by Andre Norton
He was debating whether to take a chance and attempt to ride them down or whether to hunt another exit when he caught a glimpse of one of the long whips, which all the wolfmen carried, hanging by the door. From what he had seen, he knew that the wolves feared the very sight of those whips. Michael Karl pulled it down and fastened its handle thong around his skinned wrist.
Mounting the gray, who was inclined to resent his actions, he pushed aside the sliding door with one hand and was out among the wolves. One crouched and sprang with a growl but Michael Karl swung the whip so that its tip stung the beast, and he fell back into the pack, which drew off sullenly, allowing the gray and his rider into the courtyard.
Michael Karl snapped the whip twice again and then used his spurs. The gray leapt like a hunted thing, trying to get away from the raking spurs of his rider by springing forward and they were out of the courtyard, drumming over a blurred moat bridge and into the forest before Michael Karl realized that he was really free.
Not daring to turn aside for fear of getting lost, he followed the trail downwards in record time. And without warning he dashed headlong upon what he had most wanted to avoid, the wolfmen returning to the Castle.
In the darkness he was upon them and almost through their band before they realized that anything was wrong. Some one snatched at his bridle, but Michael Karl used the wolf whip to good advantage. He saw grasping hands and masked faces under a wavering torch light and then he was through and riding for his life down the valley road.
The gray had gone mad with terror and Michael Karl could no longer control him. What he feared was that they would turn the wolves loose to hunt him down. With a sudden swerve, the gray left the trail and fled into the forest. Michael Karl ducked, riding with his face buried in the gray's rough mane, to escape the low branches which swept his shoulders and once scratched him deeply on the cheek.
They were shooting at him now, though surely in the darkness they couldn't see him. The wolf-men must be aiming at the crashing he made in the bushes. If they were, they were better than good shots. More than one bullet sped by too close for comfort.
With a plunge which left him giddy the gray half-slid, half-leaped down the steep bank of a mountain rivulet and essayed to cross on the stony bottom of the icy stream. It was here they came to grief. The gray stumbled, and Michael Karl shot over his head to land face downward, half in, half out of the numbing water.
The gray threw up his head, regained his feet, and was away before the dazed Michael Karl could make more than a feeble grab at the dangling reins. There was just a chance that the pursuers might follow the riderless horse by the sound of its passing and allow Michael Karl to creep away unseen.
He struggled up the bank and into a tangle of budding willow trees just as the first of the wolf- men appeared on the opposite bank. With a cry the wolfman urged his unwilling horse down the bank and into the stream. He was not alone. Out of the trees behind came several dark riders bunched together. Michael Karl counted them as they splashed across the stream. There were eight.
As he had hoped, they took the trail of the gray, and as long as they didn't bring out the wolves to share the chase he was safe. He waited until all the noise of their passing died away and then crept out of his hiding place.
The last dash of the gray had completely bewildered him. He no longer knew in what direction the road lay or where the Crown Inn was. But all streams must run down the valley and he would be fairly safe in following the river before him.
The water gave him an idea. Somewhere he had read that running water carried away scent and that hunted animals sometimes took to wading along streams to save themselves from dogs. With the fear of the keen-scented wolf pack always in his mind Michael Karl stepped into the swift but shallow water and started down stream.
Far in the distance he could hear shots and cries. Evidently the gray was still aiding him nobly. The chill of the water penetrated his boots and crept up his legs making him long for the royal carriage he had left so blithely hours before.
But he was free. Free from all of them. The General and the Count would think the Werewolf had him, and the Werewolf would think that he was trying to make his way to his supporters in Rein. All he had to do was lie low and he would be free of both of them and, when he got a chance, could slip out of the country and work his way back to America.
There was the obstacle of no passport of course. But he'd find some way to get around that if he had to go to America as a Morvanian immigrant.
The squashiness of his boots began to alarm him, and he waded back to the shore only to discover that walking in water soaked boots is about the most uncomfortable job in the world. It certainly didn't pay to be a prince. Though in justice he would have to admit that he had brought this last adventure on himself.
He had begun to wonder whether this stream ever would lead him any place when he heard a crashing and the stamping of horses alarmingly near. Stepping behind a tree he strained his eyes trying to catch sight of the riders.
A wolfman rode into the clearing not twenty feet away, and directly behind Michael Karl a twig snapped. They were having a drag hunt for him.
Then he did the worst thing he could have done. He lost his head and took to his heels. With a shout the wolfman was after him. Michael Karl sped down the valley hampered by his soaked boots. He was sure that if he could reach the inn he would be safe.
Sobbing for air in his tortured lungs he broke into the open and stumbled on a road running in great ruts towards a light. He had discovered by chance the road to the inn. Riding easily behind him came the wolfmen. Fearing every minute that they would close in, he dared not even glance behind him but panted on.
Chapter IV
In And Out Of The Crown Inn
For some reason his pursuers were holding back, perhaps they were planning to dig him out like a fox gone to ground. Now and then when he was silhouetted against a melting snow-drift one of them would fire, but the shot, perhaps purposely, would go wild. He staggered on around a curve in the road and with a last effort dragged himself into the bushes at the side.
Michael Karl lay face down in the half frozen mud, panting, too tired to care when the wolfmen cantered easily by and left him outside their narrowing circle. The chill in the ground forced him up again and he stumbled on towards the light.
Just as he fell against the stone wall of the inn there was a sharp crack and a chip flaked off the stone beside his weary head. They had seen him again. Exerting every bit of his disappearing strength he pulled himself up and dived head first through an open casement window while a bullet buried itself in the wooden sill above his head.
For a moment he was content to lie with his cheek pressed close to the dusty floor and try to count the many aches which were torturing him. His shoulder, which he had twisted when the gray had thrown him but which he had not felt before, thumped dully.
“Of course, I don't mind visitors,” observed a cool voice, “but the usual entrance is through the door, is it not?”
Michael Karl raised himself on his elbow. A young man with laughing eyes and a gay mouth was smiling down at him, the mad American who was defying the Werewolf by climbing his mountains.
Before Michael Karl could answer there was a tinkle of glass and one of the window panes splintered. The American crossed the room in two strides and slammed a heavy shutter across the window.
“Don't tell me,” he begged, “that this is a revolution?”
Michael Karl sat up gingerly. Finding that his blistered feet would still bear him without complaining too much, he crawled up with the aid of a chair.
“No,” he said, “I hate to disappoint you, but it isn't a revolution, it's a bandit!”
“You're a bandit?” demanded the American eagerly.
Michael Karl shook his head again. “No, our friends with the pop guns. There are eight of them.”
“But,” protested the American, “they followed you right up there. Where are the police?”<
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“That,” said Michael Karl wearily, “is just the point. There are no police. I have been told that the army and the Werewolf are at odds, but so far he's got the best of it. He rules this part of the country.”
The American laughed delightedly. “So he's real, this Werewolf?”
Michael Karl lowered himself into a chair with a groan. “If he isn't,” he answered, “I've been having some mighty bad dreams.”
“But I thought that he just went for the nobility.”
Michael Karl caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face was streaked with mud and blood and the peasant's blouse, which smelt vilely of the stable, was ripped on one shoulder. No wonder the American didn't believe that he was of high rank.
“Though you may not believe it,” replied Michael Karl slowly, “you see before you a late, very late. Captain of the Prince's Own and a Knight of Morvania. Unfortunately I am near enough a noble to interest the Werewolf.”
“You are an American,” his questioner stated rather than asked.
“Yes,” admitted Michael Karl. “And so was the late Crown Prince. This,” he added with some heat, “is what comes of helping your friends. Michael Karl of Morvania was summoned home to rule over this forsaken country and, like a fool, I agreed to come along as his aide-de-camp. If I ever get out of here I shall never even go as far as Atlantic City again. I want to go and settle down in St. Louis and never see the ocean or hear of anything on this side of the water again.”
“What's happened?” demanded the American.
“Everything! We stopped,” continued Michael Karl, “at that confounded halfway station to add another engine, and that fool Michael Karl thought it would be fun to get out and walk. Fun—ye gods! The Werewolf was up and had us before we got off the car steps, and I've been spending the evening in his stronghold.”
“What happened to the Prince?”
“The usual thing, treat him well and hold him for ransom, and I hope it's a good long time before it's paid. He got me into this mess and then he sits up there too scared to try and save himself by sliding down a rope. Well, there he is, and there can he stay until General Oberdamnn comes and gets him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get out of Morvania as fast as I can leg it, after I do a little job in Rein.” Michael Karl felt for the Cross beneath his shirt. He must deliver that to some on in power before he was free.
Something crashed against the door below. The Wolfmen were forcing an entrance. Michael Karl arose painfully to his feet and, catching sight of a dull gleam among the American's scattered papers on the table, lurched over to arm himself with a wicked looking revolver.
The American had tiptoed to the door and was listening.
“It looks,” he informed Michael Karl, “as if we are going to have some fun.”
Michael Karl twisted his sore face into a battered smile.
“It does, doesn't it?” he answered.
And then blackness settled down about him. He swayed and crumpled to the floor.
Then he was warm, warmer than he had been for a long time. Michael Karl opened his eyes. He was lying half buried in a feather bed while the American cut the water-soaked boots off his swollen feel. It was good just to lie and let the waves of warmness beat about his chilled body while some one else struggled with those punishing boots of his.
He sighed with pleasure and the American looked up.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
Michael Karl nodded and then frowned. There was something he must remember, something he must guard.
“There,” the American tossed aside the last bedraggled strip of leather.
“I say, son, what have you been doing to your feet?”
“Walking,” answered Michael Karl dreamily, “walking miles and miles—in the water,” he added.
The American produced a roll of bandage, a couple of bottles and a basin of water.
“Carry a first-aid kit with me,” he explained. “You never know what might turn up.”
“Like a Cro—” began Michael Karl and then changed it hastily to “captain.”
Then he suddenly remembered. “Did they come in?”
The American laughed and shook his head. “I just threatened them with Uncle Sam, and they backed out. They know better than to go fooling around with Americans.”
Michael Karl was puzzled. He didn't believe that the Werewolf would let the Crown Prince go with such little effort to retain him.
“Now, how's that?” The last bandage was fastened.
“Much better, Though they feel like they need a vacation.”
“They're going to get one. You can't walk on those for a couple of days, young man. I wonder if these will fit.” He produced a pair of pajamas amazingly long in sleeve and leg.
“I hardly think so.”
“Well, we can try.”
Before Michael Karl could protest the peasant's blouse was whipped over his head and his torn shirt was all that hid the Cross.
“You look as though you've been in a fight,” commented the American.
“They weren't any too gentle about searching me,” admitted Michael Karl.
The diamond Cross lay heavy. He wished with all his might that he had left it to share the Crown's hiding place in the Royal Train.
“Good Lord, what are you, a walking jewelry store?” The Cross had slipped through a rent in his shirt to catch the American's attention.
Michael Karl laughed wryly. “Just about that. One of my late master's possessions. He had no desire to let it fall into the Werewolf's paws even if he himself did, and as I had been searched and so was safe, I was elected to wear the thing. I'm to take it to Rein and turn it over to some one in authority. The thing's a nuisance.”
He pulled it off and handed it to the American. If he acted the role of frankness it would bolster up his story of being an imposed-upon American aide-de-camp of the Prince.
“I've seen this somewhere before,” his host declared. Michael Karl's eyes narrowed. “I know, it was on display with the Crown jewels at some sort of a benefit. One paid half a gruden and went in to see the Crown jewels and the coronation robes and things. The money went to charity. There was some sort of a legend about this. One of these arrows is supposed to be hollow and contain a sliver of one of the arrows which made Sebastian a martyr. The thing is only worn by the Crown Prince, a curse rests on it for any one else.”
“Then I'm in for it,” sighed Michael Karl. “Well, curse, do your stuff.” He fastened the chain around his neck again and allowed its brilliance to dangle down upon the pajama coat the American had urged him into.
“By the way, what is your name? I don't like to go on saying ‘you’ ail the time,” he said as he tucked the Cross out of sight.
The American smiled oddly. “I'm Frank Ericson, and you?”
Michael Karl was ready for that question. Drawing from his slock of seven names he replied glibly: “John Stephenson. And now we're introduced.”
Frank Ericson laughed and went to answer a rap on the door. He was back a moment later to prop Michael Karl up with pillows and settle a tray burdened with steaming dishes on his knees.
“This,” said Michael Karl with no little satisfac-
tion when the secrets of various covered dishes were laid bare before him, “is what I call a meal. You don't know what I've been through these last two months. It was don't eat this and don't eat that.”
“But surely the meals of His Royal Highness's staff aren't supervised like that,” protested the American.
Michael Karl hurried to retrieve his blunder. “Oh, but we couldn't have anything which was forbidden His Royal Highness. And everything good,” declared Michael Karl, with some bitterness, through a full mouth, “was.”
“What are you going to do now?” his host questioned as he lifted the empty tray off the bed a few minutes later.
“I'm going to slip out of here if I can, get into Rein to deliver this,” he motioned t
owards the hidden Cross, “and sail for home on the next boat.”
“Look here,” interrupted Ericson, “I'm really a representative of an American newspaper up here to get the dope on this Werewolf. Now you can give me all the material I need, and I won't have to waste any more time pretending to climb mountains, when even to look out of a second-story window makes me dizzy. You come back to Rein with me. I can smuggle you in as my chauffeur, mine quit me cold when he found out where I was going. Do you have a passport?”
Michael Karl shook his head. “That was what I was worrying about,” he confessed.
“Well, I know the American minister slightly, and I may be able to fix it up for you.”
“But that's putting you to a lot of trouble,” said Michael Karl doubtfully.
“Not at all,” declared the American. “And the story you'll be able to give me will be worth every bit of it and more too. You will give me a story, won't you?” he stopped to ask anxiously.
“Everything I know about the Werewolf is yours,” Michael Karl answered him promptly.
“Good!” The American was enthusiastic. “I'll go half on space rates. You'll bunk with me in town until the Minister can get your passport. We can see the fun when they're trying to ransom your boy friend. This sure has been a lucky day for me.”
“And for me, too,” said Michael Karl thankfully.
“And now, you're going to sleep, young fellow m'lad.”
The two pillows behind Michael Karl were deftly pulled out and he was settled down comfortably. Just before the American blew out the candle he spoke again.
“If you need anything in the night, just call, I'm in the next room.”
He went out softly and left Michael Karl staring at the dying fire on the hearth. A while ago he had been very tired, but now he was wide-awake. Providence or Fate or whatever was looking after him was certainly on the job.
The American attracted him, but he had a queer feeling that Frank Ericson wasn't any more the tall young man's name than John Stephenson was the name that he, Michael Karl, generally answered to. To be sure there was a “Johann” and a “Stefan” among the seven names with which they had loaded him at birth.
