by Chris Tookey
It was not long after Wyrd turned seventeen and had taken up formal duties as the King’s scribe that Prince Artorus’s constant jeering finally got to him.
King Otto, Prince Artorus and seven of the King’s knights were preparing to go for a spot of werewolf hunting when Wyrd rode up beside them.
“I’ve decided to come too,” he said.
“Good lad!” said King Otto. The moonlight lit the fuzz in his ears, so that it looked thick enough to catch moths. “The moon’s already up. There’s no time to lose!”
“I say, Uther,” murmured Sir Ganimore, the only one of the knights who ever dared to risk Artorus’s rage by being civil towards Wyrd. “Are you sure about this? These werewolves can be pretty deadly, you know.”
“I know,” said Wyrd. “But I’ve got to leave the castle again sometime, and I’m fed up with being called a coward by you-know-who.”
Just then, Artorus rode up.
“Glad to see you’re making an effort at last,” said the prince. “You’re not really knight material, as I’m sure Osprey has informed you. But perhaps when I’m older and ruler of all Albion, I may deign to appoint you my scribe, and then you can write my memoirs.”
“I bet you’re looking forward to that,” muttered Sir Ganimore when Artorus’s back had turned. “Ghostwriter to the rich and famous. Whoopee!”
“Ssh!” whispered Wyrd. “Someone might hear.”
“Come on, Uther,” said Sir Ganimore. “You’re twice the man Artorus is.”
“No I’m not,” replied Wyrd modestly. “Artorus isn’t scared of anything. And I’m afraid of just about everything.”
“There’s a lot it’s right to be scared about,” remarked Ganimore. “Werewolves, for example.”
“Actually, I feel a bit sorry for them,” said Wyrd. “Aren’t they just humans who turn into wolves whenever the moon is full?”
“They’re no ordinary wolves,” replied Ganimore. “They are two or three times the size. And they won’t feel sorry for you. They’ll be too busy tearing you limb from limb.”
“Really?” asked Wyrd.
“Still, don’t worry too much. They’re uncommon in Atlantis. Many an evening’s werewolf hunting passes without the hunters catching a whiff of one. They’re solitary creatures, unlike ordinary wolves, and they never hunt in packs.”
“So, when’s the ideal time to hunt them?”
“That would be now, when the full moon is in the sky but the sun is still on its way down. Pursuing them is a risky pursuit at the best of times, but hunting after nightfall places the werewolf at too much of an advantage.”
“Why?”
“Their night vision is far better than any human’s or dog’s, and many a hunting party has found its numbers cruelly depleted if they stayed out too long.”
“How do you kill them?”
“For that, you’ll need one of those.”
Sir Ganimore pointed to a sheaf of silver spears, ready on a table for collection by the hunters. Artorus had already helped himself to half a dozen.
“You need to put a silver stake through its heart and follow that up by cutting its head off.”
“What if it bites you?”
“In that case you’ve had it, sunshine. There is no cure for a werewolf bite. You’ll turn werewolf yourself every full moon until someone dispatches you.”
“Nothing to worry about, then,” said Wyrd wryly, picking up a silver spear.
“Piece of cake,” said Ganimore, with an encouraging grin.
As Wyrd trotted out under the raised portcullis at the castle gates, he felt the same feeling of inadequacy as when the bugbears had torched his village. Wenda had pleaded with him not to go and had held him in her arms for a full minute, as though she wanted to protect him, but he had told her that sooner or later he had to take a risk, and this way at least there’d be safety in numbers. What could possibly go wrong, he’d said, if he was surrounded by nine of the finest warriors in Atlantis?
He was about to find out.
Wyrd felt the uneasiness of his mare, Callisto, as she entered the forest Wyrd had seen so many times from the castle battlements. He had chosen the dapple-grey mare because her colour made her stand out from other horses and because of a kindliness in her eyes. Wyrd wondered why none of the other knights had chosen her as his mount. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her, except for an obvious nervousness whenever she drew close to Prince Artorus. Wyrd knew just how she felt.
Wyrd took a firmer grasp on the short, silver spear that he had been given, and he noticed that other knights around him were doing the same.
The sun was low in the sky, and the trees were as dark and forbidding as the insides of a werewolf.
“There must be one of them nearby,” muttered King Otto to his son. “Look at the horses.”
The horses’ nostrils flared, and their eyes were rolling. But if danger threatened nearby, Wyrd certainly couldn’t see it. Nor could any of the men around him.
“What’s the matter, girl?” Wyrd asked Callisto.
By way of reply, she neighed nervously and threw her head back. Wyrd could see the whites of her eyes.
“She looks almost as panicky as you do,” said Prince Artorus, with a superior smile playing over his features.
“Well, then,” said Wyrd with a coolness he didn’t feel, “I expect she and I are the perfect team.”
“That nag,” said the prince scornfully, “has a mind of her own. If you take my advice, you’ll beat some sense in to her.”
“And I suppose you’ve tried to do that?” asked Wyrd.
“I tried once,” replied Artorus, “and she threw me off. Good luck!”
Callisto became noticeably less anxious as Artorus rode off.
“Good girl,” muttered Wyrd, patting her neck. “And well done.”
They rode on, into the valley that lay at the centre of the forest. Steep hills were all around them. Still no sign of a werewolf. Wyrd began to relax, though Callisto was still looking about her with every sign of nervous tension.
“It’s getting late,” said King Otto, finally. “We’d better turn back.”
“Righto!” said Sir Ganimore, expressing a relief that several of the other knights felt as well.
It was at that moment that Wyrd noticed a bird flying overhead.
“Look!” he said. “Isn’t that Buzzard?”
“It’s certainly a buzzard,” remarked King Otto.
Hardly were the words out of his mouth than the buzzard emitted a harsh shriek.
The werewolves attacked. Not one, or two, but thirty or more. They came rushing down the hills, flattening saplings as they came.
“They don’t do this!” gasped Sir Ganimore.
“They do now!” said Wyrd.
“But we’re meant to be hunting them!” protested Prince Artorus.
“Not tonight!” said King Otto.
“Don’t you see?” Wyrd said to Artorus, who seemed rooted to his saddle in a state of shock. “They’ve been stalking us!”
The men realised immediately that they were outnumbered and turned for home. Callisto was speedy and scared – a useful combination, for Wyrd was no great horseman. He heard the screams of several knights as they were attacked. He looked away as a werewolf ripped Sir Ganimore off his horse and started to savage him.
Wyrd’s stomach heaved. There was no point in riding to Ganimore’s rescue. He was done for. Suddenly Wyrd noticed that one of the largest werewolves was to his right and coming straight towards him, ignoring the King and Artorus.
Wyrd rode hard towards the distant castle and tried to remember all that he had been taught about hunting and jousting. The trick was not to thrust too quickly. You had to wait until your adversary was almost upon you and then strike at the point where they were most vulnerable.
It was with a sinking feeling that he noticed that the werewolf just ahead of him and closing fast was wearing a breastplate. As the werewolf jumped, Wyrd did precisely what you’re not supposed to do, and ducked, exposing the vulnerable back of the neck to the werewolf’s fangs.
Fortunately for Wyrd, Callisto stumbled at precisely that moment, and the werewolf’s jaws snapped on thin air. Wyrd had the presence of mind to gather the mare’s reins and urge her forward. But he could hear the werewolf gaining on him again, this time from behind.
Wyrd swerved to the right and could see the werewolf running alongside him. It was making no attempt to catch up with King Otto and Prince Artorus, who were only a few yards ahead. Its yellow, baleful eyes were firmly upon Wyrd. It howled, and the hair on Wyrd’s neck stood on end.
Wyrd wondered, with a sickening feeling, if that was to be his own fate: to be bitten, to live and die as a werewolf. But at that dark moment he felt a curious sense of exhilaration. Here he was, outside the castle and in terrible danger. Wasn’t that what mythic heroism was meant to be all about? Getting into terrible scrapes against insurmountable odds and coming through by virtue of superior strength, or cunning, or just sheer luck?
Wyrd’s mind cleared. Nothing was more important right now than survival. He tried to think from his attacker’s point of view. The werewolf was galloping alongside, to the left, gathering his strength and waiting to pounce. Once it was in the air, its breastplate would protect it.
The solution might be to get above the werewolf and penetrate it through its back. But all at once, Wyrd saw what the werewolf was going to do. There was rising ground to Wyrd’s left. The werewolf was making for it. Its plan was to launch itself off it and on to Wyrd’s back.
But it couldn’t do that if Wyrd got there first.
Wyrd urged his mare faster. Fear made Callisto respond. She swerved in front of the chasing werewolf and made a huge leap. Fractionally behind, the werewolf leapt too but with nowhere near the same height. Its weight was that of a huge bear, and while in mid-air Wyrd saw his chance. He drove down with his silver spear into the werewolf’s back as it passed, just to the left of its spine and into its heart. When the werewolf fell to the ground, it did not get up.
The furious chase continued all the way through the forest and out the other side. Just ahead of Wyrd were King Otto and Prince Artorus. There were still at least a dozen werewolves behind them, but the other Atlantean knights had succeeded in slowing them down or killing the rest, at the cost of their own lives.
Wyrd could see King Otto’s horse slowing with fatigue. The King turned in his saddle and swore. Wyrd knew what he was thinking. Something terrible was happening in the realm of Atlantis. Never before had so many of his men been killed while out hunting. Never had werewolves dared to venture so close to the castle.
As the most skilled of all the riders, Prince Artorus was first to reach the causeway that led to the castle.
“Close the drawbridge!” he cried, as soon as he was upon it.
The bugbears on the castle walls looked confused. Surely the prince did not intend the drawbridge to be raised while the prince’s hunting partners, including the King, remained outside? While they were discussing this point, Wyrd too managed to reach the causeway.
Just behind Wyrd, King Otto could hear three werewolves close behind him and gaining ground. He knew his horse would not reach the drawbridge before them. As he reached the causeway that led to the castle, King Otto turned his horse to face the beasts, and fight.
“No!” he cried, plunging his spear into the leading werewolf’s heart, so that it tumbled straight off the edge of the causeway into the sea.
Wyrd watched helplessly as King Otto, now unarmed, turned back towards the castle and galloped towards it with as much speed as he could muster. Werewolf teeth snapped at the King, tearing ribbons of flesh out of his horse’s flanks.
“Up!” roared King Otto to his horse, as the drawbridge started to rise with the King’s horse and two of the werewolves upon it.
Arrows rained down upon the marauding beasts, and both savage brutes fell sideways off the drawbridge and into the sea. Other werewolves arrived, growling and howling on the causeway but powerless to enter the castle. They took care to stay just out of range of the arrows.
Inside the castle, Wyrd and Artorus awaited their King.
“How many men did we lose?” asked King Otto, dismounting and gasping for breath.
“We’re the only ones left,” said Wyrd.
“What can have got into those beasts?” said Artorus, who was white and shaking. “They were out there waiting for us.”
Or me, thought Wyrd. But he said nothing. Wenda was one of many who had rushed to the castle gates. She hugged Wyrd but then looked across with concern at King Otto.
“Sire! Are you all right?” she asked.
Wyrd turned and saw that King Otto’s sleeve was torn and bleeding.
“One of those beasts didn’t… bite you, did it?” asked Wyrd.
The King grimaced.
“It may have given me a nip.”
“Let me see,” said Wenda.
The tooth-marks on his arm were clearly visible.
“Damn,” said King Otto.
At some point during that long night, during which Wyrd did not sleep a wink, the werewolves departed from around the castle, but the aftermath of their attack was quickly felt. Wakes were held by the knights’ families, with empty coffins and no formal acknowledgement that the knights might not be dead, but part of a werewolf pack massing nearby in the forest. Seven new squires were quickly promoted to the knighthood, including Wyrd. When the King told him of his award, Wyrd objected that he only wanted to be a scribe. But the King said he hadn’t much use for a scribe but always had a use for more knights, especially knights handy with a horse and spear.
Wyrd noticed that his stock within the castle had suddenly risen. Wyrd privately blamed himself for the werewolf attack. Secretly, he felt sure that it had been organised by Buzzard and aimed primarily against him. At the same time, Wyrd did not want to say anything to this effect, for fear that it might make him look too conceited – or too easily frightened.
Many of the King’s finest warriors had perished, including Sir Ganimore, the only knight with whom Wyrd had shared any confidences; the King himself had been grievously, perhaps mortally, wounded. Wyrd decided, quite rightly, that the castle wished to mourn its dead, not ponder the werewolves’ motivation.
That was pretty much Wenda’s view, when Wyrd raised the topic.
“It might have nothing to do with you,” she said. “Werewolves kill humans. It’s what they do. It’s nothing personal.”
“But what was Old Buzzard doing flying overhead?” asked Wyrd.
“You don’t know it was Old Buzzard,” Wenda pointed out. “All you know is that it was a buzzard.”
“I’m sure it was looking at me.”
“These days,” said Wenda with a smirk, “you think everyone’s looking at you. Sir Uther, indeed!”
21
Sir Uther
In which Wyrd becomes the centre of attention
Not one of the dead knights’ bodies was ever found. Either they had been torn apart and eaten, or the knights had themselves become werewolves. Wyrd’s nightmares were full of people turning into werewolves: first Sir Ganimore and then, even more frighteningly, Wenda. Wyrd often woke up shaking. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. Old Buzzard, whom he had trusted for years, had turned against him for no apparent reason.
Might Sir Ganimore turn up some day in werewolf form and try to destroy him? Might even Wenda, who had been his only consistent friend, turn against him too? Wyrd d
idn’t think of himself as religious but found himself praying to the gods (“if you exist”) for the soul of his friends, and himself. But it was difficult to do so with any confidence, for Buzzard’s betrayal made him wonder who his friends really were.
As a result of the werewolf hunt, Wyrd’s reputation had risen, and Prince Artorus’s had fallen, principally because of his behaviour when riding into the castle. It wasn’t considered very brave or courtly to try to save your own skin while outside your King and comrades were having theirs torn to shreds. No one dared to say this, of course, but even Artorus, who was not the most sensitive of souls, noticed that as he passed, many of the knights and squires stopped talking and smiled at him in a strained sort of way.
Osprey reassured Artorus that such behaviour was all a natural part of the grieving process, but the prince remained bad-tempered and started to grumble that he was no longer being given the respect that he deserved.
When Artorus was in one of these moods, Wyrd was careful to stay out of his way. After a drink or two, the prince was usually spoiling for a fight, and Wyrd remained his favourite target. So, the scribe knew that the wisest thing was to stay away from Artorus and keep quiet when other knights complained that the heir to the throne wasn’t as brave as he pretended to be.
The other major talking point was the inevitable effect of the bite upon the King.
From the next full moon onwards, Queen Elinor ruled Atlantis unofficially for one night every month. She had King Otto muzzled and chained in a dungeon until his werewolfishness passed. She allowed no one to see her husband in his wolven state, but his howling and roaring could be heard throughout the castle.
And each month, the King grew more and more like a beast himself, as the wolfishness took hold of him. His eyesight and his sense of smell improved, as did his strength; but his table manners – which had never been his most attractive characteristic – deteriorated to such an extent that the Queen increasingly ordered his meals to be taken to him in his room, leaving her to preside over feasts and banquets. It was said that King Otto took most of his meals from bowls that were left on the floor and whimpered when left on his own.
