Wolfweir (12 page)

If he'd still been a boy, the hair would have lifted on his neck. For, as the horses galloped down the curving, dusty road toward the forest, Alphonse saw that they were men wearing some kind of black leather and silver mesh chain-mail, and identical peaked steel helmets (stamped with some kind of insignia or seal) flashing in the moonlight.

"Hooray!" cried Lucia happily, clapping her hands.

The riders approached riding four abreast, dust whirling up into the pale moonlight behind them. There were eight in all, clinking and jangling. The horses were massive and black, and so well-trained that they moved fluidly in perfect unison, chuffing and snorting only a little. Alphonse had never seen such great, perfect, frightening horses,
nor
such awe-inspiring riders.

He'd been worried, as they rode down, that they would be Man Wolves, but they were just grim, hard looking men --
men
with the mien and bearing of
sinewey
black wolves about them, astride those fearsome clattering animals.

One of them -- clearly the leader, not just because of his dignified bearing but because of the silver disc representing a full moon mounted on his helmet -- shouted a growling command and they drew up before Lucia and Alphonse, the horses stamping.

In the silence, Lucia shouted out their names one after another in her clear, reedy, musical voice.

She knew them all.

The man who'd issued the order seemed to be dumbstruck with surprise to see Lucia there on the road to the castle and hear that pure child's voice again. Then his rough warrior's face, with its lower jaw jutting, broke into a lopsided, wolf-like grin.

He slung himself down from the horse, landing in an easy bowlegged crouch, and seized Lucia by the shoulders, shaking
her a
little. He embraced the child hard and kissed both her cheeks. Alphonse saw the brief gleam of his tears.

Then they were speaking fast in Italian. Alphonse could not understand it well. He knew only that Lucia was telling her story. She pointed to him, Alphonse, and the
wolfman's
eyes went even wider. And wilder.

All the warriors were looking at Alphonse Didier-Stein. He felt horribly small and shameful. He was a puppet. If only they could see him as he was, not as he looked in this gaudy circus-boy body clad in
ragpicker
clothes.

The wolfish man bowed so low to Alphonse his helmet almost touched the dust. Then he stepped back, spoke quickly in that growling Italian dialect and raised his hand and made a few quick signs, and two of the black-clad horsemen wheeled and broke into a gallop up the steep curving road to the castle.

My sweet Alphonse," Lucia said solemnly. "These are some of the 47 Knights of
Wolfweir
Castle. They are aware that you saved my life many times and wish to welcome you with proper ceremony. This man is my uncle,
Malvic
. You will ride his horse back to the castle, as he walks ahead. I will ride his shoulders. These other knights will follow as a solemn and silent honor guard holding their naked sabers aloft. Bonfires will be lit on the ramparts. As we enter there will be volley of cannons. And once inside the Black Iron Gate you will meet my father, the great High King Gar
Fith
. Are you ready?"

Alphonse gave a quick bow, clicking his heels together, and snapped to rigid attention as he always had at the fencing school. He heard surprised, and quickly stifled, mirth from some of the mailed warriors.

It didn't matter. Puppets can't blush.

**

So our A.D.S. rides a great stomping black stallion, high in the saddle like a conquering hero, the bared swords of the Knights glistening behind him,
Malvic
holding the reins with Lucia di
Fermonti
perched laughing and clapping on his massive shoulders, up the dusty
moonbright
road and through a massive black iron gate into
Wolfweir
Castle.

Bonfires flare up on the ramparts as they approach, jangling and creaking and stamping. The upraised sabers suddenly glow blood red.

As they enter the Castle there is a shocking mingled blast of at least twenty cannons from all sides of the ramparts. The night seems to turn upside down and dissolve into a lion's roar of pure sound.

Alphonse reflexively covers his face with his arms. His stallion's ears twitch rapidly, that's all. Lucia only laughs louder into the stained and ringing silence, as gunpowder-stench fills the night air.

The High King

They are at last now in the castle's great courtyard. Gar
Fith
, the High King, emerges with a blast of trumpets from the Inner Keep, wearing red velvet robes and an age-blackened silver crown and around his neck a chain of heavy ornately worked silver with a thick glass phial dangling from it.

His bearing is wolfish. He has the same jutting, angular jaw as
Malvic
, the same gleaming green-yellow eyes. He moves in a sinewy, loose-limbed way, his knees bent, and he is slightly bowlegged. He even smells like a wolf.

Alphonse slides quickly down from the saddle, drops to one knee on the flagstones, plucks off his cap and bows with an elegant sweep of his sword arm.

Lucia is clapping and laughing. Alphonse glances up under his wooden brows to see her in the arms of Gar
Fith
. The wolf king is in tears. Lucia pets and kisses his face.

"My golden darling," cries the High King.

"My dear father," cries Lucia.

They are both laughing and sobbing like the newly insane.

And now Lucia says in clear Italian:

"Voila. Here is my sweet friend, Alphonse Didier-Stein, of Paris. He is a virtuoso with a rapier, and is very kind and brave, but he cannot speak. His boy's soul was locked into this puppet body by the Gypsy necromancer
Vesuvio
, the same vile swine who kidnapped me and took me to France for a black magic ritual by full moon on an ancient stone altar. Alphonse rescued me from
Vesuvio's
camp when he and his slave-puppets and a lurid pair of
Vampyres
were just about to cut out my heart to steal my wolf-soul. Since that night, he has saved my life many times over. I beg you, father, make him feel welcome in our kingdom."

The High King's eyes gleam wolfishly. He sets Lucia down on her feet. All the Knights have their heads bowed as if in awe at the regal and threatening presence of this King. He seems at once full of rage at Lucia's story, and overcome by confused tenderness toward the puppet boy.

Stepping forward and putting his big hand on Alphonse's wooden head, he intones with a catch in his throat, in stilted and old sounding French: "Arise, O valiant boy. You are my guest. I owe you an absolute debt which I fear nothing I do can ever repay."

Lucia says: "Father, we must help Alphonse save his mother and father. His parents are under the
Vampyres
' power, both plunged in a deep sleep in a Paris hospital. This boy in a puppet's body has vowed to pursue Lord and Lady
Blackgore
, even to the ends of the earth, and slay them."

"We will help you, dear Alphonse," says Gar Firth in a rumbling growl. "I swear it by the Blood Amulet I wear about my neck. Lord and Lady
Blackgore
will die, either by your sword or by mine. So will this ugly brute
Vesuvio
."

Alphonse bows so low that his forehead touches a chilled flagstone.

"Arise, boy," says the High King. "Please. I should bow to you. You've given me back my only darling, since the girl's mother is long gone."

So Alphonse straightens up with a clicking of wooden limbs and stands proud and erect in the dazzling gleam of torches.

Lucia, still weeping happily, clutches at his hand. He closes his wooden fingers lightly on her smooth warm wolf-girl fingers. The High King claps his shoulders so hard that Alphonse's knees rattle.

"Tonight, we feast," he shouts to the assembled Knights. "Tomorrow, we scheme. And the next day, or the day after that, certainly by the next full moon, we strike. Be assured, Alphonse Didier-Stein, that when we attack, we are a black raging whirlwind from the gates of Hell; we never stop until we've made our kill."

At those rousing words all the Knights of
Wolfweir
Castle -- the
firelit
courtyard is now crowded with them, probably all 47-- bare their gleaming sabers with a thick and furious rasping of steel and let out a ghastly, moaning howl.

Lucia joins them, throwing her head back to growl and cry at the bone-white waning sliver of moon. So does the High King.

Alphonse has never heard such sounds. His whole body shivers, clattering.

On the Ramparts

It was a blur of a royal banquet.
Torchlit
, costume-dazzled, rafter-shaking.

Alphonse sat at the right hand of the High King, who drank flagon after flagon of wine and then sang hard songs in his most wolfish howl, to the accompaniment of drums, flutes, and harps. His Knights joined in, pounding the table with their fists.

Lucia sat smiling and golden on the other side, her hair like
finespun
light.

Then the candles burnt out, and the Great Hall of
Wolfweir
filled with waxy smoke.

By then most of the Knights had passed out drunk, their heads on the wine-soaked table, in the litter of bones and scraps.

Even Lucia was softly asleep, in the lap of the High King.

Gar
Fith
poured himself a last silver cup of the black wine, drank it, and settled back into his throne-chair and began to snore -- the buzzing of a beehive in his feast-clotted throat.

**

As if on cue, Alphonse slid down from his chair and tiptoed out of the Hall.

He climbed a steep curving stone staircase, click
click
, and came out on the high battlements where flags hung lank from the poles.
Almost dawn.

The horn moon was setting, honey-colored. Mist rose from bluish earth. He heard throaty growls, yips and cries from the trackless forest -- maybe, he thought, those were actual wolves, not Man-Wolves.

A low flying bat skimmed Alphonse's cap, and he leapt back, clicking.

He burned with the longing to stick his rapier into the bloodless hearts of those oh so slick and dapper
Vampyres
.

Meantime, his puppet heart ached with love for the golden Lucia. That clear magical child.