by Sean Kikkert
Cassandra watched with weariness as fifty mounted knights with long, sharp spears rode into the center of the clearing; each one of their horses kicked up a gray cloud of fine dust that irritated her eyes and nose. The sun glinted gaily from the knights’ metal plate armor, and their smart tunics of white and red put even the very best clothing of any of Telemachus’ people to shame. Cassandra glanced nervously around at her fellow youths and saw that everyone wore the same grim, suspicious look upon their faces.
“What do you want?” Telemachus strode over to meet the knights. “Why are you riding into our village armed to the teeth like this? You’re welcome to visit us, but you look to be prepared for battle.”
Morton dismounted and met the pack leader’s hostile gaze. The lord mayor didn’t care much for this responsibility that had fallen upon him—surely the land was big enough for both people to live in peace? But he knew all too well that if he didn’t do what the people wanted, he wouldn’t be the lord mayor for much longer.
“I’m sorry, Telemachus, but things are going to have to change around here.” Morton spoke with courtesy and firmness. “We’ve decided that if you are going to live on our land, you’re going to have to live by our conditions. I’m here to deliver those conditions to you.”
A large knight strode over, armor clanking and rattling with each step, and handed Telemachus the scroll he held tight in his gauntlet. The knight’s breath was raspy and muffled behind his visor, his face completely hidden.
Telemachus snatched the scroll and began to read. “What is this?” he roared. “You expect us to pay a third of everything we have as taxes to your king?”
“This is outrageous!” Ajax interjected. He stepped with menace toward the knight closest to him. The knight’s horse snorted and shifted nervously in his presence.
Telemachus continued to read with a look of confusion plastered across his face. “This doesn’t make any sense at all,” he growled. “It says here that we are ‘forbidden from changing into wolves.’ What on earth does that mean? We’re just simple farmers—that’s all.”
Morton coughed with embarrassment. “Look, I don’t believe in werewolves either,” he whispered to Telemachus. “I think those who drafted this decree are ignorant, superstitious people. However, there is a woman who claims she saw one of your young people change into a wolf.” He snorted with derision. “If I’m wrong and this is something that your people can do, it has to stop. From now on, anyone changing into wolf form will be put to death without trial.” Morton stifled a smirk. “You and your people have been warned, Telemachus.”
With that, Lord Mayor Morton raised his hand. The knights followed his command, and, as a group, Morton and his knights turned and rode away.
Telemachus and his people stared after them, eyes wide with disbelief, until they disappeared over the horizon.
“Well, I don’t know about you all,” Ajax said loudly, looking around at the gathered youths for support. “But I’m not going to stand for this. It’s time we showed our enemies we’re not going to be pushed around anymore!”
Telemachus rested a hand on Ajax’s shoulder. Remaining calm, he said, “Ajax, please don’t. You’ll just make things worse for everyone.”
Ajax scowled but remained silent.
“Okay, what are you all waiting for?” Telemachus shouted at the youngsters. “Everyone, get back to training!”
King Magnus gazed absently out of his carriage’s window. The streets were lined with loyal subjects cheering and thronging and eager to catch sight of their king. They didn’t get a chance to see him very often, as King Magnus didn’t like to go out—the business of running a kingdom left him very little time for such frivolous excursions. King Magnus waved at some of his subjects, but very soon the roar of the crowd faded into background noise as he became lost in his own thoughts; he had heavier things weighing on his mind than to pay attention to the adoring crowd.
Suddenly King Magnus felt a gust of air blow across his face. He looked up in shock as an arrow imbedded itself in the polished wood of his carriage—mere inches above his head.
“What on earth?” King Magnus yelled out. Trembling with both fear and rage, he looked with disgust at his guards; they were frozen to the spot with confused looks on their faces. “What are you waiting for?” the king demanded. “Get me the person who fired this arrow!”
Snapped from their torpor, two guards jumped down from the carriage and forced their way through the crowd. As they did so, four mounted knights galloped off in opposite directions. They were merely going through the motions, though. They knew it was a futile endeavor since no one had a clue who—or what—they were looking for.
Needless to say, neither the guards nor the knights caught anyone, and they were forced to return to advise the king that his would-be assassin had gotten away.
“Here we go again.” Telemachus sighed as he watched the mounted knights once more riding toward his village.
Cassandra looked around at her classmates. Last time, they’d been frightened to see the knights invading their village. This time, however, it was different. There were no brows furrowed with worry, no anxious looks. Instead, each one of the youths looked determined, resolute, and adamant. In fact, their sense of irritation at this discourteous intrusion was quite tangible.
Telemachus walked over to meet the knights. This time, Morton had a distinguished gentleman riding next to him, whose horse was a dark chestnut color. He wore armor with no helmet, his face was stubbly, and he had dark, piercing eyes.
“Telemachus, this is Sheriff Lyndon,” Morton said. He gestured toward the man by means of an introduction.
“Welcome to our land, Sheriff,” Telemachus greeted. “What can I do to help you?”
“Enough with the pleasantries.” The sheriff’s voice was gruff and curt. “We’re here because you sent that young rogue of yours to assassinate our king.”
Telemachus raised his eyebrow. The sheriff stared accusingly into Telemachus’ eyes, and the pack leader held his gaze. “What are you talking about?” Telemachus demanded. “Our people wish no harm on the king. We’re grateful that His Majesty has given us this land to live on.” Telemachus stroked his beard. “I know nothing about anyone trying to kill the king. And what young rogue are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about that scoundrel Ajax,” the sheriff snapped. “He’s been causing trouble amongst my people ever since you arrived here.”
“You think Ajax tried to kill the king?” Telemachus looked quite incredulous at the notion. “My friends, if this is what you believe to be true, then you’re surely mistaken.”
“How can you be so sure?” the sheriff asked.
“Because if Ajax had tried to kill the king, the king would be dead.” Telemachus was quite matter-of-fact. “Now, would you care to explain to me what happened?”
The sheriff’s dark eyes studied Telemachus with suspicion. “Someone shot an arrow at the king while he was travelling in a parade. I can’t think of anyone else who would want to kill our king—only your people have a motive. You were most displeased when Lord Mayor Morton delivered the king’s conditions.”
Telemachus gave a sigh of relief. “Now I know it couldn’t have been one of us,” he told the sheriff. “My people do not use the bow and arrow.” The sheriff looked dubious, to say the least. “I challenge you to give me a time when you’ve seen any of our people with a bow and arrow,” Telemachus continued. “In fact, you have my permission to search our village if you so desire. Using the bow and arrow is just not our way.”
Confusion furrowed the sheriff’s brow. “Very well.” He shrugged. “We’ll leave it be for the moment. But this is not the end, Telemachus. If you’re lying to me . . . I’ll be back.”
“Oh, I’m counting on that!” Telemachus forced a smile.
Cassandra watched intently as Morton, the sheriff, and the knights rode away. The whole encounter left her with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Nestor pushed his way through the students and joined Telemachus’ side.
“This could mean trouble, old friend,” Telemachus told his giant confidant as his eyes stared vacantly into the distance. “Maybe it’s going to start all over again. If the sheriff is going to be investigating us, maybe we need to get some help.”
Chapter 15
Jonathon sat at his desk and worked diligently by candlelight.
After eight years of university studies and eleven years of practice as a litigation lawyer, the courtroom was all Jonathon knew, and the constant contention had worn away at him. Jonathon had just returned to his chambers after a brutal day in a particularly ugly commercial dispute, and he felt . . . dirty.
Jonathon was sick of his enemies latching on to every mistake he made and taking advantage of his every imperfect word. He was sick of pursuing his clients’ agendas without mercy, and he was sick of taking pleasure when the judge chewed out the other side’s lawyer—he was equally sick of watching his opponent gloat when it was his turn to be chewed out. Jonathon had once thought lawyers were meant to be peacemakers, but instead he felt tainted, petty, and contentious.
Maybe I’m just tired, Jonathon thought to himself. He’d retired to bed at one o’clock in the morning only to get up again three short, restless hours later to prepare for court. Such was a litigator’s life.
The other day, he’d been working through the night at home when he’d heard small footsteps behind him.
“Father, why are you up so early?” his seven-year-old daughter had asked—she’d not realized he hadn’t actually been to bed yet.
Jonathon sighed. He often daydreamed of leaving it all behind. But if I’m not a litigation lawyer, what else can I do? he wondered. This was, indeed, all that he knew; there really wasn’t any other option but to go to court again tomorrow and go through the whole wretched process again.
Maybe he needed a holiday? Maybe he needed to spend time with family and good friends to remember a simpler, more carefree time in his life. All of that would have to wait, Jonathon knew with bitterness, for right now there was plenty of work to do.
Jonathon was drowning in thoughts of happier times when he heard his door open. He looked up from his desk and saw a tall, wild-looking man with long hair and a scraggly beard standing in his doorway.
“Come in.” Jonathon beckoned the man to enter his cramped chambers. “Please, have a seat. How can I help you?”
Telemachus took the seat. “I think I might need a lawyer,” he said.
Morton looked around with disdain at his guests. Conrad was there, eating a candied fruit, and the sheriff was eating cheese while talking to Conrad’s wife. There were barons and baronesses, dukes and duchesses, council members, courtiers, wealthy traders, and the court physician and his wife—in total, there were around a hundred guests to feed. The king wasn’t there, of course, but that was to be expected. While Morton had invited him out of courtesy and respect, the king wouldn’t lower himself to go to the lord mayor’s feast. It was the king’s place to bid others to his feasts, and not to be bidden to those of his subjects. Everyone had enjoyed feasting upon Morton’s fine roasts, and now they were delighting in his tarts, pastries, and pies.
Now was a perfect time to make his speech, his guests in a full, satisfied state. Morton stood up. “I would like to thank you all for coming tonight. I have just a few things to say.” He raised his voice above the chatter. “However, I would first like to invite everyone present to join me in a toast to His Majesty, King Magnus.”
Everyone stood to join Morton as he took a long sip from his chalice. Suddenly, he pulled a sour face. “This wine tastes terrible!” he exclaimed. Shrugging it off as nothing more than a spoiled cask, Morton invited his guests to be seated. Then, all of a sudden, he began choking and spluttering.
Morton’s guests sat there, frozen with shock, as Morton grasped his throat with one hand and reached out to them with the other. Morton’s wife, Cordelia, ran toward him, screaming hysterically. She was followed closely by the court physician, who strode swiftly across the floor with a professional, calm demeanor. Before they got to him, Morton had collapsed to the floor and was convulsing violently.
Within seconds, Morton stopped moving. The court physician tried his best to revive the mayor, but nothing could be done.
Sheriff Lyndon stood there for a moment, struck motionless with disbelief. This can’t be happening! his mind screamed out. Our lord mayor can’t possibly be dead! The sheriff was furious; who could possibly have the audacity to murder the lord mayor in his own home—at his own feast? He nudged his wife. “I bet it’s Telemachus’ people,” he whispered with fierceness, “they’re getting their revenge on us for the conditions we imposed on them.”
An evil smile crossed Conrad’s greasy lips as he listened to the sheriff’s accusation.
Chapter 16
An angry, murmuring crowd filled the town hall. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, many of them were already drunk. Sheriff Lyndon was feeling the same sense of outrage as the unruly, indignant crowd. He stood up and waited for the crowd to quiet down before he spoke.
“I’m running today’s meeting instead of the lord mayor,” the sheriff began, “and that is because Lord Mayor Morton is dead.” Sheriff Lyndon paused for effect and gazed angrily about the room. “He was poisoned in his own home! Murdered by those beastly werewolves that are a blight upon our fair land!”
A bearded man with piercing, blue eyes and a deep, ugly scar running down his cheek spoke up. “We have no proof it was our neighbors who murdered the lord mayor,” he said. “It could have been anyone.”
Red Riding Hood jumped to her feet in an instant. The room fell quiet. “Oh, wake up, will you?” she spat at the man. “Who else could it have been? Who else in our kingdom holds a grudge against the lord mayor? We gave these people a chance, and look what’s happened!” Red Riding Hood then turned to address the entire crowd. “Even if you’re not convinced the werewolves murdered Lord Mayor Morton, you have to listen to all the other stories. Our sheep and cattle have gone missing—destroyed by wolves—and our crops are failing. Traders are staying away from the markets in droves, the rains have dried up, and our children are falling ill. It’s clear that God Himself is punishing us for allowing such abominations in this land!”
“No, this is wrong,” the bearded man interjected. “We have no proof they are responsible for any of this.”
Red Riding Hood rolled her eyes in frustration. “So, we should just let our people continue to suffer until we have proof?” she said with a condescending sneer. “We need to take action—and take it now!”
The crowd murmured its approval. An elderly man with rotting, yellowed teeth called out, “I heard the wolves are planning to attack us and take over our kingdom!”
“That’s just a rumor.” The bearded man cut him down. “Do you really want to go to war based on nothing more than unfounded rumors?”
The sheriff shot the bearded man a vicious look. “I’ve had about enough from you bleeding-heart wolf-lovers,” he growled with characteristic sternness. “Rest assured, I’m prepared to act on rumors if doing so will keep my people safe.” He paused for effect—and to give the crowd time to quiet down. “Now, here’s my plan: our soldiers are going to spend time in the wolves’ village. They’ll keep a close eye on things, and they’re going to stop any trouble before it begins. We’re going to show those werewolves who’s the boss around here!”
The roar of approval from the drunken crowd was almost deafening.
Cassandra, Ajax, and Castor roamed aimlessly around the outskirts of the village on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Castor had brought along a pigskin ball from his home.
> “My turn! My turn!” Cassandra called out with childish eagerness as Castor held aloft the ball. He threw it a long way down the path for Cassandra to chase.
In her haste, Cassandra skidded over the gravel and almost lost her footing. She leaped through the air, caught the ball in her hand, dropped to a roll on the grass, and then sprang to her feet. “I’ve got it!” she called over to her friends. “Who wants to fetch it next?”
Cassandra stopped dead in her tracks when she spied three soldiers on the path ahead. The hairs stood up on her nape as she saw they were covered, head to toe, in chainmail and appeared to be armed and ready for battle. Two of the soldiers were equipped with pikes and shields, and the third clutched a two-handed axe. Cassandra avoided eye contact with the soldiers in the hope they’d simply march on by and leave her alone.
Castor noticed Cassandra’s fearful glance and followed her gaze. Seeing the approaching soldiers, he set off along the path toward her, Ajax hot on his heels.
Cassandra lowered her voice to a nervous whisper as Castor caught up to her. “What are soldiers doing at our village?” Her heart stopped as she observed how the soldiers’ weapons gleamed ominously in the sun.
“Let’s get out of here before they come this way,” Castor whispered. He grabbed Cassandra’s arm and tried to steer her in the opposite direction.
But it was too late to avoid the soldiers. They made their way over to Cassandra, Castor, and Ajax with huge, aggressive strides, arms swinging stiffly by their sides. Cassandra saw, even from a distance, that the soldier with the two-handed axe had a cruel, hard expression set on his face. The man clenched his weapon so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he stepped with menace toward Cassandra, his eyes glinting with pure hatred.
