Late the next morning, David took a proper bath, washing away the last of the grime, and arming himself before returning to Deva Castle to see if deVale really wanted to duel him. He wasn’t worried about which weapon the Count might choose. He would put some holes into the idiot one way or another.

Luckily, deVale hadn’t even returned from the forest yet, so he couldn’t complain when David officially presented the still slightly bloody pelt to Lane and Duke Desmarais. He did so on the raised stage in the great hall, where the viceroy’s throne stood, and people had a clear view of them. Once again, a crowd of nobles had gathered, and today, David also spotted several bishops in their blood-red regalia.

Lane smiled at him in obvious relief, when David handed her the pelt with a bow and declared that she was going to have it properly preserved.

Three other suitors, who had already returned, watched the procedure grumbling, but neither of them looked eager to get into a fight about it. They retreated quickly and quietly back into the crowd.

David had expected the gathering to dissolve quickly, now that the challenge was over. After all, today was the day of the summer solstice. There were services to attend and rites to go through, sermons to be held in the case of the bishops. And the big celebration of the night wasn’t starting for a few more hours.

But people stayed, forming small groups as if they were expecting something else to happen. Conversations were suspiciously quiet.

David stepped down from the stage. Whatever else was going on, he didn’t want to get in the way. Lane followed him. She, too, looked around in confusion, and they drifted over to the side of the hall without even talking about it. They stopped when they had nearly reached the wall. There were additional guards in the colours of Desmarais positioned at all the doors in sight.

“What’s going on?” Lane muttered.

But before David could say anything, a new voice interrupted: “Congratulations,” said High Inquisitor d’Evier, stepping very close. “I take it that this makes the engagement official?”

“We thank you very much, your Excellency,” David said since he couldn’t think of anything better.

D’Evier patted the pelt, which Lane was still carrying. “I see that your skills are still sharp, young lord. Yet you seem to bring most of your prey back alive, these days.”

“Of course,” David said, and was a little bit proud that his voice didn’t waver. “As His Highness commanded of us.”

“Which one?” d’Evier asked.

“Both of them, Lord Inquisitor. But it’s the order of the viceroy that we cannot refuse.”

“No,” the High Inquisitor said softly. “No, you clearly cannot, I see that.” He looked back and forth between them. “It’s certainly prudent of you to concentrate on more private matters in times like these,” he said. “Terrible accidents can happen on a werewolf hunt, especially with the Rot moving about so much. I do wish you happiness together. Long happiness.”

Lane curtsied and David bowed, and they didn’t say a word until the Inquisitor was way out of sight again. He wasn’t particularly tall, with an unremarkable face and brown hair, cut like a monk’s. People still backed out of his way quickly. David had no idea how he had snuck up on them.

“Should we warn Desmarais?” Lane asked.

“I’m very certain he knows,” David said.

They had all known this moment would come.

Also, it was too late to warn Desmarais. The High Inquisitor had reached the stage, where Desmarais still stood, now with Duke George Louis at his side. The whole court reacted to the sight: The more curious nobles were moving closer, the more careful ones were backing away.

David couldn’t hear what d’Evier said.

“We will cower before Mithras,” Duke Desmarais answered the High Inquisitor, raising his voice enough for it to fill the hall. “But we will no longer cower before the Rot. A werewolf draws its powers from moonlight, which science has proven to be nothing more than reflected sunlight, thus showing that Mithras is smiling on us even when we cannot see His face. The Rot, on the other hand, is born of corruption and everything else that is vile, and that you will use it to threaten every living soul in this land just shows how rotten the Church has gotten, too!”

Desmarais was yelling at the end.

Duke George Louis cut in smoothly, completely ignoring the High Inquisitor, and instead speaking to the room at large: “I have spoken to several werewolves, I have witnessed, with my own two eyes, their ability to fight the Rot. If you want to stand by idly while the White Torrent turns into the same swamp as the Savre, if the fate of newborns and their mothers means nothing to you, if you truly believe that famine and pestilence will somehow pass your lands over, then, by all means, stand with this charlatan who calls himself a man of Mithras.

But if you see Loegrion as your home, by choice or by birth, and if you care for this home, then I say: Let us cleanse this home! Let us drive out the Rot, and then let us reap the fruits of this most bountiful of lands together!

Yes, it will take the aide of werewolves, but that is nothing to be afraid of. Werewolves can be made safe: We can catch them, and talk to them, and either they prove to be reasonable, or a sharp axe will put them out of their misery. And those who do prove to be reasonable, why should we not put them to work?

Many of them have already proven themselves reliable in building the railways around Eoforwic, they are now crucial in pushing the line up to Mannin. Soon, every major city in Loegrion, no matter where, will be connected by a line. All the way to the west coast. For food and shelter and a shirt on their back will they protect your lands, your homes, families, and livestock from the Rot. Even the seed on your fields will only be stolen by birds.”

Duke George Louis paused for the susurrus all around.

“That is the future we offer,” he called even louder. “We will connect the cities and protect our villages. We will have the rivers and forests cleansed, and we will open up all the land between Sheaf and the west coast. We will not rest until the Rot is nothing more than a bad memory.”

Silence fell across the big reception hall of the castle. People didn’t move, the nobles were just glancing at each other. David could feel those closest stare at him.

He was surprised, and yet somehow not, when it was Count deVale who pushed forwards from the very back of the crowd, looking harried and tired and dirty, obviously just back from his luckless hunt. He carried a dead fox over his shoulder, but his steps, when he climbed the stage, were light and even. He bowed courtly to the two dukes and then planted his feet like he was never going to move again.

A general shuffle started. David and Lane let themselves be pushed closer to the stage. They hardly had to move, the general drift went that way anyway. Very few people tried to get closer to the group of red robes on the other side of the room. Some hovered in the middle, still undecided. David thought he could even see a bishop amongst them.

“High Inquisitor d’Evier, you and your ilk are not welcome here any longer!” Duke Desmarais yelled over the noise.

“And we are all dead,” someone muttered right next to David, almost at the same moment as d’Evier threatened: “You will regret this! All of Deva will regret this, as a warning to the rest of the Empire!”

He stomped off the stage.

“Should have brought Lee,” David muttered.

“Stop him!” someone else yelled. “Before he dooms us all!”

“Let him go,” Desmarais answered firmly. “In fact, let us have a look at his parlour tricks.”

He led the way, not straight outside but up onto the wide terrace, from which they could oversee the parade-grounds in front of the palace. This time, David did push to the front. He wanted to see what was going on. Clearly, Desmarais had a plan.

“There,” Lane hissed right next to him and pointed. “I thought she’s protecting the railway!”

There was woman moving down on the grounds, and a man, too. They both walked – stalked – up and down the wide open space, avoiding each other. A whole regiment of guards stood at the far side of the parade-grounds.

Nobody bothered Lord d’Evier when he stormed outside and into the middle of the space with his entourage.

“Behold!” he screamed. “The might of your God!”

He waved imperiously, and a younger priest stepped forward. D’Evier smashed a vial on the ground, and something happened to the stones of the yard. David couldn’t tell if it was magic or alchemy – probably magic. A moment later the stones were gone, and d’Evier grabbed the young priest by the hair, pushing him to his knees over the hole in the stones and cutting his throat.

“You think you are safe inside your city walls!” d’Evier screamed. “You think these monsters will save you? Mithras alone can bring you salvation!”

David had to swallow hard against the bile rising in his throat, and his vision greyed out for a few seconds. He could still hear though, people all around gagging, throwing up, and even collapsing. By the time he could see at least schemes again, blinking hard and clinging to the banister for support, down in the yard, the Rot was raising. Cobblestones, and dirt, and the rose bushes, and the dead body of the priest were all moving. David tried to watch, but he couldn’t look at it directly. They formed something, though, something much, much bigger than the thing that had broken Greg’s shoulder blade.

David’s heart was beating violently, and his knees were buckling under him. His skull felt like it was about to crack wide open. Just as he thought he’d pass out like so many around him, the werewolves transformed. A howl cut through the ringing in his ears, and his vision cleared. His stomach still heaved, but he managed not to throw up when he leaned over the banister to get a better look.

The two werewolves crashed into the Rot-giant from both flanks, tearing out pieces despite the cobble-stones covering its hull. Then they retreated, fast as the wind, just before it swung two misshapen arms at them. They circled it, just like real wolves would circle a large deer, always keeping out of its reach. Whenever it tried to hit one of them, the other one attacked.

All around David, those people who could move were panicking, but he stayed, watching transfixed.

Greg would never have been able to fight this thing. Lee wouldn’t have been able to do it. But these two werewolves did. And they didn’t even seem to struggle.

A young woman leaned against the balustrade next to Lane. She looked shaken, and from the way she was spitting out, David guessed she had thrown up, but her eyes were glued to the two werewolves.

The soldiers, whose formation had collapsed when d’Evier had raised the Rot, straightened up, too. The Inquisitor approached their sergeant, who was putting his helmet on again, which he had lost when he’d gone down to his knees. David watched, as d’Evier gesticulated angrily, pointing at the werewolves, but the Inquisitor backed off when several soldiers pointed their long rifles with their silver bayonets at him. David could see his head swing left and right, but slowly it seemed to dawn on d’Evier, that he would find no help or support here. His wretched magic wouldn’t help him, either: The two werewolves were slowly but steadily tearing his giant monster apart.

And all the important nobles of Loegrion were watching.

Lord d’Evier, High Inquisitor of Mithras, swayed on the spot like a blade of grass in the wind, looking around wild-eyed. Finally, though, he turned and ran.

The guards let them go, him and maybe two dozen bishops and nobles. David wondered about that. Clearly, somebody had given them orders, but was this smart? Shouldn’t they try to stop them? Lock them up somewhere, before they ran all the way to Rambouillet, and informed the Roi Solei of what was going on?

Or maybe it was better this way? The Roi Solei was sure to find out anyway, and locking up a mage-priest as d’Evier was nearly impossible. If he ran to Rambouillet, at least he wouldn’t cause trouble on Loegrian soil.

Maybe half an hour later, what was left of the Rot-giant collapsed. The soldiers down in the yard cheered. They had held up better than the nobles up at the terrace. Maybe it was the helmets. David just managed a smile and focused on deep, even breaths. The pressure on his skull had finally lifted, but his stomach took longer to calm down.

The werewolves stared at the soldiers, then hunkered down, as far away from each other as possible.

“I’m going down there,” Lane said, voice as weak as David felt, but she straightened up and crossed the terrace with long strides. David had to hurry to follow her, as did the young girl who had watched with them.

Lane whistled, as soon as she stepped through the door. Morgulon jumped to her feet at the signal and trotted over. She limped on a front paw but greeted Lane excitedly. At the sight, Lane felt instantly better, and she couldn’t have said whether that was magic or just relief.

“Slowly,” Lane muttered when Morgulon almost knocked her over. “We’re being watched. Let’s not scare them.”

She stroked the fur in Morgulon’s neck, massaged one of the ears. The other one was injured, torn and bleeding.

“Think we can find a doctor who’ll stitch that?” Lane asked David.

“We can try,” David said.

Others had reached them, nobles, and guards and servants.

Morgulon dropped down onto the ground again, only the head raised so that Lane could continue to scratch behind her ears.

Theresa came closer slowly, acting like she had never seen Morgulon before, clasping her hands in excitement and keeping a couple of yards of distance.

“Magnificent!” she gasped, maybe a little too theatrical, before adding: “May I step closer?”

Lane had trouble not roll her eyes at the show, but Theresa was right, of course. Better if they established a set of etiquette straight away.

“A step, yes, don’t crowd her,” Lane said loudly. “She’s not used to this many people.”

David looked back and forth between her and Theresa, and then at Morgulon. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Lane watched as he approached the other werewolf. She could see him ask something, but there were too many people talking all-around to understand. After a few seconds, the werewolf shook his head. On David’s second question, he nodded.

David turned towards one of the servants, who were staring just like everybody else. The young man dashed off a moment later.

“He wants some clothes,” David said when he returned. “Does Morgulon need anything? I saw her limp.”

Lane kneeled down. Her dress was already ruined anyway, somebody had thrown up onto her skirts. “Let me see,” she said because Morgulon pulled her front paw away from her.

Morgulon whined but allowed her to run a hand over the paw and front leg. There were countless new cuts and scrapes, and one of the bones was...

“Broken, yes,” Lane said to David. “Should be the palm of her hand in her human form, I think.”

“Do you want clothes, Morgulon?” David asked.

But the she-wolf shook her head.

“I’m glad to see you are already on the job,” Duke George Louis drawled behind them.

“No worries,” David said coolly. “Does Duke Desmarais want to put them up here at Deva Castle, did he say? Otherwise, we can take them home. We need to get her out of here.”

Lane looked around and saw Bram and Andrew push to the front of the still thickening crowd. She had to jump to her feet when Morgulon got up, shaking herself as if to affirm David’s words. The gawkers closest to them tried to back away and were pushed forward again by the late arrivals further back, who were craning their necks, now that they felt it was safe.

“We’ll keep them close at hand,” Duke George Louis replied.

“All right,” David said, and turned away from the duke as if dismissing his presence. “Park, or a room of her own?”

“Park,” Lane gave back. “Possibly the forest. I’ll take her, you look after the other?”

David nodded. Lane took half a step forward. Morgulon followed, and people tried to make way for them, but it took forever until they had made enough room that they could actually move. So Morgulon stopped and gave a sharp bark.

After that, people literally fell over each other to give them room.