'R' is for Revenge: A Dark Fantasy about the Ferryman Dravidian and his sword Rosethorn by Wayne Kyle Spitzer

"Ah, yes, indeed. I see now why little Joyung was so frightened …"

The voice had come from the wagon. Instinctively, I cocked my head back as to peer beneath the visor, and saw a man older than myself yet young nonetheless leaning against the rear of the coach, his head only inches from the wine-skin, and his arms folded in front of him. There was an exquisite black cane wedged between his arms and his chest, just below the handle of which shown a single cut ruby which blinked in the dark like a cat's eye in shadow. He was a tall, well-dressed man sporting a neatly-trimmed black beard and a high-hat of the same color.

The thought was but a fleeting one, but it struck me as odd that the monkey had not followed him out of the wagon.

"Death has come to claim its own," the sharp-dressed man nearly whispered, and strode forward with a gleam in his eye, twirling the cane as he walked. "What'll it be, ferryman? A few trinkets for the children? Some finery for the lady, perhaps?"

I looked to him with sour surprise. Then, feigning insult, said, "Who would call me a ferryman?" My hand had come to rest on Rosethorn's pommel.

The stranger emerged from half-light and shadow into the multi-hued glow of the lanterns.

"You may call me Fenris-Wolf." He smiled disarmingly, and his teeth gleamed white and perfect in the lamplight. "… for now."