The mattresses of the Horse and Fox were too soft for her tastes. When she awoke half consumed by her bed and covered in bruises from the previous night, she wanted nothing more than the sweet release of oblivion. The morning light stabbed at her eyeballs and one of her ribs was protesting rather violently to a solid object pressed to her side.
Groaning, she reached down, her fingers brushing the silver of her knife handle. Her hand instantly jerked away, face contorted as the fingertips hissed, the skin reacting violently to its touch.
"Fuck," she muttered, sitting up and grabbing the blade by the leather sheath, throwing it on the ground. Now sat up, she sucked on her burnt finger, her mood no merrier than before. Judging from the state of her clothes and the smells that lingered on her skin, she had pretty much passed out as soon as she'd reached her bed. There was a large patch of dried blood on her tunic, and she hadn't even taken the time the peel off her socks from the day before.
She inspected the stained fabric, her expression crumpled. "That's not going to wash out," she said, lamenting the loss of one of her few possessions. After all, she only owned four tunics. Well, now only three.
Many more minutes passed before she crawled out of bed, dumping off all her soiled clothes. Some could be salvaged, but others would need to be burnt. She worked unthinkingly as she went through the movements of changing, cleaning her knife, and rubbing bruise ointment into her skin. Her mind was in other places, thinking of other, darker, things. Fatigue stained her movements, her eyes more sunken, forehead creased.
Upon heading downstairs, she found the tavern full, but quiet. The Montis were gathered in one corner, but the other patrons whispered, casting weary glances around the room.
"Heard the bloke was disembowelled, guts everywhere," one woman whispered.
"Really? I heard they chopped off his head and put a wolfsbane flower in his mouth," her companion replied.
"Ye' both barmy!" An older woman entered the conversation. "The Angor put te' flowers in ye' palm. Nun of ye' youngins' remember the days before. Dun't ye' remember the old rhyme?"
The bartender looked up from the glass he was polishing. "Aye. I remember it, Eddi.
From the southern desert,
Beyond the mountains and plain,
A ravenous monster watches untamed.
From water they come,
Teeth bared and knifes sharp,
King or peasants they leave their mark.
None can escape,
Purple flowers they leave,
In the palm, we watch, hide and grieve.
Old as time itself,
Wielding the silver blade of lore,
Beware, they are, the wolves of Angor."
By the time he stopped speaking almost everyone was listening. Helena found her head turned towards him, her footsteps having come to a standstill. The whispers had been stilled. A teenage boy at the back, sat alone nursing a drink, raised his head.
"I saw it," he said, voice raked ragged, "I saw the body. It...er- it was in his palm." Usually his voice would've been drowned out by the general hubbub of the inn, but today no one misheard his words.
Helena took a deep breath and continued towards the Montis. All of them looked grim. Adrian and Felix both sent her looks as she joined them.
"Did you get it back?" Adrian asked when noise began to return.
YOU ARE READING
The Wolf of the Wilds
Người sóiA rogue werewolf finds her mate, a beta from a pack in the far north. They're an unlikely match. After all, it's not often a scoundrel, killer and liar finds love with a man that spends his days baking and doing paperwork. She has a dark past that...
