Werewolf

The coachman rose from his seat, his face pale and drenched in sweat as he whipped the horses desperately. Rather than slowing as the Queen Mother had hoped, the carriage kept accelerating. Sparks flew between the chassis and the axles, while the leather suspension straps bearing the cabin groaned under unbearable strain. Those inside could no longer remain seated. The Queen Mother knelt on the carriage floor, clutching her rose rosary tightly and muttering prayers. The King and Miss Mancini each occupied a window. "What is that?" the King asked.

"Werewolves," Mali answered.

The moment the Queen Mother heard that answer, she cried out and fainted. At that moment, though, her fainting was a blessing, for almost at the same instant, a huge black shadow leaped from the crown of a tree leaning over the road directly onto the roof of the carriage. Its two hind claws braced firmly against the luggage rack surrounding the roof, making the black iron bars creak and groan. One of its foreclaws anchored its body, while the other clawed at the roof.

The people inside only had to look up to see the carriage roof bulging downward and splitting apart, wood chips flying everywhere. A claw covered in black fur, as large as a human head, thrust through and raked madly at the air. Mali immediately lifted the overskirt on her left, slipped her hand beneath her petticoat, found the small pouch she carried, and seized a handful of sulfur. She clearly spoke a Latin word. A puff of smoke burst from her tiny fist, followed by an explosive blast of lightning-hot radiance that filled the entire cabin. Everyone was flung and pinned against the carriage walls by an immense invisible force, while the werewolf atop the roof was viciously hurled away.

The werewolf let out an unwilling howl in midair. When it crashed to the ground, the entire carriage shuddered.

At that moment, the Queen Mother groaned, as if she were about to wake.

"Keep her quiet!" the King ordered.

Mali's eyes widened, but the King merely made a forceful gesture with his hand. She had no choice but to turn her power upon the most noble woman in all France. Before the Queen Mother could open her eyes, she fell back into unconsciousness. When Mali looked at the King, he had already turned his gaze outside. The scenery beyond the window had become impossible to make out—not only because the sky had darkened, but because the carriage had reached its limit. The cabin no longer seemed to be borne by its wheels, but dragged along by the wind. It was moving so fast that when they encountered a bend, the cabin shot forward under its own momentum, dragging the horses down with it. The heavy bodies of the horses crushed and rolled over the coachman. The carriage gouged a long gash through the muddy wilderness, its door flying open as the body broke apart.

As the world suddenly turned upside down, the King saw Mali hurriedly opening a pouch and loudly chanting another spell. The cabin abruptly filled with fluffy wool. Thus, no one inside was harmed, but their danger had never been the road or the carriage. The werewolves caught up. The royal guards spurred their horses and formed a ring around the overturned carriage. Some helped the King and Queen Mother escape from it; others stood guard, either holding muskets or drawing swords.

"Fire! Light a fire!" Mali reminded them in a low voice. "Werewolves fear bright light and intense heat!"

At the King's command, a royal guard took out tinder and flint and set the fabrics in the carriage alight. The wool, luxurious satin, velvet, and embroidered cotton quickly caught fire, and the flames spread through the entire carriage. Within minutes, every piece of costly wood was blazing fiercely. The fire scorched the humans' backs, bringing both warmth and light. Its brightness forced the werewolves back some ten feet. They circled the King and his guards, numbering more than the fingers on both hands. Mali studied them warily. These werewolves had certainly not come from some chance misfortune. Though Paris had declined after several religious wars, it still had the King and the bishops. At regular intervals, priests and knights patrolled the suburbs at the city's edge, the wilderness, and the forests, driving out and hunting heretics and beasts.

These werewolves were undoubtedly sent by enemies or political rivals of the King and the Cardinal.

It was Louis XIV's first time seeing such monsters with his own eyes. They stood roughly twice the height of an adult man. They wore no clothing or anything else that might prove they had once been human. Black-blue manes covered their bodies, with only a small patch of pale down beneath their jaws. They had enormous wolf heads, their pale eyes either reflecting the firelight or glowing yellow. Their round black pupils had narrowed to tiny points. When still, they stood upright. Their claws were enormous, their hind paws somewhat longer, but each paw had five claw-tips rather than the four of an ordinary wild wolf.

"How much ammunition do you have left?" the King asked.

"No amount would be enough," answered a royal guard with a Welsh accent. "Your Majesty, they are devils, and devils do not fear gunpowder." He looked at the King. The young man appeared remarkably mature, with long chestnut hair. "But Your Majesty, we will protect you. Watch us. God above, if misfortune befalls us, you will surely see how we fall before you." With that, he turned and returned to his companions.

About ten minutes later, as the fuel was consumed, the bright light that had deterred the werewolves finally began to dim. There was another fatal problem: they were in the wilderness. The attack had come too suddenly, and there were no fortresses or trenches. These enemies from hell were numerous and could attack from every direction. Just as that royal guard had said, once they had exhausted their ammunition, they began swinging their swords. They knew all they did was futile. Perhaps even after they had all died, the King would still be unable to escape the wolves' bellies. Yet not one of them was willing to retreat.

Just as Mali Mancini and the King both believed they would have to join the battle, a resounding trombone call rang out nearby. Mali immediately hid both hands within her skirts. The King sent all his shot into a werewolf's mouth, instantly blasting its muzzle apart and leaving it hanging loose from its face.

A line of plainly dressed priests charged from the other end of the road on horseback, each carrying an ancient spear with a silver-glinting point. The werewolves turned toward them and howled. Their clash lasted only an instant. In that instant, three werewolves were skewered into the air by the spears. After that strike, the priests cast aside their broken spears and drew strangely shaped long blades instead. They wheeled their horses around and charged the werewolves again, and the werewolves did the same. They collided like two masses of steel, the cold flashes of long blades and fangs like flying sparks.

Those present would likely never forget that strange sight—the night sky iron-blue, the full moon hanging high, filthy werewolf blood driven by powerful hearts into the air, followed by a torrential downpour of scorching, sticky gore reeking of blood.

By the time the Queen Mother slowly awoke, the priests had already completed their final task. With caution, they used conical or triangular steel-and-silver spikes to pierce the werewolves' eye sockets and destroy their brains, or tore open their chests, removed their hearts, and cut them apart. Those were the only two ways to kill a werewolf completely. They also examined each survivor one by one, making certain that none had been marked or bitten by a werewolf.