“What are you doing?” asked Karl.
“When the beasts get closer, throw your torch. The torch must land on the powder. Can you do that?”
Karl nodded. Moments later, half a dozen wolves emerged from the trees, while Little Satan continued to growl, bark, and yelp somewhere in the darkness beyond, probably fighting the rest of the pack. The six beasts in front of them were enough to make Greta’s blood run cold. They were almost as big as their leader, and their eyes glinted voraciously.
When they had reached the spot with the powder, Johann shouted, “Now!”
Karl threw the torch. For a moment Greta thought the flame would be extinguished on the wet forest floor, but then a hissing broke out, followed by a deafening explosion and a red flash that lit up the clearing for a split second. The wolves yowled and scattered; two of them lay dead in the clearing.
“Blackpowder,” whispered Johann, “with a pinch of cinnabar for effect. I always carry a small bottle on me—this lot was from our show at Bamberg.” He grinned. “You never know when you might need it.”
“I’m afraid it won’t keep the wolves away for long.” Karl pointed at John, who had collapsed once more and was lying on the ground not far from the wolves. “We can’t keep carrying him. He’s too heavy.”
Greta saw her father’s look. “Don’t you dare think about it,” she said coldly. “I stay with John. He might be a rascal and a swindler, but he saved our lives. I’m not going to throw him to the wolves.”
On cue, there was movement between the trees again. Greta reached for a fallen branch with a grim expression on her face.
Come and get me, you mongrels! she thought. My life won’t come cheap—nor that of the red-haired scoundrel.
But then she dropped the branch. It was only Little Satan limping toward them. The huge wolfhound was bleeding from several wounds. There was a hole where his right eye used to be, his fur was torn like an old cloth, and he was dragging one of his back feet.
“Little Satan,” exclaimed Johann. He dropped to his knees and stroked the dog’s blood-smeared head, the left ear hanging down in shreds. “My God, you poor thing . . .” His voice was shaking.
It hurt Greta to see how much more Johann cared for the dog than for John, but she knew that Little Satan was his favorite companion. She thought her father probably loved the dog more than he loved most people.
The dog, who had been so strong just a short while ago, whimpered in pain. He tried to stand up but couldn’t, and a shudder went through his body. Greta saw that he was dying. Johann continued to stroke him as if he were a small child. Tears stood in his eyes.
“It’s going to be all right,” he murmured. “It’s going to be all right, my darling.”
Johann didn’t even move when the wolves’ reddish eyes gleamed at them again from the bushes.
Greta uttered a curse and hurled a branch at them. “Haven’t you had enough?” she screamed. “Then come if you dare, you damned beasts! I will rip out your throats myself!”
It was courage born out of despair, out of hopelessness. At her feet lay John Reed, the man who had betrayed her but whom she loved nonetheless. Her father had buried his face in the bloodied fur of his dying dog; only Karl, her old friend, still stood beside her. He, too, had picked up a branch and waited for the wolves to attack. He looked over to Johann with a sad smile.
“I wonder if he’d care for me thus if I lay dying?” he said to Greta. “I guess I’ll never find out.”
So this is how it ends, thought Greta.
Karl was about to launch his club at one of the wolves when a loud thunderclap cracked through the air. At first Greta thought some of her father’s blackpowder hadn’t exploded the first time, but then there was another loud crack. The wolves pricked up their ears, put their tails between their legs, and ran off. Greta heard the rustle of leaves for a few more moments, and then the creatures had vanished like ghosts in the night. Soon she could hear the shouting of several men and saw torches in the darkness.
The king’s soldiers, she thought immediately. They found us.
But the men who stepped into the clearing were no soldiers. They looked like simple workers, armed with crossbows and hand cannons. In their midst, one man was riding on a horse. He was so fat that Greta wondered why the horse wasn’t collapsing. The luscious hair streaming out from beneath his black gugel was almost as bright red as John’s. Some of the other men also had red hair. The fat one studied the small group in front of him from keen eyes. When his gaze fell on the unconscious John, his bushy eyebrows shot up.
“What’s the lad done now?” he asked. “If only he’d stayed in the Highlands. When I told his mother I’d look after him, I didnae ken how much bother he would cause me.”
“Who . . . who are you?” asked Karl.
“Who am I?” The big man straightened up in his saddle, a mountain of flesh with small red eyes that flashed at Karl, Greta, and Johann. “I am Albert MacSully of the old line of MacSullys. My family traces back to the glorious days of William Wallace. And the only reason you’re still alive is because there’s a MacSully among ye.” Suddenly the fat man gave a roaring laugh. “Bugger me! I set out to
