Malgrave Wolves

Anthony had no idea where Malgrave had gotten the enchantments. In all the lands of NeverEarth magic was plentiful but usually not so easily accessed. A royal, even one with lands and a title, could hire a wizard or alchemist but she’d been de-throned and exiled for at least two years. Money wouldn’t be easy to come by nor would promises of royal indulgences. He didn’t think she’d been dabbling in the arcane arts on the side so it meant someone was helping her. Allasande would want to know this.

  Of course, Allasande would want to know she was a target of an attempt to infect her with lycanthropy, too.

  Everyone in the court was at risk.

  Anthony had spent the last few hours examining the cage and testing its bars. It wasn’t attached to the floor and did not have a solid bottom. Given the surroundings, he was fairly certain it had come with the hovel and had belonged to a trapper or furrier. The problem was, he had almost no room to move in the narrow cage and the bars were only just wide enough for him to fit his clawed hand through the spaces between them.

  The hinges were solid but old. He could move them back and forth if he used his claw tips like a set of pliers. But they were still heavy and he would need leverage to pry them loose. The problem was that the trigger of the crossbow was hooked up to the cage door fairly tightly. Any movement beyond a certain amount was sure to cause it to fire.

  He’d toyed with the idea of trying to twist the cage so that one of the bars would intercept the path of flight of the crossbow bolt but it was almost impossible to be sure he’d line it up correctly. Also, in the process of moving it, he’d only have one chance before it fired. He abandoned the idea of shifting the cage, itself. He looked around, trying to find anything he could use to aide in his escape.

  She’d placed the cage in the very center of the room. Although the place was small, nothing was within reach.

  He kicked something hard that rattled against the floor bars of the cage. Glancing down, he saw the tiny mouse-sized cage he’d been transported in. Its tiny grey bars had seemed to strong to him when he’d been that small. Iron, definitely, and sturdy enough to hold even a shrunken werewolf. An idea suddenly dawned on him.

  Reaching down, he picked up the little cage.

  Three to four inches long and an inch around at its base, it was heavy for its size. He didn’t know what use it would have for a trapper but supposed that once in there, a tiny rodent wouldn’t be able to struggle as it was carried around, alive, before it could be dispatched for its fur. The thought gave him the shivers.

  He had been that rodent.

  But the past wasn’t as important to him right now.

  At the moment, he had to jury-rig the tiny cage into an escape plan.

  It was difficult to crouch in the cage or do anything else but turn around, in place. But when he looked at the crossbow where it aimed its silver-tipped bolt at him, he thought he could make out the flight-line along which it had been aimed. He pressed the tiny cage up against the bars of his containment and, sure enough, it would fit between leaving very little space on either side. If he could figure out where the bolt would launch itself through the bars...

  He swallowed, hard. It was almost as risky as trying to shift the entire cage and interpose one of the bars. But what other choice did he have?

  Steadily, he held the miniature cage in the palm of his hand and held it up against the bars. He squinted for a moment and tried to sight along the crossbow’s path. He held the small chunk of metal firmly in one hand. He knew the bolt could rip through the tiny bars and still puncture him. He knew that at this range the bolt would hit like a bullet. No matter what, even if he was successful, this was going to hurt.

  Time ticked by. Even after he had his plan, he hesitated. He took several deep breaths as he lined up his protective, hand-held armor once more and slipped his toes through the bars at the bottom of the cage. He felt the taut rope between them and tugged experimentally. It wasn’t easy using his foot to try and trigger the crossbow but the connection was already so shaky he felt it would be easier than he had anticipated.

  He gritted his teeth and winced.

  It was now or never.

  He held the tiny cage three-quarters of the way up the outer bars and braced himself for impact. He jerked once, twice, three-times with his toes until he managed to get the rope to buck and pull just right.

  The crossbow fired.

  Pain exploded in his right hand as the cage was ripped from his grasp. Small tines of metal ripped through his palm. Blood stained his fur and it felt like his cramped arm had been struck by a hammer and knife at the same time. He cried out in pain as the crossbow bold clattered to the ground, half-in and half-out of the cage. Through the burning pain, he tried to focus his thoughts. He looked down and saw his fingers bent at an odd angle, two of them clearly broken. Blood covered him and his palm would need stitches, at least. The cage was pierced and the bolt pressing through both sides. It silver tip, though, had only scratched him. The majority of the damage was from the tiny iron bars of the cage being ripped through and shoved into his flesh. His wrist was in agony and he was certain it was either broken or sprained.

  But he was alive.

  His breath came in great sobs. He choked back on the pain in relief. For several long minutes, he could do nothing but stare at the weapon at his feet.

  Then, he acted.

  He crouched as best as he could in the confined space and retrieved the crossbow bolt. With a snarl he levered it beneath the topmost of the cage’s door hinges and started working. He didn’t have much time.

  Anthony had been right about where he was. Although his trip had been both concealed and disorienting, it looked as if the duchess had brought him to the outskirts of the city, just outside the wall. Here, in a tangle of small homes that had been built for tradesmen—carpenters, blacksmiths, woodsmen, furriers, and others—he escaped into the streets beneath the overcast skies of late morning.

  A few cries of alarm echoed through the streets. He sniffed the air, trying to ignore them. Whatever people might think was irrelevant. He had to catch up to his would-be captor and get that blood back. He had to stop her.

  Unlike a dog or wolf who’d lived all its life with an incredible sense of smell, Anthony had only possessed the heightened sense for a short time. Still, he’d been in the cottage and held close against the duchess’ body long enough that her smell was, to him, as distinctive as black and white. He caught her scent quickly and raced after where she had gone.

  Sneaking through the busy streets of Talismere was difficult and ate up most of his time. At first Anthony tried to stay to the shadows, such as they were, but this soon proved to be impractical. It was a living, breathing city: bustling with its inhabitants as they bought, sold, traded, and negotiated in the panoply of their daily lives. There were no places completely out of sight … at least on the ground. It took him several hours of moving about, trying to remain unseen, before he realized he would be least seen traveling on rooftop near the outskirts of the city. When he came to a street wide enough that he could not summon up his courage and leap the gap, he would have to climb down and wait for the way to be clear. Several times he got unlucky and hear cries of “Monster” or “Wolf” in his wake. His tension grew and by the time he was halfway to the base of the castle cliffs, his hackles were constantly raised. From that point, around Noon, it took him another three hours to make his way through the snow-shrouded streets. The sun was setting and he grew anxious that he might already be too late.

  He’d had to abandon tracking her by scent, taking the route he had but he knew where she was going. Once at the Alabaster Palace, he would have to pick up her scent again.

  The climb was arduous and he wasn’t entirely certain he could have made it in his human form. He had more energy as a wolf, that was for sure, and the claws gave him extra purchase on the rocky cliffs. He’d waited for sundown, despite the urgency. It took all his will not to charge off as fast as he could. Getting caught, though, before he c
ould explain—confronted and possibly killed—was too great a risk. At least, this close to the solstice, the sun set early. It couldn’t have been later than five in the evening when he began his frozen climb.

  It was agonizingly slow but he forced himself to be careful.

  When he reached the top, gusts of wind blew the snow into whorls and arcs that drifted out over the precipitous fall to the city streets, below. Bells began to ring in the city and he realized the first day of Midwinter celebrations had arrived.

  He mounted the white walls of the palace and slipped into the rear courtyard near the stables. He sniffed the air. Too many horses and a few other animals he didn’t quite recognize clouded the air with their conflicting scents. Still, his nose was keen enough to know she’d not come this way. However the duchess was getting into the palace it wasn’t by scaling the walls as he had.

  He had to get inside.

  High above, he saw lights in several windows. All of them shone warmly though the glass panes, keeping out the winter chill. He shivered despite his fur in sympathy to the visual contrast. He’d have to go that way.

  Again, he began to climb. This time, though, with only sheer stone surfaces only occasionally perforated by a cornice or rough hand-hold, it was slower. The wind began to pick up as he reached the second story by a window through which there was no light. He braced himself against the narrow sill and curled his fingers into a fist. He knew that breaking windows in the movies was only easy because they were made of special glass. He expected this to be much harder.

  It was.

  Three tries later and with lacerations across the back of his hand from sharp glass, he was inside. He began his hunt.

  Sounds of music and song drifted through the halls from the floor below. The palace was enormous. Even with its full compliment of servants, functionaries, and officials, it was easy to go for hours without running into anyone. But unless the duchess also had somehow acquired magic to change her face, she would have to stay away from the main throng until she was ready to strike. That much, he’d figured out. What he still needed to know was how she intended to do it—to infect the queen and other members of the court—and not get killed in the process. Malgrave didn’t seem the suicidal sort, despite her pronouncement of being in constant agony.

  Anthony tried not to think about that. He wanted to be free from this curse, broken or damaged though it was. But if it meant constantly being able to feel the rage, always being on-edge and burning with the wolf within always clawing to get out, he wasn’t sure if he could do that. Going home was an option, of course, but that also meant never coming back. There were ways to destroy doorways between the worlds. He had done it, once, long ago. If he went back still accursed, he wouldn’t blame members of the court, or even Allasande, herself, of removing the doors that were used to reach his dorm or his childhood home. He could forge a new one, of course, but to what effect? Unless he got his condition cured, he was an outcast; just as much as Duchess Malgrave.

  The oil lamps flickered in every hallway. Wiste had told him that during celebration nights of Midwinter every hearth held a fire and almost every torch, lamp, and candle was lit. The only places with enough shadows to hide him were the unoccupied rooms. Creeping through the halls he’d once explored as a kid made him realize just how wrong this situation was. He had to hide from people he trusted while skulking about a place he used to feel completely safe. He owed Malgrave for this corruption of his past.

  He caught a whiff.

  Tenuous, his sensitive nostrils detected it: the smell of sweat and salt covered with remnants of pine forest and expensive perfumes. He breathed in her aged scent and the unique aromas of her accursed body. She was unlike Moira, Karl, or anyone he’d met. Malgrave was easy to follow.

  But he could tell she was distant.

  He followed the scent quickly down a hall and stopped. It came from a small door, no more than two feet wide, halfway up the wall. It was mingled with the scents of roasting fowl, nuts, cinnamon, and fruits. The closer he got the stronger the food smells got. They soon overwhelmed the scent of his prey.

  He opened the small door and looked in.

  A dumb-waiter. The door opened into a shaft that led down to the kitchens in the basement, below.

  That was how she would do it.

  The servants would be unlikely to recognize her; few of them ever saw a royal from a distant part of Kellen. Further, if she could conceal her blood in the food for the festivities...

  He took off, running. There was no time. She might have already done it.

  He didn’t know if the lycanthropic curse could be transmitted via ingestion but he wasn’t about to take any chances.

  The way to the kitchens was easy but it led through the most heavily trafficked parts of the castle. He could take the back and more concealed servants passages but those wound around and around, avoiding the areas where more gentrified heels would tread. He had to go there, directly, if he was to be in time.

  He burst through the side doors of the Golden Ballroom.

  Like all the official function rooms of the Alabaster Palace, the Golden Ballroom’s walls were polished smooth and white. The seams between the great blocks of stone making up the ageless building were so fine a mouse’s hair couldn’t fit between them. But the place was called the Golden Ballroom for two reasons. First, the ceiling reached high above, all the way to the top of the castle. There, slanted windows conducted ambient sunlight through tinted windows the light the place with a golden hue.

  Second, all of the fixtures—from the lamps hanging on their chains to the chandeliers to the ornate rods holding tapestries against the walls—were leaved with gold. The ornate chamber was were the grandest of events were held. Anthony had seen weddings here as well as signings of peace treaties and blessings upon those who went out on quests for the King.

  Tonight, it was full as in his childhood memories.

  People were dressed in royal finery. Gowns swept the spotless floor while men in golden attire danced with the women. Many wore black masks and more than a few had ceremonial yellow feathers adorning their hair. Music played merrily in a fast-paced dance tune while drinks were circulated in clear, crystal goblets. But the instant Anthony burst into the room, all that stopped.

  Screams and calls of alarm erupted as guards snapped to attention, drawing weapons and moving to protect the queen.

  Allasande was there, overlooking the scene from the high dais above the musicians. Next to her was Karl along with Wiste. Both were dressed in what Anthony thought must be borrowed royal clothing but all looked shocked and frightened at his intrusion. He saw the small door on the opposite wall that led to the stairs down to the kitchens. He ran towards it as the queen tried to shout for the guards to stop and the assembled throng of royals tried to get out of his way.

  Arrows whizzed past him from the right and one impacted his shoulder from the left. The explosion of pain made him growl in agony as he felt metal hit bone. It didn’t burn like silver so he knew it would heal. Even the back of his fist was no longer covered in gashes from the glass; only scabs existed beneath the fur to show how he’d broken in.

  He risked a glance to both sides as the guards closed in before him. One had grabbed a long, ceremonial spear from the wall while the others brandished their swords. To his right, in the shadow of a tall, waving golden tapestry, he saw Moira. She had her bow out and an arrow knocked. For a moment he felt his heart fall that she’d shot at him. Then, she fired.

  Two, quick arrow shots lanced ahead of him and knocked the spear out of the guardsman’s hands. He realized, then, that her shots had missed him on purpose. She was giving him cover. She may not have known what he was doing but she was trying to keep the chaos under control to let him do it.

  He grinned, grimly, as he dashed to the left and then to the right, trying to throw off the guards in front of him. They staggered from side to side, trying to keep in an optimal position to use their swords. More arrows f
lew in and the queen’s shouts grew louder over the din. Anthony’s wolven ears could hear her well but he doubted anyone else could. She was trying to call them off.

  Anthony knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  He dove at the nearest, curling his claws against the palms of his hands. Using his fists and trying not to break their skin, he hammered into the two guards between him in the servants’ door. The tight, coiled muscle of his werewolf body erupted like a sledgehammer. His sprint across the ballroom floor also added to the impact as he sent the two guards, sprawling. He pain in his left shoulder still burned, but adrenaline was concealing it.

  Another guard leaped forward and attacked him from his wounded side. The man’s sword came slashing down forcing Anthony to duck to the floor and roll to one side. An arrow flashed by overhead and pierced the guard’s weapon hand.

  Anthony didn’t stop. The guard would have to be healed, later, along with being given an apology.

  He reached the door and practically tore it off its hinges as he barrelled through.

  Down the curving stairs he ran. Low torches guttered in the gloom lighting his way to the kitchens. The smells grew stronger. The stairs ended in a hallway that stretched to his right and his left. Directly across, however, was the door to the kitchen. He ran through it.

  The screams of the kitchen staff rose in a crescendo but didn’t mask his quarry. Hidden in plain sight, dressed in servant garb, the former duchess stood by the great fireplace near serving trays set on counters, ready to be brought upstairs.

  If she was surprised to see him, it didn’t show on her face. Nor did she react as if she had expected his sudden intrusion. She quickly and coolly drew a dagger from beneath her clothes and held it before her while her other hand fished about in her pocket.

  She withdrew her left hand as Anthony barrelled across the room. She tossed something small and red from her palm and, quickly, it grew into a sparkling cloud of small flames. The conflagration roared outwards, expanding to a ten-foot sphere. Several kitchen staff were caught in the flames: their clothing combusting. Anthony tried to dive to one side, but he wasn’t fast enough. His fur caught fire and he felt the burning race across his body.

  Silver wasn’t the only enemy of the werewolf. Fire did a pretty good job on lycanthropes, too.

  He changed course, still burning, and grabbed a pot of soup from the stove. It would burn, too, but less than continual flames. He doused himself in the broth and vegetables, dropping to the ground with a snarling howl of pain. The flames went out.

  Malgrave didn’t stop.

  She fished out another pre-prepared bit of magic and hurled it at him.

  This time it looked like a pale, blue chicken egg. Around its perimeter were scribed sigils and runes in glowing, silver script.

  It struck him in the chest and exploded like a firecracker.

  Black, ichorous vines erupted from it, entwining his chest and coiling around his arms and legs in moments. He struggled to get free, but the bonds grew tighter and tighter, squeezing the air from his chest. He saw the duchess then make a run for the door he’d come through. He snarled and strove to free himself from the bonds. They held even tighter, the more he pressed against them.

  Desperate, he snapped with his jaws and managed to hook a vine that was around his chest in his mouth. It tasted like a rotting swamp full of mud and amphibious musk. He bit down, anyway. Tearing at it, he ripped the vine free and then the next.

  He staggered to his feet as he freed one arm. The duchess was just going through the door.

  “Stop her!” he growled, but the servants paid him no heed. They just continued their mass exodus away from him.

  He freed his other arm, then, and with his claws ripped the final vines away from his legs.

  His body burned and hurt with a thousand burns. Clumps of his fur had fallen out in large, singed patches. The ribs in his chest felt pained, as if cracked. He ignored them and ran after her.

  He got out into the hall and spied her moving down one of the servant’s corridors to the left. It was obvious she wanted to avoid the royal throng, upstairs. Besides, he could hear the clanging feet of metal-clad guardsmen coming down from the Golden Ballroom.

  He dashed after her, forcing himself to run faster and dropping to a loping, all-fours as he did so. His lungs burned as he got closer and closer. He saw her looking back as she fled. She fished in her pocket for, undoubtedly, another magical charm. He dove forward.

  Tackling Malgrave to the floor, her heard the satisfying cry of pain as her shins met cold, hard stone. He slammed his knee into the small of her back and knocked her knife from her hands. True to his suspicions, it had been silver-bladed. She withdrew a small, ceramic tile from her pocket but he was too quick and knocked that away, too. Where it hit the wall, an explosion of ice expanded, quickly covering a ten-foot-square area. No doubt, it would have done the same to him, had she managed to hit him with it.

  Snarling, he lowered his face next to hers.

  She glared back at him, though, completely in control of herself.

  “Little cur,” she hissed, “do you really think you can intimidate me?”

  The rage in his breast was nearly as strong as he remembered it being when he first had become a werewolf. It nearly crowded out his mind but he fought back. The damaged magic, the fractured curse, gave way and he assumed control.

  His fangs inches from her face, he closed his mouth and lunged forward, cracking his heavy, thick forehead against hers.

  Stunned, she snapped back against the floor cried out in pain before slumping, limp, in a daze.

  Guards filled the hallway behind him, and he weakly looked back. He hoped he had enough strength to keep them off long enough to explain.

  “Lay down your weapons!” Moira’s voice cut through the din with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. “Anyone who touches that wolf will answer to me.”

  Relief swept through him: as strong and sudden as all his emotions, these days. It was over.

  “The food,” he gasped. “She’s tainted it. Werewolf’s blood...”

  The guards came forward trying to get close to the stunned, former duchess while trying not to come within clawing distance of the massive wolf. Anthony slowly stood, raising his hands in supplication.

  “Got it,” Moira answered. She quickly took charge and ordered the kitchen sealed. The guards surrounded the duchess and dragged her to her feet. Blood trickled from both her forehead and the back of her skull where it had hit the floor.

  Anthony snarled in pain as he stepped back to give them room.

  “Careful,” he growled. “She’s got charms all over her. Magic that can handle even a werewolf.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at her. “Where did you get all that, anyway?” he demanded. “You’re no wizard.”

  Her eyes were clearing as she realized her predicament. She struggled for a moment but found herself held fast. She frowned and glared at Anthony. “You think I’m the only adversary you have in this land?” she hissed. “You made many enemies from your time here as ‘Champion’.” She spat at his feet and lowered her voice. She knew the ways of the wolf and knew he’d just barely be able to hear her. “They know where your doorway is, child. That they allowed me to strike at you, here and now, was an indulgence I insisted upon. But next time you shall not know from whence the attack shall be launched. Even your beloved will not be safe...”

  Karl had walked through the crowd and come to stand next to Anthony. He could feel his warm hand on his injured shoulder despite the burns. Even with all the heat raging in blisters across his body he felt a chill go through him at her words.

  He wanted to charge her. He wanted to rip her throat out right there in front of everybody. He wanted to pound that smug, bloody face until it no longer resembled anything remotely human. The wolf within him demanded it.

  Anthony turned away.

  Karl was there, looking at him with accepting eyes. He knew he must looked terrible bu
t there, in Karl’s face, was total acceptance. He shivered at the sight and paused for a moment before pushing past to go down the hall. He had a lot to think about.