“Does such proof exist?”

“You ought to know as well as I,” evaded Jaspin, covering his mistake quickly. “If the King is dead then proof exists.”

“I only meant that even were the King still living-though unfit to continue his reign-some proof might be found that would satisfy the troublemakers.”

“Hmmm…” The Prince’s high brow wrinkled in thought.

“There is something in what you say, my friend. How quickly you think.”

“Might I suggest that a search be made that would turn up something or someone who would provide the necessary proof?”

“Yes, that will do,” said Jaspin, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Where do you propose we start looking?”

A wry look came over Ontescue’s sharp features; his weasel eyes squinted up merrily. He bent his head close to Jaspin’s ear and whispered.

“By Azrael,” breathed Jaspin, “You are a clever fox. Let us make haste. There is no time to lose.”

TWENTY-NINE

“SHHH! Make no sound!” warned Toli in a strained whisper. One hand covered Quentin’s mouth and his other dripped with the water that he had splashed in his friend’s face to wake him.

Quentin struggled from sleep, blinking the water out of his eyes, puzzled at first, then he caught a look at Toli’s wide eyes and tight lips. Concern mingled with fear lurked there.

Toli removed his hand with another warning for silence. “What is wrong?” Quentin barely breathed. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up on an elbow and followed Toli’s gaze into the forest. There was not a sound to be heard.

He peered into the night. All was darkness; the fire had burned out and it appeared to Quentin several hours yet before the dawn. A thick overcast shut out any light from moon or stars. The forest round about lay in deepest gloom.

Just then one of the horses whickered softly, and the other answered nervously. Quentin, straining both eyes and ears into the darkness saw and heard nothing. He waited and was about to speak again when he saw a slight flicker through the trees some way off: a ghostly shape, gray-white against the black trunks of the trees. Low to the ground. Moving swiftly among the dense undergrowth. A thin, pale shape.

It disappeared almost as soon as Quentin had seen it.

“What is it?” Quentin asked, leaning close to Toli. He could see the tense expression on his friend’s face and felt his rapid, shallow breathing on his cheek.

“Wolves.”

The word pressed itself into Quentin’s mind slowly. At first it seemed to have no meaning; but then, like a slap in the face, he realized their danger. Wolves! They were being stalked by wolves!

“How many?” he asked quietly, trying to make his voice sound calm and unconcerned, and failing.

“I have only seen one,” said Toli in the barest whisper. “But where there is one there are others.”

Unconsciously Quentin reached for the only weapon he had, the gold-handled dagger of the King’s knight. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he drew it from his belt.

He glanced at the smoldering remains of their campfire, wishing that it would spring magically to life again. Wolves are afraid of fire, he thought. He had heard that somewhere and wondered if it was true. As if reading his mind, Toli leaned over and placed his face close to the smoking coals and blew on them. His face glowed duskily in the feeble firelight, and for an instant a single flame licked out. But, lacking fuel to feed it, the flame winked out again and the coals grew cold.

The horses, close behind them, but invisible in the darkness, jingled their bridles as they tossed their heads to free themselves. “We must loose the horses,” said Toli, “so they may fight.”

“Will it come to that?” Quentin asked. He had no experience in these things. He felt out of place and strangely indignant about it, an emotion which puzzled him.

Just then Quentin caught another flickering glimpse of a gray shape floating among the trees to the right of them. This time the animal was much closer.

“They are closing in,” said Toli. Quentin realized he had been holding his breath.

“What are we going to do?” asked Quentin, shocked because he did not have the slightest idea himself what to do.

In answer to his question Toli handed him a stout branch, one they had gathered for the fire. It was hefty enough to use as a club. With the club in one hand and the knife in the other, Quentin felt only slightly more confident. “Keep low,” Toli warned. “Protect your throat.”

Toli stood slowly and from a long distance behind them they heard the mournful call of a wolf. Quentin’s stomach tightened as if someone were squeezing it. The eerie, hollow cry was echoed by another on the right, not nearly so far away. Toli placed a hand on Quentin’s arm, clenching him in a steel grip, drawing him to his feet.

Suddenly they heard a low, slathering growl from the left very close. Quentin turned toward the sound and saw a gaunt white death’s head floating right at him out of the forest.

“To the horses!” screamed Toli, spinning on his heel and diving forward.

Quentin turned in the same instant and flew to Balder’s side. He found the animal’s head and slashed at the reins which tied him to the branch where he had been tethered for the night.

The mighty warhorse jerked free and reared upon its hind legs as it spun round to face its ghostly attacker. Quentin dodged out of the way as a heavy, iron-shod hoof whistled through the air where his head had been an instant before.

Balder neighed wildly, flailing the air with his forelegs. The wolf, plunging at them from the forest, swerved and bounded aside to avoid Balder’s flying hooves.

Out of the corner of his eye Quentin saw another wolf dashing in from the side. He leaped forward and swung the makeshift club high over his head, yelling at the top of his lungs as he did so. The yell surprised himself as much as it scared the wolf who hung back in its attack just long enough for Quentin to land a blow square on its long snout. The wolf’s jaws snapped shut with a teeth-cracking crunch as the club fell. The animal let out a pleading yelp and backed away.

Another yelp sounded behind him and Quentin spun around to see Toli lashing with a long stick at a large gray wolf crouching beneath the ineffectual blows. Quentin started toward Toli to lend a hand. He had run not two steps when his foot caught on a root and he went down.

As he fell Quentin sensed a motion behind him and before he hit the ground with a thud he felt a weight upon his back. Without thinking he threw an arm over his head as the wolf’s long teeth raked at his exposed neck. He felt the dagger in his hand and tried to wrench free his other arm pinioned beneath him.

He felt the wolf’s teeth tearing at his clothing, caught in the sleeve of his tunic. He squirmed under the weight of the animal, trying to bring the knife up and into the wolf’s belly.

The knife flashed up, suddenly free, and Quentin looked beneath his arm to see the body of the wolf flying sideways and folding in midair as if it had no backbone. Then he saw Balder’s head tossed high above him as he prepared to deliver another, similar blow to any predator daring to come within range of his lightning hooves.

“Kenta!” Toli cried. Quentin looked around to see his friend holding four wolves at bay with his whirling branch. Three others were working at the other horse, closing in for a lunge at the frightened animal’s throat.

Jumping to his feet, Quentin found his club in his hand and raced toward his friend. “God Most High, help us now!” he screamed as he ran.

One wolf broke off its attack of the horse to meet Quentin in full flight. Quentin lunged with the club, but the wily creature dodged and caught the club in its mouth. The wolf jerked backwards with such force it nearly pulled Quentin’s arm from its socket as he let go of the club. He brought the knife up before him as the wolf gathered itself for another lunge.