Tales from Therendell. (Nightwolf short stories)

The Dryad

The room was eerily silent as Herman Kressler, the Baron of Breslin, gorged himself in food and drink.
He had the frame of a man who would have been quite formidable in his hunting years, but age and gluttony had caused his body to plump, like oddly shaped balls stacked atop one another.

Soldiers stood at every corner, two more directly behind me—spears gripped tightly as they stared at me. Their blood pumped furiously, their breathing shallow.
All this over a tavern brawl.
The chain that bound my wrists together seemed a bit excessive—after all; I only broke an arm.
I held up my hands, 'Are these necessary?'
The rotund man grunted, wiping a meaty paw across his mouth and cleaning it on his rich green tunic.'You assaulted four of my men, sent one to the hospice. So yes.'
'It was only a broken arm,'
'In four places the doctor tells me.'

With a restrained smile, I recalled the sound he made as he flailed his useless arm.
'I asked him not to hit her again.' I replied, 'He should have listened.'
'Whatever the reason, these are my men and not subject to your whims and ideas of justice.'

Shadows cast across my eyes as I lowered my head, sanguine eyes pierced his bravado façade.
'That why I'm here? To be subjected to your justice?'
The tin plate scraped against the wood as he pushed it aside. "You are here because I have more use for you alive instead of in a noose.'

My eye twitched, servitude was a collar that never suited me well.
'If you think I'll wait at your heel like a good hound—.'
'I think you will do as I ask—lest the bounty on you becomes too tempting an offer.'

A wolf is never more dangerous than when backed into a corner. Surveying my surroundings, I studied them, pondering how many I could kill before their screams for help escaped the room. Despite their calm exterior, I could hear their blood as it whooshed through bodies, their hearts pumped furiously. Kressler is likely to scream, remedy with a knife to the throat. The guard to his left keeps shifting in place, no doubt still suffering from an old wound.  Apply force to his leg, it'll snap like a chicken bone, as will his neck. The youngest guard to Kressler's right is nervous, inexperienced, his grip is too close together, relieve him of his spear, introduce it to his throat. Remaining three should fan out, failing to capitalise. Assume "Knight-killer" stance, parry and slice the inner thighs of two. Last one always runs. He won't be fast enough.
A sound plan.

The Baron sighed, 'We may have gotten off on the wrong foot, I merely think we can help each other,' he motioned to a guard behind me who promptly removed the chains. I ran my hands through my shoulder-length obsidian hair, smoothing stray hairs and tightening my workman's tail.

'See? I can be a useful ally, provided you behave.' His chair groaned under his weight as he leant to one side and produced a simple bronze decanter and two cups. Warily, I accepted, and while my senses revealed no toxins in the cup—this would not be the first-time nobility had tried to poison me.

'My thanks,' I flinched as the Belford spiced rum dribbled across the cut on my lip, tingling the back of my throat. It went down hot and ugly, instantly dissipating the cold in my guts.

'That accent, Sekeran?'
I downed my drink, holding the cup out, 'Theren.'
He averted his eyes, 'I remember hearing what happened, years ago now. Real tragedy.'

I didn't want to think about home. It had been many decades since I had left. The hollow part of my soul that contained those memories surged to life, re-igniting the pain I had thought long dormant.

'The lads say you can help with our "problem".' Kressler took a hearty swig of the brew, clearing his throat. 'That you're an expert?'

Finishing my drink, I gladly accepted the refill as I waved a hand across my face, 'How do you think I got these?' I had acquired many scars over the years, even more as a monster hunter. Most men in my line of work look like we've been through a grinder, I was no exception.
'What else do your men say about me? They tell you what I am?'
He averted his gaze, it's my eyes, humans always avoided looking at them—blood red, the flames from the hearth flicker and dance across them.
Freak. Mutant.
I have had many names. I buried my pain in the drink,