Winston A. Howlett
“Brellen, calm down,” Wulfston said.
“But, Lord Wulfston, you didn’t see it!” the little shepherd cried. “It was a huge, black monster in the shape of a wolf, with flaming-red eyes — ”
“Where did all this happen?” Jareth quietly asked.
“In the pastures north o’ Zegra, ‘bout a day’s ride from here,” Brellen replied, giving Wulfston’s advisor a cutting look for interrupting him. “My lord, for the last month or so, we had been losing a lamb every few days. We’d had trouble with wolves before, and had set traps for ‘em. But when this one kept eludin’ the snares, we went huntin’ for it.
“Last night, we found a lamb it’d just killed, and followed the tracks into the foothills. Then the paw prints began to change — into the footprints of a man!” Jareth snorted. Brellen gave him another cutting look. “It’s true! Footprints! They led up into a cave with a narrow mouth. We was too scared to go in, so we filled the cave mouth with dry brush and put a torch to it. Then we waited for whatever was inside to try to escape by leapin’ through the flames. We didn’t have much in the way o’ weapons. Just some farmin’ an’ stoneworkin’ tools an’ one rusty ol’ sword.”
“And the wolf broke out of the cave and attacked?” Wulfston asked.
The thin, middle-aged man shivered, his eyes apparently staring at a horrible memory. “What came through them flames was no wolf, my lord! Was bigger than any wolf — big as a man, and black as night! It ripped out Marn’s throat before he could even scream! Then it broke through the circle and ran off into the forest. We lost the trail in the rock quarry — not that we really wanted to keep chasin’ it, after what it did to Marn. . .”
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