The White Wolf (Half-Breed Book 1) (4 page)

“At least we escaped,” Varg remarked.

“Of all the insane stunts—”

Milea's statement was interrupted by shouting that came from the other side of the river. At least half a dozen guards gathered on the opposite bank and looked for a way to cross the river. Varg looked to them and grinned, then he walked to the edge of the water and waved his arms to get their attention.

“What are you waiting for? Cross the river and come fetch us. We won't move,” Varg taunted.

Milea jerked his arm and said, “What are you doing?”

“Trust me, Love,” Varg said to her with a coy smile, “they won't get far.”

Milea glared at him, presumably because of the “Love” comment again. Varg paid no heed to her, though, and continued to watch as the guards began to wade through the knee-deep water.

“Just a few more steps . . .” Varg mumbled. “There!”

Varg crouched next to the edge of the water and, with his hands hovering over the rippling surface, he emitted a mist from his palms that froze the water on impact. The frozen trail spread quickly towards the approaching guards and when it hit them, their entire bodies became blocks of ice. The guards in front had no time to react, and even the guards who managed to turn around could not escape the frozen mist and were frozen as well.

Varg turned to Milea to see her mouth agape in astonishment at the sight of the frozen statues in the middle of the river.

“What do you thing 'frost giant' meant?” he asked.

“Forgive me if I didn't expect
that
,” Milea said with a shake of her head. “So what do we do now?”

Varg turned and began to walk away from the river. “Seeing that we are wanted for murdering a noble, our best bet is to leave Fellen altogether. However, there's a second option.”

“Which is?” Milea asked as she trailed behind him.

“We work together to clear our names, all the while risking imprisonment or death,” Varg said. “Personally, I prefer the latter.”

“Why is that?” Milea asked.

“I'm much older than I look, Milea,” Varg explained. “I've lived for centuries and I'll probably live for several more. I could just wait and return to Fellen when everyone who knows about this situation is dead and all memory of me is forgotten. Any other hunter would simply find jobs somewhere else and go where the road takes him, but I hate to leave a job unfinished. I know that Lionel's killer is still a free man, and I wish to see him pay for his crime personally.”

“That's all fine, Varg,”Milea remarked, “but do you really think you should get emotionally involved here?”

That's when Varg once again remembered a time when he became attached to someone. It seemed harmless enough until disaster struck. In the wake of tragedy, his heart hardened and closed itself from the outside world. Ever since, he vowed to never become emotional again, despite his inner desire to help others.

“Don't worry, I won't,” Varg assured, though he wasn't sure if it was really Milea he was trying to convince.

“I suppose I'll go along with you since we're both in this now. Where should we go first?” Milea asked.

Varg removed the folded paper that was among Lionel's possessions—despite being drenched, it was thankfully still legible—and handed it to Milea. “Have you ever seen this symbol before?”

Milea examined the wet paper, then shook her head and answered, “No, never.”

“I didn't think so, but it didn't hurt to ask. I know someone in Birhog who may be able to help us, or at least point us in the direction of someone who can,” Varg explained. He then took the paper and draped it over his shoulder to dry.

“Birhog?” Milea said. “Where is that?”

“I take it you don't come to Fellen often? Birhog is a village west of here,” Varg explained.

“All right then,” Milea said. She seemed to hesitate, but then she added, “Thank you. You didn't have to stay and help me, but you did. You are certainly the most noble bounty hunter I have ever met.”

“Nobility had nothing to do with it. I simply followed my instincts to the truth,” Varg replied.

“Nevertheless, I would be dead if you had just left when you had the chance. I owe you my life,” Milea said gratefully.

“Don't mention it,” Varg assured.

Dawn was slowly approaching by the time Varg and Milea had long lost their pursuers. They decided to rest for a few hours before continuing to Birhog. Milea lay her head on a bed sack he gave her and began to take a nap, but Varg couldn't sleep. Though he hadn't slept in two days, his mind wrapped around a memory that came to him every so often, but one he constantly tried to push away. After hours of fighting it, he finally gave in and allowed the memory to flow.

Varg wiped the sweat off his brow after he finally locked the plank into place for the other men to begin hammering. It was already midday and he'd yet to even have a piece of bread. Hunger ravaged his empty belly until the smell of fresh loaves tempted him away from his work.

That was the day he met the girl with flaming red hair and sun-kissed skin that melted Varg's heart instantly. She approached him first and Varg couldn't help but notice the way she looked at him. He was used to people staring and gawking at him, so normally he paid no mind. This girl was different; she did not stare or give him a strange look, but she looked at him like a normal human being. He'd never felt so at ease before that moment.

The girl gently handed him a loaf of bread from her basket and said, “Hungry?”

Varg eagerly accepted the hot bread and said, “Thank you.”

“My mother figured you men could use something to eat after all your hard work, so she baked you some bread,” the girl said.

Varg watched as the girl handed a piece of bread to each of the workers until each of them were greedily stuffing their mouths. None so much as thanked her as she walked off with a smile. He tried to say something, or at least ask her name, but she walked out of his sight before his voice could return.

CHAPTER 4

AFTER THE BRIEF REST, Varg and Milea pushed onward to Birhog. They stayed in the woods off the trail to avoid detection of the law. This of course left them open to bears and wolves, but the duo slew them with ease. Varg became increasingly impressed by Milea's comfort in the wild, and it was clear that she had had plenty of training with wooded terrains. Milea's quick movements and spot on marksmanship proved that she let her guard down when facing Varg. He wondered how differently their fight in the closed mine would have ended had she only known the extent of his skill.

The sun was setting behind the old buildings of Birhog, and Varg decided to give Milea fair warning about the village's reputation. “Beware of friendly strangers while here; they aren't just looking for small talk.”

“I'm always wary of strangers, which is why I'm still alive,” Milea assured.

“Good, then you'll do fine here,” Varg said.

“I take it you're more familiar than you'd like to be with Birhog?” Milea mused.

“I didn't get mugged on my first day, if that's what you're asking,” Varg said, as they climbed the dirt trail up to the town border, “I first came here about ten years ago and let's just say I soon realized the extent of the criminal activity first hand. I promise we won't be found here.”

“What makes you say that?” Milea asked.

“For starters, this village is a known haven for criminals,” Varg explained. “As a result, the locals keep to themselves and avoid sticking their noses in where it could be cut off.”

“In other words, no one will even
try
to recognize us?” Milea finished.

“Exactly,” Varg concurred.

“Then how are you so sure this person you mentioned will tell us anything about the symbol you found?” Milea pointed out.

“I've known him for years,” Varg said. “He'll help.”

“If you say so,” Milea answered.

As Varg led Milea through the town, he told her stories of his visits there. As he described, Birhog was at best a town where an inexperienced traveler was lucky to leave with half his belongings. Criminals usually never left town empty-handed. Locals knew better than to keep anything of value in their homes and travelers who knew of Birhog's reputation were wise enough to never show their money when making purchases.

As they reached the main street, the night life of Birhog began to flourish. Drunken slobs screamed obscenities and lay in alleys to sleep, rogues sat in the shadows waiting for an easy target to pick-pocket, and prostitutes lured men into shacks to earn their daily bread.

“Birhog is definitely not a place I'd raise a family,” Milea whispered.

“This place isn't even at it's worst, I promise,” Varg replied. Varg then motioned down the street at a building with a sign over the door that read, “Moonlighter's Manor”, a name Varg always found to be ironic, and said, “That's our stop.”

“I don't believe this is a good time for drinking, Varg,” Milea scolded.

Varg stopped and stared at her. “I have never heard that kind of sentence spoken so carelessly in all my life.”

Milea rolled her eyes. “Not that I wouldn't mind a drink myself, but we're in a bit of a fix.”

“What better reason is there to have a pint?” Varg replied. “Besides, we're here to see the owner.”

“Very well,” Milea conceded, “let's press on.”

Varg and Milea walked to the pub door and Varg pushed it open. No sooner than he did, he heard a voice he knew all too well say, “Varg! Good to see ya lad!”

The small-framed man behind the counter waved a hand Varg's way and was greeted in return by a wave of Varg's hand. “Long time, Horatius.”

Horatius was a thin man in his fifties, if Varg remembered correctly, who had a slightly receding hair line and a rough beard forming on his face. Varg knew the old codger as one of the few honest people living in Birhog.

Horatius stepped out from behind the counter, approached Varg, and gave him a giant bear hug. The sight of this scraggly little man embracing a large man like Varg was a humorous sight, but Varg never minded.

“Long time indeed, my friend,” Horatius replied once he freed Varg. He then turned to Milea and, with a coy smile, added, “Who is your lovely friend?”

“This is Milea,” Varg answered. “Milea, this is Horatius. He owns Moonlighter's Manor.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sir,” Milea greeted politely.

“Pleasure's all mine,” Horatius replied. Then he asked Varg, “You courting her?”

Varg and Milea both offered a laugh, yet scowled at each other for doing so, and then Varg answered, “No, we're currently partners in an investigation of sorts.”

“Then you will not be offended if I tell her what a lovely little dove she is and how if I were only twenty years younger—”

“No offense at all, Horatius,” Varg interrupted, for he didn't want to hear the rest of that sentence, “but I do believe your wife may have something to say about it.”

“The poor dear passed early this year I'm afraid,” a sullen Horatius responded. “She was sick since before last winter.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Varg said.

“I am sure she's at peace now,” Milea offered.

“Well now, enough of my problems,” Horatius said. He then turned to Varg. “I suppose it's the usual for ya then?”

“Of course,” Varg replied. “We also have questions if you have answers.”

“I'm always full of information,” Horatius said with a proud smile. “Come and grab a pint, Varg. Of course the lovely Milea gets a drink on the house too.”

“On the house? Oh no sir, I can pay,” Milea objected.

“Nonsense,” the old man said with a shake of his head. “Varg and I made a deal years ago that won't be changing tonight. Take a seat and I'll tell ya all about it.”

Milea nodded and took a seat on one of the stools and Varg claimed the seat next to hers just as the amiable Horatius resumed his post behind the counter. Horatius quickly grabbed two mugs and filled them to the brim with fresh mead from a large barrel against the wall, then passed them on to Varg and Milea.

“Now then,” Horatius began after the two of them finished their first sips. “It all started about ten years ago. An infamous band of thieves broke into my pub and raided the place every week or so, sometimes multiple times a week. They ransacked my poor pub and stole all the drinks, food, and money I had that wasn't locked up, and they threatened to kill my sons and do worse to my wife if I tried to stop them. This went on for an entire month until Varg came to Birhog one day.

“The bloke was just passing by during one of the raids. They tried to rob him of everything he had, but Varg refused to comply. Instead he fought 'em all at once and killed most of them in just a few hits. I'd never seen a beast like him go up against a dozen armed men, but he defied the odds and those who survived his attacks ran away forever like bitches with tails between their legs! So then I said to Varg, 'Because you saved Moonlighter's Manor, I'm going to offer you free drinks for life,' but Varg insisted that he pay because as he said it, he would probably drink my place dry if he were allowed free pints.”

“Probably? Horatius, I do believe I said 'definitely,'” Varg jested.

“Well, that being the case, Varg and I finally agreed upon one free pint per visit, so here I am honoring that agreement to both him and you, Miss Milea,” Horatius finished.

Milea smiled. “You have my gratitude for the delicious mead.”

“It's not often I get pretty women to look at, much less the ones who know their drinks!” Horatius laughed. “Anyhow, didn't the two of you have something to ask me?”

“Oh, right,” Varg answered. “Milea and I are in a bit of a fix and we need to gather information to get us out.”

“Oh? What kind of fix?” Horatius asked.

“We've been falsely accused of a crime and we need to clear our names,” Milea answered.

“What kind of crime?” the old man asked.

Varg downed a big gulp of mead and answered, “Murder.”

Horatius howled with laughter and slapped his hands on the counter, then answered, “You, Varg, accused of murder? Ridiculous!”

Varg suffered a small laugh, then continued, “Anyway, I found this scrap of paper that somehow ties into this whole mess. We were wondering if you might know what it is.”

“Let's see it, lad,” Horatius said.

Varg removed the folded parchment from his pocket and held it face up in front of Horatius, who accepted the paper and examined it.

A second later, the color in the old man's face blanched and he urgently placed the paper face down. His breath quickened and grew heavy and sweat formed on his brow. “What are you doing waving this thing around?” He began to scan the room nervously while he ignored the questioning stares from Varg and Milea.

“What's wrong, Horatius?” Milea asked.

“Keep your voices down!” Horatius whispered. Then he shoved the paper towards Varg and added, “Put that away before anyone sees, now!”

Varg returned the now crumpled scrap of paper to his pocket and asked, “Why are you so nervous, Horatius? What is this symbol?”

“This mark represents the nastiest bunch of criminals ever to hit Fellen,” Horatius whispered. “The criminals here can only wish to have the depravity and skill this bunch has.”

“Who are they?” Milea asked.

“I don't know what they call themselves, and frankly I don't want to know. Anytime they come around here, bad things happen soon after. There was a mass murder in a settlement north of here not long ago, and we saw them wearing their usual black hoods and whispering amongst each other the night before. We've got a saying here in Birhog, 'The quieter you are, the more you're hiding,'” Horatius explained.

“Do you know when they will be around again?” Varg asked.

Horatius gave him a judging glance, then, “I never met anyone who wanted to talk to them. Everyone always stays out of their business. If these men are involved with the crime you've been framed for, then you'd better just get out of Fellen and never come back.”

“And never taste your mead again?” Varg mused.

“This is serious, Varg. These folk are not to be taken lightly,” Horatius warned.

Varg shook his head and leaned towards the old man. “Horatius, I understand these people are bad news, but we need to find them. Can't you help us, old friend?”

The old man sighed and bowed his head. “If you insist on getting more involved in this, then perhaps I can offer you more information. Meet me back here tonight after I close the pub and I will tell you everything I know. Come in through the back so no one sees you.”

Varg leaned back and smiled. “Thanks, Horatius. I knew we could count on you.”

The old man simply responded, “Aye.” He then continued his work and left Milea and Varg to finish their drinks.

Varg usually had more drinks before retiring for the night, but with the events in Rivershire and Horatius's mysterious behavior, he figured he should slow down so he'd be alert enough to hear what the old man had to say. He downed his free drink with ease, but only paid for one more pint before he and Milea thanked Horatius once more and left Moonlighter's Manor to check into the village inn.

The town inn was one door over from the tavern and the front door opened to a small entryway where the innkeeper stood at a counter. Varg offered the portly man their room fare for the night, at which point he led them up a small set of stairs, through a hallway, and up to a wooden door. The innkeeper opened the door and led Varg and Milea inside the cozy room. With a quick smile and nod to both of them, he then said, “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” Varg answered.

When the innkeeper departed, Varg shut the door behind him. He turned to see two inviting beds against the opposite wall and realized just how tired he was. He and Milea set their equipment on the side of the small room and lay on each a bed for a brief rest.

“I suppose we should keep watch for when Horatius closes the tavern,” Milea said with a sigh.

“I don't think I can move,” Varg mused. “I can't remember the last time I didn't sleep outside.”

“Me neither,” Milea replied, “but I don't mind keeping watch first while you sleep a little.”

“If you wait up, I will too,” Varg said.

“As you wish,” Milea said.

Milea sat up and stationed herself at the edge of the bed. She reached to the window in between them and opened a crack in the wooden frame. Fortunately the window faced Moonlighter's Manor, which made watching for Horatius all the more convenient.

“How does it look?” Varg asked.

“Looks quiet, but I think there are still people inside the tavern,” Milea said.

“Horatius will probably make them leave soon since it's nearly closing time,” Varg said. “For now, I suppose there's nothing else to do but rest.”

The silence that followed thickened the air as time passed. Minutes felt like hours as Varg and Milea shifted in their seats in agonizing anticipation. Varg wanted to look in Milea's direction, but was worried she would catch him and make the situation more awkward. After several more agonizingly quiet minutes, he dared himself to look anyway.