Wicked Hunt

Chapter Twelve, Part IV

Rafe: Whispers On The Wind 

Someone shook him violently.

"Commander! Commander!"

What the hell! Rafe's head throbbed as he was hauled from the deep throngs of sleep into the brutal cold of wakefulness. His eyes flew open, trying to catch up with what was going on. He blinked, but it was still too dark. He thought his eyes might still be closed, but two dark blobs moved noisily in front of him. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood.

"Sir!" He was jerked again.

"Alright! Alright!" His voice was like ice, sharpened to a deadly point. The intruders must have sensed his seething anger. The shaking stopped abruptly. Finally, he could see who it was that had roused him. Freddie and Redwyn stood before him, their weight shifting back and forth between their feet. Freddie at least had the decency to look abashed. Redwyn might have too, but Rafe could hardly see the boy in the dim light.

"Speak," Rafe demanded, and Freddie squeaked.

"Apologies, sir," Freddie said shakily, "there's some commotion down in the square sir. Everyone's awake and shouting, sir."

"What is it?" Rafe asked pointedly, rubbing his forehead.

"Some sheep have been killed," Redwyn offered.

"And?" Rafe pressed in irritation.

"Come down and see for yourself, sir," Freddie replied. Rafe groaned but relented, not eager to be back alone with his thoughts.

The boys walked out ahead of him, Rafe pulling on a shirt and cloak. His feet were slipped into his boots, and he snatched his sword, tying it swiftly around his waist as they descended the stairs. The servants lined the walls, each wearing nightcaps and gowns, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Lord Viktor Forest was not with them. He was presumably still fast asleep, or Rafe thought the more likely option, cowering in his closet at the commotion.

"Can no one light a candle?" Rafe asked annoyedly, his voice seeming overly-loud in the stale, breathless house. No one moved. They acted as if they did not hear him, as if he spoke a different language. "Where is Rufus?" he asked Redwyn's back.

"Out there." Redwyn's head tilted to the approaching front door, Rafe glanced down at the crack at the bottom, expecting dancing shadows to be there. Both boys paused, allowing Rafe to pass. "He's trying to keep a handle on the people," Redwyn added. Rafe stopped and glanced at him, raising his brow. The boy's eyes shot to the ground.

"What the hell's going on here?" Rafe muttered. His hand rested on the doorknob, time seeming to suspend. For a bizarre moment, he hesitated, remembering the wicked air that had surrounded the door at his old house in Duff in his dream. The only sounds beyond the wood were muted yells.

He shoved it open and was greeted with chaos. Flames danced at the edge of a large, embroiled crowd, many brandishing torches and daggers. They were gathered around something, Rufus and Christopher, and several more of his men right in the center, holding several men back as they shouted and beat their hands on their backs. Rafe stepped down, but the hum of voices only intensified.

"Lying sack of shit!" someone shrieked.

"I ought to kill you!"

"Never happened before!"

Rafe barreled through the crowd, cracking someone inf the mouth as he went when they tried to stop him. Fingers entangled in his cloak, trying to stop him from getting closer. "Step back," Rafe demanded, his words laced with simmering malice. Once it was established who he was, the cloak was immediately released.

"It's the Commander." The whispered words latched onto the frenzied air, overtaking it and calming it instantly like an extinguished flame. The crowd parted, and he moved forward. Even the men struggling with Rufus and Christopher ceased moving.

"Sir," Rufus greeted, his bushy moustache disheveled and matted with blood. He stepped out of the way, revealing three dead sheep lying in the dirt, their fleece torn and bloodied.

"One of these idiots found 'em," Christopher announced, shoving the man he was fighting with forward. Whispers filtered through the crowd as they watched, each person holding their breath for what the Commander would decree. "Right here, outside Lord Viktor's own house," he added.

Rafe knelt to examine the sheep. Each one had a matching gash at the neck, ripped out violently by sharp points. The throats had been shredded, but the bodies still remained. For sport then. Rafe poked one's neck. Blood seeped from the mutilated throat. He flicked the skin, wondering what kind of weapon had done the damage. The tear was rough and serrated. It did not look like any blade he had seen. It almost looks like teeth. Some wild beast has torn their throats. He stood and slowly rotated. The crown instantly hushed, waiting for him to tell them what to do. These people were afraid, hungry, and desperate, not only for food but for a man to lead them. Lord Viktor was not that man. Five-Fingers was not either. Hope glimmered in their eyes. Nor is it me.

"Some animal has broken in and slain the sheep," he offered them. Shoulders sagged in relief. "Whose were they?"

"Mine!" The man with Rufus raised his hand in defiance.

"Lord Forest will compensate your loss," Rafe told him without consulting Viktor first. The others waited. Rafe grew annoyed. "Everyone go back to your houses." Still they waited. "Show's over." He ran a hand through his hair and turned his back to them.

"But sir-" Rufus began.

"Go and make sure everyone leaves," Rafe growled, and Rufus scowled. He let sheep owner go and left.

"Thank you," he said, clasping and unclasping his hands. Rafe's eyes narrowed at him. He did not need their gratitude. How then would they fear him?

"You should thank Lord Viktor," he responded mirthlessly. "He's the one responsible for granting you payment."

"Of course," the man said. Still, the deep warmth of appreciation glimmered in his eyes. He sought some cruel response, some cold words to throw back in the man's face to wipe the friendly visage from it. His mind was groggy and slow. He was still dizzy from the abruptness from which he was hurled from his dream. The man continued to beam, passing beside him and even patting Rafe's back. He flinched and closed his eyes in defeat.

"Rafe," Christopher called. "There's one more thing." Rafe opened his eyes. Christopher was kneeling beside one of the sheep on the end. Rafe went to him and looked to where he was pointing. He waved his hand at Redwyn, who snatched a torch from a passing woman. Rafe took it wordlessly and bent to examine the dirt. There were scratch marks, nothing new there, consistent with a deadly struggle. But just beside Christopher's boot was something he hadn't been expecting to see: the medium sized paw print consistent with a large dog.

"A big mutt," Christopher mused, knowing eyes peered at the Commander beneath his pale lashes though. "Or...

"A wolf," Rafe replied, running his fingers over the indentation. Wolves hadn't been seen in Verlic for a long time. Being one of the stag's enemies in the legends, Clive had hunted them down to miniscule numbers. Could this belong to one of them? Had they returned? And if they had, what exactly did it all mean?