Of Wolf And Witch

by S. A. McGarey

  “You…” Duncan paused. “…Are not my father.”

  “You’re my flesh and blood, boy. That makes me your father, and you my son,” Greham said bitingly”

  “Cut to the chase,” Duncan spat. “What do you want from me?”

  “I have a contract for you, boy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Greham pushed forward a piece of parchment spelling out the details of the contract. “It’s for that magical bitch that cursed you and seduced me into killing your mom.”

  “Ha,” a small laugh escaped Duncan’s lips, which was rare. “That’s rich. You want me to kill the witch that you ran off with? What’s wrong? Trouble in paradise?”

  “She used me,” Greham said. “I was nothing but a toy to her. She didn’t actually care for me.”

  “And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? You killed my mother for her.” Duncan reminded him.

  “I know.”

  “You let her curse me!” Duncan shouted.

  “I know!” Greham shouted back.

  “So why should I care if you want her dead?” Duncan asked.

  “You shouldn’t,” Greham said. “You should care that you want her dead.”

  “So that’s what I get out of this? The revenge for what happened in my childhood?”

  “No,” Greham replied. “There’s coin in it for you too.”

  “You think me so easily swayed by coin?”

  “No, but it never hurts.”

  “Why should I help you?” Duncan asked angrily.

  “Don’t think of it as helping me,” Greham explained. “Think of it as me helping you to help yourself.”

  Duncan looked at Greham, then at the contract. He thought for a moment. He had much to gain from this arrangement. The death of a hated witch, whose kind he had grown to abhor, and some coin on top of it. He couldn’t figure out why his father wanted this though. Did he think it would repair what was broken between them? If that were the case, he would be sorely mistaken.

  “Let me be clear,” Duncan began. “This does not absolve you of your crimes against my mother and myself. I have always and will always hold you responsible. You should have been stronger. There will be no forgiveness. I will however accept your contract.”

  “You will?” Greham was surprised.

  “Yes. Now tell me where I’ll find the bitch, so I can separate her head and limbs from her body,” Duncan relished the thought.

  “When we left Frostfall, we crossed the Rivanian sea to get farther away from the scene of the crime. Selene, that’s her name, suggested we make our home in the Ebonwood Forest in western Rivania. I naturally went along because I was too stupid to see I was being used, too enticed by her charms to say no.”

  Duncan grunted disapprovingly. “The Ebonwood Forest, then. I’ll start there.”

  “I don’t know if she’s still there. When I left, she was, but that means very little.”

  “Why did you leave?” Duncan asked.

  “She was using me. I couldn’t see it at first, but the longer it went on, the more I understood. I was a slave to her. It was my job to make her happy. To please her in any and every way imaginable. I was even the subject of many new spells she had concocted. When I had finally had enough, I ran. I ran and came here, knowing that my son was the famed Grey Wolf who was a regular at this very establishment.”

  “Well, she is a witch. Witches tend to do that sort of thing.” Duncan said bitterly. He had grown to hate all witches, all because of the one who cursed him. “Why’d she let you go? She could have easily killed you.”

  Greham pondered this, having not thought about it until now. “She probably didn’t think of me as a threat to her. I just left and came to find you, to hire you.”

  “For revenge.”

  “No, to set things right.”

  Duncan scoffed. “Whatever you say, Greham.”

  “Call me dad,” Greham directed.

  “Never,” refused Duncan.

  Duncan rose, taking the contract with him. “Don’t leave Frostfall until I return with proof of the dead quarry.”

  “What if you die?”

  “Then I guess you won’t be leaving any time soon,” Duncan said flatly.

  “Be careful in the Ebonwood Forest, Duncan. More than just witches dwell there,” warned Greham.

  Duncan barely listened. He didn’t care to hear any more of what the man who still claimed to be his father had to say. He returned to his shack on the outskirts of Winterport and began to prepare for the hunt.

  Chapter 2

  Duncan’s shack was modest at best. He didn’t need very much to survive. He had enough coin to get food from the tavern when he was hungry. Most of what was around the shack were weapons and armor. Duncan made some extra money as a blacksmith, but hunting was his true career. John Frey had taught him everything he knew about smithing, and it served him well. He made his own armor, his own weapons, and made excess just to keep in case he needed something special on a hunt. The rest he sold for coin. He made things as a form of calming. It was like meditation for him. The heat of the forge mixed with the cool air always gave Duncan a sense of peace. He found solace in working with the metal, shaping it into whatever he saw fit.

  Duncan decided that he would begin his hunt in the morning. He would use the night to rest and to plan, then get a fresh start just before sunrise. He took off his metal shoulder guards, his leather boots with the armor plating added, and the suit of chainmail. He laid it all in a pile in the corner alongside Malleus, deciding that he needed no armor rack.

  Around his neck still hung the pendant given to him by Asha, his lost love. He never took it off. He was sure it would help him ward off anything this witch, Selene, might throw at him. It was more than just protection to Duncan though. It was a reminder of why he did what he did. He did it all for Asha. It wasn’t for the coin. It wasn’t even for revenge. It was to keep her memory alive and to make sure no one else ended up like her. He took the pendant in his hand and spoke softly. “For you, I will slay this witch”

  This would be no ordinary hunt. Duncan knew that. He usually hunted monsters, but this time it was a witch. He always wanted to hunt them but never had an excuse until now. He could have joined up with the royal garrison of witch hunters in Rivan but decided against it for two reasons. The first was that he didn’t think they would look kindly on someone cursed by a witch among their ranks. Secondly, the witch hunters rarely actually found any witches. They simply found people who might be witches and had them burned alive on a pyre. Duncan preferred to kill a witch who was actually a witch and to kill them in his own way.

  Truth be told, this was Duncan’s first contract on a witch, but he was unafraid. He had studied their kind, knew what they were capable of, and knew how to fight them. You had to be quick and go for the throat. “Strike while the iron is hot,” John Frey always told him. Duncan felt it applied to fighting just as much as blacksmithing. The Frey motto, he felt, would serve him well on this hunt. Strike while the iron is hot.

  Duncan would need to rest before the hunt, but that would all come in due time. First, he needed to go through his evening ritual. Every evening, Duncan took the time to forge new weapons and armor. Sometimes it was something as simple as an iron dagger, other times, he would spend nights in a row forging a suit of armor worthy of a Rivanian knight. It was more than a hobby to him. It was a passion. Tonight, he worked on a blade.

  It was to be somewhere between the length of a longsword and the weight of a great sword. He wanted it to be a symbol of strength, wielded in both hands by its user. The hilt was already done a few nights prior and was made of flawless steel inlaid with gold, which Duncan usually kept a stash of on hand for exactly that sort of thing. He had no real idea of what he would do with the blade once it was finished, but he hoped to give it to someone worthy of its deadly potential. Duncan forged the blade out of folded steel, hammering away with his adoptive father’s smithing hammer.

 
John Frey had passed away a few years before. Duncan shed no tears but was nonetheless upset at losing his adoptive father, who had been mentor, parent, and even friend to him. He kept the smithing hammer to honor him in his work, hoping that some of the deft skill that John Frey possessed would pass through the hammer and into Duncan. When Duncan held that hammer in his hands, scarred from the sparks and flames, he felt proud to be called Frey.

  Hours later, the blade was as perfect as Duncan could manage and was attached to the hilt. He began to sharpen the blade on his grindstone, making the beautiful blade also deadly. The smoky, fiery smell of the forge invaded Duncan’s nostrils as he worked. When he was done, Duncan took the blade to a straw training dummy adorned with beaten up armor. He hefted the sword and swung with all his might. The sword slashed through the old armor like an eagle’s talon through a piece of parchment. Duncan smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s still missing something, however.”

  Duncan looked upon the blade and knew it needed something in place of a pommel stone. A regular pommel stone was boring and showed a lack of creativity. This blade deserved a figurehead affixed to the hilt. Duncan began chiseling away some of the spare metal from the blade’s creation. After an hour and a half, Duncan had carved out the shape of a Dragon’s head. He fitted it onto the blade’s hilt, affixing it with the forge and his trusty hammer. Duncan looked upon his work and smiled. “Now you just need a name,” he spoke to the sword.

  Duncan sat with the blade before him on the floor. He sat cross-legged as if preparing to meditate. He was thinking of a name worthy of the blade. Talon was too unoriginal, and Flamewing sounded ridiculous to him. He wanted something simple, yet elegant. Something that fit the sword utterly and entirely. Suddenly it came to him, and his eyes opened at the thought of the words.

  Winter’s Edge.

  Yes, Winter’s Edge would be the name of the blade. Duncan had done well. He decided to take it with him for the time being. He felt it a more appropriate weapon to slay a witch than Malleus. Hammers had their place, but they were mainly for things that were hard to cut. This witch needed to be cut, and he would use this blade to do it. He placed it in the sheath and put it next to his armor on the floor. Now the moon hung high in the sky. He would have only a few hours to sleep. Duncan didn’t care. He never did sleep much anyways. It just wasn’t who he was.

  In the small hours of the morning, Duncan slumbered quietly. He awoke well before sunrise, though, and gathered up what he would need for the trip. He dressed in fresh clothes, followed by his chainmail, his boots, and his shoulder guards, each one adorned with a mark of a silhouetted wolf. Then he slung Winter’s Edge over his back. It felt good, almost natural to be there in place of Malleus. He grabbed a few changes of clothes for the trip, as well as a small bag that held a pair of clay dice and a deck of cards. Duncan was always up for a game or two if he had the time. He enjoyed the dice game as a game of chance, where you could win just as quickly and easily as you could lose. As far as the cards went, his preferred game was called Griffon’s Gambit. He was far from renowned, but the people of Winterport regarded him as the best card player in the town, which is why so few people played against him. If he got the chance to play someone while on his hunt for the witch, he would gladly welcome it.

  Duncan took a moment to wash his face quickly. The frigid night air would feel oddly refreshing when it hit his recently washed face after walking outside. He neglected to shave though. He didn’t have a full beard yet, but he had facial hair, just as dark as the hair on his head. It wasn’t short enough to be stubble, but not long enough to be annoying. To Duncan, it was just right.

  His armor clanked slightly as he walked down to the docks. His pendant shined in the dim moonlight. The prism-shaped jewel glimmered as the moon shone through it. He reached the docks and found but one sailor readying his boat for the day. Usually, multiple sailors were ready to ferry people across the Rivanian Sea, for a price. But this early in the morning, there was only one. And in this case, the early bird does, in fact, get the worm.

  “Sailor,” Duncan spoke.

  “Aye, what can I do for you?” The sailor replied, not looking at Duncan

  “I need passage across the sea, to Shorelight,” he said in his gruff voice.

  “Shorelight, eh. You have coin?” the sailor asked.

  “I’m good for it.”

  The sailor looked up. “Oh, Duncan… the Grey Wolf. I didn’t realize it was you. Of course, I know you’re good for it.”

  “I always pay my debts,” Duncan said with a slight smile.

  “Climb aboard, Grey Wolf. We’ll be off as soon as we’re ready.”

  Duncan stepped onto the boat, and it rocked as he shifted his weight around before sitting. The boat was not the size of some of the grand naval vessels of the kingdom, but rather the size of a longboat. It was meant for a few passengers, and hopefully favorable wind for its sail. The boat would not do well in a fight, but for a simple journey across the Rivanian Sea, it should suffice, so long as a squall didn’t rear its ugly head. As the moon shone in the sky and the sun was mere hours away from rising, Duncan closed his eyes and breathed. He focused on the journey ahead of him and just kept breathing.

  It was time to hunt a witch.

  Chapter 3

  The boat set sail just before dawn. The only souls aboard were Duncan, and the sailor named Ovren. The sailor was a short, stocky man who had a round face and a big nose. His hair was all but gone, and what was there was a black color that was fading into grey. Ovren steered the vessel, and Duncan just sat, gazing out into the Rivanian Sea.

  “The journey will take some time, and we’re out in open water,” said Ovren. “Care to play a game?”

  Duncan grunted in curiosity. “What kind of game?”

  “Omen.” Replied Ovren.

  Omen was a game popular amongst the Rivanian people. It began long ago as a way of making difficult decisions. It was basic in its gameplay. First, the player rolls 2 clay dice and adds them together. This is the omen. Then the player declares whether they think the next roll will be higher or lower than the Omen roll. Wagers are placed and then a second roll is done. Players win or lose money based on if they were correct. Long ago, if you played the game, a higher roll meant a good omen, whilst a lower roll meant a bad one. People used it to make decisions that were too difficult for their own judgment, but now, Omen is simply played to gamble and to pass time.

  “You have coin to gamble with?” Duncan asked.

  “With the number of people I’ve ferried across the sea, I better have,” Ovren replied.

  “All right, then. You roll first, seadog,” Duncan said.

  So began a game of Omen. Ovren was on something of a lucky streak, guessing his rolls correctly, and thus keeping his money, and even winning some of Duncan’s. Duncan’s rolls were more sporadically won, but he had coin to spare. After many rounds, the game became dull and both men were ready to retire. Duncan then had a proposal.

  “Ovren, I have an idea.”

  “What idea, Grey Wolf?”

  “One last round. If I win, I travel this time for free,” Duncan proposed.

  “And if I win?” a skeptical look came over Ovren’s face.

  “You get all my coin, all in one fell swoop,” Duncan said with a smile.

  “A dangerous wager,” Ovren declared. “I’ll take you up on it.”

  Ovren was no fool. All of Duncan’s coin would be undoubtedly a grand prize, and he could afford to give a free ride, though he dare not mention that to anyone. Ovren couldn’t resist the prospect of such a prize. Duncan knew this, which is why he made the wager. He didn’t necessarily need to ride free, but why pay when the opportunity to ride for free arises?

  Duncan took up the clay dice and rolled. The Omen roll came out as a six: four on one die, two on the other. Duncan thought over this. It was basically the halfway point, but he had a slightly better chance of it being higher than lower. He thought on this for a moment b
efore uttering “Lower.”

  Duncan had purposely taken the less likely of the two outcomes, but felt right about it. He had a one in four chance of getting this right, and he wanted to see the look on Ovren’s face when it happened. Duncan rolled again, holding his breath in such a way that you would never be able to tell just by watching him.

  The dice tumbled along the base of the boat and came to rest. Both dice read as ones. “Daemon eyes,” Said Duncan, pleased that he had won. “Looks like I’m riding free today,” he smiled.

  Ovren frowned. “Fine, Grey Wolf. Free it is.”

  Duncan chuckled, pleased that he had won, especially after taking the long shot.

  “God has a cruel sense of humor when it comes to poor sailors,” Ovren sighed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when we aren’t getting buffeted by storms and having our ships wrecked, we’re getting swindled by people like you into giving free rides. It’s all his fault.”

  “Her,” Duncan said as Ovren finished his sentence.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Her. Not Him. Her.” Duncan explained.

  “What, you think God is a woman?” Ovren asked. “Next you’ll be telling me that phoenixes exist.”

  “They do, but that’s beside the point,” Duncan said dismissively.

  “Why would you ever think that God is a woman?” Ovren questioned.

  “Because,” Duncan began. “The way I see it, if God created us in their image, then God is either a brash, likely drunken man or a fair and beautiful woman. I simply choose to believe the latter.”

  Ovren squinted at Duncan. “So, you think God has tits?”

  Duncan laughed. “Yes, I suppose so, but that wasn’t my point.”

  “God with tits,” Ovren said to himself, chuckling. “That’s a new one on me.”

  Duncan shook his head. Then he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the ocean around him.

  Hours later, all was peaceful and serene, until it wasn’t. The boat rocked, then steadied, then rocked again, harder and more forceful. Ovren, having sailed the Rivanian Sea for a living, suspected the worst. He supposed it could be nothing, or perhaps it could be something awful. Duncan was already on his feet, scanning the water for a sign of what caused the boat to rock.