White Wolf Read Free

through the rubble. Braygan tried not to stare at them—nor at the two bodies hanging from the branches of a tall tree. “I
am
frightened, Brother,” he whispered. “Why do people do such hateful things?”
    “Because they can,” answered the tall priest.
    “Are you frightened?”
    “Of what?”
    The question seemed ridiculous to Braygan. Brother Labberan was beaten close to death, and there was hatred everywhere. Threats had been made against the church and its priests, and the terror continued. Crossing the bridge they moved past the smoldering buildings and on to the main street. Braygan was sweating now. There were more people here, and he saw several dark-garbed soldiers standing in a group by a tavern door. Some of the townsfolk stopped to stare at the priests as they made their way to the apothecary. One man shouted an insult.
    Sweat dripped into Braygan’s eyes and he blinked it away. Brother Lantern had reached the apothecary door. It was locked. The tall priest tapped at the wooden frame. There was no answer. A crowd began to gather. Braygan tried not to look at the faces of the men. “We should go, Brother Lantern,” he said.
    Somebody spoke to Braygan, the voice angry. He turned to answer, but a fist struck him in the face and he fell clumsily to the ground. A booted foot caught him in the chest and he cried out, and rolled toward the wall of the apothecary.
    Brother Lantern stepped across him and blocked the path of Braygan’s attacker. “Beware,” said Lantern, softly.
    “Beware of what?” asked the man, a heavily built and bearded figure, wearing the green sash of the Arbiters.
    “Beware of anger, brother,” said Lantern. “It has a habit of bringing grief in its wake.”
    The man laughed. “I’ll show you grief,” he said. His fist lashed out toward Lantern’s face. The priest swayed. The blow missed him. The attacker stumbled forward, off balance, and tripped over Lantern’s outstretched leg, falling to his knees. With a roar of rage he surged upright and leapt at the priest—only to miss him and fall again, this time striking his face on the cobbles. There was blood upon his cheek. He rose more warily—and drew a knife from his belt.
    “Be careful,” said Lantern. “You are going to hurt yourself further.”
    “Hurt myself? Are you an idiot?”
    “I am beginning to think that I might be,” said Lantern. “Do you happen to know when the apothecary will be arriving? We have an injured brother and are in need of herbs to reduce his fever.”
    “You’re the one who’ll need the apothecary!”
    “I have already said that I need the apothecary. Shall I speak more slowly?”
    The man swore loudly then rushed in. The knife lanced for Lantern’s belly. The priest swayed again, his arm seeming to brush against the charging man’s shoulder. The Arbiter surged past Lantern and struck the apothecary wall headfirst. Slumping down he screamed as his knife blade gouged into his own thigh.
    Lantern walked over and knelt beside him, examining the wound. “Happily—though I suppose that is arguable—you have missed the major artery,” he said, “but the wound will need stitching.” Rising, he turned toward the crowd. “Does this man have friends here?” he called. “He needs to be attended.”
    Several men shuffled forward. “Do you know how to treat wounds?” Lantern asked the first.
    “No.”
    “Then carry him into the tavern. I will seal the cut. And send someone to fetch the apothecary. I have many duties today and cannot tarry here long.”
    Ignored by the crowd, Braygan pushed himself to his feet, and watched as the injured man, groaning in pain, was carried to the tavern. Lantern glanced back at Braygan. “Wait for the apothecary,” he said. “I will be back presently.” With that he strolled toward the tavern, the crowd parting for him.
    Braygan felt light-headed and vaguely sick. He took several deep breaths.
    “Who was that?” asked a voice. It was one of the