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Title: Loup-Garou
Author: Wallace West
Illustrator: Hugh Rankin
C. C. Senf
Release date: February 5, 2026 [eBook #77868]
Language: English
Original publication: Indianapolis: Popular Fiction Publishing Company, 1927
Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOUP-GAROU ***
Transcribed from Weird Tales, October 1927 (Vol. 10, No. 4.).
Loup-Garou
by Wallace West
[Illustration: “He turned toward the wolf and stood staring, for a
monstrous change was taking place.”]
Gil Couteau sat in the warm sunlight of the courtyard industriously
polishing his long, straight sword. It was a good sword, he ruminated,
scraping industriously at the dark stain which insisted on sticking
in the crevices of the scrollwork hilt, but it was becoming thirsty
from lack of use. His superstitious eye seemed to detect some subtle
lessening of the keenness of the edge; some slight dullness in the
polish of the blade since he had used it almost daily against the
cursed Saracens in Palestine.
With the sword across his knees he leaned back against the wall and
relaxed into sleepy comfort. It was good, he decided, to be done with
wars, and with slicing heads from infidels; it was good to be in Merrie
England, where nothing much had happened since his arrival; it was good
to have the stout walls of Castle Randall about him, and a real bed to
sleep on once more.
With half-closed eyes he watched the golden flash of flies across the
sunlight and listened to the hum of wasps who had their nest somewhere
up the tower. Two grooms were asleep against the stable wall. Two
more were trying to work up interest in a desultory cockfight near
the portcullis. Ho hum! Life was good. His head nodded forward on his
breast.
He was awakened by a ragged thunder of hoofs upon the lowered
drawbridge. He leaped to his feet, all his sleepy content shattered,
as a wild-eyed horse charged into the courtyard and plunged to a stop
before him, in a great lather of sweat. From its back slid a bleeding
bundle of a man whom he recognized as the serf Gomar. “Oh, sir,”
gabbled this one, in a mixture of Saxon and English which Gil still
found hard to understand, “oh, sir; Lady Constance! I must to Lord
Robert. Gray Henry, the Wolf, has stolen----”
Without pausing to finish, the serf started into the castle at a
slouching, staggering run, and Couteau followed him, sword in hand.
They found Sir Robert Fitzgerald, lord of the castle, in an alcove off
the main hall. He was dressed in a dust-colored robe, like the priest
of some occult order, and, surrounded by an array of test-tubes and
retorts, was poring over a huge volume as they rushed in. He leaped
to his feet, however, and strode forward with a step which belied his
sixty-five years.
“Oh, sir,” cried the serf, throwing himself at the old man’s feet,
“your daughter, Lady Constance, has been stolen----”
“By whom?” thundered Sir Robert, jerking him to his feet as though the
burly Saxon had been a feather.
“By your foster-brother, Gray Henry,” sobbed the man.
“Henry the Wolf,” whispered the old man, his face growing pale beneath
his long beard. “But that’s impossible,” he cried, shaking the serf
savagely. “She had three men-at-arms with her. Where are they?”
“Dead! We were put upon in the forest,” came the answer.
Sir Robert returned slowly to his seat behind the test-tubes. He seemed
older--grayer. “Call my son Brian,” he commanded at length. “This
matter will require fighting, methinks. Couteau, stay with me.”
He busied himself arranging his apparatus as the others departed.
“You have heard of my foster-brother since you returned with us from
Palestine?” he finally inquired.
“Merely his name, sir,” replied the other, “and that he holds Castle
Barnecan, up the river.”
“There is more to it than that,” said Sir Robert. “Henry has an evil
reputation. He dabbles in sorcery as I do in alchemy. Perhaps he has
had more success than I. So ’tis said by the country-folk.”
He paused, paced back and forth for some moments, then resumed: “You
have heard of the gray wolf of Barnecan?”
“Aye, sir, I have even thought a little of a hunt to kill it, since
there is nothing else to do here, and the wolf’s deviltries are so
numerous.”
“’Tis lucky you haven’t tried, Gil,” retorted the old man fiercely. “He
killed my uncle, you know, and people say--well I must out with it--the
people say that my cursed foster-brother is----”
They were interrupted by a clatter of spurs on the flagstones. Young
Brian, heir and only son of Sir Robert, rushed in.
“I have heard, Father,” he cried. “Constance has been stolen by that
fiend. Why do you stand there so quietly? Come! We must find her; we
must storm Castle Barnecan at once.”
He looked very handsome as he stood in his hunting clothes, for he
was tall and blond and very, very young, or at least so it seemed to
Couteau, who had fought seven weary years in Palestine.
“Sir Henry is too strong for us, boy,” reasoned his father. “We could
never capture the castle. We must try other measures. Let us ride at
once, and try to reason with him. I have known for years that he wished
to marry Constance so that he might have a claim on my lands at my
death, but I never thought he would try this scurvy trick. If parley
fails then we shall try other measures.”
* * * * *
Young Brian fumed and raged at this, but he was no fool, so that
afternoon the three of them, with fifty yeomen at their backs, rode
through the dense forests which separated the two fiefs. Toward sunset
they halted before the drawbridge of Castle Barnecan. In answer to a
trumpet-blast Sir Henry himself appeared at a turret, but made no offer
to lower the bridge.
“We have come to demand Lady Constance of you,” shouted Brian. “I know
naught of her,” came the answer in a deep, resonant voice. “I would ask
you to enter, but the drawbridge is never lowered here after sunset;
and the sun is almost down.” He turned to face the sinking orb, which
was gilding him and the castle with a lurid glow.
“Then you refuse to give us news of our lady?” shouted Brian.
“I have said I know naught of her. Is not that enough, young sir? Let
you come again tomorrow. You may examine Castle Barnecan from turret
to dungeon. But tonight, I regret to say, dear nephew, that you can
not enter. Tomorrow I will send men into the forest to search for her,
since I greatly admire Constance, as you well know. But tonight we can
do nothing in the dark.”
As he finished speaking the sun sank slowly out of sight. At the same
time Sir Henry turned and strode from the turret without a farewell,
leaving his visitors hesitating on the edge of the moat.
Brian cursed and fumed as they rode back through the dark woods. His
horse, which felt the distress of his rider, plunged and fretted.
At last Brian pulled to a halt. “Father,” he said firmly, “I am
remaining here tonight to watch the castle. God knows what Gray Henry
may try to do. I will keep Gomar with me, since he knows the country
roundabout. We will keep a watch together. Come,” he called to the
serf. Together they wheeled and disappeared into the dusk.
The others rode in silence. The path under the trees grew darker at
each moment. Besides the shuffle of the horses over the fallen leaves
there was no sound except now and then the twitter of a sleeping bird,
or the far-off howling of a lonely wolf.
“I like it not, Gil,” said the knight, drawing his horse close to that
of the Frenchman. “I would that I had not let him stay, but he is his
father’s son. Ah, I wish I were twenty years younger! Sir Henry would
not have bearded me thus. Aye!” he cried fiercely, “and he shall not,
even today. I’m not a dotard yet.”
They were interrupted by the concerted baying of several wolves which
had closed in upon the cavalcade. “A pack of them--and in September,
too,” murmured the old man, noting the gleaming eyes back among the
trees. “Note how bold they are. Truly, this means a bleak winter,
unless--unless----” He grew silent.
They rode on, the horses nervous and shivering as the quavering call of
the pack rose about them, the men-at-arms whispering among themselves;
the wolves following them at a judicious distance, until the gray
towers of Randall showed against the stars.
* * * * *
There was no sleep in the castle that night, but a hurried preparation
for battle. Sir Robert realized there was no use appealing to the king
in far-away London, and prepared to take the law into his own hands,
although he well knew that Castle Barnecan was better garrisoned than
his own stronghold. Weapons were overhauled, equipment inspected and
the fighting men given instructions.
The castle had sunk into comparative quiet at sunrise, but was
immediately roused by a shouting at the drawbridge. Rushing to a turret
they saw Gomar, his clothes again in ribbons, clinging to his horse’s
neck to steady himself and doing his best to attract the attention of
the guards.
The bridge was lowered and he stumbled over, a pitiful figure, his body
covered with long scratches and jagged rents; his horse a lather of
sweat and blood, almost spent.
“Oh, sir,” he babbled, sinking down at the knight’s feet, “again I
bring bad news. Your son Brian is dead.”
“How?” croaked Sir Robert.
“By the wolves,” wailed the man, shuddering and covering his face with
his hands. “Hundreds of them. Gray devils! We had no chance, though we
killed scores. And the great gray wolf of Barnecan led them. Oh sir,
it is true Gray Henry is a werewolf, or a devil! The great wolf killed
Brian, dragged down his horse, and tore the lad’s throat out as I
watched. I fled--they followed--miles and miles. Oh God!” He collapsed
in a dead faint.
There was a hush in the castle that day. All had loved Brian. Now they
waited for some action from Sir Robert. But he sat, old and gray, in
his alcove, slowly thumbing the pages of his books on alchemy and
staring at his impotent retorts. At last he roused himself and sent for
Couteau.
“My friend,” he said gently, when the latter appeared. “I saved your
life once in Palestine. I have treated you as my foster-son since that
day. You swore eternal devotion to me then. You are the only hope I
have now, and I ask your aid.”
“Sir,” replied Gil, “I will give my life gladly to help you. Also
you must know that I have loved Lady Constance since first we met.
Therefore I am doubly bound. Command me.” He stood, tall and dark,
before Sir Robert.
“I would that we might storm that cursed castle,” continued the old
man, “but we are not strong enough to try, except as a last resort.
Besides, many whom I love would be killed. Therefore, let us use
strategy. Do you know aught of werewolves?”
“A little,” replied Gil briefly. “They are called _loups-garoux_ in my
country.”
“Then from what you have seen and heard, you must know that my
foster-brother seems to have discovered that devilish art of changing
himself into a wolf at will.”
“I feared as much.”
“Listen carefully, then. The nature of werewolves is such that they
are allied to the powers of darkness. Therefore they can never appear
in the light. One imbued with such powers, therefore, can, and at last
must, change into the wolfish form at sundown--but--and here is what I
wish you to remember, my son--he must change back into his normal shape
again at sunrise.”
“So I have heard.”
“One thing more. Gray Henry had the fingers of his right hand injured
years ago in the wars. This makes it hard for him to wield a sword,
though on account of his giant stature no man could stand against him
in his youth.
“Think well over these things, my boy, and do as you think best, but
remember that the werewolf has killed my uncle and now my son, two of
the best swordsmen of the country.”
* * * * *
That afternoon Gil Couteau sat again in the courtyard with his sword
across his knees while the people of the castle stared wonderingly at
his set face and fixed expression.
At sunset, when the shadows were creeping out of the forest and when
the howling of the wolves, with which the countryside seemed alive,
had set the teeth of every man in the castle chattering with vague but
awful horror, he strapped his long sword across his back, untied a
skiff at the riverside and rowed slowly away toward Barnecan.
Dawn was faintly streaking the sky when he reached his destination. The
fortress rose steeply out of the river on one side, but the stones of
which it was built were so roughly laid that it was easy for him to tie
the boat securely. Feeling his way inch by inch, he crept up the steep
wall. There were ivy and a few window-slits to help him, but many times
he was forced to retrace part of his way, thinking each move would be
his last.
His fingers were torn and bleeding; his limbs ached as though he had
been on a torture-rack, when at last he arrived at an embrasure for
which he had been making since he had seen a light gleaming dully there
as he approached the stronghold.
Carefully he raised his eyes above the bottom of the slit and peered
within. What he saw there set his heart thumping, half with terror,
half anger. On a stool in one corner of a small bare room crouched
Lady Constance, her clothing torn and disheveled; her blond curls
bloodsmeared and tangled.
At the other side of the room, before the door, crouched a gigantic
gray wolf. Couteau felt his scalp stir as he looked, for this was
something uncanny; something dreadful that chilled his French blood,
though he had heard of such horrors since his childhood.
Occasionally the beast would rise and pace stealthily back and forth
before the door, walking with a slight limp of the right front leg,
he noticed, and at such times its head was fully five feet above the
floor. Then it would stop, and, sitting on its haunches, leer wickedly
at the crouching girl, but never approach her.
Wondering at this, Gil looked at her again, and saw that she held
against her breast a needlelike dagger, ready to press it home, should
the beast come nearer. He felt his heart swell with pride in her, at
her brave spirit and fearless courage.
It was quite light now, and daring to wait no longer, Gil loosened his
sword and squeezed himself through the embrasure as quickly as the
narrow space permitted. Quick as he was, the monster had heard him,
and was upon him instantly as he leaped to the floor. Then began a
struggle, the remembrance of which would sometimes, even years later,
wake Couteau from sleep, sweating with terror.
It was like no fight he had ever had, nor was it like the wolf-hunts
and boar-stickings in which he had taken part. The _loup-garou_ fought
with human intelligence, dodging Gil’s swordthrusts with the speed of
light, and always, always, parrying for a leap at his throat, which, if
successful, would mean an instant end to the battle.
Gil’s long sword was almost an impediment in that crowded space. He
longed for a dagger as he felt himself slowly but surely giving ground
before the plunges of the werewolf. Then, almost before he was aware,
the end came. He aimed a slashing stroke at the animal’s neck, just
where it joined the shoulders, but the other, with an almost impossible
contortion, jerked itself out of the way, and the already-battered
blade, striking the tiles of the floor, snapped short off.
In the same breath the devil was on him, hurling him to the floor and
worrying at his arm, which he had flung up to protect his throat. The
slavering fangs were but a few inches away; he knew that his time was
short and that sunrise would come too late.
At that moment he heard a wild scream. Lady Constance, who had been
crouched paralyzed with fear, in a corner, sprang forward, and picking
up the stool, brought it down upon the beast’s head with all her force.
The animal howled with pain, and reeled away, allowing Gil to retain
his feet and--the first rays of the sun passed through the embrasure,
splashing the chamber-wall with pale gold--like a blessing--like an
aureole--Gil thought.
He turned toward the wolf and stood staring, for a monstrous change
was taking place. The animal’s outline seemed to blur, just as when
strong sunlight strikes a translucent vase and changes its color
and structure. The thing’s fur disappeared, its snout shortened and
ran together, it staggered upright, and, as the Frenchman watched
spellbound, the blur again coalesced into the figure of Gray Henry, the
knight whom he had seen at the turret two days before. But a Gray Henry
naked and unarmed, still almost stunned by the blow and the agony of
his metamorphosis.
Gil did not wait for him to recover but grappled again. This time the
fight was not unequal. Gray Henry, although strong and agile, was no
match for the younger man, who had spent much of his spare time in
Palestine wrestling, and who now gave thanks for some things he had
learned from Saracen prisoners.
Shifting from grip to grip on the writhing body, he at last slipped
both his arms under his antagonist’s arms from behind, and, clasping
his hands behind the other’s head, exerted a steady, ever-growing
pressure. The werewolf fought valiantly, but could not break the hold.
At last he tried to shout for help, but Gil forced his head forward,
so that only a low moaning was heard. Another effort! There was a
loud crack, like the snapping of a dry stick, and his opponent rolled
loosely to the floor, his neck broken.
* * * * *
Of how Gil rescued Lady Constance and returned with her to Castle
Randall, there is little more to tell. They arrived safely, and that
ladies in distress are always gracious toward their protectors is well
known.
Gil Couteau one day became master of Castle Randall, and a very worthy
knight in his own right, but his greatest feat, so he sometimes said,
was a certain battle with the devil.
Transcriber’s note:
This etext was transcribed from Weird Tales, October 1927 (Vol. 10,
No. 4.).
Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor
inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
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