Night of the Wolf

by Sean Kikkert

  “He has a broken arm and broken collar bone, but he’s going to be just fine,” Hermes reassured Castor’s friends. “Thankfully, there’s no permanent damage.”

  “No need to worry about me. . . . I’ll be okay.” Castor was doing his best to sound brave. “You don’t look so great yourself,” he added as he studied Cassandra’s swollen face. “How’s your head?”

  Cassandra shrugged. “I’ll live,” she told him. “I’m more concerned about you.” She gently touched his cheek with her fingertips.

  Cassandra and Ajax spoke with Castor about nothing in particular. After a short while, Cassandra noticed that Castor appeared to be having trouble talking. It seemed to her that every word was painful for him.

  “Come on, Ajax, let’s go,” she said as she made to leave. “It’s probably best if we let Castor get some rest now.”

  Although he was reluctant to leave his friend, Ajax agreed and followed Cassandra from Castor’s bedchamber.

  “I can’t believe it,” King Magnus told Queen Ailsa, who was brushing her teeth with rough linen before going to bed. The king had suffered a strenuous day and was happy to get to his bedchamber to confide in his lovely wife. “The rumors are true,” he continued. “Those people actually are werewolves! Three of my soldiers swear some of their teenagers turned into wolves before their very eyes—and then attacked them! And to think they had us all tricked into thinking that they were just ordinary farmers. What am I supposed to do now?”

  Queen Ailsa’s eyes opened wide in surprise. She’d thought werewolves were just something for uneducated, ignorant people to believe in.

  As she lay down in her luxurious four-poster bed, she fell asleep with her husband’s words ringing through her ears and once again was haunted by dreams of wolves. Once more she found herself on that lonely forest path. She was all alone in the dark, and the night grew damp and heavy with her dread. She shuddered as she waited fearfully for those sinister, red eyes to reappear, just as they had in her last dream. . . .

  Sure enough, one set of eyes began to glow in the darkness. And then another . . . and then she was surrounded by a myriad of red, glowing eyes, which stared right through her. Instead of waking up with a piercing scream as she had the last time, the queen’s dream continued.

  Slowly, faces began to appear. They were wolf faces, but Ailsa felt like she knew each and every one.

  They appeared to be full of human expression and emotion. As Ailsa studied the faces, she could read their hopes, dreams, and ambitions, as well as their pain and pleasures.

  As she looked into the eyes of one wolf, Ailsa could tell they belonged to a young woman just like her. Ailsa didn’t know how she knew, but she knew that the wolf liked to take solitary walks in the forest and that it liked a little excitement in her life—just as she did.

  The queen woke up with a start. “They’re just like us,” she blurted out to her husband without thinking.

  He sat up in bed and stared wide-eyed at her.

  “They are not out to destroy us. They are ordinary people who just happen to turn into wolves,” she told her husband. “Please,” she pleaded with him, “Just leave them be and let them live in peace.”

  Cassandra spent the evening home alone with Harmonia. Telemachus had called all the adults to a council meeting; he feared war was coming, and he wanted to garner the pack’s opinion on whether they should stay or leave.

  Cassandra lay on the rug by the fireplace, happy to be able to relax her mind for a while. She’d attempted to read some freeform poetry under the flickering light of the oil lamp, but she really hadn’t been able to concentrate. She was still deeply troubled by what had happened to Castor but was so grateful to Ajax for stepping up before those awful soldiers had the chance to kill him.

  It had been a profound shock for Cassandra to think of how close her good friend had come to being murdered; she couldn’t bear the thought of something terrible happening to Castor the way it had to her father. The thought made Cassandra wish she’d done more to let her father know how much she loved him when he was still alive. She regretted every harsh word that she’d ever said to him and every single argument that they’d had. If she’d known then he’d be torn from her life in such a heart-breaking way, Cassandra would have done so many things differently. Right now, she would give anything to turn back the clock and tell her father, just one more time, that she loved him and to ask if she’d ever done enough to make him proud of her.

  She was drawn away from her melancholic thoughts by a massive crash outside. She hurried to the door and saw a flash of something bright in the moonlight.

  Without thinking, Cassandra ran outside. There, she saw a figure skulking in the darkness. Her heart began to beat faster as the night—so beautiful just a moment ago—became heavy with dread. Cassandra stared at the figure, trying her best to make out who it could possibly be.

  Dark clouds drifted across the moon to block out the cold, silvery light and prevent Cassandra from getting a clear look at the mysterious figure. However, she did notice that, whoever it was, they were staring directly at her. He—or she—held something undiscernible in their hand.

  And there, scrawled upon the fence, were large, crimson letters. Was that paint? Or was it blood? Cassandra studied the untidy straggle of words, which simply said: You need to leave . . . or die!

  The figure sprinted away.

  Cassandra jumped high into the air as fur burst out through her skin. Her muscles knotted and lengthened, her bones shifted and formed, and then Cassandra was a wolf in hot pursuit of her quarry.

  Cassandra relished the heady rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins with the thrill of the chase. A combination of fury and excitement drove her along, and she was getting closer—close enough to hear her prey’s wheezing, struggling gasps for air. Cassandra lunged at the fleeing figure, but her keen claws only managed to touch thin air.

  Her heart dropped, however, as the person disappeared into a thick tangle of undergrowth. Cassandra hesitated for a moment. The vegetation was overgrown and wild, and she knew she would struggle to force her way through it. Nonetheless, Cassandra braced herself and pushed her way in.

  Cassandra questioned her own judgment as soon as she stepped into the thicket. The scrub was becoming denser with every step she took; sharp thorns and clinging vines grabbed at her fur and threatened to hold her fast within their verdant grasp. Cassandra soon found herself immersed in dense, sharp branches, and it was almost impossible to make out what lay in front of her as she pushed and pulled and heaved her way through.

  A sharp pain shot through her face as she walked into a branch she hadn’t seen. A raw cut opened up underneath her eye, and the warm trickle of blood soaked into the soft fur of her snout. She tried to edge away, but yet another spiked branch dug into her foreleg. Cassandra grimaced in pain; although she couldn’t see her injury, she felt the sticky wetness of blood.

  Her face and leg were throbbing now. She glanced around, but her quarry was nowhere in sight. Cassandra admonished herself for being foolish enough to try and follow them through this impenetrable part of the forest; there was no doubt that whoever it was would be far away by now—they clearly knew the place far better than she.

  Cassandra’s forehead was wet with moisture from the dank leaves, and her heart still pounded hard from her run. Struggling to catch her breath, she turned around to retrace her steps out of the thicket.

  Suddenly, Cassandra got a bad feeling. An icy chill ran along her back, prickling the dense fur. Could this be a trap? If so, she’d run straight into it without even thinking. Terrified by the notion, Cassandra froze for a moment. She swallowed hard.

  As if in slow motion, there came a bright flash of yellow flame, followed by the shrill whistle of something solid being hurled through the air. A terrified yelp escaped Cassandra’s t
hroat as something snapped by her ears—so close it ruffled her damp, bloodied fur. Cassandra sheltered her head against her shoulder as the projectile smashed against the tree directly in front of her face. The shattering of glass filled the night’s silence, and twinkling shards flew in all directions. Finally yanking herself free of the clawing undergrowth, Cassandra staggered back and sprawled in the dirt—just as the forest in front of her burst into red and orange flames.

  Chapter 19

  Cassandra lay on the ground and whimpered as the flames spread closer and closer toward her. The smoke stung her eyes and stifled her lungs as the menacing wave of heat brushed against her body. The bushes burned brightly now, and there came the sharp sound of snapping twigs as Cassandra’s unseen, erstwhile prey forced their way out of the undergrowth. Cassandra willed her legs to pick her up and flee, but they refused to obey.

  The breaking of branches once more filled the night air, a sound distinct from the hot crackle of the burning forest. The noise came closer, closer still. . . .

  Harmonia broke through the bushes, her top soaked with sweat. Harmonia’s young forehead wrinkled with concern as she saw her sister’s predicament.

  Cassandra continued to stare blankly at the flames as if they carried some hypnotic power; she barely noticed her little sister. Harmonia looked over at the burning shrubs, then back at Cassandra’s blood-smeared fur.

  “Are you okay, Cassandra?” Harmonia’s voice trembled with worry. “What on earth happened to you?”

  Cassandra could only manage a whimper.

  The little girl put her arms reassuringly around her sister. “Come on,” she coaxed, “let’s get you out of here before we both catch fire.”

  Heart still thumping hard in her chest, Cassandra fought to hold back the tears as, tenderly, Harmonia led her away. Holding on to one another for dear life, the two lurched their way to safety.

  Telemachus sat on his front porch when he heard the unmistakably rhythmic stamp of marching feet. He and his people had been expecting this; although Telemachus had released the three soldiers, he’d known in his heart that the gesture would do little to placate the sheriff.

  He’d called a town meeting with the adults to vote on whether the werewolves should pack up and leave or stay. Telemachus was more than willing to leave if it would save the lives of his people. However, two-thirds had voted to stay and protect their homes and families. Those who lost the vote had committed to stand with their brethren. Telemachus was touched by his pack’s courage.

  Therefore, it was of no surprise when fifty soldiers arrived in the village armed to the teeth with swords, pikes, and axes. Unlike on their previous visits, this time the soldiers were met by the men of the village with angry faces and tensed muscles—and wolves with bared teeth. As the soldiers marched up to Telemachus, Nestor stepped forward with his face twisted in menace. Nestor glared at the soldier closest to him, who nervously returned a wide-eyed stare.

  A gruff-looking captain with slicked-back, black hair gave a hand signal. In an instant, ten soldiers with hard faces and serious expressions rushed forward to surround Nestor. The captain then turned to Telemachus. “Tell your men to stand down!” he barked. “You’re under arrest.”

  Telemachus sighed. “It’s all right, Nestor.” Determined not to incite violence, he kept his voice calm and gentle. “Stand down. That goes for everyone else as well. I’ll go peacefully with these men.”

  Nestor, all tensed up and ready to fight, looked at Telemachus with hesitation. Their eyes met, and grudgingly, Nestor backed away. The soldiers then moved forward and bound Telemachus with thick, heavy rope. As his people looked sadly on, Telemachus was dragged away.

  After the long, tiring march to the city, Telemachus was thrown in a mangy, dank jail cell. There was no bed, only hay on the floor, and a solitary light came from a small barred window just beneath the low ceiling. Telemachus was weary and anxious to rest.

  “How about some food?” he asked one of the soldiers. “I’ve been marching all day.”

  “Sorry,” the grumpy, overweight soldier replied. “I haven’t been ordered to give you any.”

  Telemachus lay down on the prickly hay and hoped that someone would eventually bring him something to eat. But the sun set and rose, and still Telemachus wasn’t given so much as a crust of bread.

  Eventually, five soldiers armed with swords and spiked clubs burst into his cell. “We’re here to take you to your trial,” one of them announced. “I hope you’ll come with us quietly—we’d hate to have to hurt you.”

  Telemachus nodded his compliance and followed the men.

  Cassandra sat beside Ajax at the back of the courtroom; it was wooden and sterile, and Cassandra felt as if the room were sucking out her personality. Her mother and sister were behind her, and she saw a few other pack members scattered around the room—including Nestor. Apart from that, the crowd looked pretty hostile toward Telemachus.

  Cassandra watched as the doors swung open. Telemachus was duly marched in, flanked by four mean-looking guards with pikes. He didn’t look at all well; his hair was tangled and matted, and he seemed dispirited, broken, even. Cassandra realized how hard it must have been for Telemachus to be separated from his beloved pack.

  “Let’s hang that rabid dog!” an old man with a straggly, gray beard yelled out. Another rough-looking man hawked and spat at Telemachus as he was led by. The spit missed its target and landed on the guard’s chainmail armor. The guard was not impressed, and with a grunt of disgust, he backhanded the man with his gauntlet. The man yelped loudly and rubbed at the side of his face.

  As the guards shoved Telemachus toward the dock, he almost lost his footing and stumbled into the crowd. With another push, the pack leader was finally inside the dock—the trial could begin. Telemachus looked bewildered, but his countenance lit up once Jonathon made his way toward him. The lawyer shook Telemachus’ hand and whispered something in his ear.

  Three harsh knocks resounded through the courtroom. A handsome young man with short, spiky hair and dark, blood-shot eyes yelled out, “Silence in court! All rise!”

  The back door of the court swung open. The room hushed, and everyone stood as a middle-aged man with gray hair and a long red robe strode in.

  The crowd bowed to the judge and was seated. Cassandra, who had never been in a courtroom before, just copied everyone else.

  “The matter of Telemachus against His Majesty, King Magnus,” the young man proclaimed.

  Jonathon stood up. “May it please the court,” he said, “I appear for—and with—the accused.”

  “Thank you, Counselor,” the judge replied. “Telemachus, you have been charged with treason, murder, attempted murder, assaulting the king’s soldiers, and kidnapping. How do you plead?”

  Telemachus stood up. “I plead not guilty, Your Honor.”

  The judge nodded. “Very well, then. Counselor, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

  The city folk glared at Jonathon with disgust as he began.

  “Your Honor, I don’t even know why we are here today. While we do know that someone fired an arrow at His Majesty the King, and we do know someone poisoned Lord Mayor Morton—there is no evidence connecting either of these crimes to Telemachus. Furthermore, Telemachus’ own people were victims of the sheriff’s soldiers’ assault.” He paused briefly for effect. “The soldiers beat and attempted to kill three teenagers from the village. Telemachus wasn’t even there at the time, but when he did find out what transpired, he imprisoned the soldiers—as was his right. He made no attempts to hide this from anyone. In fact, he told the sheriff personally the actions he’d taken to protect his people and fully explained the reasons why.”

  Jonathon looked the judge squarely in the eye. “When the sheriff objected to the imprisonment of his soldiers, Telemachus immediately released the
m. He has committed no crime, Your Honor—and anyone saying otherwise is committing a blatant and scandalous falsehood.” With a dramatic flourish, Jonathon sat himself down.

  It was then the turn of the cynical-looking prosecutor to fire questions at Telemachus. “So, someone tried to assassinate the king,” he opened, “and someone poisoned the lord mayor.” He looked accusingly at Telemachus. “Do you really expect this court to believe you know nothing about either of these attacks?” Sarcasm dripped from his every word as he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Telemachus replied, “that’s exactly what I expect the court to believe—because it’s true.”

  However, Telemachus’ simple denial didn’t cut it. The prosecutor kept heaping on accusation after accusation, and Telemachus became more and more agitated in the face of the man’s unfounded allegations.

  “Look, my people never use arrows,” the pack leader protested. “And I actually liked the lord mayor. I didn’t believe in your conditions, but I feel that the lord mayor’s heart wasn’t in them. I was smart enough to know things would get worse for us if anything happened to him. So, don’t accuse us of murder!” he snapped.

  “Calm down, Telemachus,” Jonathon mouthed, as the pack leader’s voice grew sharper. Telemachus fell silent.

  Across the courtroom, Cassandra worried that Telemachus was letting his emotions get the better of him—she knew all too well the implications of that happening. She glanced at Ajax, who was resting his chin on his hand with a plainly bored expression on his face.

  Telemachus sighed as the relentless questions continued: “Where were you when someone attempted to assassinate the king? Where were you when Lord Mayor Morton was murdered? Where were you on the morning of that attack? You didn’t want to live under the king’s rule, did you?”