Teeth

Tharos Burrar was a good man once. A man I considered a friend. Born in the dreary streets of the Western Precinct, where the gutter rats grew to the size of small dogs, he was never supposed to be anything noble. Most born in that impoverished quarter are fortunate to become day labourers, living a life of drudgery and rigmarole in pursuit of their next warm meal and place to sleep. Others aspire to less admirable paths: thieves, charlatans, and vagrants. Tharos, however, said he would never be content with such lowly prospects. He found work as a cleaner in the Mongrel's Den at the age of eleven, before becoming a squire for a guild veteran at the age of fourteen. By the time he was seventeen, Tharos had travelled beyond the walls twice, becoming a fully-fledged member in the process. His loyalty was unwavering. Whenever he was around, his allies could breathe a little easier.

Now, he stood upon the Pedestal of Reprimand, bound to a stake by heavy rope. A raucous crowd had gathered before him, the word "killer" upon their bloodthirsty lips. They pelted him with stones like he was some mangy stray stalking the streets. Tharos barely moved. I knew him well and I knew that the guilt of what he did would weigh upon his shoulders like a thousand bricks. Certainly, he would blame himself.

A few months ago, Belrey's Bastards were called to slaughter a pack dire wolves in the Forest of Alnerin. Apparently they had grown fond of Human flesh. It should have been a simple job, and it was at first. We were veterans, skilled and knowledgeable of combat, whereas the wolves were ravenous beasts acting on instinct. In a matter of moments, the pack was slain and their blood painted our blades. At the time, we thought nobody had suffered major injury. Tharos had been bitten - a nasty nip on the right arm - but we had all seen worse. Our healer attended to his wounds and we all forgot about it. This ignorance would be a grave mistake.

Navigating the woods was tiresome and arduous. Although we never became lost, the roots and undergrowth ground our pace to a slog. By the time we left the verdant forest and saw open space again, we were all desperate for a night in real beds again. We followed the Forest Road for several hours, deep into the night, until we happened upon a small inn. After a few heavy knocks on the locked door, the innkeeper appeared with groggy eyes and tangled hair. We looked back at her like dogs pleading for food from the table. Graciously, she rented us rooms.

I awoke with a start that night. Instinctively, I tossed the duvet aside and reached for my sword, but nothing seemed awry. A stillness hung in the air. Silver moonlight sailed silently through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. As I loosened my grip on the hilt, I wondered what had caused be to jolt awake. I could recall no nightmare that would disturb my sleep nor bump in the night. My breathing steadied as I heard Ardo, another member of our guild, peacefully snoozing across the room. Foolishly, I put aside my concerns and nestled back into my bed.

The innkeeper's blood painted the walls by morning. Her head had no jaw. Her ribcage was opened like a book. Chunks of flesh and bone lay strewn about the floorboards of her bedroom, dripping with gore and covered in toothmarks. Lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, frozen in a terrified stare, and unravelled intestines snaked across the carpet. Just the thought of the stench in that room makes me feel queasy. Quite sickeningly, the culprit of this crime had not seen fit to flee. Instead, he had fallen asleep on bloodstained bedsheets, still cradling his victim's mangled leg. Tharos's clothes were ripped to shreds and he was covered in viscera, but he seemed uninjured himself. My shaky breaths stirred him from his slumber. As if entirely unaware of what he had done, he greeted me with a smile. I wish that he had not. Stringy sinews swung from the gaps in his teeth whilst blood dripped from his genial grin, trickling down his muzzle and into a small puddle beneath him.

He did not remember a single thing.

Fire rains down from the Pillars of Light, and the mob's bloodlust becomes vengeful jubilation. I hear my old friend's screams beneath the howling of the crowd and the roaring of the flames. Strangers celebrating a stranger's death. I turn away. Sometimes, I fear we were called to slay the wrong pack of wolves.