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trial?”
    “If Aethelred is guilty of a crime, then I am equally guilty for condoning it this long,” Alfred said. “And a public trial of such a . . . bizarre nature would only spread superstition and fear throughout the kingdom.”
    There was a long pause before anyone spoke again. This time it was Chiswick, another of Alfred’s war counselors. His special responsibility was to manage the army’s apparatus of spies andsubterfuge, and he could often be relied upon to suggest unconventional solutions to difficult problems.
    “Perhaps, then . . . an accident?”
    Alfred and the others looked at him.
    “It is well-known from here to Canterbury that the archbishop was engaged in dangerous work, though not the exact nature of it,” Chiswick went on. “Perhaps he died in faithful service to his church and his King. Aethelred is largely unloved. I doubt many would pry into the truth of things.”
    All now looked to Alfred, who found himself disquieted by the notion. “I love the man least of all, but to simply execute him . . .”
    Chiswick leaned forward. “It seems to me your options are few, Your Majesty. He cannot continue as archbishop, and a trial, as you rightly say, would be a catastrophe. And he certainly cannot be set free; this dark knowledge he possesses makes him far too dangerous.”
    A cold shiver ran down Alfred’s backbone.
Yes, it does, doesn’t it? How could I have been so stupid?
He turned to the guard captain standing nearby with a sudden urgency. “Triple the guard on the tower! And I want the archbishop gagged and his hands bound! Do it now!”

    Four guards raced up the tower steps. One of them carried a length of strong rope and a cloth for a gag. They did not understand their orders, but there was no question of their captain’s urgency. They took the steps three at a time.
    They arrived at the top of the stairs to find the cell door at the end of the short hallway wide open and hanging half off its hinges as if it had been beaten down with bare hands, its heavy oak beams splintered and smeared with blood. But no ten men could have broken down that door. Stranger still, it looked as though it had been broken into from the outside.
    They approached gingerly, swords drawn, calling out the names of Barrick and Harding to no response. The torch that lit the hallway had been broken free of its iron housing and lay on the floor, flickering. The frontmost guard picked it up and held it out to shine inside the darkened cell.
    Something warm and wet encircled his arm. He dropped the torch in shock—and was pulled suddenly forward, disappearing into the darkness of the cell. And then came the screaming, while the man’s helpless thrashing was cast in shadow on the cell walls by the light of the fallen torch.
    The screaming ended almost as quickly as it had begun; the shadows went still. For a moment, silence. The three guards outside the cell now had their swords drawn, yet dared not venture farther, their hearts pounding in their chests. And then they jumped back in alarm as their fellow guardsman fell forward out of the darkness and collapsed, blood spilling from a gash across his neck so deep that his head hung to one side, askew.
    Barrick emerged from the darkness behind him. Or what had once been Barrick. Now he—it—was some kind of wolf-like monstrosity, its sinewy body covered in gray, matted fur. It walked on its hind legs with four more limbs to spare—long muscular arms with great razor-clawed hands.
    What was once Harding slithered out from behind the wolf-thing and up the wall. Some kind of giant two-headed lizard, its leathery skin was covered with sharp, bristling spines, and a clubbed tail swished lazily back and forth as it crept toward the three guardsmen.
    The closest of them panicked and foolishly lunged at it with his sword. The lizard easily dodged the blow, then responded by spitting a gob of sputum that burned like acid through the man’s breastplate. The guard