The great hall in the Jarl’s manor was its largest room by far, taking up over half of the structure. It appeared that it had been used as a sleeping quarters for the man, his warrior thegns, and perhaps their retainers as well. Blankets, mats, weapons, shields, and scraps of armor littered the floor haphazardly. It was if the Jarl had assumed that one day soon the Hound would come for him, and he had closed ranks to be prepared.

Upon each wall hung banners of a yellow wolf on a green background, presumably the Jarl’s standard. On one end of the long room, where the Graymoor companions entered with Nothan and Joane, was a large oaken dining table piled high with half-eaten breakfast. On the other end was a raised dais, upon which sat an ornately carved chair that could only be described as a throne. The Jarl lounged on the chair seemingly casually, an immense sword with a blade a full hand’s width laying across his lap. He still wore his wolfskin cloak across his broad shoulders. Flanking him were his seven thegns, battle-scarred men and women standing with arms crossed or fingering the hilts of weapons. It appeared as if the Jarl’s warriors had hurried to assemble, and many wore only pieces of armor, with crumbs of food still in beards. Skulking to the side and behind the Jarl’s throne, was thin, robed man of middle years with jet black hair.

“Bring them here, Nothan,” the Jarl bellowed, his voice echoing. “I would speak with these travelers who have neither ears nor brains.”

Erin began to say something in response, but Umur laid a cautioning hand on her arm and, defiance written across her face, she snapped her jaw shut. Nothan led them around the table, and they wove their way through the mess of bedrolls and items to stand at the foot of the raised dais. The Jarl glared down at them, frowning, as the warriors on either side studied each of the four outsiders. The thin man behind the throne smiled mockingly, his beady eyes darting over them and back like birds fluttering within cages. This close, there was something weaseling about the thin, sharp-featured fellow, and his black hair was limp and oily.

“We’ve done you a service–” Erin began, but the Jarl cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. His gaze fell on the young woman, Joane.

“First you, girl. At the standing stones. What happened?”

Joane cleared her throat and, with earnestness in every word, relayed the brief battle with the Hound. The Jarl’s expression remained a stoic frown, but the thegns shifted in astonishment at Joane’s description, their eyes upon the Graymoor companions moving through a variety of conflicting emotions. The robed man’s eyes fixed on Hilda, sparkling with something like avarice.

When Joane had finished, she curtsied once and stepped back, leaving the four companions alone to face the Jarl.

“Well?” he growled. “Do you dispute any of the girl’s tale?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Haffoot smiled, then bowed. “You’re welcome.”

“Idiot fools!” the Jarl shouted at her. Hands from the companions and thegns simultaneously reached for weapons, and the robed man ducked for cover behind the throne. Thankfully, none drew blades from scabbards even as the Jarl continued his tirade. “Do you think we’ve never tried to kill the beast? To trap it? You think us mewling cubs? You think you are better, more fearsome warriors than my thegns?”

“Yet we killed it. It died,” Erin said with pride.

The Jarl laughed mockingly at the follower of Shul. “Oh, it died! Turned to oily mist, did it? Explain to me why, then, in three nights’ time the beast will be back and tearing through my village, seeking retribution? Pompous fools!”

“Then we’ll kill it again,” Umur said.

“Will you now, dwarf? You took no injuries, which I’ll admit makes you either skilled or lucky. But how do you fancy a rematch when it knows what you’re about? Tear out that wizard’s throat first, is my guess.” The weaseling man giggled at that, a high-pitched and childish sound.

The Jarl’s eyes bored into them like glittering coals. “Then it will see to the rest of you. And if you do defeat it, how about three nights after that? And then again? Are you moving to Hirot permanently? Will you keep killing it for the rest of your and your children’s and their children’s BLOODY LIVES?!” He worked himself up as he spoke, and by the end the Jarl was spitting and shouting, red-faced, at the Graymoor companions.

The thin man bent down to whisper in the Jarl’s ear, and the burly ruler settled back onto his throne, breathing hard. After several heartbeats of listening to the whispers, he nodded once, sharply.

“I told you to leave this place and you stayed. Well, now you’re here, so I’ll give you a choice, and this time you will heed my words: Leave immediately, unharmed, or, if you’d prefer, one of you can volunteer to replace Joane in three nights at the standing stones.”

“What?” the girl trumpeted from behind Hilda. “You’d still send me to the stones?!”

“Your father drew the lot, girl!” the Jarl bellowed, half standing, gripping the hilt of his enormous sword. “Do your duty or let others do it for you!”

“Ay, fine, fine,” Umur said in his low, gravelly voice, holding up both hands placatingly. “You say we have three days until the Hound returns. Let’s see what we can do in that time, ya? It costs you nothing.”

“Master Pearlhammer,” Erin warned.

“Enough, lass, enough,” Umur growled. “We can make no demands of this suffering place.”

The rat-like man at his shoulder bent down to whisper. The Jarl listened as he regarded the dwarf, frowning.

“You break no laws while here,” the Jarl said loudly. “You use no magic or draw weapons within our walls. You pay full price for any goods or services. My thegns will not aid you in whatever fool-brained scheme you attempt. In other words: You will cost the people of Hirot nothing, for they have already lost too much. Disregard my words and I’ll strap you the standing stones myself.”

“Fair ask,” Umur nodded. “Agreed.”

“Fine. Welcome to Hirot,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Now leave me.” He rubbed his face with a hand, and, as they all turned to go, added, “Joane, girl, think on my words. If it’s not you, we will take your father.”

“Let’s go then,” The tall, gaunt Nothan said in the uncomfortable silence, guiding them out of the hall. The others followed, all frowning except Joane. The red-haired young woman looked lost, her eyes brimming with tears.

As they reached the far end of the room, Haffoot lingered and glanced back. The Jarl had his face buried in his large hands, beginning to weep while the robed man pat his shoulder awkwardly.

---

“Another round of ale for my new friends!” the innkeeper, whose name they learned was Broegan Cayfield, bellowed. The dozen or so patrons of The Wolf-Spear cheered and raised their mugs.

Broegan was a large, round-bellied man, and Joane’s father who was so despondent the night before. He had been dumbstruck upon seeing his red-haired daughter appear in the doorway, then fell to his knees, weeping with joy and relief. Joane endured a long embrace from her father, then proceeded to chastise him loudly for allowing her to be taken in the first place. She’d stomped upstairs briefly to change her clothes and wash the night’s events away. Now she was back and moving around the room, doing everything she could to both ignore her father and fan the flames of the Graymoor residents’ legendary powers.

“These outsiders,” she said to a well-dressed halfling woman, making sure her voice carried to the rest of the common room. “Will kill the Hound once and for all! You should have seen it! Dispatched it like a stray pup!”

A meal and three detailed tellings of the battle had passed, and now Umur and Haffoot’s cheeks were rosy with drink. Hilda still nursed her first mug, watching Joane work the room with a bemused grin beneath her hood. Erin, in contrast, pursed her lips disapprovingly and remained drinking water.

“It is almost midday,” the cleric said to her companions. “We are fed. I do not see how lingering here helps us solve the mystery of the agent of Chaos plaguing this village. We must act. You’ve bought us time, Master Pearlhammer, but Shul knows that time is already running out.”

Umur sighed and smacked his lips, pushing his plate aside. “Aye, lass. Ye have the truth of it. Broegan, do ye have a Hirot bard? Someone who can relay the legends of this Hound? Give some clue as to its origins?”

“We do, we do, Master Dwarf,” the man bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Lloré is his name, and he comes to the Wolf-Spear every night. Asleep now, to be sure, but should be here sometime before sundown.”

“Fine, fine,” Umur nodded, slightly slurring his words. “Anyone else ye’d suggest we speak to?”

“Oh, ah…” the innkeeper faltered, looking around the common room for help.

A man from a nearby table offered. “The mad widow may know somefin’?”

Broegan visibly grimaced at the suggestion. “I suppose, if you’re brave enough to take on the Hound you’re brave enough to face her. Good idea, Anthol. Ymae is her name, and she’s as mysterious and mean as they come, but she does have magic about her.”

“Who leads the church to Justicia here? I would speak to them,” Erin said.

“That would be Father Beacom,” the innkeeper offered. “He’ll be out in the village square by now, ma’am, easy to find.”

“Fine,” the woman pushed away from the table and stood in her white armor. “Hilda, perhaps you’ll join me?”

The hooded woman rose. “I believe I’ll pay the ‘mad widow’ a visit, actually,” she smiled. “From one witch to another, mm?”

Erin nodded, seeing the benefit of dividing their attention to make better time. “Excellent. You two,” she frowned down at Umur and Haffoot. “Sober up. See what you can find out from others. We meet back before sundown, yes?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and exited the inn.

The cleric burst from The Wolf-Spear’s doors directly into the village square. The mangy, stray dogs had been replaced by mangy, stray villagers. Only a small handful wandered this way and that across the square, each looking down and huddled as if it were midwinter instead of late summer. Various peddler carts sat forlornly abandoned. Crows and smoke still circled in the air above, and Erin squinted up, frowning. There could be no doubt that Chaos had its oily grasp upon Hirot. The village practically reeked of it.

Father Beacom was, as the innkeeper had promised, easy to find. A thin man of middle years with the cruel face of a hawk stood outside the open doors of the Justicia church, shouting at each passerby. As Erin began striding towards him across the square, his head snapped to regard her with narrowed eyes. He momentarily ceased his shouting until she was well within earshot.

“An outsider,” he said, making the word sound like an insult. “Here to bear witness to the end of the world for all sinners. Are you here to repent, child of the Highest Magistress? Are you ready for the Restoring Flame of Mercy and Justice to pass judgment upon you?” The father’s face was slicked with sweat, out in the square and wearing his heavy robes, and his eyes shone with something close to madness. Erin touched the pale crescent moon around her neck.

“I am Erin Wywood, father,” Erin bowed her head subtly, then straightened. “An acolyte of Shul, the Watcher in the Sky. I would ask what you know of this Hound that plagues Hirot. Ways one might defeat this beast of Chaos the Jarl has failed to see.”

“Shul,” Father Beacom scowled, examining her head to foot. “Well, a disciple of Law at least, though that’s all the good I can say. Your goddess invites the Hound, child, for it only appears under her watchful gaze. You should leave the darkness of your god to come into Justicia’s light, for it is only the repentant who will be left after she cleanses the world.”

Erin stiffened. “You are suggesting Shul is complicit in this Hound’s attack? You, a cleric of Law?”

“I am not suggesting it, child, I am asserting it as so,” Father Beacom pounded a fist into an open hand, emphasizing his words.

“Then you are no true cleric of Justicia and do not serve the forces of Law,” Erin sneered. “As such, you are of no use to me. Stand here and rant to villagers who have no interest in your doomsaying, while I go find a solution to your people’s woes, old man.”

“What did you say!?” he sputtered, face turning purple. “I will bring down Justicia’s wrath upon your head for blasphemy!”

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 4