In the forest of ville Fare by Robert E.

Howard.

The sun had set, the great shadows came striding over the forest in the weird twilight of a late summer day.

I saw the path ahead glide on among the mighty trees and disappear, and I shuddered and glanced fearfully over my shoulder.

Miles behind lay the nearest village, miles ahead the next I looked to left and right as I strode on, and Anon.

I looked behind me, and Anon.

I stopped short, grasping my rapier as a breaking twig betokened the going of some small beast, or was it a beast?

But the path led on, and I followed, because forsooth I had naught else to do.

As I went, I bethought myself, my own thoughts will rout me if I am not aware what is there in this forest except perhaps the creatures that roam it, deer and the like tush, the foolish legends of those villagers.

And so I went, and the twilight faded into dusk.

Stars began to blink, and the leaves of the trees murmured in the faint breeze.

And then I stopped short, my sword leaping to my hand, poured just ahead around a curve in the path.

Some one was singing the words I could not distinguish, but the accent was strange, almost barbaric.

I stepped behind a great tree, and the cold sweat beaded my forehead.

Then the singer came in sight, a tall, thin, vague in the twilight.

I shrugged my shoulders a man.

I did not fear.

I sprang out my point raised stand.

He showed no surprise.

I pray theee handle thy blade with care, friend, he said, somewhat ashamed, I lowered my sword.

I am new to this forest, I quoth apologetically.

I hear talk of bandits.

I crave pardon, where lies the road to Villeferre Corbleu.

You've missed it, he answered, You should have branched off to the right, some distance back.

I am going there myself.

If you may abide my company, I will direct you.

I hesitated, Yet why should I hesitate?

Why?

Certainly?

My name is Montau de Normandy, and I am Carlos de Loup No, I started back.

He looked at me in astonishment.

Pardon, I said, The name is strange.

Does not Loup mean wolf.

My family were always great hunters, he answered.

He did not offer his hand.

You will pardon my staring, said I.

As we walked down the path, but I can hardly see your face in the dusk.

I sensed that he was laughing, though he made no sound.

It is little to look upon, he answered.

I stepped closer, then leapt away, my hair bristling a mask, I exclaimed, Why do you wear a mask, monsieur, It is a vow, he explained, in fleeing a pack of hounds, I vowed that if I escaped, I would wear a mask for a certain time.

Hounds, monsieur, wolves, he answered quickly, I said wolves.

We walked in silence for a while, and then my companion said, I am surprised that you walk these woods at night.

Few people come this way even in the day.

I am in haste to reach the border, I answered.

A treaty has been signed with the English, and the Duke of Burgundy should know of it.

The people at the village sought to dissuade me.

They spoke of a wolf that is purported to roam these woods.

Here the path branches to Ville Faire, said he and I saw a narrow crooked path that I had not seen when I passed it before.

It led in among the darkness of the trees.

I shuddered, Do you wish to return to the village, No, I exclaimed, No, No lead on.

So narrow was the path that we walked, single file, he leading.

I looked well at him.

He was taller, much taller than I, and thin, wiry.

He was dressed in a costume that smacked of Spain.

A long rapier swung at his hip.

He walked with long, easy strides, noiselessly.

Then he began to talk of travel and adventure.

He spoke of many lands and seas he had seen, and many strange things.

So we talked and went further and further into the forest.

I presumed that he was French, yet he had a very strange accent that was neither French, nor Spanish, nor English, nor like any language I had ever heard.

Some words he slurred strangely, and some he could not pronounce at all.

This path is not often used, is it, I asked, Not by many?

He answered, and laughed silently.

I shuddered.

It was very dark, and the leaves whispered together among the branches.

A fiend haunts this forest, I said, so, the peasants say, He answered, but I have roamed it off and never have seen his face.

Then he began to speak of strange creatures of darkness, and the moon rose and shadows glittered among the trees.

He looked up at the moon.

Haste, he said, we must reach our destination before the moon reaches her zenith.

We hurried along the trail.

They say, I said that a werewolf haunts these woodlands, it might be, said he, and we argued much upon the subject.

The old women say, said he that if a werewolf is slim while a wolf, then he is slaying.

But if he is slain as a man, then his half soul will haunt his slayer forever.

But haste thee the moon nears her zenith.

We came into a small moonlit glade, and the stranger stopped.

Let us pause.

Awhile, said he nay, let us be gone.

I urged, I will not this place.

He laughed without sound, Why, said he, This is a fair glade as good as a banquet hall, it is, And many times I have feasted here.

Ha ha ha.

Look ye, I will show you a dance.

And he began bounding here and there, Anon flinging back his head and laughing silently, thought I the man is mad.

As he danced his weird dance.

I looked about me.

The trail went not on, but stopped in the glade.

Come said I we must on.

Do you not smell the rank, hairy smell that hovers about the glade?

Wolves den here?

Perhaps they are about us and are gliding upon us even now?

He dropped upon all fours, bounded higher than my head, and came toward me with a strange slinking motion.

That dance is called the dance of the wolf, he said, and my hair bristled.

Keep off.

I stepped back, and with a screech that set the echo shuddering, he leapt for me, and though the sword hung at his belt, he did not draw it.

My rapier was half out when he grasped my arm and flung me headlong.

I dragged him with me, and we struck the ground together.

Wrenching a hand free, I jerked off the mask.

A shriek of horror broke from my lips.

Beast eyes glittered beneath that mask.

White fangs flashed in the moonlight.

The face was that of a wolf.

In an instant, those fangs were at my throat.

Taloned hands tore the sword from my grasp.

I beat at that horrible face with my clenched fists, but his jaws were fastened on my shoulder.

His talons tore at my throat.

Then I was on my back.

The world was fading Blindly.

I struck out my hand, dropped, then closed automatically around the hilt of my dagger, which I had been unable to get at.

I drew and stabbed a terrible half beastial bellowing screech.

Then I reeled to my feet.

Free At my feet eat lay the werewolf.

I stooped, raised the dagger, then paused, looking up.

The moon hovered close to her zenith.

If I slew the thing as a man, its frightful spirit would haunt me forever.

I sat down, waiting.

The thing watched me with flaming wolf eyes.

The long, wiry limbs seemed to shrink to crook.

Hair seemed to grow upon them.

Fearing madness, I snatched up the thing's own sword and hacked it to pieces.

Then I flung the sword away and fled the end of in the forest of Villeferre by Robert Howard,