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Chapter 11

Molly left the trail and walked beside it a ways then hid herself, keeping Beauregard and his man close by. She watching silently as half the rebel band straggled past her--all the strongest men, and the strongest women too, and behind them Nathan and his ex-hellhound John. She crept out to join those two and both nodded, smiling as she fell in beside. John was wearing his leather panniers again, roughly mended and the girth strap spliced longer and with thongs and lace-holes where the metal parts had been. "We're all looking for you," he told her.

"Why?"

"Tom wants you to run around and spread the alarm. He feels now is the time to make his stand."

"And what do you feel?"

"I feel he has no choice. If he won't fight now he never will. His people will abandon him and he'll end his life friendless, hanged as a common outlaw."

"Could he win?"

"Perhaps. Depends on how many answer his call. Garth is already running the southwest loop past Hawk's valley. That's the longest one. Tom was hoping you'd run the main road north then cut overland, to the east, and come back by the Fjordland road rousing all those scattered farms along the way, joining him near midnight on the outskirts of town. Half the farms will be missed but there's naught to be done about that. No time."

Molly asked "Is it a good plan?" and John answered "Aye. I'd be running too but my job is to guard." He nodded to Nathan, who shrugged and nodded silently back. "I'll see action enough," he added. "Nathan has told me he wants to observe."

Molly asked "Any more to the plan than that?"

"Not to your part of it. Nothing of importance. Tom's friends talk a lot."

Molly laughed and said "I'll be going now, in that case. These are my new friends Beauregard and Zanger. I'll leave it for you to decide which is which. Don't eat them."

Molly sprang off with her tail flipped high, couldn't resist showing off her shapely haunches for John's appreciative eye. And Beauregard's too, for that matter.

She had empty land to run through before she reached settled areas and she did that silently, already settled to a pace she knew she could keep up for as long as needed. When she reached the north road to Gerlofstad she stopped short to hide her gem then veered off to chase the scent of hearth fires howling "Attend! Attend! All who hear my voice attend! I'm Molly Hand-Biter and I say it's time! Git ye to Hightshame ere dawn or all is lost!" She had no time for more than that before she was gone, loping on to the next farm, certain that her words had been heard at the very least. Would they be heeded? Only tomorrow's events would reveal the answer to that.

From the first her run had a dreamlike feel to it that only grew stranger as dusk settled and dark night grew chill and frost-scented around her. Thank the saints no thaw had followed on the snow! Cold snow was easy to run on but thawing slush would not have been so convenient. As she ran the clouds above her faded and bright stars clustered thick and over time the horizon grew bright as Madra-moon rose glowing into view. She shone half-full tonight with bitch's hinder end showing plain, tail-kinked in heat to them that saw her that way or wagging cheerily for them that di'nt. Molly had no need of the extra light but it would be a welcome boon to humans creeping into town, the sensible among them burning no lantern for light.

North-road swirled by her and it was the most populated, therefore the slowest to traverse, with no end of farmsteads to the very border of the barony. She stood at that border for a moment gazing on to peaceful distant window-lights beyond the reach of Baron William's malice, and beyond her reach too. She whirled around then and cut overland through a trackless narrow pass she knew of that would take her to the Fjordland road quickly, at the expense of a hard hot climb.

Fjordland road she reached at last, after a vexing false start to her shortcut, straightaway taking it south and west toward Hightshame--zigzag off to where the farms hid then more shouting words grown strange, and meaningless to her--seek and find again, and yet again, each farm different yet the same, blurring all into a bizarre unending dance with shocked new partners every round then all at once the farms were gone and she was back, on the outskirts of town, the scent of men and women everywhere around her. Tensely gathering. Wild. Afraid.

She arrived exhausted and cranky and quite late and Tommy Atkins was wroth with her, or pretended to be, but he had no time for a proper scolding. His people were clustered round with endless questions and he waved her on to Garth, who was back already, and John, and two burly hand-cart drivers who claimed their carts were stout enough to carry a hellwolf's weight with straw heaped over all for concealment.

"Who's plan was that?" Molly growled and Garth said "My plan. Hangings can be messy and it's good to have dry straw to cast upon the soiled places. We'll be right at the center of everything!"

"With guards' pikes stabbing through the center of us, like as not. That straw-pile trick was old when Culann's Cur was a pup!"

"Molly it's not like we'll be passing through a watched gate or aught-like! Grim farm-folk'll be thick-pressed around us and those guards'll be troubled enough without jabbing their pikes about in search of more."

Molly grumbled "Very well... but promise me you'll join me running away if this venture goes bad! Whatever happened to Gorepaw's lovely plan of sneaky-safe part-time troublemaking?"

From her other side came John's amused rumble, "Gorepaw would say the first casualty in any engagement is the battle plan. I can assure you in absolute certainty he'd be fighting with you now if he were here, and free of other vows."

"Would he run away if the plan failed?"

John hesitated and replied "Perhaps. We hellhounds can get riled in a battle and sometimes we do things we might regret later, if we live. That's not to say your running plan is not a good one! I'll run too if things go bad and I can take Nathan with me. If I can't, well... a guard's life is often a short one, don'tcha know."

Molly cleared her throat and murmured softly "Speaking of short lives... well... I've hidden that thing of mine again. Come close and I'll whisper where it is."

Garth and John pressed close and she told them what they needed to find the mage gem if she were killed--then all was business again, the cart-men in a hurry to proceed, and no more banter nor secret solemn wolf-gabbling was allowed.

Nor no breakfast, neither, though Molly did contrive to curl up comfy on her cart and snatch a bit of sleep.

Dawn was nigh and rank man-scent thick when Molly woke again, human voices rumbling around her like ocean waves on a rocky shore. Mounded straw obscured her view but they were many. Very many. Even without her other senses she could feel the seething energy of their presence.

Tom's plan had worked! At least this part of it. Witnesses were welcome at a hanging; that was the whole point of it. Sometimes they were commanded to attend. This, on the other hand... this size of crowd would not be welcome at all. Deadly riots might rise from a crowd so powerful. Riots or worse.

But what to be done now? The baron couldn't well command them to go home! That would be a terrible show of weakness. And the baron was not there in any case. It was not the custom for gentry to attend such affairs.

Molly shifted slightly but that provoked a hiss of disapproval from her cart-driver so she settled back, comfortable enough in truth, listening for sounds from the gallows platform. She couldn't see it now but she'd spied it well before, from a distance. Sarding thing was enormous! Two gallows, in truth, starkly dominating the acres of flat parade ground by the garrison gates, each gallows with crossbeam long enough to hold a dozen nooses in a row. That style meant the baron planned on hanging his victims all at once, more or less, then leaving the gallows-fruit to rot a while before taking it down.

She listened carefully, trying to sort out details from the noise, heard hushed bickering and nervous laughter and haunting little snatches of song--but nothing stayed clear for long, all roiling and melting back into the general roar. That roar was ever-rising, though, excitement building slowly as the sky grew bright.

Without warning a bell tolled, three times, and all at once the noises around her grew hushed. Men-at-arms had been guarding the gallows platform all along but now more boots marched forth from the garrison to join them, many more, and when they were settled a solemn voice began to speak of treason, and duty, and justice. The speech was not long, no answer entertained, ending only with a simple order to proceed.

That would be the signal to attack, Molly suspected, but that detail had not been shared with her. Her orders were to remain hidden until the sounds of battle were unmistakeable around her, then burst forth and slay every baron's man she could find. Very little had been said about dodging arrows from the garrison walls. The crowd at large was at risk, it was presumed, but she and Garth would be close-engaged and no wall archer would fire toward his own comrades.

Molly did not share this opinion. The baron's men had shot each other before, in their frenzy to kill her, and she saw no reason why they'd fail to do so again. In a few minutes she might be dead, or dying. Why in hell had she ever agreed to this witless scheme? Even now she could run off safely, she supposed, if she could somehow persuade Garth to run with her.

Fat chance o'that! Molly braced herself, mustering the courage to face her fate and finding it surprisingly easy. Who wants to live forever, anyway? Shamus was dead and he--

"Take me."

What was that? The voice was elderly, frail... and female--by its angle coming from the very gallows platform itself. The voice was saying more but another drowned it out saying "No! Take me!"

Other voices joined in and Molly heard planks creaking at the weight of many bodies climbing onto them. "Get ye down!" shout-squeaked a commanding voice but the command was not heeded, clearly not, for it was repeated twice more before the voice fell silent and "To me!" bellowed a different voice. A stronger voice. "To me! Close ranks here! Set pikes but do not engage! Archers hold your fire!"

Molly was trembling to leap forth and kill something but held herself back just a little longer. She'd been positioned close-in for the element of surprise and it would be foolish to spend that currency prematurely.

The crowd-voice around her was rising to an angry buzz-rumble, mob-like, and Molly heard the brutal thud of hurled cobblestones striking home.

Enough! She burst out from hiding to find a body of the baron's men in tight defense formation, close-beset by a pitchfork-wielding mob twenty times their number at the very least. Stones had been cast and more were on the way and--

" Hold!" Molly howled, her great-lunged lupine voice cutting through the crowd-clamor like Gabriel's trumpet out of tune.

Molly's cart-bed raised her up above the sea of heads so she stayed there and cried out "Hold and parley now! Let them go, if they wish to go!" Voices muttered but no one contradicted her. No human voice possessed the power to overwhelm her in a shouting match. A pale shadow flashed close and Garth was standing on the ground beside her, silent, supporting her by the aggressive stance of his body.

Molly filled her lungs to bursting and boomed out "Go now! Take your men from the garrison. Let them take what goods they can carry but no more." To the mob she bellowed "Back away! Form a path to the gates so he can have his men!" That was a risky move and she saw Garth tense against her words but he said nothing, in opposition. The commander could use that path to reenter his garrison and defend himself there... but those wooden walls were never meant to stand against such a deadly mob and Molly was gambling he wanted his life and freedom more.

The mob resisted her commands and she leapt down to charge through them, Garth close behind, shoving no one overmuch yet still parting the surly crowd like swamp reeds before a dory's prow. By the garrison gates they whirled round and forged more open space with snarl-snapping lunges no soul possessed the courage to defy, and when the way was clear Molly shouted up to the garrison archers "Come out! Come out now, while you can! We've more flesh than you have arrows and we'll be burning these walls ere the sun sets, if you defend them. Not a man within will be spared!"

Defiance to her words would be a score of well-aimed arrows flying down to meet her and Molly dug her claws into the trampled gray snow-ice, bracing herself, hoping a sudden leap to one side might be enough to save her life. She waited clench-bellied in agitation, forcing her tail to remain high when it deeply craved to lie tight-curled between her legs and--

No arrows came.

The pikemen stood fast where they were.

No movement of any sort at first then slowly, so slowly, the garrison gates parted a crack and a single man stepped forth, walking stiffly shoulders-hunched into the open area, and across it, then safely joining his comrades on the other side.

Another man came out, and another... then a ragged trickle of hangdog foot-soldiers, each one staggering beneath the weight of food and weapons and tools. One man led a pack mule in defiance of her command and Molly snarled at his effrontery but made no attempt to stop him. This gambit of hers was not about power, not about control--it was about saving her noble foolish mob from the bloodbath even now but a tiny misstep away.

The trickle of men continued for a time, not very long, then it ended unannounced with the garrison gates left ajar, untended. The crowd began to flow back around her and toward those gates but Molly made no move to stop them, her eyes locked grimly on the unmoving, well-disciplined force before her. It had doubled in size with the added men and possessed a full contingent of archers now, perhaps a hundred soldiers altogether. In retreat it could deal savage damage to her mob and at large within the countryside it would be unstoppable, overwhelming any mobile force Tom Atkins and his friends could send its way.

"Molly what have you done?" came Garth's rough whisper in her ear.

It could force its way to Baron William's citadel and powerfully reinforce the defenses there.

"I was hoping they would go away."

Or it could leave Hightshame and disband quietly, far away, allowing each man in peace to seek his own personal destiny. That last option would hold a powerful appeal to its commander, Molly believed. It was the heart of her simple scheme. The commander had abandoned his post--without a drop of blood spilled if you discount a few nasty bruises from those thrown cobblestones. He had done it to extricate his men from a hopeless situation but the baron would not see it that way. He would be insane with rage and the commander's death, when at last it came, would be the sweet fulfillment of his heart's most fervent prayers.

Hightshame was a crossroads town and a crossroads barony with those roads coming together directly on the open ground where they now stood. To the south was Long Valley and Valinoin, to the east Fjordland, to the north Gerlofstad and the endless frigid steppes of Metagonia, to the west Westmarch and the southwest spur road to Baron William's citadel. "Company, march!" rang the cadence-cry and at once the troops began to move, forming a double column and taking the road west to Westmarch or perhaps southwest to join the citadel road. Garth and Molly watched the column fearfully as it eased free of the mob unmolested, approached the turnoff to Baron William's castle and... passed it by.

Without thought Molly's tail began to wag and she stared transfixed, jaws agape in joy at what she saw. From her breast a howl of triumph burst and all around it was taken up in mocking howl parodies and proper cheer-yells and in seconds the spark of it had spread thousands-fold to every human throat. "Hurray for Molly! Hurray for Garth! Hip-hip, Hooray!" Shouting bodies pressed close and all at once countless hands were lifting her squeak-yelping from the ground to carry her head-high like a cork chip on roiling water. Beside her Garth was lifted too and toward the gallows they were swept... or what was left of them. Axe and crowbar wielding humans swarmed them like ants now and and shattered wood scraps rained down upon the bonfire already crackling into smoke-thick life beside.

By the bonfire they were set down, much too close, but no one took offense when they quickly edged themselves away. Ere long a bowl of brandy-laced wine was brought for them, and water, and ample offerings of looted cheese and sausage and ham. The humans were in no wise stinting themselves and every one of them was feasting on farm-brought and looted food. Wine and beer and brandy were flowing too, much more than was prudent, but mobs are not famed for prudence and naught was to be done 'bout it but to let them drink their fill as craved such things. Molly lapped her brandy-wine too, and relished it, but mostly it was water she drank to wash down her salty feast.

Nathan and John Smallberries made their appearance before much time had passed and Molly invited them to share. "Where were you hiding?" she asked and John teased "If you saw us it wouldn't have been a good hiding place now, would it?"

Molly snorted "Fine. Be that way. B'fhéider next time I'll be sniffin' ye out an' tattlin' to everybody. Would ye fancy some brandywine? And you too, Mister Vachon! You are most welcome to our food and drink if you're not too proud to share meat with a ghastly slobbering brace o' dire wolf-beasts."

Nathan Vachon rolled his eyes and smiled a crooked smile, then knelt down by the brandywine bowl and lifted it to his lips. He sipped once, savoring it, then took a much larger sip and set the bowl back down on the trampled snow. "They've done well by you!" he said.

Garth and Molly nodded, smiling, and lapped more brandywine while Nathan drew his belt knife and cut himself a generous portion of cheese. As she lapped Molly eyed him on the sly and recognized the blade he held. It was a good knife, well-forged in the North-Clans style. It was a dead man's knife too; the same knife she had commandeered to cut his bonds just two nights past.

Molly raised her head from the brandywine bowl and licked her jowls inquiring "Mister Vachon how are ye feeling today? Are ye fully recovered from yer ordeal?"

"Oh oui, more or less," he replied, lifting a cap he had not possessed the day before to reveal a red-stained linen bandage round his head.

"Saint's preserve ye that looks painful!" Molly yipped, stepping back from the wine bowl. "Come now have another sip! 'Twill drive away the ache and chill."

Nathan took up her offer and had another sip, and another, and when he put the bowl down John pushed forward whining "Don't I get some too? Nate had naught but a bump on the noggin but I was struck stone dead!"

Garth told him go ahead but John had not waited and was lapping eagerly, ears and tail down in concentration. When he at last stepped away the wine bowl was nigh empty and Garth licked it dry, for tidiness' sake.

Molly grumbled "Well! That's it for wine, looks like. And don't you men go whimpering for more! We've all had enough for the nonce, I reckon." Moans of mock-protest greeted her words and Molly snapped "Eat! We've far more mouths than food around us and who knows when our next meal is going to be?"

Molly's comrades nodded and they ate in silence then, not stopping until every morsel had been devoured. As they ate the mob-sounds around them subtly changed, still joyful but part drunken now and more wild if such a thing could be--restless with the growing comprehension of immense power, right here right now--and restless with the knowledge of more that needed to be done. Right now. Today.

"To the castle!" The shouts were scattered at first, and quickly dismissed. Wooden palisades are one thing but Baron William's castle was cliff-perched on solid bedrock and wrought of mortared stone. It had stood fast for three hundred years and no army had ever taken it by storm. How was a wretched mob of farmers and farmwives to conquer a thing like that?

"To the castle!" The shout had been caught up by many voices now.

It had been taken though. From time to time. Thrice by treachery and twice by siege. Treachery had been William Wolf-Fang's key.

"To the castle!" The shout had grown overwhelming in its power, resounding from nigh every throat. At its edges the mob began to flow outwards, oozing towards the citadel road. Everyone speaks of the madness of crowds but can they possess wisdom too? Was this new development a bad thing... or good? Molly had no clue and it mattered not in any case. The mob was moving now and all moved with it like or not.

Chapter 12

The road from Hightshame to Castle Crag is not a lengthy one, taking an hour at an idle walk but much less than that for a hellwolf in a hurry. Molly and Garth were there long ere the mob's arrival but John lagged far behind them, padding dutifully by the side of his noncombatant human ward. When they arrived there the castle was already tight-locked and on highest alert, informed of events by spies, no doubt, and by the towering column of bonfire-smoke still rising by the garrison's gates.

No benefit seemed likely from showing themselves so Garth and Molly watched from concealment, at a loss for what to do next. When the mob at last arrived it swarmed the locked gates straightaway, stones and arrows and crossbow bolts from the ramparts provoking howls of agony and rage. Like ocean waves the crowd surged, flowing sideways along the dry-moat brink but having sense enough, saints be praised, to not clamber down into it. More bolts and arrows fell, and more stones, and at last the wild masses fell back, bearing dead and wounded with them but leaving behind great blotches and drag-lines of blood upon the snow.

Just beyond arrow-shot the mob seethed, hurling powerless foul words at the defenders and receiving naught but mocking laughter in return. If the mob could organize itself for a siege that mockery would ring hollow but sieges take a mortal lot of time and food, and the snows of winter had only begun.

Garth and Molly settled down to wait for developments, not hiding themselves but in no wise seeking attention when all at once "Molly! Molly Hand-Biter!" her name was called.

The cry was taken up by many throats and Molly stepped forth into the open, still without a clue about what benefit she might provide. Rumors of her eldritch powers had grown day by day, not a one of them true, but no denials she made had been heeded. She was unkillable, it was said; arrows passed through her like sunbeams through morning mist. Her blood was fire, you could see it burning behind her eyes, and no fire kindled of mortal spark could burn her. Not Molly Hand-Biter, the black one! She could spawn earthquakes and call down lightning and make herself appear at two places at the same time, and the venom in her fangs had driven Baron William mad. Surely her powers would be enough to tumble down a few mortal mortared stone walls!

Molly had no such powers but she was called, so she stepped forward. She possessed the power of loudness, at least. Might as well make use of that. "Baron Williams!" she bellowed in a voice no man on the castle walls could possibly fail to hear. And there was a mite o'true magic, she had the use of, taught her by Momma Skivens so long ago: a spell to make herself appear larger, and more fierce.

Molly paused and centered herself, concentrating all her energies on the spell-weaving, feeding to it every morsel of power she possessed and why not? She had no other spells of value and no sense holding a reserve for later. When she felt the seeming rooted firm to her she called again "Baron William! Baron William Wolf-Fang! We've taken the Hightshame garrison. The only soldiers you have left are the ones with you now. Have no doubts, man--we'll not be going until the castle falls." Molly paused for breath, drawing power from the rapt faces round her to weave her illusion-spell stronger still. So much there for her! And so easy to take! Never had it been so natural for her. She loomed tall in her daunting eldritch glamour and called out "Surrender yourself! Order your men to lay down their arms forthwith and..." her throat gagged at the unwelcome words, "we will grant you safe exile. You have my word of honor!"

Hisses of shocked anger burst out around her but Molly ignored them. Baron William would reject her offer, she was certain of it, but still the offer had to be made. And made in honor it was, though the tyrant's suspicious nature would never allow him to believe it so.

Baron William took little time to consider, and his answer was penetrating and to the point. Towards her from the ramparts an arrow flew, not like any arrow she had ever seen. It seemed much larger and much faster, streaking towards her in a flat arc, and when she leapt aside, barely in time, the feathered shaft that shattered on the stony ground was twice the thickness of a broom handle and as long as her own body nose to tail.

Ballista! She had heard of those but never seen one. Of course a castle would be armed with such! Her mob was not out of danger-range at all. "Damn ye!" she snarled, raging at her own carelessness as much as her enemy and--

"Kraa-koom!" the castle walls thundered in reply.

"Eh... what?" Molly mumbled, too dumbfounded even to jump. "What's that? Looks like--"

Like a gunpowder explosion. Thick gray smoke had burst out from one small spot at the base of the castle's curtain wall and now it was roiling sideways and upwards with a snake-like grace, seeming alive in its movements. As the smoke spread it obscured all around it and Molly was frozen in shock at the spectacle... until the smoke thinned and she saw the shattered hole from which it had come: a gap in the castle's wall, down at ground level, maybe even going all the way through!

Beside her on the right a streak of white and Garth was racing forward crying "Attack! Attack! The wall is breached!"

Behind and around her the cry was taken up, spreading like ripples in a pond, "Attack! Our Molly has breached the wall!" The mob behind her began to move and all at once John Smallberries slipped out from it, chasing Garth across the blood-streaked snow.

Molly threw off her confusion and sprang forth too, bounding deer-swift across the open area then down to the moat-trench bottom and back up, over sulfur-smoking rock-rubble to her comrades scrabbling furiously deep within the stricken wall.

Screams and curses flew as the mob swarmed behind her and took damage from the defenders above, and Molly heard a scream or two from up high as well. Her people did have a few bows of their own, after all. She saw light-slivers in the stinking darkness and at that instant an inside wall-stone fell away, letting in more light and a rush of clean hay-scented air. The quarters were too tight for her to help but right before her Garth and John attacked a massive stone together, both locking rear paws in the rubble and straining forward with all the strength in their backs, and almost the stone moved. They heaved again, still without success, then steel clanged shrilly by Molly's ear as a heavy crowbar was tossed up to her. She passed it forward--feeling her illusion-spell unravel at cold iron's touch--and her comrades seized the bar instantly, jamming its wedge end in a weak place and levering the stone free on their first pull. How gorgeous they both looked straining tails-up with all their strength like that! And why oh why was she thinking such thoughts in the midst of deadly battle?

Tight squeeze but that was enough, for a hellhound, and Garth wormed through without attempting to free another stone. No arrows struck him--they would have seen his body jerk--then John was pushing through and Molly followed close behind, couldn't even manage it without huffing out the air from her lungs.

It was a storage shed she fell into, filled nigh to the rafters with mounded hay and hemp-bagged oats. Garth and John were crouched at the doorway looking outward through a crack by the jamb but no one in the castle yard seemed aware of them yet. Surely guards would be rushing to engage them if they had. They didn't even realize their wall was breached clear through! When she was ready Garth unlatched the door and pushed it open then all three of them sprang out into the open bailey-yard, making no attempt to hide. Speed was of the essence here; speed and ferocity. With luck the keep doors would be unbarred... and why not? Baron William would be there, giving orders, and messengers would be constantly running to and fro delivering them. The door guards' word alone would be ample for maintaining control and after all, those clumsy massive door bars were only intended for use in times of dire peril.

Times like now.

The bailey-yard was perhaps an acre in size and the distance between the keep and any wall point no more than two or three hundred feet. The stairs to the keep entrance were unmistakable, the main feature of the keep's base, and the three hellwolves were scaling them scant seconds from the time they left the storage shed door.

Two guards stood ready at the stair head, astonished and terrified but ready nonetheless, each pike braced and lowered as if to impale a charging boar. Hellwolves are not boars, though, nor do they act like them. Certainly not Garth Mactire and John Smallberries! Both continued their rush until just short of the pike tips then pushed back against the stair treads and stopped short wham , just like that. By instinct both guards stabbed forward and both pikes were dodged and seized by strong hand-paws just behind the head, then pounced upon and held down while Molly leapt from behind her comrades and ripped two throats in a single blur-fast move.

The keep doors were just a few steps on from there, unguarded now, and the hellwolves skittered through them losing traction for a moment on the smooth-worn stones then catching hold and charging full-tilt down the only way open to them: the short curved entranceway leading direct to the keep's main hall.

Baron William would be in that hall, surrounded by his best guards. Servants would be there too, and counselors if the baron still had any he listened to. Blood and death on a massive scale loomed and Molly supposed, not for the first time, that these might be her last few seconds in this mortal world. Were her comrades thinking the same thoughts? Were they thinking at all? They were showing no hesitation, certainly, racing down the entranceway as fast as their bounding legs could carry them so Molly pushed her craven thoughts aside and raced with them too.

Raced to... nothing.

The hall was there, true enough, and a fine hall it was with wide hot hearth aglow in one wall and well-built wood-plank floor and massive-timbered over-arching ceiling... but it had no people in it.

"He's on the curtain wall!" John snarled and Garth replied "What a pity. I so wanted to meet him up close and personal, like Molly did. I suppose we'll just have to make the best of our bad luck now, won't we?" He began to kick floor-rushes into a pile and John eyed him smiling, right away guessing his intent. He said "Make it quick. I'll guard the doors."

John trotted back the way they had come while Molly scooped up an ash-shovel's load of glowing coals from the hearth and sprinkled them on the mound of dirty but adequately dry rushes prepared for them. She huffed and puffed and in seconds had small flames flickering while Garth broke up wooden things and laid down jagged splinters gently one by one. Quickly the flames grew stronger and both hellwolves placed on larger pieces for more fuel, quickly filling the hall with smoke and growing heat. When the smoke grew too noxious to stay longer they pushed chairs and tables close for more fuel then slunk off coughing for the entrance doors and their flood of lovely sweet inrushing air... which was cut off suddenly, just as they arrived, to the crash of heavy wood upon stone.

John was driving home the door bar when they got there, the floor around him littered with spent arrows. Instants later thick oak shuddered to the thud of sharp steel and he growled "Seems we've caught their attention. Baron William himself is beyond those doors! Foolish of him to be chasing wolves when he should be wondering how we got here, but any man can make hasty decisions when upset. D'ye suppose he's noticed the invaders overrunning his castle yard yet? Has he thought yet of the desperate peril that's his lot now, trapped out bereft of cover on the hard-barred threshold of his own keep? Shall I open the doors so we can tell him?"

"Let's not," replied Garth and Molly as one.

Something was odd about the way he was standing and... was that blood trickling down his leg? Left foreleg up high, where it joined the chest.

Molly yelped "John! You're wounded!"

"It's not deep," he muttered. "An arrow nicked me as I was taunting the baron down from his walls. It'll heal up fine."

Garth said "Come on, we can still get through the great room if we hold our breaths. Should be private chambers and suchlike on the other side. Maybe we'll find a window there from which to leap."

Garth led the way back and Molly followed last, keeping tabs on John and his injured leg. He was hurt worse than he admitted, she could tell that from the way he walked, but no time to look closer now.

Their fire was burning fiercely when they passed it, already reaching up to claim dark roof beams crusted thick with three hundred years' accumulation of tinder-dry dust and smoke-grease. Without drawing breath they hurried on, and through squinted tearing eyes found a short hall and tried a door at the far end of it, the largest one, rich with gilded carvings of heraldic beasts. The door was unlocked, opening easily at their touch, and behind it they found the baron's private chambers. The rooms were richly furnished with tapestried walls and an elegant curtained bed...

... and a window. A real glass-mullioned window large enough for a hellwolf to squeeze through.

Molly slammed the door shut behind her and breathed fresh air, drawing it deep while Garth unlatched the sash and threw it wide, half-crawling out past thick stone walls to see what waited on the other side. His ears were flat with worry when he wiggled back to make his report.

"It's a long way to the ground," he said. "Not quite thirty feet, looks like, same height as the stairs we climbed to get here. I don't think John's hurt leg will bear the strain of a jump like that."

John shrugged and replied "I'll survive. It's better than staying here and burning to death. Best we get on with it, I suppose. You and Molly should go first. It's a long drop so be sure to land with your forelegs leading slightly--not too much!--and with your neck lifted way up and back so you don't crack a tooth when the impact snaps it down."

Garth looked skeptical and parted his jaws to reply but Molly beat him to it. "John yer daft!" she yelped. "Jest like a man t'kill hisself proving his bravery when a mite o'common sense could ease him through unharmed."

John bowed his head and drooped his ears down meekly. He said "I'm listening, Ma'am. What's your plan?"

Molly huffed "We'll make a rope and lower you, of course. Go find cloth things for me and tear them in strips. You should be able to manage that with your teeth and one good front leg. And you too, Garth Mactire! We don't have long ere that door burns through!" She didn't wait for acknowledgement but went straightaway to a wall hanging depicting hounds eviscerating a fallen stag and tore it down with a quick bite and twist of her neck. She snagged one corner with her teeth and held the rest down with both front feet, quickly ripping out a wide long strip from it. She tore two additional strips and began to braid them while Garth and John brought more cloth for her and from the open window came the rising tumult of pitched battled and the door behind them began to rumble from the growing conflagration raging behind it. A draft brought them fresh air as it was sucked into the fire but that would be ending soon... and it did end soon.

Ropes of smoke were swirling and the door edged in roaring red when all three hellwolves as one decided their rope was long enough. One end was formed already in a loop--Molly had woven it that way from the first--and John slipped that past his forelegs to encircle his massive barrel chest. He wormed out though the window well and teetered on the brink when all at once " Thwaack!" came the chilling sound of an arrow-strike on the stones close by his head. John saw and heard that--how could he not?--but all he said was "Hold the rope!" Slowly he leaned forward, and fell.

Garth and Molly took the strain and let the rope out quickly paw over paw until they gripped the bitter end, still taut with John's weight, then they let it go. The door was all aflame now and Garth shouldered her gallantly forward so she went first, perching tensely on the windowsill and looking down to John's sprawled form on the paving stones, to crowds of shouting rebels in the courtyard and straight across to scattered wall archers even now nocking arrows for another flight, unsure if hellwolves or human rebels were the greater danger to them. The archers were in disarray and their ranks were thin, but one arrow in the right place is all it takes. She jumped.

She landed fair but still the impact shocked legs and knocked a bit of the wind out of her. She staggered but did not fall as Garth thudded down close beside her, and both rushed straightaway to shield John's body with their own, sniffing him over to determine how badly he was hurt.

"I'm fine," John said, as an arrow struck the stones beside him and more rose up from those few rebels lucky enough to possess bows. There was no shortage of arrows for them, they had only to pick up spent shafts from the ground, and the wall archers were having a hard time of it with no protective cover for an attack from inside the walls. More rebel arrows arced up and at last that wall section was abandoned, with surviving wall archers retreating to the safety of the corner towers.

More arrows came from those towers, though, and the ones who sent them were now shielded from return fire. The battle was clearly going well but 'twould be a long nasty job getting them out of there! Best to start with the courtyard-level doors, no doubt. Molly could see the rebels were already hard at it. Hack the doors to splinters while arrows and rocks rain down from above then battle up the winding staircase of each tower, one bloody step at a time, until every man inside is dead. A grim business but it had to be done. A grim nasty business is what war is all about.

Another arrow snapped down close by and Molly hunkered lower, she and Garth still shielding John's body with their own. They were exposed there but where else were they to go? The castle had been carefully designed to leave no corner beyond the reach of tower-fire. One rebel bore a looted shield and he went to join them, shielding them as best he could but his shield was too small. Other rebels came and they would have worked out something but--

--a keening wail arose from the tower and the scattered flight of arrows abruptly ceased. All eyes turned and around the corner of the keep surged a wildly cheering crowd of rebels, at their forefront a pike raised flagstaff-high, with atop it impaled the bloody head of a man. As they drew closer Molly recognized the features; they were burned into her eyes from that terrible night her master died.

On the pike before her, staring-eyed and shocked, perched the severed head of William called Wolf-Fang, ex-baron of Hightshame Long Valley and the Southern Roads.