The Adventures of Larson and Garrett - A Werewolf in the Dark

A Werewolf in the Dark

Larson and Garrett Adventure the Second by Aaron Dennis

Published April of 2015

Newest Edition December of 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Seven years of Larson's life passed before his eyes in a dreamlike haze. A great many things changed in Flotsam after the defeat of the reaper. It started with the death of Mr. Thatcher; old age had finally claimed a new victim. Then, Largo and Nyomi married. Largo sold the Ross house and farmland to other residents of their hamlet, and the brothers moved in with the Etreeses. By the time Larson had finished his schooling, five of those seven years had eased on by. A little later, some of the townsfolk moved to other towns like Sujam to the south or even to the city of Pallisade. Others came in their stead, and the story of the trio who defeated the reaper grew all out of proportion; that tickled Largo pink. He was viewed as the town hero, but to his chagrin, his manhood came into question on a personal level as he had been unable to father any children.

By then, Larson had grown to the age of thirteen, and since his schooling was complete, he took up the slack on the Etrees ranch, which had grown considerably from the money resulting in the sale of the Ross house and land. Tending cattle was tedious, though, and the teenaged boy longed for the high adventure of fighting monsters. A devastating change came two years later when Nyomi and Largo decided to separate.

The elder brother's inability to sire caused a great upheaval in his marriage. Larson was fifteen then, and with few options on the horizon, Largo consulted him in a very private matter; the older brother needed to put space between himself and Nyomi, but loathed the idea of leaving Larson in Flotsam, especially since their dad had never returned. The brothers agreed to venture off to Pallisade.

"After all, " Largo stated with a feigned smile, "I'll get the chance to immerse myself in work and make some money while you can join the guard. I know you long for adventure, brother, and soldiers get their fill of it in one way or another."

Larson scrutinized his brother. He had aged quite a bit in the years that had passed. Largo had shaved his head, giving himself a menacing visage, and that coupled with his hard eyes, solid jaw, and framing facial hair, he had been molded into someone unrecognizable, save the scar on his cheek where the reaper's flaming remnants had scorched his skin; the real badge of a warrior.

"Why would I join the soldiers, " Larson scorned.

Largo looked over his brother, who had turned into a near replica of their father, Mathew. His jaw had squared in adolescence. His cold, blue eyes seemed to shine with sheer resolve. He was thick and broad shouldered like a lumberjack. Larson still kept his hair long and pulled into a tight ponytail that accentuated his squared head. The teenage whiskers on his face and chin stubble provided him the look of a troubled youngster poised on the verge of manhood, but Larson was a real man; he had proved it seven years prior.

"You mean to tell me you don't want to keep Pallisade free of bandits, street scum, or whatever else, " Largo asked in a half-joking tone.

All that sounded fine to Larson, but soldiers had no volition of their own. They were merely tools at the nobility's dispense-a sword to be swung at their will-especially since the King of Ruvonia was said to never venture outside of Stormguard, the country's capitol city.

"I'd rather be a merc...or some traveling warrior, " Larson smiled. He heard himself voicing something so juvenile and laughed before adding, "And maybe save a damsel or two in distress."

The boys laughed for a moment, a thing they rarely did anymore, but a decision had to be made, and so they gathered up what little they owned and took the hard packed soil road to Pallisade. Finding work was easy. They were both strong, and getting away from Flotsam had a rejuvenating effect on Largo. Both brothers found employment in the city's poor district-or more commonly called with a twinge of banality, the worker's district-at a construction manager's warehouse. Larson worked inside and around the perimeter, keeping equipment, lumber, tools, and the like, clean and organized for the workers while Largo learned masonry and carpentry. Finding housing was an altogether different matter, a disaster even.

Houses in Pallisade were excessively expensive. None of the workers owned homes unless they belonged to large families wherein nearly everyone worked liked a dog, mule, or hog day in and out. The others were relegated to the warrens, a sort of mass housing where one at least was given a cot and a trunk for personal belongings. Others yet, the sick, the meek, the beggars, those touched in the head, roamed the streets and sewers. The brothers managed to find room in the cramped warrens since they were neither meek nor ill. The biggest change of all, however, occurred when Largo was drawn into a confrontation with the construction manager.

Larson had not witnessed the event, but when his brother found him hoisting lumber onto a pallet, he explained the problem. Largo had been promised time off, which he needed to help his new girlfriend's family rebuild their farmhouse way out in the outskirts of Pallisade, but the day before Largo was set to leave, the manager had called him over to renege. The elder Ross was fuming, and the commotion had swelled to involve other workers. The manager fired him on the spot, which he claimed gave Largo all the time in the world to help his girlfriend.

"We're out of here, " Largo yelled.

Larson arched his brow, set down the lumber, dusted off his hands on his gray trousers, and looked at his brother. The man was shaking with rage.

"What are you talking about, " Larson asked, puzzled.

"That horse lover went back on his word then fired me!"

Larson didn't know what to say. He just stood there and awaited the explanation rather than venturing a question. Finally, Largo demanded they go to the warrens and discuss their next step in life. It was only after they reached the dingy and dark quarters that Largo plopped down like a sack of potatoes on his cot that he spoke again.

"We have to move out of here. I hate it, " he said in a constricted voice. He was obviously close to tears, and that made Larson feel an unwanted anxiety in the pit of his stomach, but Largo took a deep breath and continued. "I think we have enough saved up. We can travel to Port Shau and sail wherever they're goin'-the farther the better."

"Calm down, " Larson said and sat next to him.

While they looked at each other, the others in the warrens, which weren't many as it was still working hours, leered at them with blank looks and slacked jaws.

"I'm done, " Largo heaved.

"Done?"

"With everythin'. I think I like the idea of being travelin' warriors, but not here. Maybe in some other country, eh?"

"So, we're just up and moving?" Larson was astonished. "Just like that?"

"Looks that way...I mean...if you want to come with me."

The younger Ross looked away and shook his head in disbelief. He certainly had no attachment to either the warehouse or Pallisade.

"Sure...why not, right?" Larson feigned a smile.

Largo patted his brother's shoulder then claimed he needed a drink at Barry's Bar, which was the working man's tavern between the warrens and the construction warehouse. He instructed his brother to get everything ready and have a rest because he was coming in an hour or so with an actual plan. Larson shrugged and let his brother be.

While Largo left, and Larson packed what little they owned, he wondered about Sarabelle, Largo's new girlfriend. She coming with us, or is he just leaving her? It didn't matter to Larson one way or the other; in fact, he figured an extra body might mean the three of them had a better chance of finding work and a home wherever they were going to wind up. As promised, Largo returned an hour later, but he wasn't angry anymore, or drunk even; he seemed tired, practically defeated.

"What's wrong?"

"I was speakin' to Barry about our plans, " Largo said, but trailed off. Larson motioned with a nod of his head and the raising of his brow for his brother to continue. "He says that a trip by carriage to Port Shau is at least ten silver pieces. That alone is more than we have, and a ship ride out of Shau is easily five gold pieces."

Larson undid his ponytail and readjusted it before saying, "Well, we can walk to Shau."

"It'll take us a week, " Largo interrupted.

"So, it takes a week.... We can settle down for a bit in Shau before figuring our next move...maybe we can even find information about Dad there."

Largo shook his head in desperation, saying, "You've got to give up on Da', Larson. He's gone, vanished without a trace. We asked everyone in Half Pine and plenty of people here."

"Not everyone here, " Larson argued. "And no one in Port Shau."

After a moment, Largo agreed that asking the people in Shau was reasonable. The older brother then gave a halfhearted smile.

"Listen, " he said, placing his arm around Larson's shoulder. "I think it would be best if you stayed here and kept workin'."

"What?"

"Just listen a moment, meat head, " he joked. "I'll travel on to Shau and start workin' there. When I have some kind of a plan in place, I'll send for ya'. I'm sure it won't take more than a month. I'll get the scoop in Shau, and learn about trade routes or somethin', and when I've got an in, I'll send for you, and we'll know our next move. Trust me. Besides, I'll need you to talk down Sarabelle...if I know her, she'll be mad like the daemons of Harad over my disappearance, and there's no way she's comin' with us on account of her sick ma'."

There was a long silence. Larson had never been alone. He expressed his feeling of inadequacy; that he was certainly brave enough to fight reapers, but not wise enough to survive without his brother's advice for an entire month.

"You've got to trust yourself, Larson, " Largo conciliated. "That second guessin' and worryin's got a place in a man's life. Jumpin' in the fire like an arsehole's only goin' to get you so far, hear, so worry and fret, but keep your wits about, and don't second guess yourself when it comes time for big decisions."

At the end of that night Largo expressed his love and admiration for his brother, nabbed his belongings, and started walking out of Pallisade. The city had a few walls in place, surrounding the exterior, where atop them the soldiers marched around too drunk to pay any real attention to the perimeter. Under twinkling stars, and a scant, few, wispy clouds, the brothers trudged out in silence. By the road heading southeast, Largo hugged his brother, handed him their father's short sword, and told him to wait patiently, to immerse himself in wine, work, and women. Larson watched his brother's figure slowly wander off until he was swallowed up by the darkness.

****

A day passed by. Larson worked. Then, two days passed, and three. Larson worked, and spoke to Sarabelle, who was predictably consumed with wrath in a manner that only women expressed. She threw Larson out of her house, and then pelted him with shoes until he fled.

A week passed before Larson felt at ease. Being alone was lonely, he had not really made friends, as his brother was his cherished confidant, but working and talking to people at Barry's, or in the market, and asking everyone under the sun about Mathew Ross, gave him an insight into people's behavior. There was a way to talk to them, to engage them with resolve and determination, but without being pushy or arrogant that led to honest results. Unfortunately, all Larson learned was that maybe a man named Ross, or Russ, or Rouse had passed through. The description was scanty. It had been over five years after all.

In a flash of work and sleep, over a month had passed, and there was no word from Largo. Larson had saved up some silver pieces he kept at Pallisade's bank-he certainly wasn't going to keep money in a locked trunk in the warrens-but the lack of contact from his brother worried him beyond belief. At the end of the second month, he was practically panic stricken. It was during one night, a rainy night, when the furious drops of water ceaselessly pelted the thatched roof and exposed every leak at Barry's that Larson openly discussed his predicament with Barry himself, a squat, round, jovial man with a fringe of longish, auburn hair that half circled his wrinkly head.

"So, what do you think, " Larson asked. "Should I drop everything, and make my way to Port Shau, or send a letter and keep waiting?"

Barry wiped the counter with a damp cloth that only left wet streaks on the wood. "Write a letter. If you leave, you probably won't be able to come back for a while. You'll have to work there, at the docks or something, just to save up and come back, and for what? To get your old job back with Turd? That is, assuming something has happened."

Barry then laughed at his own remark. The construction manager's name was actually Jon Furd, but he was a turd, and so that became his name, at least behind his back.

"You're right, " Larson conceded. "I'd hate to think that Largo's dead, or that he left me...but I have to do something...maybe that letter–"

The door swung open with a racket. The clamor caused by the violent opening, which made the wooden door strike the bar's interior wall, drew everyone's attention. A large man stumbled in, made vague remarks about the rain, and calmly shut the door. He was wearing what looked like a shredded riding cloak with the cowl pulled up. The cloak's exterior was a dark, drab gray, but the interior looked to be a faded red, and beneath the cloak, the man wore studded, leather armor. The large axe hanging from his hip signified he was just the kind of man Larson wanted to be, a warrior for hire. Soldiers bore swords and long spears. Knights weren't so poorly garbed. Workers didn't wear studded leathers. All of that information swam through Larson's mind in an instant.

Everybody returned to their drink, food, or conversation like it was no big deal, but the man came to the bar. Larson never took his eyes off him, and when the man removed his cowl to order a beer, Larson saw he was old, at least sixty. He had thick, gray hair that ran loose down to his waist. A thick beard, dripping with rain water, grew out nearly two inches. His shoulders bulged beneath all of his clothing.

"What, are you gonna' ask me out or something, " the old man asked Larson with an air of impatience.

"You're not my type, " Larson mumbled and turned back to Barry who chuckled.

"Ain't seen you in a spell, Holden, " Barry said with a tinge of annoyance. "You got the four coppers you owe me from last month?"

"Ya, " Holden coughed between chugs of frothy beer. He pounded the pint in about three swallows, let quite a bit drain off his mustache and beard then pointed to fill the glass again. "It's right alongside the four I'm gonna' owe you this month."

"Dammit, Hold, " Barry howled. "You gotta' pay me."

"You'll get it when I get it. That's how it works, " Holden argued.

Larson arched a brow and said, "He just gave it to you, so pay him."

Incredulously, Holden turned his stare on Larson. The old man's mouth was a little open, and then he just laughed.

"Don't stick your nose where it don't belong, that's how it gets bitten off, kid, " Holden scolded. "'Sides, I meant he gets paid when I get paid."

"Mercenary?"

"Ya, something like that."

Barry had refilled Holden's glass, and the old man finished it as quickly and perhaps less thoroughly than the first one. He then motioned for another refill.

"This is my potion of strength, " Holden choked as he finished off the third glass. "You're a big boy. What's your name?"

"Larson, " he replied. Then, he had an insight, whoever this guy was, Barry knew him, and he had come in last month, and he probably traveled a lot. "Say, you don't know the surname Ross, do you?"

"Ross?" Holden echoed as he started to remove his cloak. He had then the slow ruminations, the kind one has after too much alcohol where it's difficult to hold just one thought at a time. This was made evident by the way the old man's eyes had glossed over, the way he unconsciously moved his mouth like he was savoring smoked meat. "Ross?"

"I'm looking for my brother and my father: Largo and Mathew Ross."

While Larson tried to explain his predicament, Holden tried to find his seat. Barry touched Larson's hand to draw his attention, and then winced and shook his head as though implying that the coot was just useless.

"What are you hunting now, Hold?" Barry asked in a manner showing blatant disbelief, disinterest.

"Mm werewolf, or, uh, who wolf...what wolf, " Holden said and finally sat down.

Barry chuckled, but Larson was interested, and he blurted out, "They don't exist, do they?"

"Ya, oh ya, " Holden replied and rested his head on his folded arms. "I was just talking to a young man who was looking for his werewolf and brother."

Holden's voice had been muffled by the position of his face. Larson cracked a smile of incredulity and looked at Barry, who just wandered away.

"No, " Larson said, slowly. "Since you're a traveler, I thought maybe you had run into my brother or father. Have you been to Port Shau?"

"Listen, kid, " Holden started and turned his head-still on his folded arms-towards Larson. "I'm busy with this contract. If you need me to find someone, wait 'til I bag this wolf then hire me."

Larson wasn't sure what to make of Holden. On the one hand, he had the air of someone useful, but writing the letter as Barry suggested was probably a safer bet. Still, something intrigued him, something indefinable.

"Nobody believes in werewolves anymore, " Larson commented.

"Yes they do, " Holden replied, indifferently. "The woman who hired me certainly does, and I've been tracking this one for weeks." Larson and Holden eyed each other for a moment. "You've killed a monster, so don't give me this there are no monsters in The Third Age crap."

Larson's brow furrowed involuntarily. Holden's directness and familiarity with hidden knowledge had nearly drawn all his breath away.

"Who told you I killed a monster?" he gasped.

"It's written all over your face, " Holden said and sat up. "You're not from here. No, a small town maybe? Half Pine, right? Or Flotsam, yeah, you killed that reaper in Flotsam. I remember your name now."

An uneasy silence passed. Larson felt threatened, anxious, and somehow elated.

"I'm just trying to live a normal life, " he finally said. "That business back home was a fluke. Monsters don't run rampant the way they used to. Maybe there's a crazy wizard in some labyrinth somewhere, sure, or the occasional pack of kobolds."

"Brazen, " Holden interrupted. "A pack of kobolds is called a brazen, and you're wrong. People are just too busy with their lives to notice anymore, but kids see 'em-monsters-and so do the sick, the elderly, the seasoned warrior-traveler. Kings and pawns are too busy with their normal lives, whatever that might be, to notice what's really happening in the world today, but you rest assured, as sure as I am drunk, that there's a werewolf in these parts."

"Fine, so there's a werewolf, " Larson conceded, apathetically. "It doesn't concern me."

"Of course, it does, " Holden smiled. "You've got that flare in your eyes. You're dying to join me, and see it for yourself."

The old warrior then laughed his head off. Once more, Larson was incredulous. This man, Holden, was nothing like anyone he had ever met before. He was right out of a story book except he wasn't handsome, kind, or sober. Larson chuckled at having been pinned down so neatly. Holden was astute for sure. He wasn't a drunken construction worker overly worried about making ends meet, or knocking up a half willing woman, or raising a petulant child.

"What have you got to lose, " the mercenary asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Help me bag this thing."

"Why would you want my help?" Larson's tone belied his eagerness.

Holden frowned and shrugged the way a man does when he doesn't care to reveal the obvious, but instead wants placation from speculation and said, "Everybody needs help at some time or another. Take you; you need help in locating your family. I need help in killing this thing."

"Don't you get caught up with the likes of him, " Barry shouted while marching over. "Holden, you leave this kid alone. He's got a job and a good life ahead of him."

"Is that what you want out of life?" Holden stared at Larson. "You wanna' work like a dog for a pittance? Meet a nice girl and bear children, and grow into an old, fat, lazy dog?"