Wolfpack

It has been a year since Wolff, no longer a knight, was exiled from the Citadel of the Magistratum. He dresses simply now, no longer in the armour and colours of his ancient lineage or his knighthood. Although, of course, his blood runs coldly in those very colours, deep in the arterial wells and veinous labyrinths of his ageing frame. It is by chance that he comes upon a valiant veteran from another war — a 'lean and foolish knight', as the great Chesterton once called him.

Hail, my lord of the windmill! What brings you out of your sainted memory to this pleasant café?

That worthy knight grimaces, his long mustachios twirling gently as if they might catch the wind and make wheat into flour. He looks down into his espresso con panna and looks up again, a spark of icy fire in each eye. His tone is courteous as always. Unlike the so-called Lords of the Magistratum, he shows all the virtues of a knight, even in his late age.

Sir Wolff. I have been following your adventures from afar. Did you know that you have now a wolfpack behind you? "Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed."

Wolff is about to deny, for the hundredth time it seems, his knightly title. But he thinks better of that, realising that denying the word of such a famous knight as this worthy would be to sink even lower than the Magistratum desires him to sink.

No, my lord. I had not heard this news. Do you mix metaphors here? Or do both wolves and hounds hunt me now?

The old knight gives a lopsided grin. It is as if he relishes the cut-and-thrust, both implicit and explicit, even though he is not quite in a position to be the champion he used to be.

No... the wolves are your pups, so to say. There are dozens of them howling in the hills around the Citadel. They scent blood. They spread tidings of the indiscretions of the Grand Inquisitor and his cabal. And the hounds of Don John, the hounds of heaven, are with them. "It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!"

Wolff smiles. This is no longer his fight. He is beyond that, and now that he is not a knight, he cares less than he used to.

And this is supposed to mean something to me? The Will and the Power of the Highest, they will prevail. "St Michael's on his mountain in the sea-roads of the north"; he can shake his lance of iron and clap his wings of stone as much as he wants, for that is an archangel's right.

Then the old knight says something before he fades away, with a sad look in his eye that chills even Wolff.

Remember the little dwarfs and the crystal phial. Remember who you once were. "It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth." The wyverns will fly, but only if the wyvern-keeper is bold and gives them wings.

'What did he mean by that?' Wolff ponders. But deep inside, he thinks he knows. And like an iron bell, the chambers of his heart toll deeply within him.