Bill

Bill the Tamer THE BIGGEST MAN AT THE WEDDING (A STORY EVERYONE AGREES ON, MOSTLY) Bill cried first. That surprised no one who knew him. Only those who didn’t. The wedding was small, by choice. A handful of tables. Flowers cut that morning. Food cooked slowly enough that everyone had time to argue about it. The bride and groom stood beneath a canopy that had been repaired three times and would be repaired again. Bill stood beside them. He was the best man. Which meant he was responsible for holding the rings. And not dropping them. His hands were large enough to make that difficult. When the vows were spoken, Bill sniffed once. Then again. Then openly wiped his face with a handkerchief that looked like it belonged to a child. Someone patted his arm. Someone else handed him a drink. No one laughed. Later, when the music started, Bill sat at the edge of the table and watched everyone dance. When the groom tripped, Bill steadied him without comment. When the bride laughed, Bill laughed harder. “This,” he said quietly, “is good.” No one argued. The next morning, Bill left early. He always did. Mounts didn’t wait well. Outside the village, a warg the size of a cart waited for him. Teeth like knives. Eyes like fire. The kind of creature that made caravans reroute. Bill knelt. “Hey,” he said. The warg’s tail thumped the ground hard enough to shake leaves from the trees. Bill fed it from his hand. Scratched behind its ear. Checked its harness. To anyone else, the warg was a nightmare. To Bill, it was a puppy that hadn’t grown into its legs yet. They walked off together. Later, when someone asked who tamed the Blackwood Warg, someone else answered: “Bill.” “Bill who?” Just Bill. The man who cried at weddings. The man who brought back mounts no one else could. The man who made monsters feel like they belonged somewhere. If Bill says an animal is safe, people believe him. If Bill says it isn’t, they don’t argue. And if you ever see a giant undead man walking down the road, with a creature at his side that looks too big to be real— Relax. That’s just Bill. Taking his puppy for a walk. THE DAY BILL STOPPED ASKING NICELY (AS TOLD BY PEOPLE WHO DID NOT EXPECT HIM TO) Bill named the warg **Wolfie**. This confused everyone. Wolfie was the size of a wagon, all muscle and fur and teeth that could end arguments at a distance. When Wolfie growled, birds left the area. When Wolfie ran, the ground remembered it. “Wolfie?” someone asked once. Bill nodded. “He answers to it.” Wolfie wagged his tail hard enough to knock over a fence. Bill liked things to have names you could say without flinching. That day, they were escorting a grain caravan through a narrow cut of woodland where the trees leaned inward like they were listening. The road was old. The air was quiet in the wrong way. Bill noticed first. He always did. Wolfie’s ears flattened. Not back. Sideways. Bill stopped walking. “Hold,” he said gently. The caravan guards tightened grips on spears. One of them laughed nervously. “Relax,” he said. “What’s going to challenge *you*?” Bill didn’t answer. The ambush came from both sides. Bandits—organized, desperate, and confident enough to think size was something you could surround. Nets flew. Bolas spun. Someone shouted orders that assumed Bill would panic or charge. Bill froze. Not from fear. From hesitation. He hated this part. Wolfie lunged instinctively, jaws snapping, but Bill held the leash firm. “No,” he said softly. “Not yet.” The first net hit Bill’s shoulder and slid off like a blanket on stone. The second caught his arm. The third tangled Wolfie’s front legs. That did it. Bill’s face changed. Not anger. Not rage. Resolve. He stepped forward. The ground *felt* it. Bill moved the way mountains move when they finally decide the weather has gone on long enough. He didn’t swing wildly. He didn’t shout. He didn’t charge. He **placed himself**. A bandit ran at him with a spear. Bill caught it. Not the shaft—the *tip*—closing his hand around the metal and bending it sideways like it had been poorly thought through. The man dropped the weapon and ran. Bill did not chase. Wolfie was already moving. Bill released the leash. “Wolfie,” he said. “Work.” The warg exploded into motion. Not savage. Precise. Wolfie didn’t maul. Didn’t kill. He slammed bodies to the ground, pinned arms, snapped teeth inches from throats and stopped—every time—waiting for Bill’s voice. Bill waded into the chaos, lifting one bandit by the collar and setting him down somewhere safer. “You’re hurt,” Bill said. “Sit.” Another tried to stab him from behind. Bill turned, took the blade in his side, and *did not react*. He reached back, took the attacker by the wrist, and gently—but firmly—lowered him to the ground until the man was sobbing. “That was unkind,” Bill said. It was over in seconds. The bandits fled. The caravan stood untouched. The road returned to being a road. Bill knelt beside Wolfie, checking the warg’s legs. “You good?” he asked. Wolfie licked his face. Bill laughed once, relieved. One of the guards stared at the bent spear, the torn nets, the bodies groaning but alive. “You could’ve crushed them,” the guard said. Bill shrugged. “They’ll remember this better.” He scratched Wolfie behind the ear. “Besides,” he added, “Wolfie did most of it.” Wolfie puffed his chest proudly. From that day on, the stories changed. They stopped calling Bill gentle. They started calling him **careful**. And when people saw a giant undead man walking the road with a warg at his side, they stopped asking how dangerous he was— and started asking who he was protecting.