"I Wolf" continued.

…DeLacy slowed his mount and though the mare’s step was lively, she was nervous of the forest. He waved the boy alongside him.

‘Are you of an open mind, lad?’

‘I am of that mind, squire, though separating truth from lies often troubles me.’

DeLacy smiled at the answer, there was honesty there. Though barely sixteen, the boy stood almost as tall as his master – his outlook more of a grown man and with a quick eye and loose limbs he could deliver the point of his sword faster than most.

‘And our quest... how do you see it? Driven by God’s own truth, or the wanton falsehoods of Lucifer himself.’

Jack took his time in replying.

‘I should say truth, sir. Too many men have died in these forests. I know of five good souls who have perished here. To this day, their families search for them but find nothing.’

‘So you see the beast as real?’

‘Wolves are killers, squire. If a man is foolish enough to walk the forest alone, then as would the deer or the sheep, he could well fall prey.’

‘Aye Jack, they are indeed killers, but this one… this one is not the same. I have seen it, boy.’ Or perhaps the ale I had drunk that night was more the culprit of my rambling. But in truth, I think not. ‘Not far from where we are – a sighting which turned my blood to melt-water.’

‘You saw a wolf, squire?’

‘That I did Jack, and no ordinary wolf was this one. Though most will shake their heads and sneer at what I tell.’

On impulse, DeLacy reached across for his sword and drew the claidheamh mòr half way out from its scabbard. In the moonlight, the blade erupted with tiny lights of brilliant silver; icy fingers of superstition reached beneath his cape and for a moment he struggled to quell the fear that followed them.

‘Six feet high at the shoulder, Jack. From that day onward, nothing has terrified me more than the sight of that hellish creature walking beside me. Nor did it walk on all fours lad, but straight-backed and powerful of limb. Its forelegs hung as arms and those terrible jaws, though shorter than any wolf’s, were filled with a wolf’s fangs;  as God be my witness, sharp as a harlot’s tongue and long and white as dead men’s fingers.’

He drew the neck of his cape closer in to his throat, as if the leather edging was strong enough to protect it.

‘But the eyes, Jack, they were the worst… the grist of any man’s nightmares; yellow in the moonlight, the eyes of some devilish manifestation, those of Satan himself…’