The Wolf At War

by Terry Cloutier

I grinned at her. “You’re young, child. What need you of sleep?” I pushed myself back firmly into my pillows, eager to get on with the tale. I fixated on the wooden beams above me as I let my thoughts drift back to another time—a time when I was still young and full of life.

  “We’ll begin with that bastard Grindin,” I finally said, my voice twisting with distaste as I thought about the man.

  “Not with the Piths?” Lillia asked, sounding disappointed.

  I glanced at her. “Not yet,” I said, shaking my head. “Patience, child.” The wood in the fire across the room popped as I returned my gaze to the ceiling, seeing the wooden beams, yet not seeing them at the same time. “First, I must tell you of Grindin. Einhard, the Piths, and the war that changed everything, all begin with him.”

  Then I began to talk.

  1: Grindin Tasker

  I was on my way to kill a man—a man who had needed killing for more than thirteen years. His name was Grindin Tasker, one of the two remaining members of the nine that had yet to meet my justice. My memory of Grindin was vague—just a youthful face and dirty blond hair curling out from his coif—that was all. But it was enough for me, and I knew that I would recognize the bastard the moment that I laid eyes on him.

  My men and I had just passed through a dense woodland, and we stopped on the crest of a rocky hill, looking down at a modest hamlet that lay nestled along a sluggish, meandering river below us. The houses were all small and cramped, built from dried river mud and straw, with thatched roofs made of water rushes and heather. Tendrils of white smoke rose from a circular hole in the roof of each house. A watermill stood on the river's near bank, the great wheel turning lazily with the meager tide. The land west of the river ran true and flat, with freshly-tilled fields and broad grazing meadows as far as I could see. A timber and stone manor house overlooked the village to the north, built on a mound of earth more than forty feet high.

  We were in the fiefdom of Lord Wakerton, though the lord’s castle lay more than ten miles to the east of this tiny hamlet and he rarely came here. I knew I should have ridden to him first to announce myself and my intent, but I had been too impatient to find Grindin to adhere to proper courtesy. I would rectify that after the deed I’d come here to do was done, I promised myself. A squat Holy House with a stone foundation and wooden frame sat at the far end of the street near the manor house's base. I could see a priest talking outside the Holy House’s walls, his robed arms flailing about him as he preached to a group of children squatting at his feet in the dusty street.

  “Are you sure about this?” Jebido asked from my left. He sat atop a white gelding with a narrow black ring around one eye, giving the beast an odd, comical look. My friend hocked and then spat, the green glob splattering wetly against a tree trunk.

  “I’m sure,” I grunted. “We didn’t ride all this way to turn back now.”

  “I still think it’s a trap,” Baine said from my right, looking calm and unaffected by the notion. Nothing seemed to bother Baine these days. He was dressed in his usual black leather armor and rode a feisty brown mare that chose that moment to nip at Angry’s neck. The big black shook his head in irritation and stamped one front hoof, but surprised me by not retaliating. I suspected the great stallion’s unusual restraint had more to do with his obvious affection for Baine’s pretty mare, rather than a softening disposition.

  I gestured down toward the hamlet. “Does this place look dangerous to either of you?”

  “No,” Jebido grunted reluctantly. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t.”

  “It’s a trap,” Baine repeated firmly. “Mark my words.”

  I shook my head stubbornly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then explain something to me, Hadrack,” Jebido said in exasperation. “Why would Grindin send you that letter if it’s not a trap? Do you really think the man has seen the error of his ways after so long?”

  Jebido was referring to a letter that had arrived in Corwick last week. The author claimed to be Grindin, who, he’d explained, had spent the eight months since King Tyden’s coronation in hiding from me. Grindin stated that he was tired of running and was ready to pay for the crimes he committed at Corwick. I admit I had been dubious, as had most everyone else I had shown it to, but even so, if there was any chance that it really was from Grindin, then I had no choice but to investigate.

  “Anything is possible,” I replied as I studied the hamlet.

  Jebido snorted. “You are being foolish, Hadrack. That bastard knew you would never give up looking for him. Now that you have money and power, not to mention the good graces of the king himself, he realized it was only a matter of time before you found him.”

  “So, you think Grindin drew me here in hopes of killing me, is that it?” I asked, sounding a little more condescending than I had intended. “The man is an imbecile.”

  As far as I could determine these past months, Grindin had lived a wholly unremarkable life after the slaughter at Corwick. The man had soldiered for several different lords over the years and had fought for the North in the Pair War but had left far from positive impressions on all those we’d located who’d known him. With his disappearance after King Tyden’s coronation, along with Luper Nash, the other remaining member of the nine, my search for them both had seemed destined to fail. That is, until the letter arrived.

  “Just because the man is stupid doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous,” Jebido warned.

  I turned at the sound of hooves behind me as Sim and Tyris appeared through the trees. “I guess we are about to find out just how stupid and dangerous Grindin is,” I said. I was fairly confident that there was little to fear from this place, but caution makes men live longer, so I’d sent my men to scout the area thoroughly just in case.

  Sim was in the lead, and he nodded to me as he halted his horse, pausing to remove his hat to wipe at his brow. The former outlaw was dressed in mail beneath a white surcoat that bore my snarling wolf emblem on the front. But, unlike the rest of my men, Sim refused to wear anything on his head other than a black woolen hat that he had taken from a wealthy merchant during the Pair War. A ridiculous, purple-dyed feather stuck out from the side of the cap, and Sim stroked it absently. “There’s no one about, my lord,” he said firmly.

  “You’re sure?” Jebido demanded, sounding combative. “You scoured the entire woods?”

  “Enough to know that there’s no ambush lying in wait for us,” Tyris confirmed.

  “What about Wiflem?” I asked as I studied the rolling hills and sprawling trees to the east of the hamlet. Wiflem had been in charge of the men who had captured me and taken me to Gandertown months ago, and the soldier and I had developed a friendly rapport on the journey to the city. After King Tyden had made me the Lord of Corwick, I invited the older man to come and join my service. Wiflem had eagerly accepted, bringing three strapping young sons and a wife heavy with what he assured me was another son along with him. I had quickly made the experienced soldier captain of my castle guards, an arrangement that so far had worked out quite well for the both of us.

  “There’s been no sign of him, my lord,” Sim answered, unable to hide the animosity in his voice.

  Sim was usually a pleasant fellow, simple-minded at times, but genuinely likable. Except when Wiflem’s name was mentioned. The big man had coveted the position of captain, and he had been quite distraught when I had given it to Wiflem instead. I pretended not to notice Sim’s sullen words as I glanced up at the sun. It was well past midday, and if we waited much longer, we would lose the light. I watched as several boys herded ten or so sheep down to the riverbank north of the hamlet, where a shallow ford allowed them to cross the calm waters. The boys and sheep made it safely to the far bank, and I could hear the herders cussing as they used willow branches to force the animals toward the grazing meadows. Should I wait to hear from Wiflem, or just go down there now and be done with it?

  “I know that look on your face,” Jebido said, breaking into my thoughts. “You
’re thinking about doing something stupid, aren’t you?”

  I grinned. “If you already know what I’m thinking, then why ask?”

  Jebido frowned. “We agreed to wait until we heard back from Wiflem. There could be fifty men in those hills over there.”

  I shifted my father’s axe on my back impatiently, then I shrugged, making up my mind. “I’ve never been all that fond of waiting,” I said. “Besides, my gut tells me there’s no danger here.”

  Jebido sighed in frustration. “Then at least let Baine and me go with you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to do this my way, Jebido. If something goes wrong, you’ll know soon enough and can be down there in no time to save my ass.”

  “Maybe that giant, stubborn ass of yours isn’t worth saving this time,” Jebido grumbled.

  I laughed. “Maybe not,” I said as I guided Angry forward. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  I followed the well-traveled trail from the forest to the hill's base, where a narrow road curved toward the hamlet. A sign pounded into the ground beside the road announced in faded white paint that I had arrived in Thidswitch. Three boys no older than five or six came running in excitement when they saw me, followed closely by a pack of barking dogs. The dogs circled Angry as I entered the hamlet, nipping at his heels, while the boys held back, their initial enthusiasm at my arrival waning as they took in my armor and shield. The war had ended months ago, yet the fear brought on by an unknown armed man appearing without warning remained.

  “You, boy,” I said gruffly, speaking to the tallest and brightest looking of the three. The boy was dressed in a shabby brown tunic, with grey stockings and scuffed leather shoes. “I’m looking for a man named Grindin. Point the way.”

  “I don’t know that name, lord,” the boy said uncertainly.

  I sighed, dismounting and kicking away one of the curs harassing Angry as I looked around the hamlet. Grindin’s letter had said he lived in Thidswitch, so I knew I had the right place.

  “May I be of assistance?”

  I turned. The priest was walking toward me, followed by a stream of curious children.

  “I’m looking for a man named Grindin,” I told the Son as he paused five paces from me. The priest was young and thin, with sparse brown hair, a long nose, and sly, calculating eyes. I disliked him immediately.

  “I see,” the Son said thoughtfully. A girl of about four came to stand beside him, clutching at the skirt of the priest’s robes as she stared up at me in fascination. The Son put his arm about the child’s shoulders and drew her closer, smiling reassuringly down at her before turning back to me. “May I enquire as to what your business with this person might be?”

  “That’s between him and me,” I growled.

  A woman appeared from one of the houses, calling urgently to the little girl hugging the priest. The child looked up at the Son and he nodded, tapping the girl lightly on the backside before she ran to join her mother. “My name is Son Jona,” the priest said to me, bowing as he introduced himself.

  “Do you know the man or not, Son?” I asked.

  “I might know who you speak of, but it is something of a delicate matter,” Son Jona acknowledged. “May I ask who you are?”

  “Lord Hadrack of Corwick,” I grunted. “And I’ve ridden a long way. I’m in no mood for games.” A yelp sounded behind me and I turned. A spotted bitch with a missing ear had come too close to Angry, and the big black had caught her on the haunches with a hoof. The injured dog limped away, whining, while the rest of the pack retreated a respectful distance.

  “I have heard of you, of course, lord,” the priest said. I noticed his voice had changed from wary politeness to frosty disapproval. I knew I wasn’t a popular figure among the Sons right now, as they blamed me directly for their lowered station in life. It was a fact I lost little sleep over.

  “Where is he?” I demanded.

  The priest turned and shooed away the rest of the children, waiting until they were gone before answering. “The man you think of as Grindin is gone, lord.”

  I frowned. “Gone where?” I growled.

  Son Jona spread his arms and smiled. “He has chosen to embrace the way of The Father, lord. His soul, along with his hair, has been shorn, and a new man has risen from the ashes.”

  “Are you telling me the bastard has taken the vows?” I said in disbelief. I cursed softly. It appeared that Grindin wasn’t as stupid as I had thought.

  The priest clasped his hands together in front of him, looking quite pleased. “Indeed, lord.”

  “Isn’t he too old for that?” I asked suspiciously.

  Son Jona shrugged. “No man is too old to embrace The Father, lord.” He looked me up and down, then sniffed. “Or too wicked, I suppose.”

  I cursed again and glanced at the hill where my men waited. If Son Jona spoke the truth, then Grindin had taken the vows to become a Son-In-Waiting, which meant if I killed him, I would be ostracized from the House and my soul would burn for eternity. The bastard hadn’t drawn me here to seek penance for his crimes, I now understood. He had brought me here to thumb his nose at me. It was maddening beyond belief.

  “Jona, what goes on here?”

  A Daughter was coming down the street with her yellow robes hitched up past her ankles as she hurried toward us. A thin, shy-looking Daughter-In-Waiting trailed behind the priestess, the child’s face twisted with anxiety.

  Son Jona’s demeanor changed, a look of loathing crossing his features for just a moment before he turned, a fixed smile on his face. “Daughter Freda, I’m glad you have come.” The priest indicated me. “This is Lord Hadrack, the famous Wolf of Corwick.”

  The Daughter stepped past the Son, brushing him aside dismissively as she stopped two paces in front of me. I didn’t fail to notice the priest’s face darken at the insult.

  “I have heard much about you, lord,” Daughter Freda said. She was still youthful-looking, though I guessed she had to be at least thirty or more. Her face was oval and pleasant, with a pert nose and an elegant mouth marred by a livid white scar that ran from her bottom lip to her chin.

  “Most likely lies,” I said, my mind working furiously. What was I to do? By law, I couldn’t kill Grindin now, but I’d be damned if I would leave this place with my tail between my legs, either.

  “Perhaps,” Daughter Freda said, studying me. “What brings a great man such as yourself to our humble village, lord?”

  “He’s looking for Apprentice Cheny,” Son Jona answered.

  Daughter Freda’s eyes flashed. “If I wished to hear you speak, Jona, I would have put the question to you, not Lord Hadrack.” Son Jona pursed his lips, turning them white with anger as the priestess focused back on me. “Now, lord, may I inquire as to why you wish to see our new apprentice?”

  “I came here to kill the bastard,” I grunted. I couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving this place with Grindin still alive, but I knew even the Daughter would defend him now that he belonged to the House.

  “I see,” the priestess said with a sigh, looking unsurprised. “And what did our troublesome apprentice do to deserve such a fate? Did he defile a peasant’s daughter who was under your protection, perhaps? Or did he steal something from you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what he did!” Son Jona snapped from behind the priestess. “That is in the past. Cheny has taken the vows. He cannot be held responsible for what he did in his previous life. You know the law as well as I do.”

  “Does that law include letting him get away with slaughtering innocent women and children!?” I thundered in anger. Both the priest and priestess blinked at me in surprise. “How about murdering a Son and Daughter, then?” I asked into the stunned silence.

  “Lies,” Son Jona finally spluttered, recovering his composure as he waved away my words. “Apprentice Cheny confessed his sins to me before he took the vows. Whatever evil you think he has done, you are mistaken.”

  I snorted. “Mistaken, am I?” I looked away fr
om the priest in contempt and focused on Daughter Freda. “You have heard of me, Daughter, which means you have also heard about the men that I seek and why.”

  “Yes, lord,” Daughter Freda nodded reluctantly. “I am aware.”

  “Then you know that I have a vow of my own,” I said, my voice low and dangerous now. “I swore to my dead family that I would hunt down the men who slaughtered my village. That bastard Grindin was one of them, which means my vow takes precedence over his, and not you, or that sniveling priest behind you, can turn me away from that task.”

  “Cheny cannot be—” Son Jona began.

  “Shut your mouth right now!” I snapped, pointing a mailed finger at the priest. “Say another word to defend that murderous scum, and he won’t be the only one to suffer my wrath this day.” I shifted my eyes back to the Daughter as the priest swallowed noisily. Behind them both, the Daughter-In-Waiting was visibly shaking. I still didn’t know what I was going to do, but I had to do something. “Where is he, Daughter?” I said in a flat, determined voice.

  People were making their way down the dusty street now, drawn by the shouting. Some of the men held axes, mauls, or hoes, and they were grumbling threateningly. Something terrible was going to happen here, I knew, unless I got what I wanted soon.

  Daughter Freda lifted her hands toward me in appeasement. “Lord Hadrack, as much as I feel empathy for what happened to you, the laws of the House are firm, and not even an oath sworn in blood like yours can change that fact.”

  “Where is he?” I repeated, barely listening. “I won’t ask a third time.”

  “You will burn at The Father’s feet for eternity if you touch him!” Son Jona shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.

  I snarled, unable to control myself any longer. Three quick strides and I stood in front of the priest. I grabbed the Son by the front of his robe, lifting him off the ground as I shook him like a doll. “Tell me, you bastard!”

  I felt a hand on my arm. “Lord, put him down this instant!” Daughter Freda demanded. “Putting your hands on a priest is sacrilege. You are jeopardizing your very soul.”