Greyback

By Carraig Craun

Cathan sat down at a table and ordered two pints. He wasn’t sure when Pol would show, but until then he would do what he could to enjoy the local drinks. Although, looking around, he noticed the state of the tavern they agreed to meet in wasn’t the most pleasant. Damp wood and the smell of mold made the place seem as run-down as Pol mentioned it’d be. Cobwebs and candles decorated the dining area, the dried wax-like icicles on the candles’ sconces. It seemed cleanliness wasn’t of the highest importance in the establishment. Nonetheless, the place was a lively one. Nightfall was still an hour off, and the place was already packed with people looking for relief from the working day. It seemed Pol was right about it being the perfect place to blend in with likely sympathizers.

As one of the bartenders dropped his two ales off, Cathan looked over the people in the tavern, making sure no obvious loyalist littered the place. All locals it seemed. Good. It’d be nice to be able to drink without watchful eyes for a change. As he continued to scan the room, he noticed a few young men near the entrance who seemed to be searching the room for spare seats. Watching their eyes reach the empty seats of his table, Cathan wondered if they’d be bold enough to sit with him. Being a Dragonborn as giant as himself had a way of dissuading even the more confident common folk from sharing his table. And, judging by the fearful glances he was now receiving, it seemed this instance was no different.

Laughing to himself, he leaned back into the ancient chair beneath him, the awkward piece of wood creaking dangerously at the weight it held. His eyes closed as he breathed in a few moments of peace. It wasn’t often he got the chance to relax nowadays, not with the rebellion growing daily and the Empire’s grip squeezing tighter with each day’s passing. More soldiers seemed to be flowing in each day, and with the arrival of Greyback, the tension had only escalated. That bastard was a monster in more than just one sense. A werewolf from the Lunar Swamps of the south, the man was known for how he favored his beastly side. The sadistic murderer possessed little in the way of mercy and justice. He simply killed and tortured his way into the minds of the people. That’s probably why the Empire chose him. Everywhere he went, submission followed. Just this morning Cathan had had to stand by as Greyback and his gang of guards raided one of the local shops. It seemed even selling bread to known sympathizers was an ‘act against the stability of the city’ now. Luckily, the family’s children were away at the time, but Cathan doubted the parents would make it to next week. Greyback had a knack for making people disappear without question.

Greyback’s presence had the whole city on edge–sympathizers and loyalists alike. If Cathan didn’t take steps to handle the situation soon, the city would erupt in a state of full-scale revolt. Countless lives would be lost, most of them sympathizers. Greyback simply held too much power and influence over the city’s people for the ones who could afford to make a difference to stand against him. Too few would stand up and fight if rebellion were to break out prematurely. The desperate poor would be massacred, the merchants all the while blaming their weaker peers, while the nobles who shared the just cause would shrink back, once more, behind their titles. No, rebellion in this state would not be fruitful. The spark for rebellion would have to be clean and sure. The flame set ablaze by a swift and controlled strike. A fire where one side is clearly more burned than the other. And, above all else, Greyback did not survive. The thought of what must be done, and just how soon it would have to happen, clouded Cathan’s mind until Pol arrived. So deep in his thoughts was the Dragonborn that he didn’t notice her arrival until her hand reached for the chair opposite of him, pulling his attention back to the lively tavern around him.

Smoothly sliding into a comfortable sitting position and leaning forward to sniff the ale Cathan had set aside for her, Pol’s nose scrunched in distaste. “I’m not much of a drinker, Cathan, you know this.” She ran one of her long fingers around the rim of the tankard. “At least, not of most human spirits…” She trailed this last statement as she glanced up into the eyes of Cathan, raising her brows at the blank stare the Dragonborn was giving her.

Realizing he was lost in his thoughts again, Cathan replied after a few moments, “Sorry. This whole rebellion thing has my mind a bit foggy tonight. I can drink yours if you’d like. I know you elven folk are of higher taste; I just thought it might be good for appearances if we seemed less formal during this talk.”

Pol, tilting her head in thought for a few moments, sighed, “Yes, well, I guess that would be smart, considering the weight of the conversation. Even in a shack like this, the Empire may still have its weasels.” Wrapping both hands around the tankard, the elf raised the drink to her lips, lifting her chin and draining the contents of the vessel completely. Softly setting the tankard back onto the table and pushing it to the side, the elf spoke to her companion once more, “Now that we’ve settled blending in. Let’s get to work, yes?”

Cathan chuckled at the elf in front of him. He and Pol had grown to be great comrades in the past months. He would even go so far as to call it friendship, although elves seldom made friends in such a short period. She was a clever strategist and an even better shot. Her skills with the bow were renowned, for better or worse. She was funny too–in an almost naive way. Her stubborn obliviousness to the ways of humans caused her to stand out in many ways. Right now being one of them. Yet, what Cathan appreciated about the elf most was her forwardness. It was something he valued himself that many humans lacked, making shortfused times like these difficult to navigate. He was happy to skip the diplomacy and get straight to it.

Taking a swig of his drink, Cathan leaned forward slightly over the table. “Right. Well, I think we both understand that Greyback can’t make it through the week if there’s any chance to save the outcome of this revolt. Even with him dead, the people will still probably lose against the Empire’s forces, but if the beast is alive when hell does break loose, they don’t stand a chance.”

Pol placed her elbows on the table and her chin on top of her enlaced fingers thoughtfully. “Yes, I agree. The werewolf must certainly die. But I disagree with what you say concerning the chance of the people’s success against the Empire. I think the chances of victory are stronger than you expect.”

At this, Cathan furrowed his brows questioningly. “How so? The Dites governor is not likely to join our cause, and the Empire’s troops are well-equipped to put down city unrest. The people would have to show a level of unity and coordination to easily combat them that they simply do not possess.”

“Well, yes, you are not wrong there,” Pol said with a slight tilt of her head, “but you forget the influence of bureaucracy. You and I, these people–” she said as she moved one of her hands from her chin to gesture to the crowded tavern, “–we live outside the bounds of the Empire’s hierarchy. We do not function as they do. To them we are but a barbarian state. Unorganized and uncontrolled. Do you follow?”

Brows still furrowed but his scaled chin now resting comfortably in his hand with a finger absently tapping his cheek, Cathan soaked in the elf’s information. “Yes, I understand the Empire is very strict in its ways. It is one of the reasons we have so easily avoided issues with them in the past. And yes, we could use it to our advantage to kill Greyback, but I fail to see how this makes the revolt more tangible.”

Pol leaned in closer, her eagerness painted across her face. “Because of the bureaucracy, Cathan. The hierarchy. Everything is meticulously controlled to the lowest point. And, more importantly in our case, everything is accompanied by harsh punishments should codes not be followed accordingly. If the soldier does not follow orders, he is thrown on the front lines. If the officer does not follow orders, he is stationed in the more dangerous districts. If the Captain does not follow orders, he is stripped of rank. And on it goes. All the way up to the great Kellian Generals. No one but the Storm King himself is without fear of retribution. To act without orders is to risk your station and your livelihood. No sensible man would act quickly without the approval of his authority. Do you follow me now?” She said as she paused for her companion.

The Dragonborn, now sitting deeper into his chair with his hand still holding his chin in thought, considered Pol’s point. “You’re banking on hesitation,” he said after a few more moments of thought.

Sitting back and crossing her arms, Pol responded with a hint of annoyance on her tongue, “Banking is not the word I would use, I believe it to be a bit more stable than that, but yes, exactly. Hesitation. Let’s think about it simply. The governor follows the orders of Greyback at the moment, making Greyback the leading authority of the city. Now, we kill Greyback right at the height of the unrest with the rest of his small band of captains. The city becomes engulfed in revolt. A revolt that we were ready for. We have whatever capable sympathizers we can gather, ready to push the prison the moment Greyback’s head hits the ground, and we capitalize on the fact that the city’s primary means of authority is gone. The governor, hearing that Greyback is dead and that his people are in revolt and the prison is under siege, will have to spend time thinking about how to handle the situation. Both because he will be split on where to send reinforcements and because if he makes the wrong decision his head will be on the King’s dining plate. And this is assuming his loyalties remain with the King once Greyback and his men are killed. From there, it is just making sure we move fast and do not lose momentum. With Greyback gone, the noble sympathizers will surely support the cause, and if the prison falls, the keep will be the only safe place for the loyalists to hide. Once they’re all cornered in one spot–”

“The city is ours,” Cathan said as he contemplated the simplicity of the plan.

Seeing that the Dragonborn was catching on, Pol smiled, “And more importantly, the means of communication will be ours. Once we shut down the city, the governor will not be sending any urgent calls for help to Limestreah or Kell. His only hope will be diplomacy with us.”

Cathan nodded absentmindedly in agreement with his companion. The plan seemed to be perfect. Well, perfect enough. It still needed a few tweaks. They would have to find an ideal time and place to kill Greyback. Somewhere where his gang would be near him, but not in the way. And it would have to be public, but not in a loyalist-populated area. The prison raid would not be too difficult to organize; plenty of sympathizers had reason to despise the place. Many would die, but not nearly as many as would be if the revolt was not controlled.

“And you’re sure the governor’s hesitation will be that significant?” Cathan questioned. With this, Pol became much more serious, losing the wry smile that seemed to eternally characterize her face.

“Yes, I am certain. I have lived almost 200 years now, and I have seen more than a few stubborn organizations fall victim to their own stability. Bureaucracy is a strong ally for any kingdom, but it does not do well as Empires expand. People begin to lose any trust in their senses and become too reliant on the word of law.” With this she reached across the small table and took hold of Cathan’s drink, finishing the Dragonborn’s ale. This time slamming the tankard back down on the table with a smile before she continued, “If Greyback and his captains die and the governor is forced to choose where to commit his forces, he will take action too late, and we will take the city.”

Cathan smiled at the elf, admiring her confidence. “Well, it sounds like we have a general plan then. I will talk to the others and figure out the location and when it will be done. I am assuming you and your brother will want to do the killing? And do you still have the enchanted arrow?”

Pol smiled broadly, “Of course. Lorien and I are the only ones I trust, besides maybe yourself Cathan, to take care of this beast. The monster killed many of our brothers and sisters during his occupation of Feygates; his death is fated. And as far as the arrow goes, if you give us the plan, we will make sure Greyback’s life ends with gold and fire, and we will move with you on the rest of the city.”

“Good,” Cathan replied, his mind already cultivating a plan, “and make sure to keep that arrow safe. Without it, many more men will have to die to take Greyback down.” With this, the Dragonborn began to rise from his seat. “I better be leaving now, there is much to be done if we are to have this organized soon.”

Pol began to rise herself, “Yes, yes. I am fully aware of the resistances of werewolves, Cathan. The arrow will be his demise, it hates him just as much as I. I will tell Lorien to gather his followers. I am sure they will be needed when the time comes.”

“Thank you, a couple more elves would definitely help the effort.” Cathan shook the hand of the elven woman before him, “I can take care of the bill if you would like to leave first.”

“Of course. Hopefully the next time I see you will be that beast’s death day. Stay safe.” Pol then quickly exited the tavern out the back exit, moving much faster than the crowded space should have allowed.

Navigating his way to the bar, Cathan tossed a gold coin to the barkeep, earning a look of surprise from the man. “Th-th-thank you, sir!” the man sputtered in bewilderment, both at the Dragonborn before him and the fact that the warrior had paid over ten times what he owed for the two drinks.

“No worries,” Cathan smiled back. “Have a good night, and long live the king,” he said with a slight wink to the barkeep as he made his way out of the tavern and back into the crisp night air of the Dites lower district.

The mood of the street was much different from the thrall of the tavern. A few people were making their way from and to the tavern it seemed, but beyond that, the street was sparsely populated. Beyond the sound of footsteps on the cobblestone streets and private conversations around the tavern, the city seemed to be almost asleep tonight. A rare occurrence considering the state of unrest at the moment. Making his way down the short walk to the pier, where he currently resided, Cathan pondered on the best way to go about killing Greyback. The werewolf was not known for his lack of caution; his violence was usually calculated in some sick fashion. He hoped his informants had gathered some useful information that he could use once he made it to his small warehouse flat.

Arriving at the warehouse, his men, disguised as gambling sailors, gave him a short wave as he slid his way into the building and quickly made his way up the iron stairs to his flat. Outside, hidden inside its usual spot within the floorboard in front of the door, was the daily intel his informants had collected. Entering the room and locking the door behind him, the Dragonborn lit a candle and sat at his desk, sifting through the information. Most of it was the usual updates that had become commonplace the past few weeks: individuals going missing, desperate small groups of people attacking the local guards. Cathan also learned a little bit more about the breadmakers who had been arrested that morning. It was when Cathan ran across his reports from Sir Roberts, a knight who was a secret sympathizer and mole for Cathan, that he was stopped in his nightly ritual:

C.

Greyback has ordered the execution of the two noble sympathizers who were arrested two days ago. Two treasonous guards are to be executed alongside them. Greyback’s right-hand man will be the executioner. Greyback will attend and speak afterward.

The execution is to be held tomorrow at midday in the Lower District Square.

SR.

This was it. Cathan read the note again. Tomorrow at noon. Damn, he thought to himself as he soaked in the full potential of this opportunity. It was so soon. But it was all perfectly staged–put in his lap as if fate was giving him a sign. After the execution, Greyback and his right-hand captain would both be on an open stage in a public square. Pol could easily take Greyback to the ground, signaling their allies amongst the crowd and around the square to take care of the rest of the guards. Surrounded with his men down, Greyback may be able to fight, but he would not survive. Unfortunately, the prisoners would have to die, saving them would save Greyback, but their deaths would only help ignite the fighting spirit of those watching. He would have to organize his men’s invasion of the prison tonight and send word to Pol immediately; it would just mean one less night of sleep–something Cathan hadn’t been getting much of anyway. Getting up from his chair which was still cold from his arrival, Cathan made his way out of his flat and back into the night air. Everyone was on edge and ready to move at a moment’s notice already; his message was likely to be heard with fervent support.

Striding to his guards, who stood up from their chairs as he approached, he ordered one to find Pol and inform her that she should meet him at the roof of Half-Pint Inn in the square tomorrow an hour before midday. “And tell her to have her brother and his men scattered among the other rooftops. They will all be getting some shooting in. For the rest of you, just wait for word from a captain, and don’t get drunk tonight. There will be fighting tomorrow.” With this, the Dragonborn took off briskly, back into the streets of Dites, his mind already beginning its calculated preparations for the upcoming day.

It was two hours before midday when Cathan finally had a chance to rest, if it could be called that. He arrived at the top of the Half-Pint Inn early so he could scope the courtyard and neighboring rooftops. It was a task that he could do without much physical or mental exertion, so he used it as an opportunity to go over the plan. Pol would be here in an hour, the arrow with her. Her brother and his men would be on the other side of the courtyard, atop the local shops, bows and arrows ready to barrage Greyback and his men if they tried to take cover from Pol’s arrows. Scattered among the courtyard would be 25 lightly-armed sympathizers who would take down Greyback’s guards when Pol’s shot caused chaos. Greyback’s captain and officers would be the elves’ and Cathan’s responsibility. At the prison, Sir Roberts and his loyal men, along with the rest of Cathan’s men, would be raiding the gates. If all went well, the square would be in a state of full-scale revolt before sundown, and the city would follow in the coming days.

The rooftops empty, Cathan set his bow against one of the Inn’s chimneys and waited for Pol’s arrival.

Already, he could see guards setting up around the square, and people were beginning to make their way into the courtyard, wondering who was to be executed today, the executions being one of the more dependable ways for people to find their missing loved ones. Although a painful source of closure, it was better than never knowing.

Pol arrived on time, moving silently in her rogueish attire. “Everything appears to be in order on our end. I haven’t talked to Lorien since last night, but he should be here with the rest of his men in a few minutes.” Pulling the arrow out of her quiver, she practiced notching it on her bowstring. Appearing normal at first, except for its almost perfectly white pointed tip, the arrow blazed a fiery red as it notched comfortably, resorting back to its previous golden appearance after a few moments. Smiling in satisfaction, Pol unnotched the arrow and slipped it back into her quiver, “Greyback will certainly feel her bite. Vengeance is upon us, Cathan.”

Cathan allowed a smile to escape his lips at the elf’s ending comment, “Yes, I have a feeling it is. How many men do you think he will bring on sta–”

Before his sentence could be finished, Cathan was interrupted by an elf jumping onto the roof ledge and hurriedly making his way to the pair. “Polgaria, Dragonborn,” the elf said, looking between the two, “have you seen Lorien? He told us to meet him here last night, and he has not been seen this morning.”

Pol’s face blistered with concern at the elf’s words, “No, I have not. Have you, Cathan? It is unlike him to not be punctual. Especially today.”

Cathan shook his head; he had not seen the elf in days. “Perhaps he is with Roberts at the prison?”

Pol considered the notion, “It is unlikely he would go there before here without informing his men first… but three of his warriors are currently imprisoned there. Do you think he would be so rash as to try and get them out before the executions so they could witness Greyback’s fall?”

Cathan, unconvinced that he would do such a thing, did not respond immediately. Instead, the elf responded to Pol, “He did mention to us last night that he had to take care of something before the morning. That was why he told us he would meet us here. He did not stay with us. Perhaps you are right. I will send one of us to the prison to find him and bring him here.”

Cathan spoke up at this, “The execution starts soon, I fear he will not make it back in time. Send your men, but have them and Lorien push with Roberts on the prison, if Lorien is not still inside.”

The elf looked to Pol, looking for her approval for this order. Sighing, she replied tiredly, “Yes, Cathan is right. Gods, he is such a fool at times! He is always playing the hero.” Looking to the stage that was now occupied by Greyback’s right-hand captain with an executioner’s scythe in his hands, Pol continued, “Find my brother and tell him to meet us at the governor’s keep after he and Sir Roberts take the prison. I assume the rest of you understand the plan without his presence?”

The elf nodded his head firmly at this. “Of course, Polgaria, we will be hidden among the rooftops, out of your view, but we will not miss the flame of your arrow.” With this the elf took off towards the ledge he had arrived from, leaping over it swiftly and disappearing back into the city.

After a few moments of silence, Pol spoke quietly, “I despise my brother’s rashness, but I do hope that is the reason for his absence.”

Cathan, understanding what Pol was alluding to, tried to speak confidently, “I have fought with your brother on more than a few occasions. I am confident that he is not one to fall victim to the guards of this city. He is likely at the prison now, already having realized he would be too late to make it here and joined with Sir Roberts.”

Pol, unconvinced but not having the time to doubt herself, nodded in agreement. “Yes, you are probably right.”

As both companions tried to pull their minds away from their worry, the execution began. The courtyard had gradually grown to be a packed sea of faces–sympathizers and loyalists alike. Cathan suspected many of the loyalists had heard about Greyback’s planned appearance and hoped to see the werewolf in action. The executioner, still on stage, had set up the execution block at the center and was waving to his guards to bring out the prisoners. Looking at the guards, Cathan noted that they were exiting out of one of the government buildings on the east side of the courtyard. Likely, Greyback was in there now, content with watching the executions until it was time to give his speech. Cathan quickly recognized the guards as Greyback’s personnel, and they escorted five shackled prisoners in ragged clothing with bloodstained bags over their heads to the side of the stage.

“I thought you said only four prisoners were being executed?” Pol said, eyes still on the prisoners as one of the guards began disconnecting one of them, a younger woman from the looks of her figure, from the line.

Cathan, confused at the extra prisoner, responded, “There was. It is unlike Roberts to miss one. I bet they picked the poor bastard on a whim because of Greyback.”

Pol nodded and began checking her bow to make sure everything was prepared one final time.

The young woman was escorted to the center of the stage where the executioner waited, and her bag was removed from her head, revealing the face beneath. Cathan did not recognize the woman, but she was clearly of guard origin. Even from this distance, Cathan recognized the stone stare of a soldier who had already accepted their fate. The woman did not flinch at the sight of the block before her as the executioner behind her stated her charges.

“This woman has been found guilty of treason! By violating Article 18 of the Dites Peace Accords, which states that no individual shall sell information with potentially ill ramifications towards the Empire to rebel sympathizers in any form, Lilly Dunesworth has chosen to betray her country! Because of this violation, the courts have found her guilty, by punishment of death!” Finishing his statement, the executioner motioned towards his guards, who began placing the woman’s arms and head in the associating slots on the execution block.

Cathan watched with a slow-burning rage as the woman was forced on her knees and into the execution position. Showing no sign of fear or anger, the woman appeared disturbingly calm about the situation. Cathan’s anger only roared more at the bravery of the woman, and he found himself clenching his bow with white knuckles as the executioner aligned his scythe with her neck. The rage rising in his throat did not stop as the killing blow of the executioner fell and the warrior’s head rolled to the side of the stage. Four more deaths and that bastard of a beast dies. Their deaths are not in vain, Cathan thought to himself as he kept his breathing steady. To his left, Pol was speaking softly to herself, her eyes closed. Likely a prayer to Chislev, Goddess of Nature.

Three more prisoners were slowly brought up and executed on the stage. Each time, their ‘treacherous’ acts against the Empire renounced and explained to the crowd of viewers by the executioner. One of the nobles, a young man Cathan recognized as being the youngest son of the Bloom family, a strong supporter of the rebellion, spit in the face of the executioner and had to be held down by force as he was killed. A bold action, Cathan thought as the guards wrestled the young man to the ground. If the revolt were not happening today, his family would likely die for such an assault on Greyback’s second in command.

As the turn of the fifth prisoner arrived, Pol began notching her bow, expecting Greyback to appear soon after their demise. The prisoner confidently walking on their own up the staircase, despite their blindness, and standing next to the executioner, Cathan suspected it was another guard or soldier who had been a caught sympathizer. It was when the executioner removed the bag from the prisoner’s head that Cathan’s mind and heart froze. The prisoner was unmistakably Lorien. Beyond the typical elvish characteristics, the warrior’s blazing yellow eyes could be seen clearly, even from the distance where Cathan and Pol sat. His eternally confident smile still painted on his face, the elf bowed to the crowd as the executioner read off his judgment.

Looking at Pol, Cathan could see the shock and anguish on her face, “Dear gods, it’s Lorien! What have they done to him? Look at his body!”

Cathan looked back to Lorien, quickly noticing the abuse Pol was speaking of. The elf was littered with large purple bruises and various deep cuts. He must have been tortured overnight, probably captured by Greyback himself.

Pol, her wide eyes already being replaced by calculated desperation, notched one of her normal arrows into her bow, “We must kill the captain. Once I fire, Lorien’s men will take care of the nearby guards, and you and I can rush in to cut his shackles. From there, we can find Greyback and finish this.”

Cathan, knowing the cautious reputation of Greyback, doubted that Pol’s plan would work. The beast was a werewolf who could move much faster than any man or elf. He would be gone in moments the instant he realized something was wrong. “If we do not get Greyback on the stage, we will not catch him at all, Pol. We can’t risk letting him escape. If we do, we are ensuring the deaths of Sir Roberts and those at the prison, along with the lives of countless civilians.”

Already, two guards had begun trying to force the elf into the holds of the execution block. Lorien effortlessly shook them off and, after saying something to them that Cathan could not hear from his distance, began placing his arms and head into the block on his own, face-up.

Pol drew her bow, “If you are asking me to sacrifice my brother for any of those people, I am sorry, but I refuse. Greyback has already taken most of my loved ones. I will not let another die because of him. We can still win with him alive. As long as Lorien and I live, the werewolf death is imminent.”

Cathan’s mind raced with indecision. Pol was wrong, that much he knew for sure. Greyback was cunning and patient. He would just as easily leave the city than risk his death if he knew how close it was. All of those loyal to the rebellion would be found and executed after the rebellion surely failed. Sir Roberts and his followers, the elves, Pol, everyone. Even if they escaped, Dites would no longer be safe. Yet, it was Lorien. It was Pol’s brother on that block. A warrior Cathan had fought alongside for years; had trained with. Cathan watched as the executioner walked, in what seemed to be slow motion, towards Lorien. Seeing Lorien’s face, his smug smile still unshaken as he looked into the eyes of the executioner, had a visual effect on the man. His step faltered slightly yet was soon replaced by a look of disgust and frustration at the boldness of the prisoner’s act. Cathan’s heart was racing. He could not see the other elven archers along the neighboring roofs, but he knew their bows were drawn, waiting for Pol’s shot. Looking at Pol, he saw that the elf woman’s arm was fully extended now, her eyes intently focused on the executioner as he began lining the scythe with Lorien’s neck, her bow taut and ready to release in a moment. Cathan was shaking in fear of what to do.

Comfortable with his weapon now, the executioner began raising his scythe for the killing blow. Cathan heard Pol’s intake of breath as she focused the executioner’s neck into perfect alignment with her shot, and in an instant, his hand reacted. Grabbing the arrow and forcing it down right as Pol released her bowstring, the full force behind the shot cracked against the bracers of Cathan’s armor. The sound, although loud enough to be heard across the courtyard, was disguised by the sound of the executioner’s scythe hitting the stage and the thudding of Lorien’s head as it tumbled onto the stage. Knowing he had moments to react before Pol’s shock at what just occurred morphed into unfathomable anger, Cathan used Pol’s bow, which was now on his arm, to make a swift and harsh blow across the elf’s forehead, dazing her and knocking her to the ground. Then, capitalizing off of the brief moment, the Dragonborn unsheathed one of his daggers and pummeled the blunt end of it into the head of the dazed but rising elf, knocking her utterly unconscious.

Without a moment to lose, his mind already fully enveloped in the cold calculated state it always seemed to enter during battle, Cathan began tying the elf to one of the inn’s chimneys with the rope he always kept on hand in case loyalists or guards were captured and needed to be restrained. As he tied the elf to the chimney, he cut part of his undershirt cloth and made a gag, forcing it into Pol’s unconscious mouth. It was during this that he noticed the tears streaming down his face. Unable to afford the time to question his actions and fully comprehend what he had done, Cathan ignored the rising bile in his throat and made his way back to the overlook, grabbing his own bow and notching the enchanted arrow.

It seemed the other elves took Pol’s lack of fire as proof that she was willing to make the sacrifice of Lorien for the success of the revolt; chaos was still at bay in the courtyard. Cathan closed his eyes and calmed his breathing as the guards removed Lorien’s body from the stage. He would have to be in complete control if he were to make this shot at Greyback. It was not long before Greyback made his appearance. Striding confidently out of the door, with two of his personal guards behind him, the werewolf waved with a sickening smile to the people attending. Chills went down Cathan’s spine. He had seen the monster before, but each time his presence tainted the Dragonborn with mixed disgust and fear. Shadows danced among the beast’s feet. His arched back doing little to disguise his massive height. Reaching the center of the stage, the werewolf stood atop the execution block, splashing his feet in Lorien’s fresh blood, a motion of disrespect that sent Cathan into a rage-filled calm once more.

Gesturing to the crowd, Greyback spoke, his voice a deep growl that echoed throughout the open area, “Citizens! Friends! Today we have witnessed one of the many forms of the Empire’s justice! Swift! Sure! Righteous! The justice of Tiriot, truly! Today you have seen a handful of the many treacherous and corrupt individuals that plague our city!”

As Greyback continued to speak, Cathan notched the magical arrow. Its shaft once more blazing in fiery light before calming to its golden hue. His arms calm, his mind focused, the Dragonborn pulled back the bowstring, fully extending the reach of the weapon. He could see the mouth of the werewolf moving, but Cathan no longer heard the gravelly voice; all of his senses focused on his target. Breathing in, Cathan aligned his shot, allowing a single moment to pass before releasing the string. The arrow, unlike any normal arrow, did not arch toward its target. Instead, it flew directly to the beast, its path true and sure as the justice the monster deserved. Piercing the neck of Greyback, the arrow burst into magical golden flame, engulfing the creature and the two guards behind him. Roaring in pain, Greyback tried to shake the flames off of his already burning body, but there was no hope against the magic. In moments, the werewolf’s roars turned into desperate screams as he collapsed onto the stage.

Moments later arrows filled the courtyard, the elves unleashing volleys of arrows onto the guards below. Chaos soon followed as the sympathizers within the crowd attacked the armed loyalists and remaining guards. Within a few minutes, silence accompanied the dead loyalist as the remaining sympathizers looked upon the still-burning body of Greyback. Shaking the burning scene out of his vision, Cathan seized the moment of silence. Standing, he moved to an open part of the roof and called to his people, “Greyback has fallen! The prison is soon to follow! We move on the governor’s keep! Victory is at hand, my friends! Victory is at hand! For Dites!” With a roar of approval and exaltation, the sympathizers and elves on the roofs took off towards the governor’s to be joined by their comrades after the fall of the prison. Cathan would be expected to head straight to the prison to inform Sir Roberts of his success and join whatever remaining effort was needed to take the prison.

Alone now on the roof, Cathan returned to Pol, who was still tied to the chimney. Now awake, Cathan struggled to meet the gaze of the elf as she stared at him with tears streaming down her face. Unable to keep the tears out of his eyes and lacking the words to express his guilt, Cathan could only sit there in silence as the elf’s eyes of hatred bore into his heart. After a few minutes, Cathan realized he could not leave his friend here, a prisoner like her brother just was. He could not finish this rebellion without her, not after all she had done to help it throughout the years. It was my decision to kill her brother, he thought to himself as he looked into the eyes of Pol. He did not regret his decision. Without Greyback’s death, countless lives would have been lost, but he would not pretend that his decision was unpunishable.

Still looking into Pol’s eyes, Cathan arose and walked over to Pol, cutting her hands free of the rope before walking back to his previous position and sitting down. He then slid his dagger to the feet of Pol, allowing her to pick it up and cut the rest of her bindings if she desired. Reaching to her mouth, Pol removed the gag from her mouth but did not speak. The elf simply held the dagger and continued to stare at Cathan, her eyes rage incarnate.

Unsheathing his sword and tossing it to the side with his bow, Cathan lifted his hands to the elf and spoke softly, “I have chosen the fate of your brother, against his will. Against your will. I decided his death, and I know this. My life is forfeit if you so choose. The choice is yours, Pol, I will not resist.”

With this, the Dragonborn bowed his head and closed his eyes, accepting his fate. Pol offered no response, the sound of blade firmly cutting rope her only reply.