City of Wolves

by Willow Palecek

  “Have you lost many hounds recently?”

  “Aye, ’twere four that passed the same night as his Lordship. Dreadful thing.”

  “In your opinion, what was the cause of their death?” I retrieved my pen and paper and began scribbling a few notes.

  “’Twas a ghastly sight. Deep, rending gashes ’cross their hides. Chunks of flesh torn away. Those hounds must’ve tussled with something far bigger and meaner than they. One survived, but not for long. He was practically ripped in half, lying there, bleeding out and whimpering with his guts just trailing out there on the grass. ’Twas a mercy to put him to rest.”

  I stopped writing. The hounds weren’t the murder weapon, I realized. They were a casualty, just like Lord Abergreen.

  “How did the hounds get loose?”

  “Well, there’s the thing. They were making quite the ruckus, leaping at the kennels, howling, barking. The big one, Mr. Pitts we called him, was crashing against the wall of his kennel over and over. Hit himself so bad, his snout and face were bleeding, but he kept going back for more. This just riled up the others more. Now these dogs are hunters. A hunter doesn’t want to be caged. The kennel, well, you can see for yourself.”

  The kennels were lined up with a metal gate and grids between them, and an open top half covered by planks of wood. The kennel in question had been distorted in shape from the impacts, and the wood was broken in several places.

  “I fetched my shotgun, in case there was trouble, and let him out before he hurt himself or the kennel any further. He ran off in a dash, and another one escaped breaking through the wood. I found out later we lost two more of the guard hounds. They flat ran away from their handlers.” He leaned in close, conspiring. “Hounds always act a bit crazy during High Moon, but this was something else.”

  High Moon. That was the piece I’d been missing. Lord Abergreen had been killed by a werewolf.

  Chapter 11

  I MADE HASTE BACK to Lupenwald at once, having bid Mr. Winters to convey my apologies to the Abergreens. When I explained my need to consult with an expert in town, he was good enough to set me up with one of the family’s carriages. The driver was an older man, his hair starting to grey. He had a silver medallion of the Light around his neck and a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Before we set off, he took the medallion and pressed it to his lips.

  I had a probable murder scenario: a werewolf attacks Lord Abergreen, then the hounds join the fight and perish along with him.

  It raised several questions, but the one foremost on my mind was one of motive. Why a werewolf? Why Lord Abergreen? Why couldn’t this just be a simple family murder?

  The questions went round and round in my mind. I needed answers. I needed to see a wizard.

  The carriage jolted, disrupting my train of thought. At first, I was simply annoyed. The roads were bumpy, and I assumed the driver was tired, drunk, or both.

  Then came a violent bash up against the carriage and a shot from a gun. The horses shrieked, and between the high pitch and the sheer guttural intensity, I could sense an emotion far greater than fear or confusion, one I had never fathomed a beast might possess: horror.

  The steed’s scream penetrated my soul. I turned and flung open the window slot to see what was happening outside.

  It was hard to make out anything definite in the dark of night, but we were pursued by a large beast, galloping on all fours. Its eyes shimmered in the moonlight with a crimson menace. It made an unnerving sound, a cross between a howl and a lion’s roar, and it dashed toward us, gaining momentum for another impact.

  I drew my revolver, aimed through the tiny window slit, and emptied all six chambers at the beast. My shots thudded into it to what seemed like no effect. The beast impacted again with the carriage. I was knocked from my seat and thrown against the opposite wall. The lantern above my head swung madly. I scrambled to regain my balance in the swaying carriage and thrust open the door.

  “Drive!” I bellowed to the coachman, straining every muscle in my face and neck to put all my strength behind that word.

  The rear axle had splintered from the impact, and one of the wheels wobbled lopsidedly, causing the carriage to rock back and forth. The wheel could not stay on for long.

  Hanging on to the carriage with my left hand and holding the lantern in my right, I leaned out. I swung my arm back and forth, preparing to toss the lantern toward the charging beast.

  The rear wheel cracked apart from the strain, and the carriage rocked to one side, the rear corner now bouncing slightly above the ground. The motion caused me to release early, and the lantern flew high, soaring over the beast’s head.

  I drew my second pistol and shot the lantern.

  Burning oil and hot glass showered the creature. For a moment, I beheld the beast clearly. It was a large, fur-covered creature, with a wolflike head and savage claws. It howled in pain as the fire singed its pelt and hide, and clawed at its own wounds.

  We pulled ahead of the werewolf—for it could surely be nothing else. I holstered my pistol and pulled myself out of the carriage and climbed, hand over hand, onto the roof. The coachman was frightened, continuously looking backward.

  “The road!” I shouted. “Watch the road!” He turned his concentration back to the task of driving, and not a moment too soon. The road took a sharp turn to the left. He jerked the reins sharply, and the horses followed, pulling the wagon around the turn. For a moment, the entire wagon rested on a single wheel, the rest lifted entirely off the ground. I held on only by dint of digging both hands and feet into the luggage straps atop the carriage.

  The coachman pulled hard on the reins and brought the coach under control. With a harsh thud, it came back down on the remaining wheels. If we drove carefully, the carriage might last until the next town.

  I looked around for the werewolf, but there was no sign of it. I doubted the fiery attack would have been enough to kill the fell beast, but hoped I had driven it off.

  The beast bounded out from the thick brush to our left flank and crashed into the mass of the carriage, sundering planks. Its massive maw was scant inches from my feet; it looked directly at me and snarled.

  I aimed my pistol directly at one of its eyes and fired.

  The beast snarled again and thrashed as the bullet impacted its eye. There was a spurt of blood and ichor.

  The beast thrashed wildly. Planks were ripped away as swipes from its claws raked through wood, and the thing’s head managed to punch a hole in the roof. I kicked hard at a broken plank while hanging on for dear life. The hole in the carriage’s roof widened, and I had a clear view of the monster. The wound to its head was mortal, but the beast did not yet realize it was dead. I drew back my leg again and delivered a solid kick to the beast, sending it tumbling away from the carriage, broken tinder flying with it.

  I surveyed what remained of our vehicle. The rear corner of the carriage was now completely gone, along with most of the floor. From my precarious vantage point sprawled on the roof, I could see clear through to the axles under the carriage, where the remaining rear wheel was splintering further with each rotation. Soon it would break completely in twain.

  A soul-piercing howl brought my attention to the road behind us. The beast had climbed back onto all fours and was charging us anew.

  Our horses galloped at their fastest gait, but the beast was slowly regaining ground. I aimed my pistol once more at the eyes and could see some small light reflecting from both sockets. I had heard legends of werewolves and their regenerative powers. Now I knew how true they were.

  I fired, striking the beast in the forehead, hardly slowing it down. It lunged at us.

  “Turn right,” I bellowed to the driver. He yanked the reins hard, forcing the horses to pull the carriage off to the right. We cut off the road and into a grassy pasture.

  I lowered my gun, shooting the thin splinter of wood that remained of our rear axle. My aim was true. As the axle snapped, the remaining rear wheel crashed into the werewolf. He
whirled to a stop and let loose another blood-curdling howl.

  The force of the turn tossed me about. I tightened my grip on the luggage strap, the only thing keeping me on the carriage. The rawhide strip cut into the skin of my palm.

  “Back on the road,” I shouted. As the carriage straightened out, I swung on the strip, bringing myself to the front of the carriage. It was not all grace, however; between the rocky jostling and the danger of my maneuver, I lost my grip on my pistol. It tumbled into the field, as good as a continent away.

  With both rear wheels gone, the carriage was more like a chariot. The coachman’s seat leaned backward, and he struggled to keep his balance, hanging tightly on to the reins. His weapon, a shotgun on a shoulder sling, jostled about wildly, further burdening him.

  “We have to cut the horses free and ride them to safety,” I said.

  “What is that thing?” he asked, not comprehending my suggestion or not caring.

  We drove over a low stone wall no more than a foot in height. Our seats shook, and I had to grab the coachman to prevent him from tumbling over the edge.

  “Give the reins to me, climb on the horse, and I’ll cut you loose. Ride as hard as you can and don’t look back.”

  He nodded and passed me the reins. I could hear cracks and splinters as the carriage was dragged across the ground.

  The coachman cautiously leaned forward and reached for the rigging on the left horse. I stood up, bending my knees to help my balance, and gave him a push on the rump. Holding the reins in one hand, I drew the hatchet from my belt and hacked away at the harness and straps that bound the horses to the ruined carriage. Once the first was free, I would leap to the other and finish the job.

  The beast charged the remnants of the carriage with force, throwing me from my perch. The horse panicked and bolted ahead, dragging me along. I tumbled forward and managed to get a solid grip on the rigging, my legs skidding on the road.

  The road scraped through my trousers to rend the flesh from my legs. I kicked my feet, trying to regain control of my footing. The progress was slow and torturous, but I persevered through the pain and exhaustion, and regained some measure of stability. I knew that should I relax my grip even for an instance, death would surely result.

  I was practically running alongside the horse now as I continued to climb with my hands, finally reaching the harness. Then I lunged, tossing my weight upward, and landed awkwardly half-on, half-off the horse. I squirmed into a sitting position. What I would have given for a saddle and stirrups!

  Having gained a sort of equilibrium on my steed’s back, I took stock of my situation. The coachman had surged ahead but was having trouble controlling his steed, clearly not accustomed to riding bareback. The werewolf was hot on his heels. He fumbled with the shotgun, brought it to bear, and fired.

  The beast was scant feet from him. The blast caught it in the face and knocked it back in a howl of pain, but the recoil knocked the unskilled coachman off his horse. It galloped away, and I have no knowledge of what became of it.

  Knocked to the ground, he scrambled to sit up, his face an expression of horror. He clutched his silver pendant of the Light and held out his other hand, grasping for help that was not there. The werewolf rebounded and descended upon him, and I will never forget the unholy combination of screams, howls, and rending of flesh that ensued.

  I spurred my horse past the foul frenzy, leaned over hard, and scooped up the shotgun by its leather strap. I steered the horse with my knees as I ejected the spent shell. There were fresh cartridges in a small pocket worked into the strap. I gripped it with my teeth and tore it open, spitting out the shot. I would only get one chance at this.

  I chanced a look back. The beast paused in its dismemberment of the coachman and peered up, its muzzle bloody. Its eyes locked with mine, and the beast let loose a deep, rumbling growl. It charged. I hoped I might be able to coax enough energy from the stallion to give me the advantage of speed, but as the beast closed in on me, it was clear that confrontation was inevitable.

  I worked two more fresh cartridges into the shotgun and steadied my aim. The recoil of the gun had proven fatal to the coachman, but I’d had many an occasion to fire from horseback during the war, and braced myself accordingly.

  As I released both barrels of shot into the beast’s salivating maw, the horse began to buck. I pulled hard on the reins to turn the horse back the way we came. Once I had the steed back under control, I led it at a gallop back towards the coachman’s corpse.

  The werewolf growled behind me. My shot had briefly disabled it, hopefully giving me the time I needed, but it was already recovering. I reached out with the shotgun while I slowed the horse down to as leisurely a trot as the frightened animal would accept. The aiming sight of the gun’s barrel hooked the coachman’s silver pendant on the string that had hung around his neck. As soon as I had it secure, I urged my steed on and bounded out of the path of the werewolf.

  I turned my steed back towards Lupenwald and tried to fit the pendant into the empty cartridge. It was a touch too large. I couldn’t risk squeezing it in; a misfire would kill me just as surely as the beast’s claws.

  Instead, I placed the silver lump in my mouth and bit down upon it, grinding my teeth against the soft metal to work it into a more compact shape. The beast rammed headfirst into the horse, knocking us wildly about, but I managed to just barely retain my seat, and my horse his footing. I could taste blood as the silver shard cut against my tongue and palate. We were off the road now, and the beast was coming in for another attack, this one sure to be fatal.

  I spat out the hunk of bloody silver, shoved it into the cartridge, replaced the cap, loaded it, raised the shotgun, and fired. A less-experienced marksman simply could not have worked the reloading mechanism in the scant time available. As it was, I barely made the shot. The contents of the cartridge flew out, the bits of shot scattering into the beast’s face and open maw, the silver shard lodging in its cheek.

  The effect was immediate. The beast howled in pain as it swirled about and cradled its injured face.

  I threw the empty gun at the beast, one final attack, and then spurred the horse around. I did not look back and focused only on getting the maximum speed from my horse. The werewolf’s injured screams eventually faded into the distance.

  I did not stop until I reached Lupenwald. The horse was finished, so our final stop together was the knacker’s. I went to ground, renting a room far away from my usual haunts. A werewolf had killed Lord Abergreen. Two attempts had been made on my life today: one by gun, one by wolf. Who wanted me dead and why?

  These questions haunted me as I drifted to sleep. I had important things to do tomorrow, but I’d do myself no good without rest.

  Chapter 12

  I SLAMMED MY FIST repeatedly on the sturdy wooden door. It rattled in its frame and the attached chimes jingled cacophonously. Above the din, I heard movement on the other side of the door, and a voice.

  “Shop’s closed,” said the voice.

  I stopped pounding.

  “Patch! It’s me.”

  A shutter in the door opened. Beady, inquisitive eyes peered out at me.

  “Drake. What do you want?”

  I held up one of the coins of King Sebastian.

  “I’m on a case and need a consult. Nothing complicated or illegal.”

  “I resent the implication that my services are anything but fully authorized.”

  Patch unlocked and opened the door, a complicated multistage procedure. In this neighborhood, you needed a good lock or five. Patch was a short man, aged beyond his true years. He had reason to be paranoid; the Convocation of Magi tightly regulated their own, and he was an outsider. If they even suspected he was working restricted magic, they could have him rounded up and locked away for a very long time.

  He snatched the coin from my hand and peered at it skeptically. He glanced back to me and then to the coin again. He finally pocketed it in his robe—a bathrobe, not the fancy sort fa
vored by judges and Magi. He waved me in, paying more attention to the coin than me, and locked the many dead bolts behind us.

  “What’s the situation, friend?” he asked.

  They were nervous words, uttered to fill the silence as he led me into his workshop, a simple affair of benches and tables covered in broken gadgets, some complicated clockwork, others profoundly simple. Books were scattered around; more lay open on their spines than remained on the bookcases.

  “The less you know, the better it will probably be for you,” I said. “My case is for a wealthy client, and I have no shortage of unanswered questions. I’ve got a hunch, but I need to see how it plays out.”

  Patch nodded along.

  “What do you have for me, then?”

  I procured the container of ashes I had taken from Lord Abergreen’s study. Patch cleared off space on a table by collecting some of his books and stacking them on a chair, and blew away the accumulated dust. I dumped the ashes out onto the table.

  Patch closed his eyes, concentrating. His breathing slowed. He traced a circle with one finger around the ashes.

  “Mend.” The word was spoken with an essential authority rather out of character for Patch, a word with the force to reshape the cosmos. His eyes flashed open and shimmered a pale blue.

  The ashes brightened, their color shifting from grey to black to brown, then to the cream of paper. Traces of ink became visible. Patch cupped his hands, and the fragments began to float above them, slowly dancing around each other, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, their rough tear lines mending. The eventual result was a small scrap of paper, only a few inches long and perhaps an inch tall, as well as a few much smaller scraps.

  I could make out some rogue words and sentence fragments on the paper. But there was a single word, clear as day, that demanded my attention and left no question to me as to what I beheld. The word was “bequeath.”

  I held in my hands the last remnant of Lord Abergreen’s will.

  I placed the scraps in the pouch and thanked Patch. He absentmindedly thumbed through his books, placing select volumes back on the shelf. One of them caught my eye.