed bastard!"

Prince Mikhail sipped calmly from his mug, but he listened carefully. Anyone who agreed with the blacksmith would also have to lose their life that night. It might be easier than he'd planned. The tavern was only moments from a brawl, and men died in brawls all the time, especially in villages that thrived by staying off of maps.

Traz, the serving girl, finished delivering the mugs on her tray, leapt unto a table, and banged her empty tray against a post.

"Alright! ALRIGHT!" she yelled to make herself heard above the rabble. "We can all agree that it was monsters that destroyed that village, but we're never going to agree on what kind of monsters it was!"

Heads swiveled to glance up at the girl and a few of them were nodding in agreement. The crowd was already quieting as the tension in the room dissipated at her words. Traz put her fist on her hip and shook her other finger at them as if scolding a group of naughty children.

"And we all know that no matter what crazy things come out of Dahlman's mouth, that man suffered a great tragedy! His wife... his children... what man among you would bear it well? Now... are we heartless monsters that rip and tear each other to pieces in this village... or are we men?" she demanded.

One of the patrons gave her a cheer which caused a few others to laugh, and though some of the men grumbled unintelligible words, they still slunk back to their stools and benches. Conversations resumed, attention was again given again to their drinks, and Traz jumped down from her platform.

Prince Mikhail watched as the serving girl strode confidently through the crowd returning to the bar. Women in Unaria were seldom so forward in their mannerisms or speech, but this girl was a woman of the Highlands. Like most northerners, she would likely never adapt to the societal values of her conquerors. She reminded him, just slightly, of another fierce young woman.

But he would not think about her. Not now. Not while he hunted and still had dark work left to do that night.

Returning from the bar with another heavily-ladden tray, Traz paused long enough to pat Dahlman's shoulder and set another foaming mug in front of him.

"There you are, fella. On the house," she said, and patted his shoulder again.

"It WAS monsters, Traz. REAL monsters," he insisted.

"I know, Dahlman. I know," she soothed.

Mikhail sullenly gulped from his mug. The girl had the right of it. There was a monster among them that night. The most frightening sort of monster of all- the sort that looked and sounded just like a man.

Dahlman was no true threat to the Emperor. He had seen something he was not meant to see. He had tried to prevent it from happening again by desperately warning others of what was hiding right under their noses and had become a fool-- a drunk everyone laughed at. If left to his fate, it was likely he'd disappear soon enough. His clothing was ragged and unsuitable for the cold, his eyes unfocused and somewhat mad, and his words unguarded. If he didn't drink himself to death, or expose himself to the elements for too long, some ruffian would likely come along and stick a knife in him for either his wallet or his words.

The girl knew it as well. He could see the pity in her eyes when she glanced down at the blacksmith, though like the others, she dismissed him at the same time.

Mikhail held up his arm for another mug and was rewarded with a fresh glass and a saucy wink from the girl. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pulled his hood down again.

She was a serving girl, it was not uncommon for some of them to make a bit of extra coin from their patrons by serving them privately, after the bar closed. If he covertly slipped a coin into her hand the next time she passed, and waited behind the tavern after close, he might find some relief that night. He could close his eyes and imagine it was the Princess on her knees, gagging as she took him in her mouth.

No. There was no time for trivial things. He had one task, to get rid of anyone who had been in Chelblade, and to his knowledge, Dahlman was the last. The Princess would likely have already reached Napolvana with Ilya. Though his aide would see to it that she was safely surrounded by his guard, there was no telling when the Emperor would try again to take her for himself. He had to handle this business and return quickly.

The blacksmith was swaying back and forth slightly on his bench now, his eyes lowered to half-mast. The man was clearly drunk. It was almost time.

Mikhail dropped a coin on the table and stood to leave. Traz grinned at him from across the room and pursed her lips teasingly. Ignoring her, he strode to the door and went out into the cold night.

The blacksmith would stagger out at some point and them stumble down the street to the small and quiet inn at the other end of the village. He would never make it there, of course, and his body would not be found. With any luck, the man would be alone, making the Prince's job that much easier.

Mikhail led his horse into the woods and tied him to a tree out of sight from the village. He returned to the road and found a shadowy spot to wait near a pile of trash in the alley between the inn and its stable. The village road was deserted, though the moon was bright that night, illuminating every post along the street and casting harsh shadows across it.

It wasn't long before the sound of voices echoes through the empty village. Dahlman stumbled into the street and began the short trek to the inn. As the door to the tavern swung shut behind him, the sleeping village was again silent but for the crunch of the blacksmith's uneven footsteps through the hard packed snow.

Mikhail tensed and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger that hung from his belt. It would be an easy night then, he smirked.

A moment later, the tavern door swung open, and Traz hurried out, carrying a ragged lump of fabric.

"Dahlman, your cloak!" she called after him.

Mikhail swore under his breath.