Castald and the Werewolf

Castald and the Werewolf

By Andre Ricardo

The sky was dark and grey in southern Avan. This wasn’t an uncommon sight in this region, which Castald had spent most of his life. Today, though, there was something especially foreboding about the thick clouds. He scanned the horizon for some settlement he could rest at. Southern Avan was a lowland filled with forests and fields. Castald knew he was near the border with Glinderfell, an elven empire, but was confident it was still a few miles south. He spied what looked like a village or a town a bit further north, so he turned his horse, Otto, towards it. As he rode close to the town, a group of peasants ran to him.

“Oh sir, you look to be a brave young knight! Are you?” an old woman asked him with her hands clasped together.

“That I am,” Castald said and bowed his head. “I am Castald, a knight of the Order of the Blue Stones. Look here at my pendant. This gem was created by Winter himself.”

“Wonderful!” shouted a man. “Won’t you help us, Sir Castald? There is an evil here which must be slain!”

“A wild beast stalks our streets and kills our people! A werewolf!” cried a young woman.

Castald had dealt with beasts before, but never a monster as daunting as a werewolf. He hardened his countenance to show no fear. It was his duty as a knight to defend these people. For the sake of his honor and title, he could not show any cowardice.

“Of course, good folk. I shall kill this monster or die trying. Where will I find it?” Castald asked the crowd.

The young woman jumped up and down with her hand raised. “The werewolf attacked folk in the night until the mayor ordered a curfew. Nobody is allowed outside after dark. That worked for a time, but soon folk started to see the werewolf outside their homes. And then…”

“And then it started breaking in and killing within our homes! The mayor fears we will have to flee from Rettenfurt or spend a fortune hiring monster hunters from abroad!” A man interrupted the young woman.

“Whenever it gets done with its cruelty or the guards spot it, it leaps up over the wall with its giant legs and runs off on all fours into the forest over there,” the old woman from before pointed a bony finger at dark trees.

“You said its legs are giant? So, the rest of the werewolf is giant, too?” Castald asked the old woman.

“Aye, I saw it as it leapt over the wall once. Massive and hairy beast,” she shook her head to rid her mind of the horrible image.

“Forgive me if this is a disturbing question, but how often does this creature attack? It is important to identify it and know how to hunt it,” Castald addressed the crowd.

“Usually once every few weeks or so. Just before the mayor made us follow the curfew, it attacked twice in the same week,” said a man with a thick beard.

“Thank you all. I believe I have enough information to start my hunt. Go about your days,” Castald dismissed the peasants and drew his bestiary from Otto’s saddlebags. It was a weathered book. Castald was not its first owner, but the categories of monsters and beasts listed within the book were just as valuable as it was when they were written. He scratched his chin with a leather gloved hand as he read. A werewolf, or lycanthrope as the bestiary described it, could take the form of an ordinary wolf, or a hybrid monster with attributes belonging to both man and wolf. The latter was the more dangerous of the two and was the variant Castald would hunt if the old woman’s account of the creature was to be believed. Also, given that it seemed to attack without regularity according to the bearded man, it couldn’t be bound to transform with a full moon. Rather, it must either have control over its transformations or transform at random. If the werewolf had control over his transformations, perhaps Castald could avoid fighting it entirely and have its curse lifted. This werewolf was likely some wild vagrant living in the woods, beset by a curse which Castald would try to lift, either with his words or his sword.

Castald closed the book, deposited it back into Otto’s saddlebags, and started his hunt by looking for clues in the forest where the beast made its lair. The air was growing crisp and cool as the sun lowered. Castald knew he hadn’t much time to search before there wasn’t enough light, but this would at least prove to the people he had taken their misfortunes seriously, as was his duty. He dismounted from Otto, readjusted his dirtied blue and white surcoat over his chainmail and stepped into the woods. The trees were tall and old. As a boy, Castald always loved forests for the sense of adventure and mystery they held. As a knight, he had learned to be cautious of them for the same reasons.

It was a fruitless search. Ferns covered the ground and trees rose high and obscured the sky. The forest reminded him of the Great Hall of his Order back in Derlingburg. Each tree seemed like a great pillar holding up a leafy roof. At last, he spied something that was relevant to his hunt, a tuft of fur caught in the bark of a tree. Nothing about it immediately told him that this was the fur of a werewolf, these marks easily could have been made by any kind of greyish animal, but the long, deep claw marks on the tree beside the one he had found the fur did. Castald shuddered at the thought of encountering whatever had made those slashes.

Castald heard a branch snap and, still filled with fear of the beast, drew his sword and whirled around to face his enemy. But there was no hairy monster standing before him, ready to gore him, but an elf with his hands raised in a gesture of peace. The elf wore a red tunic covered by a simple brown cloak. He had a leather satchel on his right side and a sword on his left. His dark brown hair was parted at the middle and was cut at chin length, not unlike Castald’s hair, though Castald’s was lighter in color. Castald could tell he was an elf from the points of his ears poking out from his hair and from his superior height. Castald sheathed his sword and let out all the breath he had taken in anticipation for a fight.

“What are you doing out here in the forest, sir knight?” asked the elf.

“The people of Rettenfurt have charged me with killing the werewolf that lives in these woods,” Castald replied. “This I shall do or die trying, on my honor as a Knight of the Order of the Blue Stones.”

“Hm, dying won’t do the good folk of Rettenfurt any good. But perhaps I can help you hunt it. I am loosely familiar with these woods and am craving an adventure. I am called Seleroth,” the elf said.

“My name is Castald. I appreciate your help, but I warn you this is not a mere wild animal, but a savage killer. Look here at these claw marks.” Castald pointed at the marks high on the tree. “Maybe this could help us find it? Also, there is fur stuck on that tree there.”

“Indeed, we could spend the last hour of daylight scouring the woods for this creature, woods the creature is more familiar with than we are, but I think I have a better plan. You said it has been attacking Rettenfurt, yes?” Seleroth stroked his chin.

“I did. The beast stalked Rettenfurt’s streets in the night until the mayor ordered a curfew. Now the beast attacks folk in their homes,” Castald said. “At least according to the people near the gate. I’ve not been inside the town yet.”

“Bold. A bold werewolf will eventually bite off more than it can chew. Hopefully that will be us. If the beast attacks people in the night, why not let it? We shall wait for the beast to attack and then spring upon it,” Seleroth suggested.

“Out of the question. I won’t endanger anyone’s life like that. It goes against my oath: ‘Swear that thou will bring no one to needless harm in the pursuit of justice and the destruction of iniquity,’” Castald recalled part of his oath by heart.

“Of course, I don’t mean to use anyone as bait. That would indeed be heartless. I merely want to wait for the werewolf to skulk in from beyond the walls. Everyone will be safe in their homes, but we will be in the streets ready to gut it,” Seleroth explained.

“I see the logic in this, but we should inform the town guard of our plan. They might even be willing to help us,” Castald recommended.

“Absolutely. We could use the extra manpower anyway,” Seleroth said.

And with that, the new allies returned to Rettenfurt to seek out the Avanian garrison posted there. Castald rode slowly on Otto while Seleroth, having traveled on foot, walked.

“I am curious, friend, what an elf is doing here in Thaxony? Are you a pilgrim?” Castald asked.

“No, I am an explorer from Glinderfell. I seek adventure in foreign lands,” Seleroth replied.

“An explorer? What are you exploring?” Castald asked.

“Well, Thaxony I suppose.”

“But there are maps of Thaxony already. All this land has already been explored,” Castald said, not quite understanding.

“True, but just because someone else has explored them doesn’t mean I have. I wander for my own sake. Just because someone drew a map or named a land does not mean there are no more secrets to uncover,” Seleroth explained. “Especially for one like me who has known nothing but my own country for most of my life.”

“What made you leave your home country?” Castald asked.

Seleroth was quiet for a moment. “How old are you, Sir Castald?”

“Twenty.”

“Well, I am one hundred and sixty. And yet, I still retain a youthful spryness. Why not see the world while my strength is still with me? I have enough time to do it,” Seleroth said.

“Fair enough,” Castald said.

If Castald was to agree with Seleroth’s definition of an explorer, then he was one too, even though it didn’t feel like it. Castald was bound by honor and duty to seek out danger, while Seleroth seemed to for the pure sensation of it. Castald wondered what being as free as Seleroth was like, and if it even was desirable. On one hand, Castald enjoyed the status and privileges that knighthood gave, but that came with responsibilities. Seleroth may have enjoyed freedom every day, but he likely did not get a roof to sleep under or food to eat every day either. Castald didn’t either, being a knight errant, but at least he always had grateful people to return to in Derlingburg or in the places he had liberated.

Castald and Seleroth passed under the gate of Rettenfurt. Castald left Otto with a stablemaster and tossed him a few coppers. Next, they turned onto the main street and took in the sights of the settlement. Rettenfurt was a modest sized town. Pleasant half-timbered houses lined the streets. It reminded him of the town he had grown up in and of some of the other Thaxon towns he had seen on appearance alone while on his travels as a knight. Where it differed was in the faces of its people. They all bore a hollow, sad expression, as if everyone had lost someone dear to them, as well as an unhealthy amount of sleep. If the people who lived there weren’t constantly under the threat of a werewolf attacking, perhaps they would have been livelier. Castald and Seleroth reached the garrison keep, a martial-looking stone brick building, and told a guard posted outside to allow them an audience with the guard captain. The guard let them in and gestured towards a man with thinning blond hair and a messy beard.

“Who are they, Gregor?” The blond man asked with a coarse voice.

“A knight and an elf, captain. Said they wanted to see you about the werewolf,” Gregor, the guard, replied. “Shall I return to my post?”

The captain’s spirits returned to him as he stood up to greet his guests. “Yes, yes. Back to your post, of course. Welcome, friends. I am Ulrich, guard captain,” he said as he reached out a hand to shake with his guests.

“I am Castald, a Knight of the Order of the Blue Stones. This is Seleroth, an explorer who has pledged to help me kill the werewolf. He has a plan to trap it we want to share with you.”

“Excellent, let me hear it,” Ulrich said with a smile that revealed a missing molar.

“Rather than trying to hunt the beast in the forest, which would give it the territorial advantage, I recommend we fight it here, in Rettenfurt. We will wait for it to enter the city and then attack it,” Seleroth said.

“I like it, but how will we know where it will arrive? If we’re to set a trap for it we’ll need bait,” Ulrich said.

“Well, we didn’t want to endanger anyone in the process. My oath forbids it. Rettenfurt has lost enough innocents to this beast,” Castald voiced his concern.

“No, that won’t work. The beast won’t show where we want it unless we give it a reason to. I’ll do it. I’ll act a drunkard outside tonight while you and my garrison hide and be ready to pounce on it when it goes to lunge at me,” Ulrich offered.

“That is brave of you, captain, but we can’t allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. There must be another way,” Castald said.

“Nonsense,” Ulrich raised his hand to silence the knight. “I just want to see this beast gutted already. Like you said, Sir Knight, Rettenfurt has lost enough innocents.”

“So be it,” Castald bowed his head in respect to Ulrich’s selflessness. “Let us go kill a werewolf.”

Castald and Seleroth waited with Ulrich and the garrison until the church bells rang out, signaling the curfew had begun. Ulrich told Castald and Seleroth to stay behind while he and the garrison went to patrol the streets to ensure that all the townspeople had obeyed the curfew. Seleroth drew his sword and went to the keep’s grindstone and sat down to sharpen it. It was a fine blade, long and thin. It was polished to a mirror sheen and had a few Elven runes running down the length of it. Each quillon of the cross guard was made of twisted metal and had been curved slightly upward. The pommel was a sphere of similarly twisted metal.

“You have a marvelous sword. Where did you get it?” Castald asked.

“This sword is my birthright,” Seleroth replied. “Though some might disagree.”

“Birthright? And who would disagree?” Castald was confused by the elf’s obscure response.

“I suppose there’s no use hiding it anymore. Anyway, you’re a Mannish knight. You’ve no reason to betray me. I am of House Sannor, one of the seven Great Houses of Glinithrel. I inherited the Sannor province from my father, but my jealous uncle felt entitled to it. First, he tried to influence me into giving him more land and power, then after I refused him, he sent assassins for me. For ten years, I evaded them within my own home, the home of my family, until I finally could not stand it. I took Sithrel, the ancestral sword of Sannor, and fled the court for foreign lands. My uncle’s assassins and those from the other Great Houses still pursue me,” Seleroth said before returning Sithrel to the scabbard at his side. “Besides, I will take a life of adventure on the road over the mundane comforts and responsibilities of court life.”

Castald was shocked at the runaway noble’s revelation. “You’re the lost Duke of Sannor? Forgive me, Duke Seleroth, I had no idea.”

Castald stood up from his chair and bowed before the elf, much to his annoyance. Seleroth scowled and waved his hand dismissively.

“Sit back down, Sir Castald. I am only the Duke of Sannor to my murderous family. I am Seleroth. Not Duke Seleroth, just Seleroth,” the elf said with exasperation.

“You mean you’ve no desire to reclaim your birthright as ruler of Sannor?” Castald asked.

“None. This blade is all I need of my so called ‘birthright,’” Seleroth placed his palm onto the pommel of Sithrel. “Fortunately, my father taught me how to use it before he died, so I feel confident I will keep it until I find a place my uncle’s assassins will never find me. Have you been to the Northwest? I plan to go there next. Perhaps somewhere in Lordacq or Isperia would welcome me,” Seleroth asked.

“No, I’ve not been outside of Thaxony. Duty binds me to this land,” Castald said.

“Nothing binds me. I am free,” Seleroth said.

Castald thought on the elf’s lifestyle and compared it to his own. They were opposites in many ways. Castald believed in the importance of titles and honor, while Seleroth had renounced all his noble ties, except the tie to his sword. Castald had worked his whole young life to become a knight. He felt fortunate to have been elevated to knighthood with the Order as a young man. Typically, the Order of the Blue Stones took in already established and well-known knights, but Castald had been trained specially to join only them. His mentor, Erambert, was not just Erambert of the Order of the Blue Stones, but Erambert of Buchengard. Castald had no title, aside from his connection to the Order.

“Do you not have friends or family back home in Glinderfell that you miss?” Castald asked.

“Of course. But I value my life more. I can make new friends,” Seleroth said. “But I do not miss my family. Awful, uptight, and frankly murderous bunch.”

“I have a woman in Derlingburg,” Castald said. “I met her there when I was knighted. She gave me a blue rose and a smile that enchanted my soul. She’s called Hildegard.”

“I had one too. Her name was Pelera. But she was a commoner, and I was forbidden from marrying her. After I fled the home of my family, her home was the first place I went. I had hoped she had waited for me. But her mother told me she had married another and moved to Alrenach. It was then I decided I must wander the world alone,” Seleroth said flatly.

Ulrich returned to the keep and informed Castald and Seleroth that the townsfolk were all safe and they were ready to set up the trap. They entered a central square with merchant stalls left alone for the night. Ulrich directed them to hide behind a wagon and informed them that the rest of the garrison was similarly hiding behind wagons and barrels. Ulrich then picked up an empty tankard and started belting out some slurred lines of song. He fell onto the walls of the basin of the fountain in the middle of the square and pretended to almost plunge into the water. This charade went on for some time, with Ulrich reciting several rowdy bar songs that echoed off the half-timbered walls of the townhouses in the square.

“Ehh… I can’t think of any more songs,” Ulrich tapped the tankard against his side with his right hand on his hip while he scratched his beard with his left. “Maybe the werewolf won’t show tonight. Let’s all get some sleep and try again tomorrow.”

The would-be werewolf trappers all came out of hiding to reconvene with Ulrich.

“The werewolf used to eat noisy drunkards before. Maybe I was too heavy-handed?” Ulrich seemed disappointed that the werewolf didn’t appreciate his performance more than anything else.

A shrill scream rang out from the direction of the Seasonal Church. None of the hunters needed to share a word with each other to know what had happened. The sound of their jingling chainmail filled the silent void after the scream. Another shriek chilled the men’s blood. They arrived at the source of the screams and found a grisly sight. The werewolf had struck at a house across the square from the church, almost to taunt its unholiness to the town, and left a splattering of blood in its wake. Another screech resounded from across the wall. Ulrich cursed to himself and ordered his men to the gate to chase the savage.

Once Castald passed outside the gate, he saw the vague shape of a giant creature slip between the trees in the distance. Though it was dark, the moonlight glistened on the wet blood on the grass leading to the forest. Once they entered the forest, the thick canopy obscured any light that could help them. Seleroth spied what he thought was a drop of blood on a fern and pointed for the guards to follow him. They wandered blindly into the dark forest until they found the mangled body of a woman slumped against a tree. Castald was horrified by the damage the werewolf had done to her. He was not unfamiliar with violence. He had killed three bandits in the past and had seen enough death to harden himself to it, but the sight of the dead woman shook him.

He forced himself to kneel before her to examine her for clues. All he learned from inspecting her wounds was that the werewolf was a cruel monster beyond reason that was worse than just a wild animal that kills for food.

“I am sorry, Ulrich. I cannot help you,” Castald said with a thin voice. “I couldn’t defend your people.”

“It’s Ingrid. Wintersohn’s daughter,” Ulrich recognized the woman. He looked Castald angrily in the eye. “We’ll take her away. But you’re not done, Sir Castald, Knight of the Order of the Blue Stones. You said you would kill this beast. You said you would kill it or die trying. Live up to your oath. Find the savage that did this, or all will know of your failure.”

Ulrich’s face twisted as he and Gregor picked up Ingrid and carried her back towards Rettenfurt. Castald stood still for a moment. The night air was still. His hands felt cold in his gloves. He felt useless. He felt his oath was broken already. He considered living a life like Seleroth, free and without the weight of his responsibility.

“Sir Castald,” Seleroth broke the silence. “I see footsteps. Large footsteps. They’re headed through here.”

Seleroth pointed at the ground at faint werewolf tracks that were invisible to Castald before Seleroth’s superior Elven vision detected them, and then he pointed through the trees towards where they went. Castald looked hard at the elf. He was not like him. He hadn’t lived for even a quarter of the life Seleroth had. There was still more Castald could do as a knight. There was still time to fulfil the promise he had made to the people.

“Lead the way, friend,” Castald said.

He followed closely behind the elf as he scanned what looked like ordinary dirt for werewolf tracks. At last, they led to a disheveled hut. The trees near the shack had been cut down, which produced a small clearing. Castald drew his sword and entered the hut and found a pile of cloth, which made a makeshift bed within. Near the pile of cloth were two pieces of wood that were heavily scratched. Castald picked up the wood pieces and found they fit together into the shape of a wolf’s head. Castald left the hut and returned to Seleroth.

“I found this inside the hut. When you put them together, they form a wolf’s head,” Castald explained. “This carved head is the source of the curse afflicting the werewolf. He might be just a poor soul who was tricked by some sorcerer. I will try to lift his curse when he returns. This is where we separate, friend.”

“It cannot be that easy. What if the werewolf returns? But still as a beast? You can’t lift his curse without his cooperation. You will need me and Sithrel in case he is still wild,” Seleroth reasoned. “Also, I don’t want to lose sleep in the future wondering about whether you really were successful or not. I must see this myself.”

“So be it. You have proven to be a loyal ally. But go wait in the trees. Only come out if you see the werewolf in its beastly form,” Castald instructed. “I will hide in the house.”

Castald waited in the house until he saw a man approach from the darkness. He was thin and sickly looking, without a single hair on his head, and seemed to be naked. His gait was slow and deliberate. Castald knew this man had to be the werewolf and stepped out of the house.

“Halt there. I must ask you to step no closer. This house is the lair of a werewolf, and because you have returned to it, I am now certain that you are the werewolf,” Castald said with the most authority he could produce.

The sickly man was startled by Castald’s presence, but his expression shifted from surprise to a glare. “Leave my home, scoundrel. I haven’t any valuables for you to steal.”

“I am Castald, Knight of the Order of the Blue Stones. I can help you cure your lycanthropy, but you must come with me, calmly,” Castald slowly approached the man, believing that the man was unaware of his condition. “We will go and see a wizard. He will use magic to banish the curse that has corrupted your soul and body.”

The man’s glare then turned into a devilish grin. He sneered and gave Castald a raspy laugh. “I’ve no curses on me. Only blessings. Once, I was a poor laborer. Men never gave me any respect. No woman ever looked at me fondly or gave me a kind word. Children would jeer at me, both when I was a child myself, and even when I was old and gray. Not once could I ever do anything to change my lot in life until I met this forest-mage. He said he would promise me a chance to change my life. I accepted his deal, not caring what he would do, for surely anything would be better than the life I had. He took a drop of my blood, the wooden wolf’s head, did some magicking, and gave me my blessing.”

“Lycanthropy is no blessing. Do you know you have killed many people?” Castald asked.

The man bared his teeth in a frightening smile. The smile grew with his teeth, which drew long and sharp. His mouth protruded forward into a snout and his thin limbs grew muscular and long. His hairless body sprouted thick, grey fur. His dark eyes turned yellow and centered their gaze on Castald. The knight drew his sword and held it in a guard to prevent the monster’s approach.

“Lord Winter, your knight calls on you. Give me your courage. Guide my blade and let it fall true into my foe,” Castald prayed while grasping his pendant tightly. The blue gem glowed faintly.

The werewolf snarled and crawled closer to Castald, who swung his sword thrice at it to keep it at bay. Seleroth emerged from the trees and sliced it along the right shoulder with Sithrel. Enraged, it whirled around and, with a giant arm, cast Seleroth into a tree. Then, it turned to face Castald alone and charged him on all fours and thrashed its claws at the knight’s chainmail. Castald’s armor protected him from the werewolf’s claws, but not its unstoppable force, and was pushed far away onto the ground. The werewolf stood up onto its hind legs and let out a wild howl. Castald scrambled on the forest floor to his sword and ran to Seleroth. He struggled to see where he was going, as a thick fog rapidly filled the forest. Castald glanced at the werewolf and saw its vague shape obscured by fog. It returned to its forelimbs and seemed to be similarly disoriented, swinging its long head from side to side and sniffing the air.

“Seleroth, are you hurt?” Castald asked as he helped the elf back to his feet.

“I’m still alive, for now,” Seleroth said.

Seleroth squinted through the fog and then went pale. The werewolf’s imposing form stood proudly amidst the trees, but another figure had entered the scene. The fog cleared from the center of the battleground to reveal the new combatant. He was tall and held a long, curved sword. He wore dark armor that rattled with each step he took towards the creature.

“Fynle-Niec…” Seleroth whispered in Elvish.

The armored warrior was a Black Guardian, a legendary spirit that may have frightened Castald more than the werewolf. His mother had told him stories about the Black Guardians whenever he was rude, warning him they hunt monsters and wicked men. Castald always thought the Fynlen-Niec were a legend, but the warrior before him proved the legends were true.

“Fanien gvienan len Lothan-Hil! Ema na gynthe ana haeglyn, et eya lothach!” The Black Guardian shouted in arcane Elvish as he approached the beast.

The werewolf growled before charging the warrior, who met his aggression with a cut along the chest with his curved sword. Castald and Seleroth joined the Black Guardian in his fight. Castald cut the werewolf on the back and Seleroth plunged Sithrel into his hairy leg, pinning it in place. The Black Guardian prepared to deliver the finishing blow, but the werewolf raised a claw to strike him. His body turned into fog where the werewolf’s claws would have landed, and then he expertly whirled his blade around to slice the werewolf’s arm in two and then behead it.

“Vaed elyn,” Seleroth said to thank the Fynle-Niec in Elvish.

The Black Guardian said nothing in reply. Now that the battle was over and he was close enough to the warrior, Castald could admire the marvelous craftsmanship of the Black Guardian’s armor. His helmet resembled an elven face with pointed ears, and elaborate runes were carved across his armor. This moment of clarity did not last long though, as the thick fog returned to the forest and surrounded the Black Guardian. Just as mysteriously as he had arrived, he disappeared.

Castald picked up the werewolf’s head and carried it back to Rettenfurt, with Seleroth following him. He set it on the table in front of a tired Ulrich.

“You killed it… it’s really dead…” Ulrich gingerly poked the werewolf’s lifeless head.

“I gave my word,” Castald said.

“That you did. Forgive me for what I said earlier, Sir Castald. You have proved yourself a hero to Rettenfurt,” Ulrich praised the knight with a smile. “As have you, noble elf. You both have earned the reward for its head.”

“I must admit, captain, that we would not have been successful this night if it were not for the help of a Black Guardian. He was the one who sliced the werewolf’s head from its neck,” Castald said.

“A Black Guardian?” Ulrich’s smile disappeared and his eyes widened. “This close to town? Is he still here?”

“No, he vanished with the fog that carried him here, just as the legends say,” Castald said.

“Well good,” Ulrich released the tension the news of the Black Guardian had brought with a sigh. “At least this werewolf can no longer threaten the people of Rettenfurt. Given that the Black Guardian isn’t here to accept any pay, I still think the silver ought to be split between the two of you. You don’t suppose they’ll hunt me down for not leaving some for him, right?” Ulrich asked.

“Have no fear, captain. The Fynlen-Niec work for free,” Seleroth said. “I know my own people’s legends.”

“Then that brings me even more peace of mind,” Ulrich said as he handed them both a generous pouch of silver coins. “Rettenfurt will never forget the tale of the knight, the elf, and the spirit that slew our beast!”

 

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Photo: Monica Oprea