Wolfweir (13 page)

He saw the morning star dazzling in the West -- a diamond the size of a fist.

If he could weep real tears he would do it now. But would they be of joy, or despair?
For he felt both.

**

Next day, Alphonse, clad in a red velvet suit with gold chain and pointed shoes presented to him by the grateful wolf-people, strolls with the High King and the prancing Lucia around the great battlements of
Wolfweir
Castle.

Mist-speckled, the forest around the castle looms black and wet. There are scraps of blue sky between gray cloud formations. Lucia sticks out her tongue to taste the first quicksilver drops of rain.

"Ah! Alphonse! It's wonderful!"

A lightning bolt skitters out of a black cloud to the West. It flares blue and crackles, drumrolls. The flags -- bearing the image of a bristling black Man-wolf holding a sword and shield on a field of crimson -- snap on the poles.

The High King Gar
Fith
has been pointing out the landmarks to Alphonse and explaining the history of the Kingdom. Briefly stated:

In 1565, one of the Man-Wolves of Gar
Fith's
clan, which originated in the Welsh forests but in the
twelth
century migrated to Italy because of the
Vampyre
problem (of which more later) did some service for a Pope, a ravening moonlit assassination, and the result was a Papal land grant here in these godforsaken sub-Alps that became
Wolfweir
, a refuge and patriotic rally for all
lycanthrops
. Never before had werewolves officially owned a piece of soil, a river, a valley, their own forest, and an imposing castle. Of course, no sooner was the kingdom granted than the Pope put the records under lock and key, deep in the musty Vatican catacomb reserved for documents relating to the occult, and washed his white papal hands of the whole thing.

The Knights of
Wolfweir
fought against the Turks at Aleppo alongside the storming Venetians, and even earlier than that had been involved in the defense of the eastern countries against the Mongols and Turks. That's where they'd drawn the ire of
Vampyre
Vlad
the
Impaler
, known as Dracula. But all that glory belonged to more virile and warlike age. As the centuries went by, the Man-wolves found it more prudent to keep to their little kingdom and not mix with outsiders. For one thing, the
Vampyres
, long before
Vlad
the
Impaler
took
umbrance
at the selfless valor of the Wolf-Knights, had hated and envied all Man-wolves, and
Vampyre
covens had since then upon many different occasions traduced, maligned, and even openly attacked the Kingdom.

This latest chapter -- the kidnapping of Lucia the Wolf-child -- was only one more provocation in a brutal and dreary history. One day, the High King predicted, the
Vampyre
covens would unite and attack
Wolfweir
in force to wipe it from the earth.

"Their hearts are black, bloodless crypts of evil," continues Gar
Fith
, broodingly. "They are the dry rot of the world.
Spiteful tomb-trash.
Van
Helsing
had the right idea.
Stake their hearts, every last cold bloodsucker.
Did you know, my dear Alphonse, that the great world benefactor Van
Helsing
was part Man-wolf on his mother's side?"

As they walk the great black battlements in the rising storm, spattered by cold raindrops, Lucia doing little girlish spins with her tongue stuck out to the sky, Alphonse glances at the thick, greenish glass phial hung by its chain around the High King's neck. This magical amulet, as Lucia once told him, contains dried blood from the first Man-wolf. It doesn't look to the puppet boy's wooden eyes like anything special. Not flashy, anyway, like
Vesuvio's
Blue Orb. How does such a humble thing give power?

Blink
blink
click
click
.

More bluish lightning.
Another bone-rattling drumroll.

"Shall we go down for lunch?" offers the High King. "It looks like rain."

And it was. It rained a hard merciless rain all day. The mountains vanished in thick fog.

To fight his mounting gloom and boredom, Alphonse explored the Castle with Lucia as his laughing accomplice. With the Wolf girl skipping along at his side, Alphonse saw:

           
The Map Room,

           
the
Gun Room,

           
the
Sword Room,

           
the
Lance Room,

           
the
Gunpowder Room,

the
Kitchens,

the
Stables,

the
Library,

the
Hidden Passage.

The Hidden Passage was dusty and thick with
spiderwebs
. Lucia, peering into the cold darkness, said it led through the mountain to the Marshes beyond. It was for getting messages out and supplies in should the castle ever be placed under a drum tight siege.

But
Wolfweir
hadn't been besieged for the last few centuries. The padlock was more rust than iron.

**

At sunset the rain cleared away and the cloud cover suddenly broke, letting in the last golden sunrays.

"Messenger!" went up the call from the ramparts.
"Red pennant!
Red pennant!"

Alphonse looked out a window cut in the stone wall of the Sword Room, where he had been testing his swing on an assortment of cutlasses and sabers.

He saw a horse and rider galloping up the dusty road to the castle, really tearing along,
full
tilt. The rider was a Man Wolf, bent over his horse for speed. A red pennant was flapping on the pole stuck into his light chain mail and leather armor.

As the messenger approached the Castle, the gates clanged open. He galloped his stallion right in through the gates, reined in with a clatter, jumped from the frothing horse, and dropping to one knee addressed the Master at Arms, who had just emerged half-dressed from the Inner Castle:

"Dragoons, sir, approaching from the East."

"Dragoons?
Of what army?"

"Austrians it looks like, sir," the messenger panted. "But under no flag. They're mercenaries led by a pair of
Vampyres
."

Alphonse had just reached the bottom of the stairs opening onto the Outer Courtyard when he heard the dreaded word
Vampyres
. He stopped short.

"A male and a female both in full battle armor.
They're strong, sir. The male is a lightning quick swordsman. The female can fly like the devil."

Lord and Lady
Blackgore
!
thought
Alphonse. It had to be.

The Master at Arms roared and smacked his fists together.

"Where were they when you last saw them?"

"At the eastern edge of the forest, sir.
We engaged, but we had to fall back. Ten of ours killed. The Dragoons are coming on foot. Six hundred or so, pushing cannon on wheels. They've got about fifty in light cavalry, most of them
Vampyres
too -- judging by the death pallor faces."

"So the day's come," roared the High King. He had just stepped into the Outer Courtyard wearing about half his frightening black battle armor, a
Manwolf
- servant carrying his sword and battle helmet.

"To arms, Knights.
To arms.
Sound the trumpets. We're going out to attack. Get my horse!"

The 48 Knights

Alphonse mimed to the Master at Arms that he wished for a cutlass and a horse.

The High King cried: "Give that valiant puppet a horse!"

Horses were being saddled all over in the courtyard. Man-wolves in armor, bristling with weapons, were scraping and clanging around in the dusk. Archers were running up onto the battlements. Bonfires crackled.

A massive saddled war-horse, leather and steel armor protecting her chest and head, was led up to Alphonse. He caught the reins, swung himself up, and turned the horse a few times in place to test her. She was well-trained, not skittish even in the midst of this grating bustle.

He was a tried-and-true horseman, our Alphonse.
Knew how to handle a steed.
We've established as much.

A servant handed him his cutlass. He drew it out with a hiss of steel to glance at the edge in the bonfire-light. Yes, it was sharp enough. Deftly, he sheathed it and strapped it to his belt. He'd already slung the sword cane over his shoulders by its length of twine.

"Enemy in sight!" cried a voice from above.

"Prime cannons!" roared Gar
Fith
.
"Archers, at ready!
Fusilliers
, with me!"

He was mounted now, on a stamping horse, in full armor.

"We'll meet them at the river! Go!"

They went. They went like a storm, wind and rain, lightning. The 47 Knights of
Wolfweir
led by the High King, the bonfire light glinting blood-red on his steel helmet, charged down from the Castle, and behind them dashed the
fusilliers
in lightweight straw and leather breastplates with steel helmets carrying their long rifles, followed by four bristling companies of lancers.

And with them was the valiant puppet boy, Alphonse Didier-Stein.
Howling, in total silence.

Battle

Meantime, Lucia, wrapped in a dark blue cape against the chill, climbs up upon the battlements in a group of about fifty other Wolf-women and some Man-servants and young boys.

The bonfires have been extinguished with sand, so now only a dull half-moon lights the eerie landscape, picking out the
spearpoints
and glinting helmets and the bluish haze of mist rising from the river.

The 47 Knights and Fusiliers and Lancers are moving quickly in small companies, rapidly changing formation without missing a beat.

Lucia hears the distant rattle of the lances, the clattering hooves, the neighs and snorts of horses.