Duncan surged to his feet, and as he did he saw Tiny on the ground, locked in battle with one of the beasts, and another charging in, with a raging Conrad standing close beside the dog, club lifted and ready for the charging wolf. And just beyond the embattled dog, Beauty was struggling frantically to tug free of one of the beasts that had caught her by a foreleg, with two other wolves rushing in upon her.
Duncan lunged to Beauty's aid, but he had taken no more than a step or two when a raging fury, brandishing two burning brands, streaked toward the burro's attackers. One of the brands went spinning through the air, turning end for end, and the two charging beasts sheered off.
"Meg!" Duncan shouted. "Meg, for the love of God, watch out!" But she paid him no attention, running like the wind, her ancient body wobbling on her shaky legs that seemed to twinkle with her speed even as she wobbled. She lifted the one remaining brand and brought it down on the wolf that had Beauty by the leg. The wolf yelped and spun away, went whimpering out into the darkness.
From the darkness came again the loud, clear voice speaking in the unknown tongue, and as the words rang across the clearing, all the wolves turned about and ran.
Duncan came to a halt and turned slowly to his left. Daniel stood beside the fire, and a short distance from him Andrew had one foot on a dead wolf to hold it down while he tugged desperately to free the staff rammed deep into its throat.
Conrad and Meg were walking toward the fire, with Tiny trailing, while behind Tiny came the limping Beauty. Here and there lay the bodies of the wolves. One of them, possibly the one that Daniel had struck, was trying to pull itself along with frantically working forelegs, its hind quarters dragging.
As Duncan walked toward the fire, Andrew suddenly screamed, let go of the staff on which he had been tugging, and backed away from the dead wolf, his hands lifted to his face.
"No! No!" he screamed. "No, not that!"
Duncan ran toward him and then stopped short, staring at the dead wolf in shocked amazement and disbelief.
The body of the wolf was slowly changing and as he watched in horror, it became the body of a naked woman, with the hermit's staff still protruding from her mouth.
Beside Duncan, Meg chirped at him in a high and squeaky voice. "I could have told you, but I never had a chance. It happened all too fast."
Conrad stepped past Duncan, grasped the hermit's staff in one hamlike hand, and jerked it free.
The body of the wolf beyond the woman had turned into a man, and out beyond the two of them, the thing with the broken back that had been dragging itself away wailed suddenly in a human voice, a cry of pain and terror.
"I'll take care of him," said Conrad grimly.
"No," said Duncan. "For the moment, leave him be."
"Werewolves," spat Conrad. "They're only good for killing."
"There is something I have to find out," said Duncan. "There were a lot of them. Only a few of them attacked. The others hung back. If they had all come in…"
"Someone called them back," said Conrad.
"No, it wasn't that. Not that alone. There was something else."
"Here," said Conrad, holding out the staff to Andrew.
The hermit shrank away. "No, no," he wailed. "I do not want to touch it. I killed a woman with it."
"Not a woman. A werewolf. Here, take it. Hold fast to it. You'll never have another staff quite like it."
He thrust it out forcefully at Andrew and the hermit took it. He thumped it on the ground.
"I shall always remember," he pleaded.
"Good thing to remember," Conrad said. "A blow struck for our Lord."
Duncan walked out to the edge of the firelight, stood over the wailing man with the broken back, then slowly knelt beside him. The man was old. His arms and legs were thin as straws, his knees and elbows knobs. His ribs showed through his skin. His snow-white hair hung down to curl up at his neck and was plastered with sweat across his forehead. He looked at Duncan with fear and hatred in his shining eyes.
"Tell me," said Duncan, "who spoke out of the dark."
The man's lips pulled back to reveal his yellowed teeth. He snarled and spat.
Duncan reached out to grab him by the shoulder and he flinched away. He opened his mouth and screamed, his head arched high, the cords in his neck standing out like ropes. White, foamy spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth and he screamed and moaned and clawed feebly at the ground to pull himself away. He writhed in agony.
A hand came down and grasped Duncan by the shoulder, hauled him to his feet.
"Here, let me," said Conrad.
His club came down and there was the sickening sound of a crunching skull. The man crumpled and lay still.
Duncan turned to Conrad angrily. "You shouldn't have done that. I told you not to."
"When you kill snakes," said Conrad, "you kill them. You do not coddle them."
"But there was a question."
"You asked the question and you got no answer."
"But he might have answered."
Conrad shook his head. "Not that one. He was too afraid of you." And that was true, thought Duncan. The werewolf had been beside itself with fear. It had screamed and tried to claw itself away. It had writhed in agony.
Conrad touched him on the arm. "Let's go back to the fire. I have to see how Beauty is."
"She was limping. That was all. Meg saved her."
"Yes, I saw," said Conrad.
"How is Tiny?"
"A slit ear. A tooth mark here and there. He'll be all right. Just a little sore."
By the time they got back to the fire Andrew had piled on more wood, and the flames were leaping high. Andrew and Meg were standing side by side. Conrad went off to see about Beauty.
"That was a brave thing you did," Duncan told Meg. "Running out there to help Beauty."
"I had fire. Werewolves are afraid of fire."
She bridled at him. "I suppose you wonder why I helped. My being a witch and all. Well, I'll tell you. A little magic and some mild enchantments, those are all right with me. In my day I've done a lot of that. There is nothing wrong with it. Many times it helps. But I told you I had no real evil and I meant that. Werewolves are evil and I cannot abide them. Mean, downright vicious evil. There's no call for anyone to be that evil."
"There was a pack of them," said Duncan. "A lot of them. I never knew that werewolves ran in packs, although perhaps they do. You were telling me about the camp followers who trailed in the wake of the Harriers. Could that be what accounted for so large a pack?"
"It must be that. They must have come swarming in from all over Britain."
"And you heard the voice?"
She put her arms around herself, hugging tight and shivering.
"You knew the words? You recognized the language?"
"Not the words," she said, "but the language, yes. A word here and there. It's a very ancient tongue."
"How ancient?"
"That I cannot tell you, sir. Not in years or centuries. It goes deep back. Spoken before any human spoke, perhaps before there were such things as humans."
"Primordial," he said. "The words of primordial evil."
"I do not know."
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how she recognized the language, but he did not ask the question. There was no need to distress her further. She had been honest in her answers, he was sure, and that was good enough.
Conrad came back. "Beauty is all right," he said. "Her leg's a little sore. We came out lucky."
The clearing was quiet. The humped bodies of the dead werewolves lay at the edge of the outer darkness.
"Perhaps," said Andrew, "we should bury them."
"You do not bury werewolves," Conrad said. "A stake through the heart, perhaps. Besides, we haven't any shovel."