Before Andrew had even finished speaking, there was another commotion. A man tried to open the other door, the huge one through which the golems had left the building. Luckily, there was no way one man alone could lift the bar that locked it.

Lane didn’t hang around to watch Andrew pad out the silver chain around Rhuad’s neck so it wouldn’t burn his skin. Instead, she climbed back up to the balcony with the windows, to see what was going on. She stepped next to Prof. Audenne, who was still sketching like his life depended on it. He had produced some very good likenesses of different creepers and a couple of brutes. Of the closest golem, too. In the margins, he had taken down quick notes on what had happened to Rhuad.

“Now all we need are the Rot-queens,” the professor commented.

“I won’t mind if they take their time,” Lane said.

Before she had finished speaking, the ground underneath their feet shook as something crashed into the wall like a runaway train engine. People screamed. Lane and Audenne nearly smashed their heads together as they both leaned forwards in the same moment to see what had happened, but it was someone a few windows over, who managed to yell over the ruckus: “Rot-brute charged at the wall! It’s dead though! Golem killed it!”

Lane’s heartbeat had barely slowed down to something approaching normal when the next tremor shook the walls.

Lane glanced at the workers down below, then out of the window again. It would probably be smarter to get down to where at least she wouldn’t fall if the walls collapsed, but she couldn’t make herself move away from the small window. She’d be blind down there. The walls below the balcony were solid. Reinforced, without any gaps besides the doors. Clearly built for an occasion such as this.

“I’ll wait a little longer,” she whispered to herself. Audenne didn’t seem to pay her any attention anyway. His gaze was jumping back and forth between his sketchbook and the Rot outside. His hands were blackened with graphite dust and he didn’t seem to be affected by the Rot’s influence at all.

“If I don’t make it,” he said suddenly, ”will you look for this notebook when the fight is over? With any luck, the Rot will not be interested in books. Lord Feleke might find the notes useful.”

“I – of course,” Lane replied.

“Good,” Audenne said, and started the next sketch.

She watched him for what felt like a long time. Downstairs, the navvies pushed tables and benches towards the walls, to form additional barriers. They had their tools ready, axes, shovels, hammers, and the likes. Good weapons against the Rot as Oldstone Castle had proven. If they could fight at all. Without an elder werewolf to counter the Rot’s paralyzing magic...

Lane shook her head. The walls might save them. The walls and the golems. They had a chance. Maybe.

“Ah, there it is,” Audenne said. “Look,” he added. “Isn’t it beautiful? All the most terrible things are, don’t you think?”

Lane stared at the little professor but she could not tell if his senses had been addled by the Rot after all, or if he had simply passed fear to head straight for the calm fields of death’s acceptance.

She turned to the window. There was a figure outside, a lithe creature of lush green and deep brown, very different from the greyish colours of the other Rot monsters. Its proportions were more balanced, too. It looked a bit like a woman, though it was only about child-sized. It had two legs, two arms and curves that looked vaguely feminine. There was no sign that it was of the Rot at all. Its skin looked like it was covered in fresh, healthy leaves.

“What is that?” Lane whispered.

“Some type of Dryad, I would guess,” Audenne said. “A forest nymph. According to legend they were once quite common in these forests.”

It was beautiful, Lane had to admit. She wanted to go down there and touch its strange skin.

“What else do you know about Dryads?” she asked, to keep the professor talking. It was hard to speak suddenly but his voice was something to focus on, something other than that strange desire.

The creature terrified her more than any Rot-monster she had ever seen. Mostly because its influence clearly already reached them, despite the fact that the windows were unbroken and she couldn’t even smell the slightest whiff of the foul stink.

Audenne didn’t seem bothered. He was noting down the time of the Rot-queen’s arrival and then started to draw it.

“Oh, there are many stories,” he replied. “Most agree that they are very shy, but there’s some disagreement whether they’re helpful to humans or mischievous.”

“Powerful?”

“Not particularly,” Audenne said. “If the stories are true, most Dryads can’t move further than a hundred paces away from the tree they’re born from. All their powers are said to stem from that tree. Mostly they can hide someone they want to protect, or trip up someone they don’t like. They aren’t generally said to be too cunning, either. Of course, all the works I could get my hands on are ancient texts, many of which don’t even claim to be scientific. So it might well be that what I know are just fairy tales.”

“Maybe the Rot took its tree and turned the Dryad in the process,” Lane said softly.

Sun, she hoped that he was right. A weak Rot-queen probably wouldn’t be too much trouble for Morgulon?

If they lived long enough for the werewolf to get here.

“Uh,” Lane added, “was there anything in the books about illusions?”

The Dryad had changed shape – or at least its appearance.

“Fascinating,” Audenne muttered. “What does it look like to you?”

Lane opened her mouth and just barely managed to stop herself from telling him that the Dryad looked like the first girl she had ever fallen in love with. “Someone I used to know,” she croaked instead. “What do you see?”

“I see my wife. Who has been dead for half a decade, and if she was still alive, would be nearing her seventies. But I see her as she was when I first fell in love with her.”

“It’s calling to me,” Lane whispered – mostly she noticed the sudden calm that had come over her, paired with the mounting urge to go and have a closer look.

Audenne quit taking notes to reach for her hand, balancing his sketchbook and pencil in the other. “To me, too. Like a Siren. I never heard of Dryads doing that.”

Lane had no idea what a Siren’s call might sound or feel like. Didn’t they sing to lure sailors to their doom? She hadn’t actually heard the Rot-queen call her. Not with her ears. But the image of it that Lane saw had changed again: she saw Theresa out there now. She wanted to go to her and check on her friend, maybe tell her, finally, that she would like to be more than just friends. Maybe a kiss...

Against their will, both she and Audenne took a step towards the edge of the balcony at the same time.

Audenne stopped at the simple handrail, but Lane was much nimbler than he. It wasn’t hard for her to duck underneath it and let her feet dangle off the platform. It wasn’t such a deep fall. She’d probably only break a leg.

Down below, the navvies were – not frozen. They were singing? Yes! And she even knew this song! It was a closing song, as in “closing the pub” song – there probably wasn’t a man present who didn’t know this one: A song about old friends and keeping their memories alive. She found herself singing along under her breath without thinking about it. So did Audenne.

Her father had always sneered when someone mentioned the magic inherent to music. Lane was hardly surprised to realize that he had been wrong about that, too. Because the song did drown out the Rot-queen’s call, so much so that even the werewolves could join in, despite the fact that they had been the first ones affected. Audenne helped pull her up back onto the balcony all the way.

Someone else slipped through underneath the railing, grabbed by his mates at the last second. The man hung there like clothes from a line, held on each arm by a comrade who were gasping and cursing with the effort.

“Hold him!” Eyal yelled. “Pull him up! The rest of you lot up there! If you still got a head on your shoulders, block the closest window! Close the shutters! Hurry up and get down here! We’ll take the ladders down in a minute!”

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Lane looked around in a daze. Some men obeyed, others climbed off the balcony as fast as they could, but most just stood around, looking – not even scared. Just lost.

It took Lane the full minute of Eyal’s time limit to realize that she was just standing there, staring at people, too. Audenne had to push her towards the ladders, right before they were taken down. She lost her footing halfway down and couldn’t quite figure out why she should even hold on – Andrew caught her with a grunt, and held her until she stood safely on her own feet. He pressed a silver dowel into her hands, like the one she had poked him with earlier.

“Hold onto something silver,” he said. “It really helps.”

Lane nodded numbly. A surprising number of people had followed Eyal’s orders and climbed down from the balcony. Prof. Audenne was back in front of his window, the only one still uncovered, with his sketchbook and pencils. He was still drawing, his right hand moving like a blur. The rest of the men up there were frozen statues. Only their shadows danced in the gloomy light the torches cast. Smoke already collected underneath the high ceiling.

Without warning, one of the navvies up there walked to the edge of the balcony, ducked underneath the railing, and simply let himself fall down to the ground. This time, there was nobody close enough to hold him and he fell, at least twelve feet down. He landed with a sickening crunch and didn’t get up again.

Lane jerked her head away. She had to take a few deep, slow breaths to stop herself from gagging at the sight of the awkward angles and the bulges in both the man’s legs.

Still, the scariest part was probably how long it took before he started to scream.

Just as he did, another fight broke out because somebody tried to open the main door.

“Hold onto each other, friends,” Eyal hollered. “Everybody, form lines! Take the hand of the person next to you! Nobody opens those doors!”

Lane found herself grabbed by Andrew on one side and Isaac on the other. They linked their arms with hers and pulled her into a rapidly growing circle of men hunkering down around the centre pedestal, the only piece of furniture they hadn’t pushed towards the wall. Mr. Kohen stood in the middle of the knot of people right next to it. Lane couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but she was pretty sure he was reciting a prayer. On her right side, Isaac was softly murmuring along. Andrew on her other side had his eyes closed and his head bowed. Lane wondered whether he prayed as well and if so, to which god.

She tried to ask Mithras for protection against the corruption outside the walls, but her mind was completely blank. All she managed was a silent string of “please, please, oh Mithras, oh Mighty Sun, please.”

Suddenly, a voice rose over the nervous chatter all around. “Let’s hear another song, lads! Join me if you know the words!”, a man yelled. Lane, somewhat surprised, recognized Nosson the cook. He started, in a surprisingly pleasant, carrying baritone: “There once was a ship that put to sea, the name of the ship was the Billy o’ Tea...”

Lane didn’t know this one. It sounded like a sea shanty, though. She could only guess that Nosson had been a ship’s cook at some point.

She hummed along while the navvies sang. That was enough. The music enveloped her and kept the worst of the Rot’s influence at bay, helping her to breathe easier. It was a relief to know that there was anything they could do – that something as simple as music and human company was enough to counter the unnatural, demonic influence of the Rot.

The songs flowed into each other.

Her lighter mood lasted right until Anthony started screaming and sprouting fur all over his face and Lane realized that they had never actually gotten around to putting any silver on him. Two navvies jumped up to grab him, knocking the back of his head into the pillar he had been tied to, but it bought them only a few seconds before Anthony’s body started shifting again.

“Silver! Anyone got a silver necklace?” Andrew tried to make himself heard over the commotion, while he hurried over. Lane followed, but Eyal was already there, holding onto the young werewolf. He hadn’t fully turned yet, but his face was already more of a snout. Eyal had wrapped his huge hands around it to prevent him from biting anyone.

Lane saw the muscles in his forearms bulge with the effort. She could only marvel at how calm he was.

Mr. Kohen was pushing his way through the mass of people sitting on the ground who couldn’t move away quickly. He was surprisingly fast on his feet for a man his age.

“Move back,” he ordered crisply. “Further back, yes, Mr. Feleke, you too. Quick, I will need some room.”

Lane had no idea what he was going to do, but did her best to give him space, even though it meant stepping on Isaac’s toes. Mr. Kohen began to circle Eyal and the struggling, half-transformed Anthony. As he walked, he recited something. It sounded like it was the same language he had prayed in before, now with a clear cadence to it, like a chant. From a small pouch, he scattered dirt onto the ground.

Eyal kneeled in the middle of the circle, his hands still holding Anthony’s muzzle shut, pressing the werewolf’s head down to the ground so he could bring his whole weight to bear. He was shaking visibly with the effort of holding the beast, sweat running into his beard, but he made no sound and Lane thought his eyes might be closed. The huge wolf had broken free of the ropes that had tied him to the wooden pillar and was fighting with all his inhuman strength against the man stopping him from getting lose and attacking anyone.

Lane took an involuntary step backward as Anthony managed to set one foot against the pillar, giving himself more leverage to heave. She had no idea how Eyal held on.

But he did. Long enough for Mr. Kohen to circle the two grappling figures seven times, until there was a continuous line of dirt surrounding them. He stopped walking, raised his hands, and spoke again. Isaac and all the other Wayfarers Lane could see ducked their heads and looked away from the older man as he spoke a last line of text.

He hadn’t closed his mouth when Eyal gasped and jumped back, well over the line on the ground. Anthony tried to follow him and slammed into thin air as if it was a wall. No part of his body could cross the lopsided ring of dirt on the floor.

“There’s not even a whiff of magic in the air,” Andrew whispered next to Lane.

She had noticed it, too. It might have been the werewolf neutralizing it right away, but she didn’t think so. Any magic strong enough to keep a werewolf trapped like that would have to be extraordinarily powerful. They should have smelled some residue.

Unless, of course, Mr. Kohen hadn’t actually used magic at all.

Eyal was still breathing heavily, but he managed to call: “Settle down again, everyone! Take your neighbours’ hands! And let’s hear another song!”

Nosson promptly began again, a jaunty, happy tune this time:

“I have naught but one thin dime,

and that dime’s not even mine,

Raise your glasses,

Lads and lasses

We’ll drink whiskey, we’ll drink wine!”

Again, it wasn’t a song Lane knew, but that was fine. She could still hum along. Her hands clasped one of Andrew’s, who had linked arms with Isaac, who in turn leaned against someone else. They were all connected, all of them struggling against the Rot’s influence together. Sometimes she tried to get up, to get to the doors – not to let the Rot in, just to take a peak! She just needed to know what was going on, lift the claustrophobic feeling from her chest –

But whatever was out there, as powerful as it was, it could never enthral all of them together. So each time the compulsion came over her, Andrew’s strong brown hands pulled her down again, or someone behind her placed their hands on her shoulders. Every now and then she had to hold onto Andrew the same way and every time she was glad for the strangers all around them, helping. Andrew probably could have dragged her all the way to the door.

She had no idea how long they had been sitting like this when something roared outside, quickly followed by a werewolf’s howl. Anthony and Rhuad both shrieked at the sound, stifling the cry of relief in Lane’s throat.

“What’s going on?” Lane asked, to nobody in particular. No one else could see more than her, anyway.

But the words were repeated over and over, all around, and then Audenne said:

“There’s a second Rot-queen outside.”

Lane’s head snapped up and around, until she spotted the Professor. He had used his belt to tie himself to the railing of the balcony right across from his window. People promptly called for him to tell them more, until Digger bellowed: “Silence! How’s he supposed to speak?”

“A corrupted werewolf just walked into camp,” Audenne reported. He was still holding onto his sketch book and pencils, drawing quickly.

“Someone we know?” Andrew asked.

“I do not recognize this one, no,” Audenne said. He barely glanced out the window, though, and focused on his work. “Obviously, appearances may be deceiving. But I am sure it’s another queen, since at its howl all the creepers started turning into brutes. They are flowing together, merging as we speak. The brutes are growing bigger, too.”

Lane could just about imagine that sight – she remembered all too well how George Louis’s amulet had allowed the three creepers from the forest near Eoforwic to form a single brute, and the trouble Greg had had defeating it on his own.

Audenne did sneak a glance outside and promptly, his head fell forwards, until his chin rested on his chest. His arms sagged, too, and he nearly lost his book. He reflexively gripped it tighter, and that motion seemed to break the snare of magic. He shook his head in annoyance, but didn’t dare glance out the window again.

The navvies looked at each other worriedly, but there was nothing they could do to help the professor. Before they could pick up their song again, something smashed with a deafening crunch into the walls. The same thing repeated a dozen times all around and Lane could see the flames of the torches flicker as the whole building shook.

“Brutes,” Audenne said, his voice strangled. “The queens turned all the creepers into brutes. They swarmed the golem on this side – oh no, wait – it freed itself. It’s missing a hand...”

Audenne trailed off, then managed one last sentence: “The window is broken.”

Then he froze on the spot, finally dropping his pencils and book.

Lane smelled it before she felt it: The sick, fetid smell of the swamp, of decay and mildew. Of death.

Her breath hitched, as if her lungs refused to inhale that stink. Leaden stillness settled in her bones. The mere idea of so much as moving a hand suddenly felt impossible. Just breathing was hard. The lights flickered all around as the witch burned at the stake. Lane didn’t know her. Just some unknown unsanctioned magic user. One of nearly three dozen, captured all around Loegrion.

The circus burned and a young girl screamed. Lane was dimly aware that this wasn’t real – she hadn’t even been born when her father had set out to kill the monster – kill Morgulon. Kill her friend. Not back then. Just a child. An innocent.

A werewolf. How could a werewolf ever be innocent?

Lane shook her head, almost annoyed at herself. As soon as she came to, she started coughing with the stink. She wasn’t the only one, though some navvies, somehow, still kept a tune going.

Lane tried to sing along, but she couldn’t get a single word out. She wasn’t sure if she even knew this particular melody. The singing of the navvies grew distant and the words warped and warbled in her ears until she heard church hymns rather than the navvies’ working songs. Except that she couldn’t really understand the hymns either. Or maybe she just didn’t know the words to this song.

But she knew the whole hymnal by heart, so this either wasn’t a Church-approved song or...

Or the Rot had gotten into her head again.

She had a brief, brief moment of clarity – though she could still hear the strange chant – and then she stood in front of her father again, thirteen years old, her whole face aching from the slap.

Her mother – her mother’s body was hanging limply in her arms. She’d bled out fast from the werewolf bites. The Morgulon was howling in the distance.

Lane’s head snapped up.

Morgulon was howling in the distance.