David took the railway back to Brines. It took him longer to walk the distance from the station to the estate than it had taken the train to travel from Eoforwic to Brines.
There was only the minimum of staff at the house: the steward who organized the repairs, and the housekeeper who was tasked with keeping the place clean. Now that David was actually living there, Miss Rose was also preparing dinner for him.
David didn’t feel like putting Miss Rose through the hustle of heating water for a bath for him, so he scrubbed off the sweat from his sword practise with a washcloth instead, using the water in the washbasin in his room. He’d just go and visit a bathhouse in Eoforwic tomorrow. If he went early in the morning, before he went to the Lackland Company, the risk of running into George Louis should be minimal.
David took the first train to Eoforwic and didn’t stay long at the bathhouse. Once the place started to fill up, he left to get himself some coffee and a fry up. It was still fairly early in the morning when he crossed the channel to reach the New City.
A clerk stopped him as soon as David entered the basement of the Lackland Company headquarters, waving an envelope.
“What’s that?” David asked, a little surprised. Who would send a message for him to the company?
“It’s from the scientists in Deva, the ones that are studying how many werewolves turn mad,” the clerk explained. “Only, they do not like to call it that. They claim the term is imprecise.”
When David just looked at him, the clerk added: “All hunters who work with the company are supposed to get a copy, so they may implement the findings into their work.”
David stared at the envelope with disdain. He wasn’t exactly thrilled by the thought that a bunch of bookworms and paper pushers wanted to tell him how to do his job.
“You’ve read it?” David asked the clerk. “Anything interesting?”
“Well, I would say so,” the clerk said. “This is the latest – they’re calling it a journal. It has all the newest data on how many werewolves go mad, and when they do it, too. I think it might be very interesting to our newest werewolves.”
David finally opened the envelope, leaning against the clerk’s table. He only skimmed over the wordy and unnecessarily complicated introduction of the main article, which needed a whole page to say that this was a treatise on werewolves, and how important the author thought it was. It was followed by several pages which just showed columns of numbers. Finally, there was a lengthy discussion of what the numbers might mean. One paragraph caught David’s attention:
“Our research shows that werewolves do not change within just a few days after being bitten. In fact, we strongly believe that the process is lengthy – possibly unending.”
David nodded to himself. This at least didn’t seem entirely wrong. He had noticed how Greg had started to flinch away from silver only recently. He skipped over a bunch of examples, and continued at:
“What exactly is going on in a werewolf’s head is hard to fathom. The most likely theory as of now seems to be the theory of two souls and one mind. According to this theory, any werewolf is governed by only one human mind but driven by the needs of not one, but two souls. Quite similar to any marriage, the two souls can peacefully coexist, cooperate, or either soul might take dominance. The most common situation appears to be a dominance of the wolf soul, followed by cooperation, which is marked by aspects of both human and wolfish behaviour. Third most common is coexistence, in which case a strong change of personality can be observed throughout the month. Only a minority of werewolves appear to be living their life governed mostly by their human soul.
This theory allows for explanation of the many varied types of personalities witnessed amongst werewolves, and it also explains why many werewolves, who are extremely wolfish in their behaviour, are not actually dangerous: as long as the human mind is in control, or at least present, violence does not occur. Only when there is only the wolf-soul left, does the werewolf become violent.”
David frowned at the paper. He wasn’t sure if “mind” was a good word here. He skipped over the next few paragraphs, which were outlining increasingly unlikely scenarios of what might be happening within a werewolf’s head, and stopped when he found another interesting part:
“Our observations indicate that a propensity for violence, commonly referred to as “madness”, is most likely to emerge at one of these three points:
21% of all werewolves who underwent the shift towards violence did so during the days following the first full moon after they were bitten.
36% of the group turned violent within three days after the second full moon.
Most interestingly, another 35% became dangerous right after the new moon following their second full moon.
Only 8% of all werewolves were affected by the murderous rage even later. In fact, with every additional week, the likelihood of a werewolf turning violent appears to decrease.”
That was indeed interesting, David had to admit. All the werewolves currently sitting in the cells down the hallway were in fact past that specific new moon mentioned. If this article was truly correct, then perhaps this group would be luckier than the group sent to First Camp that had given Greg so much grief. So far, of the fifteen men and women, only six had become violent.
The article ended on the warning that despite the statistics, anyone dealing with werewolves should remain cautious until the fifth full moon had passed.
David smiled grimly and stuffed the stack of pages back into the envelope. He intended to heed that advice, since he had written the same thing, nearly verbatim, in his pamphlet.
As hard as it was to follow that advice sometimes.
He had thought he could take it when he had first come to Eoforwic, to personally judge the new werewolves going to the railway. That he could live with killing not strangers, but werewolves he knew, as long as he was certain that they were, indeed, mad. But checking on them every morning for the past month might have been a mistake.
He still thought he would have been fine if at least they had all been adults. But there was the kid – fifteen years old, but still, a kid in David’s eyes. Sentenced to death for “stealing crops” from his lord’s fields, and saying unfavourable things about the stingy bastard who wouldn’t honour his people’s right to glean his fields.
David still hadn’t decided how to breach the subject to George Louis. They could have just overturned the sentence, either him or Duke Desmarais. But instead, the two dukes had decided that the kid would make an excellent candidate to become a werewolf.
Or possibly, this Mr. Bell, who was in charge of picking candidates, had made that decision.
Maybe, David wondered, he should pay that man a visit. Gleaning was not the same as stealing, surely a professor of law should know that? Gleaning was an ancient prerogative of children, widows, war invalids, and the homeless, probably their only right.
Alvin had been a child, and his mother was a widow.
The werewolf in the first cell flinched back when David opened the metal gate that led into the prison part of the basement, retreating as deeply into the shadows as the small room would allow. There was no light inside any of the cells since the torches seemed to distress the werewolves. Only the hallway was lined with lamps.
David hung his crossbow, his quiver, and his purse to a nail next to the small guard station, and glanced at the two men inside. They quickly looked away, and he hadn’t even needed to glare. The first time he had come down here, two of his silver bolts had vanished from his quiver. David had caught the culprits fast – after all, there hadn’t been many suspects.
He hadn’t turned in the two guards who had tried it, which had earned him two grudging allies.
“Any new developments?” he asked.
“Two more of ‘em won’t turn human no more, Sir,” one of the guards said. “Number eight and number fifteen.”
David nodded. “Number eight,” was really called Millie, a former prostitute who wouldn’t say what she had gotten the death sentence for. “Number fifteen” was Spencer, a sourly bloke who had gotten caught stealing horses.
David nodded. He didn’t ask the guards if either of the two werewolves were showing violent tendencies – all the guards were convinced that every single one of the people locked up down here were just biding their time to kill them. Considering the way many guards treated their charges, David wouldn’t have been surprised if that was true, but it still wasn’t a sign of madness.
Instead, David turned away and walked over to “number one.” Now that David wasn’t carrying silver any longer, the werewolf didn’t flinch away but didn’t come into the light of the torches, either.
“Morning, Clyde,” David greeted. There was no reaction, even when David stepped up all the way to the bars of the cell. Slowly, he extended one hand through the bars, ready to pull away at the first sign of movement. But the werewolf inside just watched him. After a minute or so David pulled his hand back.
The next cage was empty. David had been forced to shoot the former inmate right after the last full moon, just like the werewolf formerly called “number 3” by the guards.
Bea, had her real name been. She, like “number 2”, had started attacking anything that moved in the hallway, despite the fact that there had been no way for her to leave her cell.
Cell number four was still occupied. A man was nervously walking up and down. When the flames in the hallway outside guttered in a slight breeze, he jumped. His name was Chandler, sentenced for forgery, and when David stepped up to his cell, he, too, retreated into the back. He didn’t stay there long, though. When David offered him a copy of yesterday’s newspaper, he came forward so quickly he nearly crashed into the bars.
“Thank,” he muttered, “thank, thank you thank,” taking the paper, and retreating again, already unfolding the paper.
David moved forward in this manner, handing out two more newspapers until he reached the second to last cell, the only cell whose occupant was both willing and able to talk to him.
“Morning, Alvin,” David said. “Let me check on your neighbour, and then I’ll be with you.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Spencer growled at him when David stepped in front of his cell, and David sighed inwardly. He pulled out his personal notebook, and made a note of the occurrence. When he stepped even closer to the iron, the growl changed in pitch, until it was more of a whine.
“I think he’s a gonner,” Alvin said quietly when David made another note.
“I’m afraid so,” David said. “We’ll see in the next few days.”
There was no rush. As long as Spencer didn’t actually try to attack anyone – or anything – they could give him the benefit of the doubt.
“How are you, Alvin?”
The kid twitched nervously. “Still scared,” he said after a moment. “Is Millie – I heard the guards say she wasn’t turning human no more, just like Spencer.”
“She’s fine,” David said, louder than strictly necessary. “Some of the best werewolves we have only turn human for new moon. It’s not a sign of madness.”
He had told Alvin this, or something similar, every time one of his companions changed in some manner. He was probably going to tell him another dozen times before every werewolf in here had survived their fifth full moon.
He had no doubt that, even though they didn’t dare to actually talk to him, most of the werewolves were listening.
“Anything interesting happen outside?” Alvin asked after a few seconds.
David pulled out the envelope with the journal. He had planned to tell Alvin about the progress on the line to Breachpoint. They had put down almost all the rails down, and the bridge across the Savre, which the company had started to build without a single werewolf on-site, was nearing completion. The alchemy to treat the ground on the far side of the Savre had probably cost more than the whole line to Mannin. David was sure that it would have been impossible, had the banks on this side of the river not already been fortified against the Rot, where they formed the harbour of Eoforwic.
Instead, David said: “This is from the scientists who study werewolves at Deva. They’ve released some numbers, finally, about the odds of staying a sane werewolf.”
“They told us the odds are fifty-fifty,” said Alvin. “Was that a lie?”
“No,” David said. “However, this gives more detail. According to the man who wrote this, your odds of turning mad now, after you’ve been a werewolf this long, are down to one in ten.”
Alvin was quiet for some time. “That means – nine in ten odds that we’ll all be fine?” he finally asked.
David nodded. “You might change in other, smaller ways,” he added. “But the odds of anyone getting executed are going down every day.”
“Poor Spencer,” Alvin muttered. But then he perked up again. “One in ten, will you write that to mother for me?”
David nodded. Alvin was illiterate. His mother was, too, but Alvin still asked David to write to her at least once a week. He claimed she knew someone who would read the letters to her. Writing and posting letters to family and loved ones of the werewolves here had been David’s main occupation in Eoforwic until George Louis had returned from Mannin a few days ago.
The first round of letters had been the worst, as the convicted men and women had tried to say goodbye to their loved ones, just in case.
Alvin dictated a short letter for David to write, and when David was about to leave the prison, Chandler waved him down, too.
“Tell? My family?” he asked. He struggled with the words, but then just pointed at his own chest. “Odds?” he added.
So he had listened. David smiled and nodded. “I’ll let your family know you’re still fine. And of the odds.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if it was fair to give Chandler’s and Alvin’s relatives that hope until it was certain that the two werewolves would be safe. Maybe he shouldn’t even have told Alvin. But he had wanted to give the kid some reassurance.
He approached the table of the clerk who had given him the scientific journal. Before he could even say anything, the man offered David a few envelopes, and asked: “How many do you need today, Sir?”
“Just two,” David said. “And two sheets of paper.”
He transcribed the letter Alvin had dictated him from his notebook first and then thought about what he would write to Chandler’s family.
He was interrupted by a messenger from the upper levels of the Company Headquarters. George Louis wanted to know what he was doing.
“My job,” David told the messenger boy. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
The boy returned, just as David finished writing the address onto the second letter, to inform him that George Louis wanted to see him as soon as he was done.
So David left both letters with the company clerk, who promised to have them posted, and walked upstairs to the duke’s office.
“I was informed that you entered the building at nine,” George Louis greeted him, as soon as he walked in. “It’s nearly eleven now. What could you possibly be doing with those werewolves, that would take two hours?”
“Are you spying on me now?” David asked. “It takes a little more than just a glance to be sure about their minds. So I check on each and every one of them, talk to them if they are willing and able to speak with me. I agreed to send messages to the families of two of them. Some of them like to read the newspaper, so I bring them some.”
“Newspapers. You’re telling me some of them can read?”
“Why wouldn’t they be able to read?” David replied. “One of them was a forger before he was sentenced to death.”
“I was given to understand that half of them can barely speak.”
“Well, true,” David admitted. “That doesn’t mean they suddenly become illiterate, too. Greg wrote us letters.”
“Clearly, your brother was less affected than other werewolves,” George Louis said.
David nodded. “In some ways, that’s true, George. But what happens to them is complicated. The curse affects each of them differently. And as a general rule, they understand much, much more than they say.”
“Yes, I think I’m beginning to see that,” George Louis said slowly. “Anyway. Did you receive any news from your fiancée? Or your brother?”
“Nothing of note,” David said. “Lane is keeping me appraised of what’s going on with Morgulon, but there have been no new developments. I’m sure you’re receiving all the reports by the doctor, too.”
George Louis frowned. “I did tell the man to keep me informed, but the report may have been sent to Mannin.”
“Well, the doctor has looked at Morgulon and agrees that there are going to be multiple cubs. He thinks five, but says he can’t be entirely sure. He also says she’s as healthy as is to be expected. Not transforming on new moon is taking a huge toll on her, for all that it enables Mr. Levi’s crew to get a bit more work done. It’s not sustainable, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“But she will be able to – to continue to not transform?”
David shrugged. “No one knows but her. She did walk through a snowstorm in the mountains with a silver bolt stuck in her flesh, so I reckon she’ll endure.”
“Not what I was hoping to hear, I admit,” George Louis said after a moment.
“What were you hoping to hear?”
“Oh, preferably, that she is gaining strength from this. Not that she’s barely holding on.” George Louis pressed his lips together. “Any chance she’ll be able to fight?”
“Fight?” David echoed. “You can’t be serious.”
George Louis leaned back in his chair, and finally waved at David to sit down, too. “The Valoisian fleet will depart for Loegrion within a fortnight.”
“Well, shit,” David said.
“Yes, that sums it up quite neatly.” George Louis sighed. “We need the Morgulon. Or your brother needs to bring back someone as old as her within a month. Or even better – several someones.”
“We can’t count on Greg. He may not make it in time. If they leave in two weeks, they’ll be standing at Deggan in just over a month. You’ll have to have work at the railway stopped,” David said calmly. “Bernadette and her pack, together with Calder and every other werewolf you can muster needs to go to the coast, as fast as possible. I’ll write to Lane to get Morgulon moving this direction, too.”
“I thought you said she cannot fight.”
“She still needs to be there,” David said. “Without her influence, even Calder and Bernadette stand no chance at bringing down one of the monsters we saw at Deva. Get in contact with Desmarais, have him send Fenn, too. And Marianne. I’ll let mother know that we’ll need Lee.” He took a deep breath. “Tell Desmarais that we’ll even need Henry and Marc. And whoever that girl was who was with you in Deva.”
“I hadn’t expected you to be the one to gamble them all. Especially the children.“
“George, if we lose this first battle, they’re all dead, anyway. Greg may not even have found anyone.”
George rubbed his beard. “I was going to bring them all to the coast, anyway,” he said. “But I’m glad you agree. What about the really new ones?”
“We’ll have to risk it,” David said. “If some of them escape, well, we’ll worry about that if we survive.”
“You – look shaken,” George Louis said.
“What did you expect?” David said. “There’s a war coming, and we aren’t even close to ready. It took both the Morgulon and Fenn to destroy that thing at Deva, and they’re the oldest, the strongest. Depending on how many men the Roi Solei is willing to sacrifice, there might be a hundred just like that giant at our coasts, soon.”
“A hundred seems unlikely,” George Louis said. “But yes. This is going to be tight. Do you think it would be possible to form a cavalry unit riding on werewolves?”
“What?”
“That’s why I really wanted to speak to you,” the duke said. “If we gave soldiers silver helmets, and silver blades, they could even help fight the Rot.”
“It’ll take some very exceptional werewolves to carry a human decked out in so much silver,” David pointed out. “I doubt you’ll find any who would. Even Greg would have issues with that. He might do it if it was Nathan or I. But a stranger? Doubtful. Might be worth exploring that for once we’re fighting the Grande Armée, though. But arm the soldiers with steel. It won’t be as simple as giving a horse to a rider, but it might work.”
George Louis smiled, a smile sharp as a knife. “Will you command this new unit?”
David paused. “I’m not a military man,” he pointed out. “I’ve never been a soldier.”
“No, but you are the best hunter in all of Loegrion, and there’s no one who knows more about werewolves, either.”
“Both of those titles might go to Lane, too.”
“Who is a woman, and has no military training. I’ve never seen her fight with a sword, either. Or a gun, for that matter.”
David bowed his head ever so slightly. He had no idea whether or not Lane knew how to shoot a gun. He expected she did, but he wasn’t sure. And it was true – as heir to the family, David had learned a thing or two about military strategy. Fifteen years ago.
“Who is going to command the Loegrian defenders?” David asked.
“The final decision hasn’t been made yet,” George Louis said. “I hope Lord Clermont will consider taking the mantle, but he may still side with the Roi Solei.”
David frowned. “How are you going to deal with those Valoisian nobles loyal to the Roi Solei here on Loegrion?”
George Louis smiled wryly. “You aren’t the only one who has been busy in the past few months. Those openly siding with the Roi Solei have been put under house arrest at Deva Castle. Duke Desmarais is keeping an eye on them for me.”
“That’s a lot of trust you are putting in him,” David noted.
“I have little choice,” George Louis admitted freely. “And he has given me no reason to doubt his loyalty to our cause so far. Or his loyalty to me. No, the issue is not Desmarais. There are other nobles, whose words I trust a lot less when they assure me of their loyalty to this rebellion.” George Louis shrugged. “Duke Desmarais, and others whose loyalty is beyond doubt, have raised several thousand soldiers already. Their regiments are camped around Deva and Deggan, both because it’s easiest to provide them with food there, and also to protect the cities, should some southern lord decide to use the arrival of the Valoisian fleet for a surprise attack.”
“What about the Church?” David asked. “Bringing all werewolves to the coast will expose the rest of the heartlands. Or are you that certain that you have rounded up all the fanatics?”
“In all honesty? No,” George Louis said. “However, we do have some mages in our own lines, and several alchemists, too. I have granted them access to all the bone ash and guano we have, to make incendiaries that can be fired at the Rot with cannons. Even if the worst happens, Desmarais has the resources necessary to hold onto the heartlands until we have dealt with the Valoisian fleet. Especially when you consider that anyone raising the Rot will likely be acting alone, or with little support at worst.”
George Louis paused. “Still, we will have to be quick. Once we have beaten back the fleet, we will have until spring to fully take control of the heartlands. And then the real battle will begin.”
“So what you’re saying is that we will be fighting not one, but three campaigns.”
“I would say we are going to fight one war which will likely have three stages,” George Louis said.
“And if we win,” David said. “If we beat back the Valoise three times. What happens then?”
“Then I will resurrect the crown of Loegrion.”
David nodded slowly. “And what kind of future are you imagining?”
George Louis eyed him quizzically. “I envision a free Loegrion,” he said after a moment. “Free of the Valoise, and free of the Rot. Possibly a Loegrion where everyone is free to love who they want. Free to choose their own gods, for sure. But let’s change the country one step at a time.”
“Right,” David said. “Actually, I think I’d prefer if we did it mile after mile, not step by step. Let’s talk about some of those death sentences down in your basement. Do you know how old the youngest of them was, when he was sentenced to death?”
“I admit, I have no idea.”
“He was fourteen. Sentenced to death for gleaning from his lord’s fields. As was his right.”
“I see,” George Louis said. “I agree with you,” he added, to David’s surprise. “An ancient right, for which nobody should be punished. One I would be willing to grant, once I have been crowned king, yes. But it’s not a right the Valoise understand, unfortunately. I’m therefore afraid that this matter will have to wait until I have been crowned. I’m sure that Desmarais would argue that the sentence was just. By the Valoisian idea of property, the land and everything that grows on it belongs to the lord, and gleaning would thus be, indeed, stealing.”
He sighed. “I’m not surprised that Mr. Bell picked this boy to be considered for the bite. How does he fare?”
“He’s mostly all right,” David said. “Scared, of course, but so far no sign of madness.”
“What’s his name?”
David did a double-take at that question. “Alvin,” he said after a moment.
“Well, keep me informed.”
David was fairly certain that George Louis had only said that to butter up to him. But that was fine. That was why he had come to Eoforwic, after all. Even though it was pretty damn ironic that Morgulon had asked him, the Relentless, of all people, to keep George Louis decent.