Page 5 of The Wolf in My Tavern

I can only imagine the terror Betsy must be experiencing as a prisoner of the Blighten.

“You look like you know how to use that hammer at your hip,” Jacob says to me.

I nod. Not only the hammer, for I train every evening after work with my father at the bag that swings from a sturdy beam in our barn, and have done so since I was a whelp. It is with no false pride that I consider my boxing skills sharp. I have even fought in underground competitions—enough to test me but not to knock the sense out of me, as my father says.

I can handle myself.

Yet, I am not a warrior. I have heard tales of the fairy kingdoms, their rigorous training, and their combat skills. Further, as Tim just pointed out, Jacob has freed slaves before and has experience in such matters.

“Don’t be a hero,” he cautions coldly. “Follow our instructions.” He points at my hammer. “And when the fighting begins, plow that into any bastard’s head as gets in your way.”

I nod again, my throat dry and tight. This is not the same as a fight in the ring with my pa sitting on the side ready to call it if he has concerns. This is a real life situation with danger and further consequences for Betsy if I fuck up.

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. “The lad will do his bit. Callum has a good head on his shoulders… and is as strong as a fucking ox.”

“Appreciate you both here,” Tim says, his broad face lined with worry. “If anything happens to her?—”

“It won’t,” Jacob promises. “We shall make sure of it… and make sure those who snatched her live long enough only to experience regret.”

We slip outside, using the darkened alleys rather than the main streets until we enter an old, abandoned warehouse where five soldiers stand, weapons ready.

My heart is pounding. I don’t want to fuck up—I want to help and do my part, yet I understand the danger and risks. Lest I jeopardize the mission, I listen to the instructions carefully as Jacob goes over the plan.

“There will be guards at the entrance,” Jacob says. “Ed and I will take those out quick and quiet. There will be two more at the foot of the stairs. Inside and to the left is the door to the barracks where the rest of the guards are sleeping. We need to block that door promptly lest they lend support. A dozen more guards typically walk the passages where the prisoners are kept. We will dispense with them in any way we can… The barrack door is key to this. We’re fucked if we can’t get that shut. The men they employ are thugs, and fight dirty knowing it is their necks on the line if they fuck this up. Don’t hesitate at the risk of your life and this mission.” He pins me with a look. “If any come at you, put them down.”

No more words are spoken. We understand what is at stake. It is time to act.

Jacob and a guard move forward alone toward the back entrance of the slave markets. We wait at the corner. As they reach the guards, I see a sudden flurry of movement. A faint grunt and audible crack follow before the two guards slump to the floor and are dragged inside.

Hearing a low whistle, we hurry to join them, slipping inside the door.

A cry goes up, and we pound down the stairs. On the left, the door to the sleeping quarters is open, and two of Jacob’s soldiers battle to shut it. More guards come at us from the right, turning the bottom of the narrow stairs into one big melee.

“Get that fucking door closed,” Jacob roars, slamming into a guard on the right.

My hammer is in my hand. I don’t realize my intentions until it smashes into the face of the man blocking the barrack door. He crumples backward, and we slam the door shut. One of Jacob’s men has a bar in his hand and slips it into a slot, barring the door from opening again.

Fists pound on the other side of the door.

“Good work, lad,” the soldier says.

Tim, my father, and Jacob have pushed the guards back to the right.

A soldier crouches over a fallen guard. “Check that one,” he calls to me. “See if you can find the keys.”

Before I can move to check the body, the cell on my left swings open, and a man rushes out.

I don’t have time to wonder how the door opened from within for his short, sturdy club swings for my head. As I duck under the whistling club, I notice his pants are unbuckled.

Bastard.

I swing my hammer straight into his belly. He doubles over with a grunt, but I am already swinging it up, and his jaw breaks with a satisfying crack.

His blood splatters as he is sent crashing into the wall. Rage fills me when I consider what he was up to in that room, and as he crumples to the floor, I bring my hammer down again over his skull.

He is dead.

Somebody tugs on my shoulder. “Get the prisoners out.” A soldier presses the keyring into my palm. Another soldier surges past to liberate the slave from the cell from where the thug just emerged.

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