WOLFWEIR Page 8

  As they walk the great black battlements in the rising storm, spattered by cold raindrops, Lucia doing little girlish spins with her tongue stuck out to the sky, Alphonse glances at the thick, greenish glass phial hung by its chain around the High King's neck. This magical amulet, as Lucia once told him, contains dried blood from the first Man-wolf. It doesn't look to the puppet boy's wooden eyes like anything special. Not flashy, anyway, like Vesuvio's Blue Orb. How does such a humble thing give power?

  Blink blink click click.

  More bluish lightning. Another bone-rattling drumroll.

  "Shall we go down for lunch?" offers the High King. "It looks like rain."

  And it was. It rained a hard merciless rain all day. The mountains vanished in thick fog.

  To fight his mounting gloom and boredom, Alphonse explored the Castle with Lucia as his laughing accomplice. With the Wolf girl skipping along at his side, Alphonse saw:

  The Map Room,

  the Gun Room,

  the Sword Room,

  the Lance Room,

  the Gunpowder Room,

  the Kitchens,

  the Stables,

  the Library,

  the Hidden Passage.

  The Hidden Passage was dusty and thick with spiderwebs. Lucia, peering into the cold darkness, said it led through the mountain to the Marshes beyond. It was for getting messages out and supplies in should the castle ever be placed under a drum tight siege.

  But Wolfweir hadn't been besieged for the last few centuries. The padlock was more rust than iron.

  **

  At sunset the rain cleared away and the cloud cover suddenly broke, letting in the last golden sunrays.

  "Messenger!" went up the call from the ramparts. "Red pennant! Red pennant!"

  Alphonse looked out a window cut in the stone wall of the Sword Room, where he had been testing his swing on an assortment of cutlasses and sabers.

  He saw a horse and rider galloping up the dusty road to the castle, really tearing along, full tilt. The rider was a Man Wolf, bent over his horse for speed. A red pennant was flapping on the pole stuck into his light chain mail and leather armor.

  As the messenger approached the Castle, the gates clanged open. He galloped his stallion right in through the gates, reined in with a clatter, jumped from the frothing horse, and dropping to one knee addressed the Master at Arms, who had just emerged half-dressed from the Inner Castle:

  "Dragoons, sir, approaching from the East."

  "Dragoons? Of what army?"

  "Austrians it looks like, sir," the messenger panted. "But under no flag. They're mercenaries led by a pair of Vampyres."

  Alphonse had just reached the bottom of the stairs opening onto the Outer Courtyard when he heard the dreaded word Vampyres. He stopped short.

  "A male and a female both in full battle armor. They're strong, sir. The male is a lightning quick swordsman. The female can fly like the devil."

  Lord and Lady Blackgore! thought Alphonse. It had to be.

  The Master at Arms roared and smacked his fists together.

  "Where were they when you last saw them?"

  "At the eastern edge of the forest, sir. We engaged, but we had to fall back. Ten of ours killed. The Dragoons are coming on foot. Six hundred or so, pushing cannon on wheels. They've got about fifty in light cavalry, most of them Vampyres too -- judging by the death pallor faces."

  "So the day's come," roared the High King. He had just stepped into the Outer Courtyard wearing about half his frightening black battle armor, a Manwolf- servant carrying his sword and battle helmet.

  "To arms, Knights. To arms. Sound the trumpets. We're going out to attack. Get my horse!"

  The 48 Knights

  Alphonse mimed to the Master at Arms that he wished for a cutlass and a horse.

  The High King cried: "Give that valiant puppet a horse!"

  Horses were being saddled all over in the courtyard. Man-wolves in armor, bristling with weapons, were scraping and clanging around in the dusk. Archers were running up onto the battlements. Bonfires crackled.

  A massive saddled war-horse, leather and steel armor protecting her chest and head, was led up to Alphonse. He caught the reins, swung himself up, and turned the horse a few times in place to test her. She was well-trained, not skittish even in the midst of this grating bustle.

  He was a tried-and-true horseman, our Alphonse. Knew how to handle a steed. We've established as much.

  A servant handed him his cutlass. He drew it out with a hiss of steel to glance at the edge in the bonfire-light. Yes, it was sharp enough. Deftly, he sheathed it and strapped it to his belt. He'd already slung the sword cane over his shoulders by its length of twine.

  "Enemy in sight!" cried a voice from above.

  "Prime cannons!" roared Gar Fith. "Archers, at ready! Fusilliers, with me!"

  He was mounted now, on a stamping horse, in full armor.

  "We'll meet them at the river! Go!"

  They went. They went like a storm, wind and rain, lightning. The 47 Knights of Wolfweir led by the High King, the bonfire light glinting blood-red on his steel helmet, charged down from the Castle, and behind them dashed the fusilliers in lightweight straw and leather breastplates with steel helmets carrying their long rifles, followed by four bristling companies of lancers.

  And with them was the valiant puppet boy, Alphonse Didier-Stein. Howling, in total silence.

  Battle

  Meantime, Lucia, wrapped in a dark blue cape against the chill, climbs up upon the battlements in a group of about fifty other Wolf-women and some Man-servants and young boys.

  The bonfires have been extinguished with sand, so now only a dull half-moon lights the eerie landscape, picking out the spearpoints and glinting helmets and the bluish haze of mist rising from the river.

  The 47 Knights and Fusiliers and Lancers are moving quickly in small companies, rapidly changing formation without missing a beat.

  Lucia hears the distant rattle of the lances, the clattering hooves, the neighs and snorts of horses.

  Then another blast of trumpets. It's a signal to halt and ready arms.

  The Dragoons have now emerged from the woods, long lines of them marching in formation through the river mist. Lucia hears the tat-tat-tat of the drums, then the enemy fifes strike up a piercing military air.

  So many of them, she thinks. So few of us!

  The fusiliers are drawn up in lines facing the enemy.

  And now the Vampyre cavalry -- in gleaming beetle-black armor and flowing capes -- dart out of the woods like a bloodspurt. They're riding like bats out of hell at the right flank, and they've drawn sabers.

  Oh! a woman cries.

  Lucia wants to shout, too, but instead she covers her mouth with the wool cape.

  She's trembling all over.

  The Dragoon rifles flash pinpoints of fire. A few seconds later, Lucia hears an angry crackling as if of dry tinder being snapped.

  At this distance, she can't see any of the Man-wolf fusiliers or lancers or Knights fall, but she knows down there in the meadow the rifle balls must be as thick as hornets.

  The Wolf-fusiliers return fire, now -- a glitter of muzzle flashes, followed by those maddening tinder-crackle reports.

  Trumpets blare. Alarums. Ready arms. Attack.

  The Wolf-lancers jog forward, four companies moving smoothly in tight formation, headed straight for the Dragoon lines.

  Lucia's ears pick up some shouts. The lancers must be howling at the top of their lungs.

  Then another dazzle of light-points, and crackling gunshots. A gunpowder haze, thinner and bluer than the mist, floats across the scene.

  The lancers and Dragoons merge. Cries. The tatting drums stop, then the shrill fifes go silent.

  The distant scrape and clink of steel. Hand to hand fighting now. It must be carnage down there.

  A little boy next to Lucia suddenly shouts, Huzzah! and points.

  And Lucia sees that the Knights are flowing around fast t
o the right flank, streaming red pennants, the black ranks glittering with naked sword steel -- you can hear iron shod hooves dully pounding the turf.

  They're going to clash with the Vampyre horsemen head on, at the riverbank.

  Retreat

  And now, high on the dark battlements, Lucia hears the trumpets blare a retreat.

  -Oh no. We've taken the worst of it, a hard voice says.

  -Too many of them, answers another. Don't you see that? Six hundred against our barely two hundred.

  -They've certainly got more rifles than we, says a Man-Wolf.

  Lucia sees that the lancers are falling back now -- not quite in disarray, but their formation is ragged -- harried by Dragoons advancing fast.

  The drums and shrill fifes start up again in unison as if confident of victory. Dragoons are still marching in ranks out of the woods.

  The Fusiliers are walking backwards in tight order, the front lines kneeling every few moments and firing a rattling volley to cover their withdrawal from the field.

  -Look, someone says. The Knights.

  The Knights have broken off the fight with the enemy cavalry. They're galloping back up the dusty road, a few trailing as if wounded.

  She can't see the High King among the riders. No Alphonse, either.

  -It's desperate, says a Boy-Wolf.

  -We're doomed, says a Woman-Wolf’s voice, cracking with strain. Lucia can hear the tears rising in it.

  -Hush, replies another growling Wolf voice. Wait and see.

  **

  The sense of terror is dreamlike. Lucia's eyes are wide, and her senses bright. She can't feel a thing but wonder.

  She jumps at a light touch on her arm and looks up into the grizzled face of Master Tavil, the eighty-year old fencing instructor. He's wearing chain mail and leather gauntlets. A cutlass is buckled at his hip.

  Master Tavil is smiling, but he has tears in his eyes.

  -Come aside, Wolf-child, he says in a whisper.

  She goes aside with Master Tavil, behind a massive iron brazier still smoking from its extinguished bonfire.

  -A messenger just rode up from the field. Our Man-wolves are falling back to regroup inside the walls and mount a last-ditch defense. But these Dragoons are bringing up heavy cannon and even a few siege engines. And some of the Vampyres can fly. We won't last long against their numbers, maybe not even the night.

  He's talking mildly, as if in an aside to the icy night air. Lucia shudders in her thin cloak.

  -Do you hear what I am saying, child? By dawn, Wolfweir Castle will fall. Therefore you will take all those not in the actual fighting, laden with as much coin from the treasury as you can carry, down through the Hidden Passage to the Marshes, where our boats are hidden -- yes, and get away clean. Don't look back, for you'll just see the red glare of the Castle burning. We're going to set fire to the gunpowder stores just as soon as the enemy breaks through.

  Lucia gulps cold air, trying not to be sick. She lets out a hiccup. Master Tavil clasps her by the thin shoulders, shakes her a little. That feels better. Yes. This is how it is.

  -Your uncle Malvic, who has been lightly wounded, will accompany you as Master at Arms, along with ten strong Knights to cover the escape. Needless to mention, the High King will stay to defend the Castle. To the bitter end. All the able-bodied of your party, children or women or no, will be armed with short swords, daggers, bows and arrows and such, whatever we can spare. If you get trapped by the enemy you must cut the throats of the little ones then fight to the last Man- and Woman-wolf. This word comes directly from your father, uttered in haste in the storm of battle. Hear?

  -Yes, Master Tavil, I hear, says Lucia, standing straight. I will take charge and do my best to save our people. Thank you.

  -Get a breastplate and helmet on, then, good Queen, and find yourself a sword. You go at once.

  Escape

  Go at once, she thinks, her mind a fever-blur. Go. The Castle will burn. Yes, go.

  Master Tavil is shouting orders in his harsh grating voice.

  -To the Inner Keep, everyone. Off the ramparts. We are going to prime the cannons. You're just in the way here. Follow the golden haired child your Wolf Queen.

  **

  Wrapped in their dark blue hooded storm cloaks the cluster of women and children and a few crippled or aged Man-wolves follow Lucia down the stairs, to the Inner Courtyard lit by torches.

  And now two servants push wheelbarrows into the courtyard. The wheelbarrows clank and rattle with swords, daggers, crossbows, and other small weapons.

  -Arm yourselves, everybody, Lucia cries, her voice high and thin.

  She takes a sheathed dagger and a cutlass and buckles them onto her tunic. Then she picks up a crossbow, and a small leather quiver of darts.

  -Come along, she cries. Take arms.

  Then there is a rush at the wheelbarrows, and the Wolf-women are all arming themselves like Lucia, with swords and bows and crossbows. The Wolf-children crowd in to pluck out short swords and daggers.

  The same two servants now carry a stone sharpening wheel into the courtyard and one begins to pedal it furiously so the stone spins, and they beckon for Lucia to approach.

  -To make sure they're sharp enough, your majesty.

  She hands over her cutlass and watches as it sprays sparks from contact with the whirling stone.

  Every few moments the man-wolf pedaling the wheel takes a hefty swig from a goatskin canteen and blows water onto the slithering, sparking steel.

  -Got to keep it wet, he says.

  The servant passes it back to her much sharper and she sticks it into the scabbard.

  -Your dagger, also, if you please, my Queen.

  And so it goes for each of the others. The wheel fills the night air with its rasping screech.

  Up on the battlements, cannon crews are busy priming the big-mouthed brass cannons.

  Every few minutes there is a groan and a heavy clank as the Outer Courtyard gate opens, and smashing hoofbeats on the flagstones -- messengers arriving from the scene of battle.

  -Acting Master at Arms! a voice cries. Message!

  That's Master Tavil. Aged as he is, he's running up and down between the courtyard and the battlements to hear the messengers and give replies while overseeing the cannon crews.

  -My Queen!

  Lucia looks up. Master Tavil is leaning out over the battlements with his hands cupped to his mouth.

  -The Knights are regrouping. The Dragoons and Vampyres have fallen back to the river. Malvic is on his way back to the Castle.

  -And the High King? she shouts. What news?

  Pause. Then the shout comes:

  -No news yet, child.

  Lucia begins to sob.

  A tall Wolf-woman embraces her. It's Jivali, Malvic's wife.

  -Be brave, my wolf-Queen, she whispers sternly. Wipe your face. Don't let the others see you go to pieces.

  Lucia smiles, wipes her eyes with the cloak.

  Master Tavil's shaggy head reappears.

  -Go! he shouts, waving his hand. Go. You must go. Take them all away now. Malvic and his Knights will follow shortly.

  -Yes, Master Tavil.

  -Go!

  The servants are carrying out boxes of small deerhide drawstring sacks. The sacks clink.

  -This is Wolfweir gold from the treasury, she shouts. Each one of who can must carry two of these sacks, Lucia cries. Children, one sack. Tie them to your belts, to leave your hands free for fighting. Quick as you can, now. Ready? We're going out through the Hidden Passage to the marshes. Torches, I say, where are the torches?

  Slow Motion

  If the battle for Wolfweir castle looked savage and chaotic from the ramparts, it was even more so in the thick of the fighting.

  Alphonse Didier-Stein had never been in a battle before. He had only read about them in books. This battle did not resemble any he'd read about. It was a whirl of bodies, a tangle of lances, a riot of clashing swords. It felt like being snatched into a whir
lwind.

  Mud flew from the horses' hooves, spattering everywhere like rain, all but blinding his pine eyes.

  The puppet boy saw the Man-wolf Knight just ahead of him unhorsed, run through by a lance. Then beheaded by a Vampire's scimitar as he lay senseless and moaning in the mud.