Free short story: The Whisperer (Crowned series, fantasy)

Free Short Story, Fantasy Fiction, 5,500 words, approx 22 minute read.

“Hanging or beheading,” Rohawk asked the table. They had taken the one close to the fire, especially since the innkeeper refused to put another log on it.

“Beheading is fast, painless,” Jimjam said. He was a short, skinny fellow. A Sapper who could quickly cut a small hole through stone and squeeze through. He was one of the technicians on the team, a human who could use magic. The trait was somewhat common, but being good with a spell was a lot different than knowing how to cast it.

“But what about your family and friends when they go to bury you?” Mort put in, bulging arms crossed like logs stacked together. He was the Shaker, another technician, and the team’s go to for not only muscle, but crowd control.

Rohawk gulped down his ale then belched. “What do you mean?”

“A put together body is much nicer for the burial. What if someone loses your head along the way?”

Boris sneered. “Are you kidding?” The only fey in the group, a Lighter, Boris was always a little grumpy being around humans for so long. He stood out in the inn with his blue hair and green skin and was probably the reason the innkeeper had been nasty to them. Depending on what part of the world you were in, humans did not like the fey.

That feeling was frequently mutual.

Boris shook his head. “Who in their right mind would accidentally misplace the head of someone they were about to bury?”

“It’s happened!” Mort demanded in a defensive tone. “Happened to me!”

“How? You still got your teching head!” Sammy said. The fire crackling perfectly punctuated everyone in the team glaring at him. “Oh, you meant the other way around.”

Thank the gods he’s just the getaway driver. Rohawk thought. Hauler was the proper term, but that seemed far too proper for something so mundane.

“Were you related to this person?” Boris asked.

“In a way,” Mort answered.

“That means no,” Rohawk fired off, then tossed a piece of wood into the fire. “I’m starting to think this place really ain’t half bad.”

“You called the innkeeper a ‘teching doof’ a moment ago,” Jimjam pointed out.

“Oh, he is. But I have subtle ways of exacting my revenge.”

“Can we go through the plan one more time?” Boris asked.

“What part don’t you understand?” Sammy asked.

“I am more concerned about the parts you do not understand.”

Sammy’s brow furrowed at that.

“Stop it, Boris, you’re hurting the poor man’s brain,” Rohawk said as he tossed another small piece of wood into the flames. Then he leaned forward and lowered his tone. “Here it is, one more time: Jimjam will cut a way in through the wall and get inside the fort, then replace the section he cuts out so the patrols don’t see it. He will make his way to the escape tunnel, where the rest of us, besides Sammy, will be waiting. There is a large iron door he needs to open, and we’re in.”

“I still don’t get it,” Mort said. “Why doesn’t Jimjam just cut a hole in the iron door and we go in that way?”

Rohawk had held that bit of information back, but the heist was happening that very night. He could safely share a few more details now. “That door is elementium.”

“Teching bones,” Sammy said. “Those are expensive. Who would bother with that?”

“Someone paranoid enough to need an escape tunnel out of the fort and knows how easily Sappers can cut through iron.”

“You still haven’t told us who that is exactly,” Boris noted. “I want to know what I’m walking in to.”

“His real name I never learned. He goes by Lord Whisper.”

“That’s an odd moniker,” Mort noted.

“He is an odd man,” Rohawk agreed. “A very wealthy, odd man. Once we are through the iron door, Mort will go create a distraction to get most of the guards away from the keep. Boris and Jimjam will come with me; we may need to cut our way into Lord Whisper’s safe room to get what we need.”

“And you know where it is?”

“Of course, that’s why I’m the Navigator.”

“I’ve always heard that a heist needs six people to guarantee success, and we only have five,” Jimjam pointed out.          

“I count for two,” Rohawk said as he reclined, tossing another bit of wood into the fire.

“Two?” Sammy said, a little loudly. The group glared at him, and he shrunk a little. “What’s your other role?”

“Crew leader, of course.”  They would find out that wasn’t true, but Rohawk always kept at least one secret. “Once in the safe room, we will take all the gold and jewels we can carry. Mort should have the guards thoroughly confused by then, and we will open the main gate. Sammy will come in and we all load in and get out of there.”

“There’s no way a loaded cart can outrun men on horseback,” Boris said. “What will we do when they give chase?”

“Jimjam will deal with that, do not give it another thought.”

Everyone else in the group looked at each other with unease, but they all agreed to it.

“Good. We should get going, our time is near and the innkeeper will chase us out soon.”

Sammy looked confused. “Why would he do that?”

Rohawk held up what remained of the chair he had been feeding the fire with. “Let’s go.”

About an hour later, the crew arrived at a copse not far from Fort Absolution, the home of Lord Whisper. The stone fortress looked menacing in torchlight. The wall was topped with spiked crenelations and blackened from ash storms that blew in from the Barkodi lands. On the east side of the wall was a bluff that was about a twenty-pace drop. Patrol guards were garbed in black robes with ropes tied around their waists, elementium weapons glittering in their scabbards. The main iron gate was patterned with a dragon’s head; the eyes on it seemed to glow with a faint red light. Those would be rubies used to enchant that door, part of the process of making elementium.

“This guy must be loaded,” Sammy said as he brushed the horses to keep them calm. “Rohawk, you never told us how this Lord Whisper gets his gold.”

“He get paid to kill people,” Rohawk said. Everyone in the group turned to him.

“And you’re telling us this now?” Mort asked. “How do we know we aren’t next on his list?”

“I know his list; none of you are on it.”

“We will be soon,” Sammy said as he tugged on his collar.

Rohawk rolled his eyes. “Just follow the plan, and you will all be rich and safe.”

“Speaking of the plan,” Jimjam started. “You sure we can cut through that stone? Looks like a double stack of stone blocks.”

Rohawk was impressed with Jimjam’s observation. The Sapper had a lot of experience under his belt to notice that from so far away and only by torchlight. “The walls are about as thick as a broadsword is long, but there is a weakness. The eastern wall that borders the bluff is only half was thick. There’s an old well there, and the wall had to be made thinner to go around it.”

Jimjam crossed his arms. “And you know this how?”

“Didn’t I tell you I was the Navigator?”

“But who in their right mind would dig a well on top of the bluff and not start at the bottom?” Boris asked.

Rohawk shrugged. “Someone who didn’t want to walk down a steep incline every time they needed water.”

Jimjam and Boris glanced at each other. Both looked unsatisfied with the answer but it must have been enough for the time being. Jimjam nodded at Rohawk.

Rohawk pulled out a piece of paper and did a “come on” motion to Boris, who created a small, blue orb in his hand that radiated just a faint light, the branches around them low enough to shield them from the fortress’s eyes. Most fey magic was similar to human adrenaline, but much more powerful. However, some fey could also make lights at will, or heal major wounds in seconds.

“Right here,” Rohawk pointed. “That is the well. These Xs mark the guards, and the lines their rotations. This red X here–take note of it Jimjam. When one of the guards stands there, that is the beginning of their pattern. Wait for him to cross here, halfway to the eastern wall. They don’t patrol the bluff as often. You will have time to make the climb and get in.”

“Won’t they see the glow from him using technique?” Mort asked.

“I’m not a rookie, Mort,” Jimjam fired off as he indicated the large black cloak he would use to hide his magic.

Mort held up his hands. “Sorry; I guess I don’t know exactly what you all can do.”

“You won’t need to,” Rohawk instructed. “We all have our parts to play and I know all of them. Just follow my plan, and we will have wealth ‘til the end of our days.” He nodded at Boris, who clenched his hand, extinguishing the light. “The time is now. Jimjam, go.”

Jimjam wrapped his cloak around him and was off. He had barely taken two steps before he completely disappeared.

“Sammy, wait here with the carriage until you see Boris’s blue light from atop the wall, that will be your signal to move toward the gate. We will have it open by the time you get there. Boris, Mort, with me. Let’s go.”

Rohawk had picked the copse for their meeting not only to hide them from the eyes of the fort, but also because it was the exit for the escape tunnel. The outside was unguarded intentionally; Lord Whisper wanted as few people as possible to know it was there.

Rohawk tapped Boris’ shoulder once, the signal for a faint light. It was just enough to see their next steps. They walked maybe a hundred paces when he tapped Boris’ shoulder again, and the light went out. He took a deep breath in and moved forward, holding in his air. There would be one guard just outside the gate and one inside, even though there was no light. That guard would likely be fey, who had excellent night vision, but in the pitch black, Rohawk figured he could stay hidden long enough.

He heard the breathing of the fey guard, a reminder that he needed to continue holding his own breath. Jimjam would be on the other side of the door at any moment. He would kill the guard on the other side, and when that happened, Rohawk would move in for the one on his side.

He waited, now straining to keep his breath in. He focused on the breathing of the feynar he was about to kill. He didn’t like killing when he didn’t have to, but he was no stranger to it.  And they all served Lord Whisper. They deserved far worse than the death Rohawk would give them.

A bead of sweat trickled down into his eye. Rohawk felt the sting but dared not react. He had been close to Lord Whisper once. He had wanted to kill him in that meeting, but he was too well guarded. He must know I’m here. He knows where all the children of the curse are. If the others only knew…knew that I was giving them away…

But there was hope. He had one secret up his sleeve not even the Lord Whisperer knew about.

Suddenly there was a scuffle beyond the door up ahead. Rohawk heard the guard on his side shuffling around. He moved in to strike. His accuracy was sickening, his katar up the feynar’s throat, preventing a scream. He moved the body away from the door, and with a soft click, it opened.

Boris moved up with Mort and a light. In the faint blue glow, Jimjam was there, standing over a body of a robed guard he killed. Rohawk gave him a nod, and they all moved as one up the stairs into the rest of the fort. When they reached the main level, Rohawk signaled for Mort to go start his distraction, then gave another signal for Boris to extinguish the light for now. The torchlight in the fort was enough.

Rohawk navigated the two remining members of his team through the ominous inner halls of the fort. They were about halfway there when they heard a loud slam and felt the ground shake, any loose stones in the fort tumbled down under Mort’s powerful earthshaker spell. There were no cries of alarm; Lord Whisper’s soldiers were too well trained to give away their positions. They would likely be quietly closing in on Mort.

Mort continued to set off shaker spells, much smaller than the first, spacing them out. He only had so many of those in him before he would be completely exhausted or be forced to soulburn. Human magic took its toll on even the most experienced users. A trade had to be made in exchange for the power; the usual sacrifice was stamina or physical essence. But if there was no stamina left to spend, a person’s soul could be used instead. The result would be someone who couldn’t remember his life, and usually after that, suicide.

The shaker spells gave Rohawk, Jimjam and Boris some sound cover in addition to the distraction, so they moved quickly through the fortress. The route they took led them into a dungeon, past iron-barred cells. About half of them had young women in them, who looked back at them with terrified eyes glittering in the torchlight.

“What’s all this?” Jimjam asked.

Rohawk looked away. “Better if you don’t know.”

Boris created a light to get a better view of one of the women.

Jimjam shook his head. “We have to do something.” He pulled out his knife and cut off one of the locks with Sunder, the iron door slowly swung open, but the woman inside didn’t move. “It’s alright, you can leave.”

“She knows if she does, she won’t get past the gate, and even if she did, Lord Whisper’s men will hunt her and kill her,” Rohawk said.

“It isn’t right,” Jimjam said. “Should at least give them a chance to escape.” He moved down the row cutting the locks.

“Jimjam, there’s nothing we can do for them,” Rohawk said in a low tone. He hated the words, and hoped what they accomplished tonight would put an end to what was happening to these girls and any that would be brought here in the future. But there was no accounting for getting untrained women out with them; it would be too chaotic and would compromise the whole operation.

“I’ve a daughter in the capital of Corrick,” Jimjam fired back as he cut the last lock. He was breathing heavily; it was a lot of magic for such a short period of time.

“Cannot really blame him, can you?” Boris asked.

Rohawk didn’t respond. “This way,” he said, leading them to the end of the cells and directly to a solid wall.

“What now?” Boris whispered.

“Sapper,” Rohawk said, pointing to the wall. Jimjam was slow getting to it, forcing himself to push through the exhaustion. He had to cut an opening big enough for the other two. It clearly tired him out, but he did it, and when they pulled the stones back, Boris’s light revealed the bottom of a large spiral staircase. The wall had only been one stone thick since it was an internal wall; something Rohawk had counted on. They went in and up the stairs until they reached a simple wooden door.

“This is it?” Jimjam whispered.

Rohawk answered by opening the door. Inside, wooden chests lined the walls. He and Jimjam pulled out sacks and they opened the chests filling them up. Boris kept the light on and held a sack open with his free hand that Jimjam helped fill. They were several handfuls in when Rohawk whispered for them to stop.

“Now is not the time for greed,” he said. “These are plenty heavy as is.”

Boris looked annoyed by that, but he had too much fey blood to risk touching the metal and injuring himself. He tried using the lip of the sack to grab a little more, but Rohawk grabbed his arm. “Did you hear me?”

“We have done way too much work not to leave with more!” Boris snapped back in a harsh whisper.

“I agree,” a new voice said. The three turned to see a man standing there, two guards at his side and probably more in the stairwell below. He was the only one who did not have his black hood up. His face was young but his hair gray, and his eyes were milky white with blindness. “Rohawk, it would be a shame for you not to take full advantage of my hospitality.”

“Lord Whisper,” Rohawk replied. “I had enough of your hospitality last time.”

“You sold us out!” Boris said to Rohawk, his voice carrying a dark echo that throbbed with the early stages of powerful fey magic. Given enough time, Boris could turn into a killing machine with that power, but chances were the Whisperer would kill them before that happened. It was worth trying to stall for time.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet the man who has been trying to have me killed,” Rohawk said.

“You broke your contract,” Lord Whisper said. “I’m somewhat impressed. No one has defied me so openly as you have and lived. But you should know that in the end, no child of the curse can refuse my whisper. Just ask any of the others of our kin.”

“You two are brothers?” Jimjam asked.

“In a way,” Rohawk growled.

“Was one man, a fur hunter from Nightingale, really worth ignoring my whisper, Rohawk?” Lord Whisper asked. “That man is nothing to someone of your skill. Until you defied me, I had hoped you would be the last child of the curse left alive. We could have had such a long career together.”

“I would die before working with you again.”

Lord Whisper cackled. “Such arrogance! You cannot deny the gift you were born with!”

“Gift?” Jimjam asked.

“Yes, the gift. Did Rohawk tell either of you that I’ve known exactly where he has been this entire time? I did not expect you to know about the escape tunnel, though. You sure are full of surprises, Rohawk.”

“I knew it!” Boris spat. “You did sell us out!”

Rohawk didn’t know how to respond to that. Lord Whisper was right; so was Boris. It wasn’t intentional; it was the power the Whisperer had over those like him.

“Kill them all,” Lord Whisper ordered. His elite guard moved in. Jimjam was foolish and met them head on, flaring a sunder spell. The first black-robed guard pulled back, just slightly, and Jimjam hit only his robe. The normally agile Sapper was too worn down from the job, too slow now to avoid the guard’s counterattack. Jimjam collapsed, his blood pooling onto the floor from the killing blow.

Rohawk quietly cursed. He had expected this showdown to happen, but it was supposed to happen out in the courtyard, where he would have his Shaker with him and he could control it better. Lord Whisper was even better at his craft than the legends and rumors had indicated.

The two guards were on Rohawk now, but he was far better at fighting than Jimjam and had not spent so much energy on technique. He baited the first guard’s attack, then moved in, binding up his sword arm with one katar and driving the killing blow with the other. The second guard tried to take advantage of that opening, but Rohawk turned, using the other guard’s body as a shield.

Lord Whisper moved aside from the opening and called out, “Guards, move!” But instead, the door slammed shut. “What the gol?” the Whisperer mumbled as he fiddled with the handle.

Rohawk engaged with the other guard in that moment. This guard was smart, keeping his blade in long-point so Rohawk couldn’t get move in without dealing with the blade first. He moved forward slowly, threatening to back Rohawk up into a wall, then use his longer reach to land a cut.

Boris saw an opening and came in with his wooden fey knife, but the guard responded, whipping his broadsword around. Boris’s fey magic gave him enough speed to back off just in time, taking only a shallow cut across his face. He was lucky that the blade was elementium and protected him from the agonizing burn of iron.

But despite his failure, Boris did buy Rohawk the opening, and he closed in on the guard. One katar for the sword arm, the other for the neck. The guard couldn’t bring his sword around in his last seconds of life. He dropped to the ground, dead.

“Rohawk, stop!” the Lord whispered, his faint voice resonating with power. “You have proven yourself tonight. You may still live. I will call off the Whisper on your head.”

Rohawk felt the words worming his way into his mind. The Whisperer did not merely hand out contracts to children of the curse; he held power over them. Rohawk had killed for the Whisperer before, unable to resist until he met the fur hunter in Nightingale. But that man was not here now, and his willpower was failing as the ancient magic worked its way into his soul.

“That’s right,” the Whisperer continued. “You are the greatest of our kin. Why should you struggle against me? I can put you on the throne of Deldamore.”

“I…” Rohawk struggled against the Whisperer’s power. Not only did the Whisperer have power over his will, but he played on Rohawk’s emotions, offering him the thing he wanted most. He tried to move forward, to bring his katar in for a strike, but his hands and feet wouldn’t budge.

“Kill that feynar behind you. Take your sack of gold with you and leave. Your reward for coming back into my service.”

Rohawk slowly turned, fighting the movement but unable to control himself.

Boris’s face dripped blood, but his eyes were clear of it. Betrayal. That’s what Rohawk saw in the feynar’s eyes. A seething hatred from the perceived betrayal. Boris would never know how much that look stung Rohawk to his core.

Just then, he had an idea. He couldn’t fight the Whisper any longer, but maybe he could fight himself. He reached inward for the power, to fuel a spell with his soul. He had been told a soulburn couldn’t break the curse, but maybe it would buy time, maybe it would save Boris’s life.

“I…won’t do it,” Rohawk grunted as he concentrated on the spell. But before he could make the sacrifice, the door flung open, and a sword appeared in the Whisperer’s gut. He gasped his last breath, then collapsed.

The fog in Rohawk’s head immediately cleared, though the touch of the curse still lingered. He gathered his wits about him, and said, “That was too close, Lana.”

A young woman in a black robe stood over Lord Whisper’s corpse. “I had to make sure he was focused on you. You know how strong he is, even on his own.”

“Wait, who is this?” Boris asked, still rattled and shaking with power from fey magic.

“Our sixth member,” Rohawk said. “Well, five now that Jimjam’s gone.”

Lana looked at Jimjam’s body, sadness creeping into her eyes.

“Don’t start blaming yourself, your timing was perfect,” Rohawk said. “Make sure the Whisperer is dead.”

She leaned down, fussing with his body a moment, then nodded to Rohawk.

“Good. Grab some loot and let’s go. We need to signal Sammy and make sure Mort makes it out with us.”

Lana grabbed Sammy’s portion and the three went back down the steps, going down the steps to the main level through and through the opening Jimjam had cut, back into the dungeon. Surprisingly, the women were gone. Perhaps the Whisperer’s hold on them had broken. Rohawk didn’t know if they could make it out of the fort, but with no idea where they were, he couldn’t help. He stuck to the plan, leading Lana and Boris down the halls and up to the top of the wall. From there, Boris summoned a powerful light to signal their Hauler.

 There was one more quake in the ground, and by Rohawk’s count, that was probably Mort’s last one. Rohawk looked down into the courtyard and saw Mort facing down a dozen robed guards, on the ground for now, but working their way back up to their feet.

“He needs help,” Lana said.

“Get the gate open,” Rohawk ordered as he grabbed a shield hung on the wall and jumped down to the courtyard, landing in a tumble. He went to Mort’s side, and said, “Groundshaker!” sacrificing a lot of energy to unleash a powerful version of the spell. The shield glowed bright orange, and he slammed it to the ground, tumbling on top of it as the sacrifice of his physical essence was stronger than he had intended. The ground buckled and slapped him in the face with his own shield, splitting his lip, but the force unleashed in the other direction threw the robed guards up and back several paces.

“You put a little too much into that one,” Mort said as he gave Rohawk a hand up. The front gate creaked as Lana and Boris raised it, and in came Sammy with the carriage.

They had nearly all loaded in with the loot when Boris said, “wait, Jimjam was supposed to make sure we were not followed, right?”

“Bones!” Rohawk said. “Go, I will handle it. Go!” he ordered. The carriage rolled out without him. He ran to a ladder and ascended to the gate mechanism. He looked outside to make sure the carriage had made it clear, then he said “Sunder,” and gasped as more of his stamina left his body to fuel the spell. He nearly tumbled with weakness, but kept his feet beneath him, and he cut the chain holding the gate. It fell with a crash of metal ringing out into the night.

With that, Rohawk looked over the wall. One more tumble, that was all he needed to do, but he barely had it in him. He groaned and jumped, rolling into the landing but still feeling a sharp pain in one of his ankles. Lana saw him and called out for Sammy to stop, and she rushed over to help him get up and into the carriage.

“Go!” she ordered, and Sammy whipped the horses into a gallop.

The carriage bounced, irritating Rohawk’s ankle. He groaned and tried to set it somewhere less painful. Lana gently grabbed his leg and put it on her lap.

“You don’t happen to also be a mender, are you Boris?” Rohawk asked.

Boris shook his head.

“Bloody bones. Can Sammy slow down?”

“Take it easy there, Rohawk,” Lana advised. “We’re not safe enough for that just yet.”

Rohawk groaned again but knew she was right. The trip back to the safehouse was agonizing, but after a few minutes, his ankle pain turned into dull throbbing, and it wasn’t quite as bad.

“That Groundshaker spell wasn’t half bad,” Mort complimented. “Even with your fumble, there was a lot of power in it. To think you unleashed that, cut the gate chain, then messed up the tumble—it’s pretty funny to me.”

“Did you consider that doing those techniques are what caused me to mess up the tumble?” Rohawk fired back.

“You’re pretty angry for someone who made it out with so much gold,” Mort said, then laughed.

Boris and Lana laughed too. Gold had that effect on most people, but Rohawk only saw it as a tool like any other. And he couldn’t get Jimjam out of his mind.

When they arrived at the safehouse a couple hours later, Mort and Lana helped Rohawk out and into the small farmhouse. It was probably nearing morning, but they would be safe from prying eyes. The farmer had been paid well and wasn’t going to come back until the following day. They would be gone by then.

After laying him on a bed, Mort went to the living area to join Boris and Sammy, who were going to play cards until Rohawk was ready to divide up the loot. Lana stayed with Rohawk instead.

“You have it?” he asked.

She reached into her black robe and pulled out a rolled-up piece of leather. “Is this really all you were after?”

Rohawk took the rolled-up leather and undid the string, examining it. There were names etched into it, and he sighed with relief. “Yes, this is it. And yes, it really was all I was after. Jimjam has a young daughter in Corrick. I’m going to go find her and give her my portion.”

“I didn’t know you researched your team so thoroughly.”

“I try to know them well enough so I know if another party can put leverage on them and turn them against me. But this was information he volunteered when he saw the women in the prison.”

“I was wondering who had cut the locks. You might like to know, I dropped a ladder for them to get out, and gave them directions to the inn.”

“You didn’t tell me there was a ladder,” Rohawk grunted.

She smiled at him. “You ran off and I didn’t know what you had in mind.”

Rohawk waved his hand dismissively. “It would have been nice, but the ankle isn’t as bad as it looks. I’m glad you did something for those women, Lana. I didn’t think we had a way to get them out, especially since they didn’t want to move when Jimjam cut the locks.”

“I told them Lord Whisper would be dead by the end of the night. That got them on their feet.”

“I should have known you would think of something. This whole thing was your plan, after all.”

“Sure, but you executed the plan. I don’t know of anyone else who could have done it.”

Rohawk grinned and sat up to give her a kiss. She kissed him back for a moment, then pushed him away. “I know you, Rohawk. I know this is where it ends.”

He sighed. “I don’t want that, Lana.”

“But we both know it has to be that way.”

“I will find a way, I promise. One way or another, I will break this curse, and what you gave me tonight will help with that.”

Her face fell. “The curse is still there, then.”

He fell back down to the bed and looked away. “Yes. It’s still there. Killing the Whisperer didn’t remove it. I didn’t think it would, that’s why I wanted his List.”

“You wanted the List so you can…find the others.”

“It’s the only way. They are all like me, they deserve to die.”

Lana shook her head. “I don’t think you deserve to die.”

Those words hurt far beyond a sprained ankle. The kindness in them for a man such as he—Rohawk didn’t deserve the love of such a woman.

“Perhaps there is one other way. I will pursue it next, now that the Whisperer’s target is off my back.”

“And where does that other way take you?”

“Back to Nightingale, after Corrick of course.”

“Nightingale…that’s where the one you refused to kill lives, yes? The fur hunter. Could such a simple man really hold the key to your freedom, my love?”

Rohawk sighed and laid back down. “I honestly don’t know. But he is the only one who has power over the curse, even if he doesn’t realize it. When he does realize it, I want to be there, by his side.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Rohawk called out.

The door opened; Boris walked into the room. His face had a thick bandage, but he looked rather happy otherwise. “Are we counting the gold or not? Mort is cheating at cards, and it will come to blows if you do not do something.”

“Sammy doesn’t seem like the kind to throw punches,” Lana noted.

Boris crossed his arms.

Lana nodded slowly in realization.

Rohawk slowly rose. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve earned it, after all. Let’s go count our winnings.”

The End. Thank you for reading this Free fantasy short story from Merry Wolf Books! Interested in more free short stories? Click here for more!