It was going to be a perfect night for hunting werewolves. The setting sun was turning the winter-sky a gorgeous orange, and the full moon was already rising. Storm Moon, that was its name, according to Greg’s almanac, but there was no storm in sight. Just a few cloudy wisps, no more than the smoke from a candle, riding on the slight breeze.

Greg glanced at the moon again, shivered and rubbed his hands together, stomped his feet. The ground was hard, and the bare trees were glittering with frost. At least there was no snow, so the horses would be able to run free.

Or was that a bad thing? The werewolves would be running just as easily.

“Nervous?”

Greg jumped when his older brother Andrew was suddenly standing beside him, but managed to turn it into a shrug. “Nah,” he said.

“Good,” Andrew said. “Remember your job?”

Greg shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’ve seen you do it a million times.”

“No you haven’t,” Andrew said calmly. “Cause I’ve never been on a hunt this big myself. And even on the smaller ones, you’ve only seen the beginning and the end result. You’ve never been there in the middle of the action.”

“That’s hardly my fault, is it?”

Andrew didn’t take the bait, though.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbled after a second or two. “I ride in with the other beaters, I make a lot of noise, we drive the monsters down the hill into the killing zone.”

“What else?”

“I make sure I don’t fall behind, I make sure I don’t ride ahead, I keep the distance to the other beaters even, I make sure I don’t lose sight of them. I never ever leave my place within the line. I take good care of your horse, or you’ll roast me alive.”

“You betcha,” Andrew said, with an easy grin at Greg’s sullen tone of voice. “You take good care of Dolly, and she’ll keep your green ass safe in there.”

He waved vaguely with his good hand towards the forest. As if on cue, a single, echoing howl rose from amongst the trees, even though it was still another hour until sunset.

Greg couldn’t help but wonder if the monsters knew what was coming for them. He kept that thought to himself though; Andrew would just laugh at him.

Gravel crunched behind them, and Greg turned around to watch his oldest brother, David, come stomping up the hill.

“Gregory!” he barked. “What the hell are you waiting for? We still have to go over your gear!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg muttered. He was perfectly able to prepare his gear on his own, but he followed David back towards the camp of the werewolf-hunters.

Andrew came along, fiddling with his jacket. His right arm was broken, and the sling made it impossible to get it through the sleeves, so the jacket kept sliding off Andrew’s shoulders. Greg stared down at the dark brown skin of his own right hand. He felt a little bad about it, but secretly he was glad about Andrew’s injury. This was his chance, finally!

His chance to prove himself, to prove that he could do the job, that he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was seventeen, for Mithras’s sake!

His father and his last brother were sitting at their campfire. Nathan was the youngest of Greg’s brothers at twenty-two, but even he had been on the job for over six years. David had only been fourteen when he had gone out to his first hunt all on his own. But they all seemed convinced that Greg didn’t have what it took to hunt werewolves with them.

So he let David fuss over him as he put on his boots and batwings – long leggings made of hard leather, that went over his breeches to protect his legs against the underbrush of the forest. His jacket was made from equally strong leather, not meant, as David kept repeating, to repel a werewolf’s teeth. “They get you, you’re dead.”

“I know, I know,” Greg sighed.

David didn’t seem to hear him.

The last layer of clothes was a sort of cape made from a huge white sheet that should tear rather than catch on anything. The idea was that the white colour would make Greg more visible to the shooters of the hunting party, and hopefully confuse a werewolf about the actual shape of his body underneath the cape, so that if he did get bitten, all the werewolf would get was a mouthful of wool.

Greg just hoped that he wouldn’t set himself on fire, once it was time to light his torch. Although that would certainly make him highly visible, and the fire probably would scare away any monsters too.

Lastly, David handed him his torches and a whistle, and also a double-crossbow and a small quiver with some additional silver-tipped bolts.

“I’ve already checked it over,” David explained. “Just in case you need it. If you want some advice? Make sure you don’t need this.”

He paused, and for a second Greg thought David would call him out for rolling his eyes at him, but instead his oldest brother continued:

“It’s not that I think you can’t shoot; I know you can; I taught you. But it’s too dark underneath the trees. If you can see it well enough to shoot it, the monster is already way too close. As soon as the action starts, Dolly is your best chance.”

“I know!” Greg repeated, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Why are you all so worried? It’s not like we’re hunting the Morgulon! I’ve watched you all do this for years, and I’m much older than the rest of you were when you started! All I got to do is ride with the other beaters and make a lot of noise. It’s not that hard!”

David just heaved a sigh and ran a hand through the tight curls of his hair. Just as Greg thought his brother would simply ignore what he had said, David grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around, towards the edge of the camp where the other beaters were saddling their horses.

“When was the last time you have seen us work with so many beaters?” David asked.

And before Greg could say anything, he added: “When was the last time we went after six, six werewolves in one night?”

“I don’t know,” Greg admitted.

“Eight years ago,” David said curtly. “And we lost a half dozen people that night. It was a mess. And this looks like it’s going to be an even bigger mess, Morgulon or not. We wouldn’t even be here, if the Church hadn’t ordered Dad in to ‘fix this’. All it takes is for one werewolf to slip through the line, and half the beaters are dead. We’d all prefer it if you weren’t one of them.

Now, let’s go get Dolly saddled.”

Greg followed his brother a little dazed to where the horses were tied to pegs in the ground.

Andrew was, of course, waiting for them. Somehow, he had managed to get the bridle over the mare’s head, even with just one good arm. All Greg had to do was fasten the buckles and get the saddle on her back. Andrew watched his every move as he tightened the saddle strap while patting Dolly’s nose in an absentminded way.

As much as it irked him, Greg could at least understand Andrew’s worry. Dolly was an exceptionally fine mare, a little over fourteen hands high, with the thick, dark chestnut coloured coat and all over built of a mountain pony, the strength of a draught horse, but all the fire, agility, and speed of a thoroughbred. Andrew had hand-raised her from filly and trained her for years. Greg could only hope that he would one day find a horse half as good.

And if he ever did, he would most certainly give it a better name than Dolly.

A hunting horn called everyone together, and David hurried off to take his place at their father’s side. Baron Abraham Feleke – Bram – was a wiry man of average height, but his posture made him appear taller. Decades of hunting the most dangerous game imaginable under all weather conditions had lined the dark skin of his face like the bark of a tree, and he had the same quiet strength as an oak. As the huntsman officially appointed by the Church, he was master of this hunting party and would be down at the killing zone, together with about a dozen other shooters.

Greg barely heard what his father had to say about the plan. He had been there when Bram had hashed out all the details with David, and besides, there was a woman standing right next to them.

Greg had never seen her before, but he knew who she had to be anyway. There was only one woman in the whole of Loegrion who hunted werewolves: Countess Lane deLande. She was a Valoisian noblewoman, but with her fair skin and hair, she could have easily passed as a native Loegrian. She was tall for a woman, as tall as Bram, and wore the same huge white sheet as Greg over her leather skirts, which made it hard to say more about her figure.

The men still stared, of course, though not for the reasons they might stare at other women. There were stories about Lane deLande, that she had once killed three werewolves in one night, all on her own. That she never lost a track, that she never stopped once she was on the hunt until the werewolf was dead. They said she still hunted the werewolf that had killed her father, ten years ago. They said if anyone could bring down the Morgulon, it was her.

They said that her husband had died just a month after their wedding, and the last man who had tried to flirt with her had simply disappeared.

When Greg’s father was finished, he and the other shooters mounted their horses and left for the killing zone down in the valley, where the river made a wide bend. If everything went as planned – which it never did – the werewolves would be driven out of the forest by the beaters, and down the hill into the river bend, which would cut off their escape in three directions. There the shooters would wait for them. Theirs was the most dangerous job: to kill the monsters before they could realize they were trapped.

Lane deLande would lead the team of beaters tonight, over thirty men in total. Greg shuddered when he looked around the small army of white capes. Andrew and David were right, of course: This hunting party was huge. Normally, it was just their father, David, Andrew, and Nathan, the famous “Feleke Four.”

But normally, werewolves travelled alone, or in pairs of two. Every now and then, there would be packs of three, and very rarely, four.

But six?

Still, Greg couldn’t help but wonder what the Church’s interest in the tiny village down the hill was: The thing deLande was most famous for was the fact that she always hunted alone. Only the Church, or maybe another high-born Valoise could have ordered her to join this hunt.

And yes, the pack was bigger than normal, but it wasn’t like there was a monastery nearby, no city, and as far as Greg knew, no important Valoisian noble’s land.

DeLande stared after the departing shooters with what Greg was pretty sure was dissatisfaction, or possibly even envy. After a few seconds, she seemed to realize that the beaters were all staring at her because she huffed and turned back to face them.

“You heard the Baron,” she said, in a clear voice that carried well. “Let’s get in there, drive them out, get this done. Don’t get cocky, and stick to your positions. These monsters have already killed at least a dozen people, let’s not make it any more. Now, get your horses and take your positions. Do not, I really shouldn’t have to repeat this, do not enter the forest before I give the signal.”

When she turned away, Greg jogged off, as fast as his riding boots allowed, and realized his mistake a moment later. No one else seemed to be in a hurry. Andrew grinned at him.

“Can’t wait to get started, huh?”

Greg rolled his eyes at him and went to check the saddle straps and harness again. He thought he saw approval on Andrew’s face when he bent down to run a hand over Dolly’s legs and hooves as well. His brother held the reins while he climbed onto her back, petted her nose one last time, and then said: “Good luck.”

Greg wasn’t sure whether he meant him or the horse.

As soon as Andrew was out of sight, Dolly started prancing under Greg’s hands, as if she knew that this was his first hunt. Or maybe she just sensed his nerves. His heart was beating high in his throat when he stopped her at his assigned place at the forest’s edge.

He was the first one getting into position, and he really wished he had taken his time like everyone else. There might be a werewolf right in front of him, hidden in the shadows of the conifers. His fingers danced nervously over the pistol at his hip.

His father would frown if he knew that Greg had brought it. In Bram’s opinion, pistols were far too unreliable for this kind of hunting, and too loud to boot. Greg disagreed – his was a state of the art cap lock pistol, which would fire under any weather conditions, even in the rain. And sure, it was loud, but then again, you didn’t need to worry about alarming the prey, if it went down at the first shot, did you?

He sighed softly and pulled his hand back. Tonight, scaring the prey too early would be a huge problem.

“Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up,” he hummed to himself in a low singsong.

Dolly’s ears flicked in his direction, then back towards the forest again. She shifted her weight uneasily, hooves pounding the ground.

“Easy, girl”, Greg went on in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “We’ll be okay. We’ll be careful, yes? Andrew’s gonna kill me dead if you get hurt, never mind if the werewolf gets me first, so don’t you worry, we’ll be fine…”

He didn’t quite manage to calm her down, or himself for that matter. He hadn’t realized that they would have to wait this long.

He checked the double-crossbow David had given him, to make sure there was a quarrel cocked in each of the nuts. Part of him wondered how much longer they would be using crossbows. Everyone else was using firearms these days. Sure, the double-crossbow had a higher rate of fire, but it just didn’t pack the punch a pistol had.

Of course, there was always the price issue. A silver-covered bolt could usually be reused, whereas bullets tended to deform within the body.

Greg shook his head and folded his hands over the pommel of the saddle to keep them still. David would say this was just like him, always going on about things completely unrelated to the matter at hand. In a few moments, the sun would set, and he would have to be focused, calm, the beasts would smell his fear, and any mistake could mean death, his death or someone else’s. He needed to be calm, he was a hunter, not a kid, not a scared little squirrel, he was…

Completely unable to get his head together, apparently.

Greg took a deep breath. It didn’t really help, but there, finally, was Nathan taking the place to his right. Just a moment later he saw Lane deLande. Greg watched her stop at the beater to his left. He couldn’t quite hear what she said. After a moment the man repositioned himself several yards closer to Greg. DeLande glared at Greg when she came by and shook her head. She didn’t say anything, but it was pretty clear that she shared David’s worries about his inexperience.

Maybe, just maybe, if he did his job tonight, his family would finally believe that he was good for something useful.

If the monsters didn’t get him.

The pack was smart, or at least led by someone who had kept some spark of human rationality. Otherwise, they would have been hunted down a lot earlier.

The six werewolves had been terrorizing the area for over seven months now, either evading all attempts to take them down or killing the hunters. They had also attacked several villages, a travelling group of merchants, and just eight days ago, when the moon had been less than half full, there had been an attack on a crew of railway surveyors. Which meant that they had a taste for human flesh beyond the full moon madness and that there were probably plenty of other victims no one had heard about.

Greg fidgeted with one of his unlit torches when down in the valley a horn was blown again. He almost dropped the torch. From the other direction, in the village, he could just barely hear the frantic tolling of a bell.

Sundown. Sundown on full moon.

Was he supposed to light his first torch right away, or wait for the second signal? But could he light one after they had started riding?

Greg looked nervously over to his right and saw that Nathan had already lit his, so Greg hurried to set his own torch ablaze. His lucifer matches flared up violently and then almost guttered out again. His hands were shaking when he brought the tiny flame to the coarse hessian of his torch. The material had barely caught fire when the Go signal came from deLande.

And in they went, as fast as the horses could go, hopefully surprising any werewolf lurking nearby. Bare branches snapped across Greg’s face and he had to duck low over Dolly’s neck, almost losing his torch. Between the blazing flames and the shadows underneath the conifers he could see absolutely nothing, could only trust in his mare’s footing, could only hope that the fire and thundering hooves, snapping branches, fanfares and shouts would send the monsters running in the other direction. He tried to straighten up, get a look around, and caught another twig like a whip across the face.

Ducking low, he managed to peek through underneath his right arm and was infinitely glad to see Nathan there. Dolly apparently knew what to do much better than he did, keeping him at his place in the line. As long as there were beaters to his right and left, he was as safe as it was possible to be in a forest with six werewolves on a full moon night. Emboldened, he swung his torch and screamed, half panicked and half defiant.

A tiny bit of joy was also in there.

He was doing it. He was on the hunt, part of the team, finally.

He didn’t even attempt to steer Dolly, since the mare seemed to know the way so well, and concentrated on orienting himself. He was still – more or less – at his place in the line of beaters, but he was pretty sure that they had spread out further than they were supposed to. Somewhere to his left, Greg thought he could hear Lane deLande shouting.

He glanced over to Nathan again. He could see both his brother and the beater beyond him, but when he looked over to his left, there was just a group of pines there. The other man was probably behind them. Hopefully.

There was no sign of the werewolves. Was that normal?

Of course, they had a lot of ground to cover, and they couldn’t have made more than a mile yet. They might not have reached the monsters yet, and it was just as possible that the creatures with their inhuman hearing were way ahead of them. Maybe they had already reached the river bend. They might even already be dead.

But Greg was pretty sure that that was just wishful thinking. He tried very hard not to think of the other possibility. Maybe one of the creatures had heard them coming and instead of running, had stayed hidden in the brush, had found a loophole in the line of torches, which had stretched too far. Maybe one of the monsters was right behind him.

Greg swung his torch wider, swung it right through a dark patch of a thicket. A few leaves from last year sizzled in the flame, but the wood was too wet for a forest fire. Greg screamed again with fear and excitement when Dolly suddenly jumped a fallen tree. He almost dismounted over her neck at the landing. When she slowed down, going up a small hill, Greg reached for the reins for the first time, holding her back even more. He could see from the corner of his eyes that Nathan had slowed as well. In an easy trot, they moved on, Greg up on the small ridge, Nathan down at its base. He still didn’t see the man who was supposed to be on his left, although there were only the bare trunks of broadleaved trees there now.

He did hear voices shouting all around, and they sounded bold and confident rather than panicked, so it was probably all right.

And then he heard the howl, the howl of at least one werewolf, echoing through the woods. He screamed in answer. His heart seemed determined to hammer its way out of his ribcage, but it was almost a good kind of fear. He finally felt like he knew what he was doing. He brandished his torch again, and then lit a second one from the first, swinging them with both arms while nudging Dolly just a little. Her ears flicked, and she stretched herself willingly.

Greg threw a look over his right shoulder to check that he didn’t go too fast. Nathan had fallen a couple of yards behind but was coming along, while the rider next in line was ahead of Greg. Suddenly the man stopped his horse, screaming like mad, and fired a pistol shot into the air. When the echo died away, Greg heard another howl, further away, as it seemed to him.

There was still no one on his left side, even though the beaters should be tightening the noose by now. Greg did hear more shots being fired on that side, people screaming, too, and Greg felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. A heavy weight settled into his stomach, and he was so distracted that he caught another twig across the face.

What was going on over there?

Dolly nickered nervously, and Greg stared ahead into the darkness of the forest with all his might.

“Don’t leave your spot,” his brothers had warned him. “Don’t abandon your position, but for flame’s sake – whatever you do, don’t get yourself killed.”

Greg swallowed hard. It was easy to get killed while hunting werewolves, and that wasn’t even the worst that could happen. Huntsmen didn’t often talk about it, but that didn’t change the fact that every full moon some men set out to kill the monsters, and instead came back monsters themselves.

Another shot rang out to his left, and a soft cry of relief escaped Greg’s lips. He could finally see someone over there, flickering torches and the white shadow of their stupid capes. He couldn’t tell if it was the beater who was supposed to be right next to him or if someone else had closed the ranks, but right now he really didn’t care either way.

Dolly’s breath was starting to get laboured now, her snorting so loud Greg could hear it even over the noise of the hunt around them. Greg cursed himself inwardly. The hunt was not over yet, it just wouldn’t do to wind her too much before they were safe.

So he slowed her down again, even though that meant falling behind his position a few lengths. Not so much that he couldn’t see the torches of the other beaters, but enough to give his steed some time to catch her breath. Get his own wits together too, maybe.

He needn’t have worried about leaving his position. Nathan and the man further to his right slowed down as well and began beating the bushes and evergreens furiously with their torches, weaving right and left in their attempt to search any shrub big enough to hide a rabbit.

Greg followed suit, feeling a little stupid. He was pretty sure that none of the thickets around him were big enough to hide a werewolf. On the other hand, he didn’t want Nathan to tell their father that he had just been tagging along, taking Dolly for a stroll. Maybe he should check that group of conifers over there?

He nudged Dolly over to where several fir trees stood together in a tight group. The mare threw her head left and right and nickered so loudly that Greg could just barely hear Nathan call his name.

“Now what?” he muttered to himself, but he stopped Dolly and turned around to see what his brother wanted.

Nathan waved at him frantically and yelled something Greg couldn’t understand because suddenly people seemed to be shouting everywhere. Nathan reached for his crossbow, and the rider beyond him fired his pistol. Straight at Greg. He could have sworn he felt the bullet go right past his face.

Dolly nickered again, and before Greg could make sense of what was going on, she was bucking under him, taking off at a full sprint. Something huge slammed into her before she had made more than three jumps, sending her tumbling. Greg lost his hold in the saddle and went flying, landing flat on his back. All the air was pressed out of his lungs, and he just lay there for several long seconds, blinking stupidly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dolly struggling to get back onto her feet. Her eyes were rolling, showing the white, and there was foam around her muzzle.

Greg tried to turn over, to get up himself, to take the mare’s reins, and lead her to safety. Andrew would murder him if anything happened to her…

Hot, reeking breath blew into his face, and Greg slowly turned his head.

The werewolf’s nose was just inches away from his neck, the teeth bared, huge rolling eyes showing the white. Spit dripped down onto Greg’s cheek. He just blinked in shocked confusion.

There was a weird sound on his other side, a sort of high-pitched wailing, and it took Greg forever to realize that it was coming from Dolly. The mare had risen to her hind legs, front hooves swinging wildly in the direction of the werewolf. She came down hard; her large, ironclad feet stomped down just inches away from Greg’s face, but he was too groggy to even flinch. She whirled around on her forehand and kicked out, forcing the monster away from Greg.

He slowly managed to roll over, away from where Dolly was still fighting the werewolf. They were the same size, and their fight had a strange elegance to it, like a dance.

One of Dolly’s horseshoes missed Greg’s fingers by inches, and he pulled them away instinctively. The small movement seemed to finally clear his head a little. Suddenly he thought he could hear David yelling at him:

“Get up, get away, get back in the saddle!”

They had practiced this hundreds, if not thousands of times. He rolled out from under the bristling mare, found his feet, and managed to get a grip on the saddle horn. At once, Dolly retreated backwards from the werewolf, and he jumped back into the saddle. Without even thinking about it, Greg whipped out his pistol and fired a shot right at the huge head full of gleaming cursed teeth.

The lead bullet took out one of the werewolf’s eyes, and the monster threw itself around. Greg didn’t have to tell Dolly to put some ground between them and the creature. He put the pistol away and reached for the crossbow. Aiming was instinct; David would have been proud if he could have seen him. The silver bolt sank home cleanly between two ribs, and the werewolf went down.

Greg had just enough time to congratulate himself on his clean shot when he was nearly knocked out of the saddle a second time. Dolly went down hard, right on Greg’s left leg. He could feel a bone snap, and his vision greyed out.

Pain brought him back to his senses. Someone was dragging him, sending waves of hurt through his whole body. When Greg’s vision cleared, all he could see were teeth, and red gums, and a huge tongue. The werewolf had gotten a whole mouthful of his white overcoat, just like it was supposed to. And with Greg’s rotten luck, of course, the material wasn’t tearing.

Greg could hear the blood rushing in his ears. When he struggled weakly, the werewolf started shaking its head violently, to shake the life out of him, yet still, the white fabric didn’t rip. Greg wanted to scream with the pain, but there was no breath left in his lungs. There was no rational thought in his head when he wriggled and struggled to get out of the cape. His arms came free easily, but the way the werewolf had grabbed the fabric was almost choking him, and he couldn’t get his head out.

Finally, his searching fingers found his knife, and he started hacking blindly at the white wool until he slipped out. He couldn’t even feel his leg when he threw himself around, rolling over two, three, four times, desperate to put some space between himself and the monster.

He could still hear David’s voice in his head, yelling instructions at him.

“Don’t roll too far, you’ll just get dizzy,” so he pushed himself up onto his forearms, and tried to get to his feet. The white cloth had caught on a large branch on the ground, and the werewolf was ripping and rending at it, apparently not even realizing that Greg had slipped away.

A horse moved into his field of view, a dark grey one, and a crossbow sang. With a whimper, the werewolf went down. Lane deLande jumped out of the saddle. One hand kept her crossbow pointed at the monster, the other hand held a knife. Carefully, she stepped closer, bent down, and in one swift motion, she cut its throat.

Then her crossbow swung around, right at Greg.

“Drop it,” deLande ordered curtly.

It took Greg forever to realize that she meant the knife his fingers were still cramped around. He considered refusing, but the soft voice of reason pointed out that arguing with a loaded crossbow was a bad idea.

It was suddenly very, very quiet underneath the trees when he pulled his hand away from the knife. Greg looked around in confusion, noticing two more beaters who were holding on to Nathan with both hands.

“Don’t move,” Lane deLande said, her crossbow never wavering away from him

Slowly, hesitantly, a man Greg had never met before stepped closer and kneeled down next to him. A second man with a torch stood over them. Slowly, carefully, the kneeling man examined Greg’s neck and checked his leather jacket for damage. Next, Greg was turned onto his back. It took the stranger forever to go over the injuries in Greg’s face, where the twigs had slapped him. He even pressed a silver blade against each of them, and then made the guy with the torch come closer to get a second opinion. Greg didn't dare move a finger. Finally, the man continued onto his neck and then down the front of his jacket, his arms.

“He’s clear,” he finally announced.

Greg released a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. He would be okay.

DeLande lowered her crossbow rather hesitantly, scrutinizing Greg with her own bright blue eyes. With a huff, she turned away and waved at the two men holding Nathan. When they let him go, Nathan jumped to Greg’s side. He was talking, but Greg was too numb to understand a word. He was dimly aware that someone was leaning over Dolly, holding a knife, and he tried to get up again. He needed to help, needed to get over there, but there was no way his leg would carry him. The knife flashed, and then the horse stilled. Greg tried to blink against the tears and was stymied to see Dolly climb to her feet.

“It’s okay,” Nathan said, who must have followed his gaze. “They just needed to cut the reins, she was tangled up in the reins, she’ll be fine, sheesh, Greg, you’re such an idiot sometimes…”

Greg let the words wash over him. Most of the beaters were already leaving again, led by deLande. Only Nathan and the two who had checked him over remained, crossbows at the ready, but now facing the dark forest.

After a while, the cold and the pain dragged him under.