by Andre Norton
After a last look around he went out into the hall and down the stairs, with the Baron always the regulation two steps behind him. The General and the Count were both struggling into overcoats, and they seemed to be having some sort of an argument with the Colonel.
“My friend, I tell you again that there were no orders for you to accompany us, and without orders you may not.”
Michael Karl felt that that announcement deserved some sort of recognition in the form of a cheer. Without the Colonel the expedition began to appear somewhat like a pleasant vacation. He even felt friendly towards the General.
So with no tears or other conventional signs of grief Michael Karl bade good-by to his guardian and climbed into the waiting car. He wasn't going to worry about the future, he decided, and immediately began wondering where Morvania was and how long it would be before he could slip away.
He was squeezed between the fat General and the thin Count on the back seat of the car while his silent aide-de-camp perched precariously on the tiny seat before them. They swept down the drive and out between the gates. The only thing Michael Karl regretted leaving was the Duchess, and he promised himself that he would come back and get her as soon as he was free.
As they rounded the slope of the hill the driver, being extra cautious (probably because of his precious freight, thought Michael Karl), slowed down. A small crowd of khaki-clothed boys were busy with red and white flags, signaling, Michael Karl guessed. He wished that he could get out and astonish the scoutmaster with his news. But the car swept on.
“These Boy Scouts, they are everywhere,” observed the General.
“Your Royal Highness is the Commander-in-chief of the Morvanian Boy Scouts,” his aide-decamp informed him, and was frowned upon by the General who was just about to say the same thing.
Michael Karl couldn't think of anything to say except, “How interesting,” which seemed rather flat.
Then a certain curiosity prompted him to ask, “What else am I?”
“Your Royal Highness is the Colonel of the Prince's Own, of the Red Hussars, of the Mounted Rifles, Commander-in-chief of the Air Force, Military Governor of Rein, Commander of the Fortress of St. Sebastian, Grand Master of the Order of St. Sebastian, Companion of the Order of the Crown, Hereditary Knight of the Palace, Champion of the King, Wearer of the Sword of St. Michael, Duke of Casonva, Baron of Urnt, Count of Kelive, Knight of Klam—”
“All that,” murmured Michael Karl, slightly dazed.
“There is more, Your Royal Highness,” said the General, eager to continue.
“That will be enough,” said Michael Karl, firmly.
Chapter II
The Border and — Morvania
“If it snows,” warned His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Michael Karl of Morvania, in a firm voice, “I shall probably yell,” he considered this statement a moment and then added, “loudly.”
His aide-de-camp murmured politely. Michael Karl look no notice of him, for he had become used to taking no notice of his everpresent aide-decamp, a nice but exceedingly dull young man.
“Yes,” Michael Karl continued, “I shall yell if I have to conceal this,” with a sweep of his hand he indicated the splendor of the gold-laced sable tunic and well-cut riding breeches which happened to be adorning his royal person, “with that!” His Royal Highness pushed away a long cloak with a gesture of loathing. He had longed for a good American overcoat for days; these cloaks were very apt to trip the uninitiated wearer if he weren't careful.
Michael Karl leaned his forehead against the cool window pane of the Royal coach trying to see if the threatened snow was yet in sight. He was an unwilling inmate of the Royal Train bound for
Morvania, and he had not yet escaped.
For one thing he had never been alone long enough even to leave a room, the aide-de-camp had seen to that. Princes, Michael Karl had discovered, had just about as much private life as an alligator on exhibition in an animal store window. And every mile that he drew nearer to the border of his kingdom his chances lessened. Short of sandbagging his attendant and committing suicide by leaping out of the train, which seemed to spend all its time wandering around on the edge of the most appalling cliffs, he didn't see how he was going to ever get free.
“How long is this going to last?” he demanded suddenly.
Baron von Urdlemann came to attention correctly, an annoying habit of his which would never allow Michael Karl to forget that he, Michael Karl, was a prince, and answered:
“We will reach Your Royal Highness's capital of Rein before midnight. The halfway station is a two hours’ journey from here.”
“The halfway station?”
“The train is forced to add another engine before it ascends the long pass, Your Royal Highness. We shall stop there about ten minutes, and the escort train will be there to greet us. A company of Your Royal Highness's own regiment has been given that honor.”
“Oh!” said Michael Karl blankly. A company of his own regiment, that meant speeches and things. He shuddered slightly. Would he ever forget what had happened at the Morvanian embassy in Paris when he had been bullied into making a speech? And Berlin, but he preferred not to think about what had happened in Berlin.
London had been easier. Michael Karl sighed; he had always wanted to see London, but now all he could remember of it was a suite of rather dingy hotel rooms and a long thin man who came to whisper with Count Kafner.
He leaned back in the red velvet-covered seat, and his elbow came into sharp contact with something he had carefully tucked behind him at Count Kafner's last entrance. The Count had turned out to be a snooper of the worst sort, and Michael Karl didn't trust him even when he could see him.
Michael Karl glanced cautiously at the Baron, but that gentleman had apparently sunk back into the solemn day-dream which occupied him whenever his royal master didn't require his attention. From behind him Michael Karl drew out the Kipling book which had shared all his amazing adventures.
The publishers had been exceedingly generous with this volume. There were four blank pages in the front and eight at the back, all of which Michael Karl was using to a very good advantage. With pen or pencil, whichever he could find at the moment, he was putting down all he could learn, or overhear, or think about this country of his and the people in it. Neither the Count nor the General would have been flattered at their pen portraits in Michael Karl's book.
Michael Karl found the pencil he had secreted in the top of his trim boot and thoughtfully made an entry concerning the halfway station. One never could tell when such information might become useful.
A sentence concerning the General's table manners caught his eye and he chuckled. Some one rapped on the compartment door, and he thrust the book out of sight guiltily. The aide-de-camp jumped to open the door. He always moved with the wooden exactness of well-oiled machinery.
Count Kafner rustled in, and Michael Karl sighed wearily. Of all his enforced companions, he liked the Count the least. The man was just like a mummy out of a museum.
“Your Royal Highness,” began the Count with a heel-clicking bow. His long yellow fingers were fiddling with a purple velvet jewel case.
“Your Royal Highness,” he began again, rather dashed at the coolness of his reception. Evidently His Royal Highness was supposed to play up to him.
“Yes?” Michael Karl encouraged him none too heartily.
“These,” Count Kafner held the jewel case one inch nearer. “Your Royal Highness should assume these now. It will be necessary to wear them when appearing before the officers who will greet Your Royal Highness at the halfway station.”
He snapped open the case and held out for Michael Karl's somewhat awed inspection the two most wonderful jewels he had ever seen. A crown of gold studded with rubies lay on a bed of scarlet ribbon while above it on the black satin lining of the case rested a cross formed by two broad silver arrows set in diamonds which, in the light. sparkled and flashed like one great stone.
The Coun
t handed the case to the Baron and lifted out the crown with his dry unpleasant fingers.
“If Your Royal Highness will arise and allow me to adjust it,” he suggested.
Michael Karl stumbled to his feet. He was supposed to wear those—those wonders!
“This is the Order of the Crown, Your Royal Highness. The ribbon goes across the shoulder—so.” The Count pulled the scarlet ribbon over Michael Karl's right shoulder and fastened it in some mysterious way under his left arm so that the crown shone with magnificent dullness from the tangled gold cords which crossed the breast of his black tunic.
“And this, Your Royal Highness, is the Grand Cross of the Order of St. Sebastian. If I may slip this over Your Royal Highness's head—” Michael Karl bent his head and the cross slid down to join the crown.
The Count took the empty case from the Baron and bowed stiffly.
“I thank Your Royal Highness,” he rasped in his dry voice and bowed himself back into the corridor. Michael Karl shrank back into his seat. Thinking of the thousands of dollars which must be hanging about him now, he shivered slightly. He was not a coward, but a gunman, right now, was the last thing he would like to meet.
“Are there any bandits in Morvania?” he asked even before he thought.
The Baron started and looked at Michael Karl queerly.
“There is one,” he said slowly. “He has his headquarters somewhere in these mountains.”
“Who is he?”
“They call him Black Stefan but the peasants have an uglier name for him—Werewolf. He is supposed to be a man by day and a wolf by night and his followers are reported to have been recruited from the graveyards.”
“Pleasant.”
“Yes. He is the only bandit who has successfully defied the government. Why, just last month he raided a government outpost in the mountains. The peasants report that he hates the government bitterly, has some sort of grudge against all Morvanians of the ruling class. We have never been able to find his headquarters, he is too well served. No peasant or mountaineer would betray the Werewolf.”
“D'you know, Baron, I'm beginning to enjoy this trip. Any chance of our meeting this Werewolf?”
For the first time since Michael Karl had met him the Baron showed emotion. “I hope not, Your Royal Highness!”
“Then you believe there is some chance?” demanded Michael Karl, his eyes alight.
“The halfway station is the danger point, Your Royal Highness. If the escort train should be delayed—”
“Let's hope that it will be,” said Michael Karl surprisingly.
Baron von Urdlemann stared at him uncertainly. Michael Karl had a queer sense of humor, but then again he might really have meant that mad wish. Puzzled, the aide-de-camp made no answer. This American Prince often bewildered him.
Meanwhile Michael Karl was staring out at the distant snow-capped mountains. So there was a Werewolf bandit “in them than hills,” one who successfully defied the government and hated the nobles. Probably a sort of up-to-date Robin Hood. On any count Black Stefan was a chap worth meeting. Michael Karl wished with all his might that the Werewolf would have the audacity to hold up the Royal Train. That would be worth being dragged to Morvania for.
And how the Count and the General would enjoy it! If they, and some of the odd specimens he had seen in the embassies, were representatives of the ruling class, no wonder Stefan had no time for it. Michael Karl would gladly pay him to rid the country of them.
A flake of snow struck the window to be followed by another and another. Michael Karl wondered idly what his stiff aide-de-camp would do if he carried out his threat and yelled. But the game wasn't really worth the effort. He felt for his book and scribbled in the presentation of the orders and thought that if they hung much more on him he would look like a Christmas tree.
The train slowed down, and Baron von Urdlemann with a murmured apology went to look out of the other window. Some one knocked, and the General edged his bulging uniform through the narrow door.
“The escort train is late. It will be best if Your Royal Highness remain in the compartment,” he puffed.
Michael Karl nodded curtly and the General wriggled out again. So the escort train was late? Well, here was Black Stefan's chance to bag one perfectly good Crown Prince and some assorted cabinet members, to say nothing of the Royal Train itself. Too bad the poor chap didn't know about it.
Baron von Urdlemann was edging about restlessly. At last he ventured to offend against etiquette and address Michael Karl without being spoken to.
“I don't like it, Your Royal Highness,” he said nervously. “The escort had very strict orders.”
“You think that this Black Stefan may be going to amuse himself?” asked Michael Karl eagerly.
But the Baron wouldn't answer directly. He made some lagging reply and went over by the door, but Michael Karl caught a glimpse of a revolver. So the Baron did think just that.
Michael Karl made up his mind that here was going to be no “defend the Prince to the death” stuff. He'd knock out the Baron himself first. After all, life as a bandit's prisoner had more appeal than life as the Crown Prince of Morvania and the worst thing the Werewolf could do was to send him on into the arms of his loving subjects, or so Michael Karl thought. He changed his ideas considerably, later that evening.
But if the Prince was going to be a prisoner, and somehow Michael Karl knew he was going to be, that was no reason why the royal jewels should fall into the unwashed hands of some border ruffian. They belonged to no private individual but to the state.
He carefully unfastened the ribbon of the crown and let the whole thing slide into his hand. Where could it be put that a none too careful searcher would miss it?
High on the wall was the ventilator which led to the neighboring compartment. Michael Karl stepped onto the seat and found that by stretching he could just reach the edge. He let the Crown slide into the opening and fastened the ribbon to a hook which had once held a screen across the mouth. If the bandits didn't have much time for a search, the Crown was safe.
“Why are you doing that, Your Royal Highness?”
“Just playing safe, Baron. The jewels are my responsibility and—” Michael Karl allowed his explanation to trail off when he saw that the Baron understood.
He groped for the Cross among the gold cords but before he could slip the chain over his head the train stopped. There was no chance to find a hiding place for it now; he'd have to slip it inside his shirt and trust to luck. Michael Karl unhooked the high collar of his tunic and dropped the Cross inside. When its icy smoothness touched his bare throat it made him jump. Here was hoping that the bandits wouldn't search prisoners too closely.
What a thump he'd look if no bandit turned up. It would be just his luck. They sat uneasily in the royal compartment while the traveling clock above the Baron's head ticked off five minutes; it took ten minutes to add the engine. Black Stefan had five minutes’ grace.
A muffled voice from the corridor startled them both. The Baron opened the door and conferred with the visitor in an undertone. Michael Karl caught the words “General” and “First Compartment” evidently the Baron was wanted up front.
“Your Royal Highness, General Oberdamnn desires my attendance at once. It would be better if Your Royal Highness were to remain here,” he said and, hesitating before he hurried away frowning, he added, “This is most unusual. My orders were not to leave Your Royal Highness alone.”
“Go ahead,” urged Michael Karl.
He paced nervously up and down, two minutes, three. He might as well give up, Black Stefan hadn't snapped at the bait. Perhaps he thought there was some sort of a catch in it. What a country. Not one of its inhabitants had any ambition or drive, not even the gunmen.
Turning, he snatched up the hated cloak. At least he could get some fresh air on the platform at the end. The Kipling book caught his eye as he was going out and he took it with him. If he left it, that snooping Count would be sure to find it.<
br />
The platform door was locked but a door leading out onto the track itself was invitingly open. There was no danger in going out, Michael Karl thought bitterly; even Black Stefan had failed him.
The gravel between the rails scraped his shining boots, and the falling snow caught in the fur collar of his cloak and in his uncovered hair. He shivered in the cold damp wind blowing down from the mountains and turned to step back into the train. But Michael Karl was never to enter the Royal Train.
From close by in the forest came an eerie cry followed by a yapping chorus, and out of the trees at the edge of the gravel swept a little band of dark horses attended by a howling pack of what Michael Karl first thought were dogs. And then he saw more clearly—they were wolves!
The riders were an uncanny mixture of wolf and man, masked completely by shaggy gray wolf skins drawn over the upper parts of their bodies. They cantered silently down upon the train in dead quiet except for the excited yelps of their four-footed companions whom they kept in order with long whips.
Black Stefan had come! The wolfmen spread out in a thin line. They did not seem to expect resistance, for the very good reason, as Michael Karl discovered later, that a confederate on the train had neatly disposed of guns and all other things which might mean trouble for them. He had even drawn the Baron away from the Royal Compartment with a faked message.
There were shouts from the engine now; the wolfmen had been discovered. Michael Karl stood like a spectator at a play watching it all as four-footed and two-footed wolves faded into the blackness by the engines.
He stepped farther out to see the better. There was an unpleasant growl, and Michael Karl's arms were seized from behind in a steely grip.
“Will you come quietly?” inquired his unknown captor, surprisingly in English, “or—?”
The “or” was accompanied by a sharp prick between his shoulders.
