by Paul Collis
6
Bellanger returned to St. Jean with the strangest orders ever given by one rational man to another. Two weeks after his meeting in Versailles he was riding up the untraveled mountain path again, towards the massive wall and whoever lived behind it. He stopped in the clearing at its base and waited. He didn’t have to wait for long.
The character he’d encountered on his first visit approached him from the far end of the cliff face. He was flanked by two other men, neither of them as tall, but imposing nonetheless. None of them looked pleased to see him. The leader stopped two paces from him, and stared into his eyes. As did his companions. The agent found their scrutiny unnerving, and was relieved when the man spoke. ‘You are not a fool. Why have you returned?’
Nothing if not direct, thought Bellanger. ‘My master sent me.’
‘Your master. So, you were not here the first time out of idle curiosity.’
‘No.’
‘And who is your master?’
‘I am an agent of His Imperial Highness, the Emperor Napoleon.’
‘And I am Joan of Arc.’
The agent smiled; Joan of Arc with an extra hundred pounds of muscle and another foot in height. He pulled the warrant and its imperial seal from a pocket and unfolded it to show them. He let them examine the gold ring signifying the rank of Marshall. ‘If these are forgeries then the Emperor commissioned them himself. He placed them in my hands, two weeks ago in Paris.’
‘And sent you here because?’
Bellanger summoned every serious note his voice could muster. ‘Because he believes in werewolves.’
The man laughed. ‘Loup-garous? My god, our magnificent ruler believes in fairy tales. And if there were such things, what are they to him?’
‘He requires their services. The British and Portuguese have captured Vitoria and are equipping reinforcements as we speak. They will attack San Sebastian next, and then Pamplona. And when that happens the French army will have its back against the other side of these mountains. The Spanish guerillas have been marauding from the southwest, which means that in all likelihood our men will be forced to leave Spain through the pass at Roncevalles.’
‘And what is that to us?’
‘Napoleon believes that werewolves live — here. And he wants them to do what they have done once before. Up there.’ He pointed at the peaks above and to the west.
The men did not look up, but kept their gaze on him, their eyes giving away nothing.
The agent allowed himself a hint of an inner smile; his adversaries were doubtless excellent card players, but he could tell that they believed he had a decent hand. ‘Well, let me remind you of this particular ‘fairy tale’. In the year seven-hundred-and-seventy-eight the Emperor Charlemagne was in a similar predicament to the one Napoleon faces now. His army was retreating from Spain when its rearguard was attacked by Vascones; Basques, as we say today. The tribe stole every piece of gold he’d taken from the Moors as ransom for the Sultan Suliman, and they killed his favorite captain, Roland. A year later Charlemagne’s spies came across the leader of a werewolf pack, and the emperor offered him a deal. He and his brethren would cross the mountains and rip the throats from a thousand Basques — enough to frighten the rest of the tribe and keep them from descending into France. In return he gave his word that their persecution by the church would cease. So they went up to Roncevalles and engaged the enemy, as agreed, and Charlemagne kept his word; only when he died did his protection fail them.’
The youngest of the three responded. ‘A pretty story.’
Bellanger agreed. ‘Much like the one about the lepers that supposedly inhabit these parts. I'm sure you've heard them both before.’
The man ignored his remark. ‘And now Napoleon wants the same? To get revenge for losing?’
‘No. Since the disaster in Russia he needs healthy men more than he wants petty revenge. He has to ensure the safe return of as many troops as possible to fight elsewhere, and thousands of them will make their retreat through Roncevalles. He wants werewolves to attack the Spanish guerillas nearest to it, and ambush any pickets sent by the British and Portuguese.’
‘If werewolves do exist,’ sighed the leader, ‘their days of fighting are long gone. I’m told they don’t care who owns what, or who wields power where. As long as they’re left in peace, they’ll take no side.’
Bellanger retrieved several small items from his pocket and held them out for the leader to take. The man declined, and the agent dropped the objects. Three half-inch balls of silver landed solidly on the earth near the man’s feet. The men looked at them without surprise.
‘If they— let’s end this game, shall we? If you refuse to help the Emperor, the treasuries of Paris and the Vatican will furnish enough silver to equip four regiments with bullets and shells of all calibers, including howitzers loaded with canisters of consecrated grape-shot. Some of these soldiers will be zealous emissaries of the church — men with a passion for ridding the world of the unholy. The wall will be mined and breached, the cliffs climbed, and you will be annihilated in a fiery hail of blessed metal.’
The men appeared incredulous. The youngest was the first to speak. ‘Napoleon would spend so vast a fortune to be rid of — what, exactly? We are no threat to him.’
‘No, you are not a threat to him, but he does not like to be defied. As for the expense, I was told to tell you that it will be at little real cost; the precious metal will be carefully retrieved by soldiers who, if they keep any of it, will be shot. It will then be melted down again. Indeed, the very bullet that burns the life out of you could be reborn as the coin that buys the wine that toasts your death.’
The leader leveled his gaze. ‘How fanciful. But, even if it costs him nothing, why would he assign an entire division to deal with us when he could use those men against Spain?’
Bellanger shrugged. ‘I only convey his demands, I do not question them. As I said, the Emperor does not like to be defied. Especially by his own subjects.’ The men did not smile, and the agent continued. ‘I’ve been ordered to ask for your help against his enemies now, here in the mountains as I’ve described, and twice more in the future. Where and when those future occasions might be I cannot say. You will be told in time enough to prepare for whatever journey is required, and given payment for your expenses. If you refuse, or I do not return to Paris within twelve days, then you can say goodbye to your sanctuary.’
‘So. He uses us for three … events. And then?’
‘And then you live in peace once more. You have his word.’
‘That’s if he wins his battles. What if he loses? What if he’s captured?’ asked the third man.
‘Should that happen, you would be as you are now — he’d never mention this affair to anyone. And even if his captors knew of your involvement, he would deny all knowledge of it. He wouldn’t want to be remembered as a madman. Or should I say, a lunatic.’
‘That might be so,’ said the leader, paying no attention to the agent's taunt. ‘But if you are captured … would our secret still be safe?’
Bellanger gave a wry smile as he visualized the usual fate of a defeated leader’s loyal servants. ‘Well ... I’m an agent. A spy. If I am arrested I have the means to avoid the unpleasantries of any inquisition. And if I remain free … why would I disclose what I know about you? I’m sure you could discover who I am, and where to find me,’ he said dryly.
‘Hmm. Perhaps you are who you say you are … perhaps not. Let’s find out, shall we?’ The leader still had the warrant in his hand but, instead of studying it, as Bellanger expected, he brought it up to his nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled with an intensity that took the agent by surprise. He turned it over and inhaled again, sniffing around the edges, stopping here and there to sniff again, as if he had been asked to mimic a hunting dog.
Bellanger thought that the man might be mocking him, until he saw him take the Marshall’s gold ring and, after subjecting it to the same intense olfactory examination as the warran
t, added a prolonged, inquiring bite from an incisor. It was then that Bellanger truly knew that the men in front of him were something more than men. Something unimaginable.
When the leader opened his eyes he looked directly at the visitor. ‘Unbutton your coat. And then your shirt.’
The agent complied, and the man leaned forward and sniffed the front of his shirt, then his chest, then moved upwards and dwelt on his hair and ears. He was so intimate and so intent upon his work that Bellanger could hear the air rushing into the man’s nostrils and being forced out again. He had never been subjected to such a disconcerting inspection. But then, he’d never been this close to a wolf before.
‘Here.’ The man returned the warrant and the ring. ‘The warrant’s ink is expensive, and the vellum is of the highest quality, from a tannery in Paris. The wax on the seal is not a common one. The ring is the purest gold, and from the hands of a master goldsmith. You are a wealthy man with fine clothes. You have children. You eat well, in quality if not quantity. You have recently been in the company of military men, and have ridden many miles in the last two weeks, spending time in a city in the north. That is what I can smell.' He paused to see if Bellanger reacted. He didn't. ‘That — and fear. You’re scared, but you hide the visual aspect of your fear quite well. Your occupation might very well be as you say it is: duplicity itself. But if what you’ve told us here today is true…’ He turned. Looking into his companions’ eyes he found himself sadly acknowledging the fact that they didn’t have a choice. He returned his gaze to the spy. ‘Tell your master this. We want none of us to die, or to roam the world in constant exile. We want our sanctuary here to remain unknown. This wall was not built to protect us against men — it was meant to protect them from us. A life is a life — we don’t take them lightly, much as you might think otherwise.’
Bellanger reflected on this last statement and found himself strangely sympathetic. But for the ancient map that had led me here, he mused, these men would have been left in pea—
‘And speaking of lives: if we agree to help your boss, how many men does he want dead?’ the third man asked.
‘A thousand.’
‘A thousand? That’s work, my friend, even for our numbers.’
‘Yes, you haven’t told me how ma—’
‘And we won’t, so don’t inquire,’ he warned.
The leader nodded. ‘We don’t doubt Napoleon would send men to kill us; he’s led half a dozen armies and sent tens of thousands to their deaths already. So we’ll do what you ask. But if he cheats us … and sends his army here without due cause …’ He pulled on a glove and picked up the three silver bullets. He weighed them in his palm, then looked back at Bellanger. ‘… we’ll leave before your soldiers arrive. We’ll live amongst you. We’ll send for our cousins beyond your borders, and soon there would be more godless creatures in France than ever existed before. I warn you, no French soldier above the rank of sergeant would sleep easily at night.’ He handed the bullets back to the messenger.
‘The Emperor will not cheat you. I’m his agent, and I have the authority to give you his word. But you understand I can leave you no proof of it.’
‘We understand.’
‘So. Does he have your word, your promise to obey the three orders that I will bring to you, here, each to kill one thousand of our enemies?’
‘Rest assured, we’ll give him proof of it.’ He held out his right hand.
It was not something that the agent had expected, but he realized it was the only way to confirm a gentlemen’s agreement.
He took the hand and firmly shook it.
The man’s grip strengthened, and he leaned forward.
‘Before you go, Monsieur Bellanger, tell me something. Who told you about us?’
The envoy blanched. Good god, he thought, they know my name. He swallowed, frightened now, really frightened for the first time in this mad, unnatural endeavor. They knew his name, and their eyes, full of hate and anger, were locked on his. ‘Who told me? Simple men who couldn’t help themselves. I threatened to arrest them for treason, and they knew the punishment for that. After their admissions I ordered them to seal their lips once more. But I had no need, really … believe me when I tell you they’re as scared of this place as their great-grandfathers were.’
‘I doubt it. Their great-grandfathers saw what we are capable of.’ The man stepped towards him until his face was half an arm’s length from Bellanger’s. ‘And now that you have our word that we will do as your master wishes, you might want to do something for us.’
The agent nodded. ‘If I can.’
‘The men who’ll be the victims of your bidding, the poor souls who’ll spend their last night on earth in our company — start praying for them, Bellanger. Because we cannot.’
The man released his grip and their hands parted. There was nothing left to say. The agent turned his horse and led it back along the narrow ledge. When the trail grew wide enough he climbed into the saddle, tapped his heels against the horse’s flanks and made for St. Jean. He fastened his cloak tightly around him, but it was not the cold, descending cloud that caused him to shiver uncontrollably.
