Wolf in Shadow

'I didn't come here to debate with you,' said Barkett, cocking the flintlock. 'Give me the saddlebag.'

'Listen to me, man, this is your last chance. I have a gun in my pocket and it is trained on you. Do not proceed with this foolishness.'

'You expect me to believe that?'

'No,' said Shannow sadly, pulling the trigger. Barkett crumpled and pitched sideways, hitting the ground hard, his own flintlock firing a shot that ricocheted from the rocks. Shannow moved closer, hoping that the wound was not fatal — but Barket was dead, shot through the heart.

'Damn you!' said Shannow. 'I gave you more chances than you deserved. Why did you take none of them?'

Barkett's two companions came riding into view, both carrying hand weapons. Shannow drew the Hellborn pistol from his coat pocket and cocked it.

'One man is dead,' he called. 'Do you wish to join him?'

They drew on their reins and stared down at the fallen man, then they pocketed their weapons and rode forward.

'He was a damned fool,' said the first rider, a dark-eyed young man with a slender tanned face.

'We had no part in it.'

'Put him across the horse and take him home,' said Shannow.

'You are not going to take the horse?'

‘I’ll buy one in Castlemine.'

'Don't go there,' said the man. 'Most of what he told you was true — except the part about the three coins. It no longer matters what you are carrying; they'll take it as tax and make you work the mine anyway. It's Ridder's way.'

'How many men does he have?' asked Shannow.

‘Twenty.'

Then I'll take your advice. But I'll buy the horse — what is the going rate?'

'It's not my horse.'

Then give the money to his family.'

'It's not that easy. Just take the beast and go,' said the young man, his face reddening. And Shannow understood. He nodded, slung his saddlebags across the horse's back and stepped into the saddle.

If the rider returned with cash, that would mean they had faced the killer of their friend without exacting revenge and it would brand them as cowards.

'I did not desire to kill him,' said Shannow.

'What's done is done. He has family and they'll hunt for you.'

'Best for them that they do not find me.'

'I don't doubt it.'

Shannow touched his heels to the horse and moved on. Turning in the saddle, he called back, Tell them to look for Jon Shannow.'

‘The Jerusalem Man?'

He nodded and pushed the horse into a canter. Behind him the young men dismounted, lifted the dead body of their erstwhile friend and draped it across the back of one of the horses.

Shannow did not glance back. The incident, like so many in his life, was now filed and forgotten.

Barkett had been given a chance at life, and had spurned it. Shannow did not regret the deed.

He carried only one burning regret. .

And that was for a child who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and who had touched the orbit of death around the Jerusalem Man.

Shannow rode for an hour and his new horse showed no sign of fatigue. It was a chestnut stallion some two hands taller than his own gelding, and was built for strength and stamina. The horse had been well cared for and grain-fed. Shannow was tempted to run it hard to gauge the limits of its speed, but in hostile country the temptation had to be put aside.

It was coming to nightfall before Shannow saw the lights of Castlemine. There could be no doubt as to the identity of the settlement, for it sprawled against the mountains beneath a granite fortress with six crenellated towers. It was an immense structure, the largest building Shannow had ever seen, and below it the shacks and cabins of the mining community seemed puny, like beetles beside an elephant. Some larger dwellings were constructed on either side of a main street that ran to the castle's arched main gate, and a mill had been built across a stream to the left of the fortress. Lights shone in many windows and the community seemed friendly under the gentle moonlight. Shannow was rarely deceived by appearances, however, and he sat his horse, quietly weighing the options. The young rider had advised him to avoid Castlemine, and in daylight he would have done so. But he was also short on supplies'and from his high vantage point could see the town's store nestling beside a meeting hall, or tavern house.

He checked his pistols. The Hell born revolver was fully loaded, as was his own ivory-handled percussion weapon. His mind made up, he rode down the hillside and tethered his horse behind the tavern house. There were few people on the streets, and those who were about ignored the tall man in the long coat. Keeping to the shadows, he moved to the front of the store, but it was bolted. Across the street was an eating-house and Shannow could see it sported around a dozen tables, only half of which were in use. Swiftly he crossed the street and entered the building. The eight diners glanced up and then resumed their meals. Shannow sat by the window facing the door and a middle-aged woman in a chequered apron brought him a jug of cooled water and a pottery mug.

'We have meat and sweet potatoes,' she told him. He looked up into her dull brown eyes and detected an edge of fear.

That sounds fine,' he told her. 'What meat is it?' She seemed surprised.

'Rabbit and pigeon,' she said.

‘I’ll have it. Where can I find the storekeeper?'

'Baker spends most evenings in the tavern. There is a woman there who sings.'

'How will I know him?'

The woman glanced anxiously at the other diners and leaned close.

'You are not with Ridder's men?'

'No, I am a stranger.'

'I'll fetch you a meal, but then you must move on. Ridder is short of workers since the lung fever massacred the Wolvers.'

'How will I know Baker?'

The woman sighed. 'He's a tall man who wears a moustache but no beard; it droops to his chin.

His hair is grey and parted at the centre — you'll not miss him. I'll fetch your food.'

The meal was probably not as fine as Shannow's starved stomach told him it was, and he ate with gusto. The grey-haired woman came to sit beside him as he finished the last of the gravy, mopping it with fresh-baked bread.

'You look as though you needed that,' she said.

'I did indeed. It was very fine. How much do I owe?'

'Nothing — if you leave now.'

That is kind, but I came to Castlemine for supplies. I shall leave when I have seen Baker.'

The woman shrugged and smiled. Years ago, thought Shannow, she must have been strikingly attractive. Now she was overweight and world-weary.

'Do you have a death wish?' she asked him.

'I don't think so.'

The other diners left and soon Shannow found himself alone. The woman locked the door and cleared away the plates and a thin man emerged from the kitchen, removing a stained apron. She thanked him and gave him two silver coins.

'Good night, Flora,' he said, and nodded in Shannow's direction. The woman let him out, then moved around the large room extinguishing the lamps before rejoining Shannow. 'Baker will be leaving the hall around midnight. You are welcome to sit here and wait.'

'I am grateful. But why do you do this for me?'

'Maybe I'm just getting old,' said Flora, 'but I'm sick of Ridder and his ways. He was a good man once, but too many deaths have hardened him.'

'He is a killer?'

'No — although he has killed. I meant the mine. Ridder produces silver for the Barta coin. There is a river sixty miles north that goes to the sea and he ships his silver to many settlements in exchange for grain, iron, salt and weapons — whatever he needs. But that mine eats people. Ridder used to pay for miners, but they died or left. Then he began trapping Wolvers and using them.

But they can't live underground; they sicken and die.'