A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘What is that?’ One of Hempe’s men pointed to a figure joining the three men. Hairy, yet walking upright.

‘I believe that is our beast – the wolf all have seen in the city,’ said Owen. ‘More likely a human wearing skins.’

‘The world’s gone mad,’ Hempe said.

Owen noticed that Alan and Pete had changed their course, heading somewhere back beyond the burning kennels.

‘Right. Arms ready,’ Owen called. ‘Alan and Pete will see the dogs are safe. Our goal is to disarm everyone and keep them down on the ground, alive.’ He’d already strung his bow, though his aim would be challenged by the smoke as they descended into the dale that cradled the kennels. The curse of a single eye, a blink and he was blind. If only the rain would come down harder and douse the fire. He reminded the others to be aware that their mounts might react to the blaze. ‘If they appear to shy, dismount.’

As they rode down into the dale, Owen was able to distinguish the runners – Paul Braithwaite out ahead, Galbot right behind him. Did Paul not realize the dogs had been moved? Reining in his horse, Owen dismounted, aimed, and hit Galbot in the shoulder. As the man slowed, Owen drew out another arrow, aimed, hit him in the leg. Galbot was down.

But Paul was almost to the group awaiting him.

And then something in the kennels collapsed, billowing smoke masking the drama.

Alfred, on foot, paused by Owen. ‘Bad luck.’

Owen cursed.

‘I’m for the riders,’ said Alfred. ‘No, look, one’s dismounting.’ He broke into a run, barreling into the man.

The other mounted man began to charge Alfred, who was rising after punching his target into stillness.

The smoke cleared just enough for Owen to recognize Joss on the horse. He aimed, hit his shoulder. Joss crumpled over the saddle, then slipped to the ground, where Alfred caught him, dragging him over to his companion.

Owen strode toward the burning kennels, hoping to find Paul Braithwaite. He dodged abandoned horses that milled about, panicked. Two of Hempe’s men tried to guide them away from danger. Seeing a man raising a blade toward Stephen’s horse, Owen took aim, caught him in the arm. The man dropped his weapon and Hempe rode him down, then rode after the horses and one rider heading south. One of his men caught an abandoned horse and followed.

As the rain and wind picked up, Owen was able to pick out Paul Braithwaite, still heading for the kennels, though stumbling, as if he’d been injured or overcome by the smoke. Hoping to halt him, Owen took aim. Just as he let fly the arrow, the one wearing skins jumped onto Paul’s back and took the arrow in the back of the right leg. Paul shrugged off his attacker and, stepping round the fallen beam, walked into the kennels.

Owen plucked up Paul’s pursuer. She cursed and pummeled him as he carried her away from the mouth of the fire, dropping her near Alfred.

‘God help him,’ Alfred groaned, staring back at the kennels.

It was Paul, stumbling out of the mouth of the building, his clothes and hair alight. Seeing Alan and Pete rounding the side of the building each holding a sloshing bucket in his free hand, Owen shouted, ‘Braithwaite!’

After a moment of confusion, both of them emptied their buckets of water onto the man, who’d dropped down and was rolling along the ground, just missing the woman, who had made it to her knees. Cilla, the wolf, he guessed, her painted face showing beneath the wolfskin hood.

‘I’ll bring more water,’ Alan called, riding off.

Pete jumped from his horse, rushing to Braithwaite as Owen and a man with a blanket reached them. The man opened the blanket and threw himself on Paul, attempting to smother the flames. Out of nowhere, Cilla jumped on him, pulling him away from Paul. Beyond them, another large beam fell in the entry to the kennels, sending out flaming splinters. One fell on Cilla.

Owen grabbed her up, pulling her away. ‘You’re burning!’

He struggled to contain her thrashing arms and legs, gave up and pushed her down to roll her along the muddy ground, but the arrow in her leg prevented that. With a knife, he tore at the skins, splitting the seams and tearing them away. Beneath, her shirt and leggings were filthy, but not on fire.

‘Step away, Captain!’

As Owen did so, Alan tossed a bucket of water on the skins. Cilla tried to crawl away, but collapsed on her wounded leg, snarling and cursing, thrashing about, trying to remove the arrow. The way she moved was more animal than human.

Owen blinked away the smoke, looking at Alan. ‘Thank you.’

‘Everyone on the land, servants and tenants, has formed a line from the fishpond, passing buckets and pots of water. The building’s gone, but they hope to contain it.’ He shook his head at the woman writhing on the ground. ‘Who is she?’