It was going to be a perfect night for hunting werewolves, all the experienced hunters kept saying so. Greg really hoped they weren’t just putting lipstick on a pig. Nothing else had been going right about this hunt so far, it would be nice if at least the weather held.

The cold made his fingers shake. At least he hoped it was just the cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared up. The setting sun turned the winter-sky a gorgeous orange, and the full moon rose just above the trees that glittered silver with frost. Storm Moon, that was its name according to Greg’s almanack. There was no storm in sight tonight, though, only a few cloudy wisps, and the plume of his own breath precipitating in the cold air.

He stamped his feet to keep the blood flowing. The ground was frozen solid, and there was no snow, so the horses would be able to run freely.

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

“Nervous?”

Greg jumped when his father stopped next to him, but managed to turn it into a shrug. “Nah,” he claimed.

He was pretty sure Bram didn’t believe him. The Old Man, the other hunters called him, or Old Man Feleke. Few used his real title, Baron of Courtenay. That sort of nobility didn't hold much weight here. But an old man in a profession where people usually died young? That commanded respect.

Bram’s appearance didn’t, not at a first glance. He was a good bit shorter than Greg, and wiry like a jockey. 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. His dark, nearly black eyes pierced Greg’s bravado easily.

“Remember your position?”

“Andrew’s position.” Greg shifted his weight uncomfortably. It still grated. That he was only allowed to participate as an afterthought. Because one of his brothers had been injured during the preparations.

Bram continued to look at him expectantly.

“I’m going to be a beater,” Greg relented. “And I’ve seen Andrew and Nathan do it a million times.”

Bram looked over his shoulder at the camp of werewolf hunters. “That seems unlikely,” he said. “As neither of them has ever participated in a hunt this big. And it is quite different, to be part of the line, rather than watching from the outside.”

Thanks for rubbing it in. Greg didn’t quite dare to say that aloud, though he was sure his expression gave him away.

“Well?” his father prompted patiently. “What does Andrew’s position entail?”

Greg did roll his eyes at the question, though he ducked his head so Bram wouldn’t see. He had practised for this since he could mount a horse, had sat on his mother’s knees even earlier, listening to the accounts after every hunt—not just after successful ones, but failures, too. Did Bram really think he’d forget, tonight of all nights?

“I ride in with the other beaters, I make a lot of noise, we drive the monsters out of the forest, up to the cliff, into the killing zone.”

“And?”

“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 Dolly, or Andrew will roast me alive.”

“You will have to take that up with your brother,” Bram said, with an easy grin. He was looking at something past Greg.

“What about me?” Andrew asked from behind him.

Greg jumped again, but Bram was unperturbed. “Greg is worried about what you will do to him should he let anything happen to your horse.”

“As he should be,” Andrew said, but he was grinning as he did, his teeth bright against his dark skin. Andrew was the second oldest of Greg’s brothers, nine years older and with a decade of hunting werewolves under his belt.

Greg still glared at him at his next words: “You take good care of Dolly, and she’ll keep your green arse safe in there.”

Andrew waved vaguely with his good hand towards the forest. As if on cue, a single, echoing howl rose from amongst the trees.

Greg couldn’t help but wonder if the monsters were aware that the Feleke Four were coming for them. He kept that thought to himself though; he couldn’t really claim that title. Andrew would just laugh at him, and he didn’t even want to imagine what his father would think.

Maybe it would become true, though, soon. Andrew was going to leave the team in summer, to go to university. Then the Feleke Four would be three, unless they finally allowed Greg to join the family business.

As a second werewolf joined in, Bram asked: “How are the preparations coming along?”

“Nathan is going to shoot Little Roy within the next half an hour,” Andrew reported. “If Lady deLande doesn’t beat him to it. You might want to get in there, before David decides he’d rather deal with the monsters than the people. We’ll have a fight about the bounty if he kills them all on his own.”

“I was counting on you to stop him,” Bram said.

“I’m flattered by your confidence in me, Sir, but I think it would be better if I take Greg to get ready and you go and deal with the madhouse.”

Greg tried not to show his disappointment when his father turned to look at him. He’d hoped that his first ever hunt would warrant his father being there when he got ready.

“You know, I think David will be able to keep it together for a few more minutes,” Bram replied after a moment.

So they walked back towards their camp together, Greg between Bram and Andrew, who was 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: Finally, a 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!

And he was thoroughly sick of staying behind and guarding the camp.

It was a much bigger camp today, about twenty tents. About half the participants camped right here. Greg recognized most of the faces. They were all professional hunters, and even in Loegrion, there weren't that many people who made their living only by killing werewolves. They tended to know each other.

The other half of the crew was still arriving from the surrounding villages, and being thoroughly scrutinised: most of them were farmers or fortune seekers, hired to complete the line of beaters.

Greg could see his eldest brother David, directing the newcomers on where to put their horses, answering questions and generally trying to keep things organised. Yelling over a crowd didn't come naturally to him, and Greg could hear the strain in his voice.

Bram cut through the chaos to where their own tents were pitched, unperturbed.

Greg wished he had the same calm as he reached for his gear. His fingers shook, just a little, 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’s voice kept repeating in his head, to repel a werewolf’s teeth.

“They get you, you’re dead,” he muttered to himself, trying to mimic the way David would say it.

“What was that?” Bram asked.

“Nothing, Sir.”

The last layer of clothes was a cape made from a cheap white cover 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 linen.

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.

He looked thoroughly ridiculous.

So would all the other beaters, he reminded himself. He already felt sweaty, despite the frost.

“Ready?” his father asked. “Let’s see if we can’t help David out.”

He would have preferred to stay right where he was, but nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

“Deep breaths,” Bram said. “Everyone gets the jitters at their first time.”

Wasn’t that encouraging.

David was by now standing on top of the supply cart, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, listening to some grievance the man standing in front of him had. Nathan sat next to his feet, legs swinging wildly and threatening to kick anyone who came too close.

“Mr. Desantis,” Bram said, approaching the man who appeared to be getting on David’s last nerve. “I trust you are ready for this hunt?”

“Yes, of course, Your Lordship,” the man replied. “I was just saying—”

“Great,” Bram cut him off. “It’s time to go over the plan, now that everyone is finally here.”

He looked at Nathan, who promptly jumped off the cart and reached for his horn, to call all hunters together. David followed him down more slowly, still glaring at Desantis as everyone else gathered around.

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, the only woman in the whole of Loegrion who hunted werewolves: Countess Lane deLande. She was of Valoisian nobility, 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: They said that she had once killed three werewolves in one night, all on her own. That she never lost a trail, that she never stopped once she was on the hunt until the prey 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.

Tonight, the Countess was relegated to leading the team of beaters, over thirty men in total. Greg shuddered when he looked around the sea of white capes. This hunting party was huge.

Normally, it was just his father, David, Andrew, and Nathan, the famous “Feleke Four.” No designated beaters, or at most some local people from the affected village out for revenge. Other hunters were competitors, not comrades.

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

Tonight, there were six.

In a moment, Bram and the other shooters would mount their horses and make for the killing zone down at the waterfront, where the coastline swung around a steep cliff. If everything went as planned—if the team of beaters did their job—the werewolves would be driven out of the forest, and up to the bluff, 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 realise they were trapped.

Greg was just a beater. If all went according to plan, he wouldn’t even see a werewolf. Still, his heartbeat sped up as Bram finished.

“All right!” David took over, face grim. “Line up and get your torches, beaters. Do not light them before you’re in position. You each get three, and trust me, you don’t want to be in that forest without a flame.”

He and Nathan distributed torches and whistles for the beaters who didn’t have them already. When it was Greg’s turn, David told him to wait. Greg bit his lips and rubbed his hands nervously. Nobody had been more opposed to him taking Andrew’s place than his oldest brother.

When it was finally his turn, David held out his hands. “Let me see your crossbow.”

Greg opened his mouth to complain, thought better of it, and just handed over the weapon. He did know how to load one, thank you very much. But that was David for you.

“Want to see the quiver, too?” Greg asked sweetly.

David ignored that question, checking the weapon over with quick, experienced motions before handing it back.

“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 growled, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “I’m not stupid, you know? And 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 complicated!”

David just heaved a sigh and ran a hand through the tightly braided curls of his hair. Just as Greg thought his brother would simply ignore his outburst, David grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around, pushing him past the cart and towards the edge of the camp where the other shooters were mounting their horses.

“When was the last time you have seen us work with so many hunters?” 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—experienced people, all of them. 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 father in to ‘fix this’. All it takes is for one werewolf to slip through the line, and half the beaters are dead. I would rather prefer it if you weren’t one of them.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but there was another horn call. “Look, I have to go, Greg. Just—promise to be careful.”

“I promise,” Greg muttered. Mostly to get David to leave him alone.

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

“You heard Baron Feleke,” 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 over 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. May Mithras be with us tonight.”

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

“Can’t wait to get started, huh?”

Somehow, he had managed to get the bridle over Dolly's head, even with just one good arm. All Greg had to do was fasten the buckles and get the saddle on the mare's 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.

He thought he saw approval on Andrew’s face when he bent down to run a hand over Dolly’s legs and checked her hooves. 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, but he clicked his tongue, and they got moving.

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, pawing 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 realised that they would have to wait this long.

He checked the double-crossbow again, to make sure there was a quarrel cocked in each of the nuts. As if David would ever mess up a crossbow.

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 be completely gone 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 father would finally believe that he could be trusted to do the job.

If the monsters didn’t get him.

Greg fidgeted with one of his unlit torches when down at the cliff a horn was blown again. He almost dropped the torch. From the other direction, in the closest 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, whistles 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 next man was probably hidden 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 coast. 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 yelled 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 shrieked 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 was getting the hang of this. 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 he 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 family 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 realise 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 practised 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 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.