As people danced and played, sang and bartered all around Joan could not help but think how easier it had been to mingle with humans as a dog.
She still stressed about the silent spread but this thought weighed heavier. If she was to run away, she considered, to try again somewhere else, would it be as a farm dog? Guarding sheeps from foxes and thieves and hoping the sheperd would slip words of love.
To kill this waste and start over had been working her all day and night.
At noon they truly worked the fires, loaded them with meat and made the black smoke billow above to contest the shy sun. It was a feast for the peasants they would not know for another year.
The wind carried the smoke and scents downstream, rolling heavy along with the screams of the crowd.
But it was closer to the forest that the curse finally got manifest.
She felt it, rose her head and waited. It was far enough, beyond the village, somewhere in the fields and so away from everyone. Nor was her blood moving so far and so Joan felt relieved.
That man was hiding in a hole and would not move from there.
She slipped back among the carts, past a pen that panicked at her presence and quickly gone the silver dog returned to the noble's horses that remained attached at the tree, grazing what little grass remained at the roots.
All she caught was Ophelie still dancing her heart away among the youth, amidst farmers and craftsmen from other villages.
Sir Corentin had left her in others' hands wholly and full.
But for how infuriating it was, she could see that mistress laugh and smile as men took her arm and turned around, making her kirtle fly. While abandoned she didn't look miserable and Joan wondered if it was just human resignation.
Their group broke when others came bringing roasted food with them and they all started buying into it along with the beer and milk.
Right then, Joan felt the curse move.
That man had left his hideout and, while slow, was approaching. She took another few seconds to make sure of it.
He had been too far for noise nor smell to attract him, but after two days of resistance she could easily guess him rabid. A few minutes and he would reach the village.
She darted through the crowd without a second thought.
And the moment she reached the field's edge where couples strayed to find a quiet place, a sister saw her and shrieked.
Joan had paid her no attention, she was gone already but could hear behind her the ruckus as people pressed around the saintess' blessed who kept screaming, her finger pointing in that loose direction where a monster had vanished.
She would reach the curse before he would the village.
Now it was those on the muddy road watching that dog pass like an arrow who would whistle or pause. There could be more upstream, she thought.
The fields were not so desert.
At the village remained the sick, the stragglers and a few stuck on chores. She went right through the quiet streets, so fast that people looking through their door could not even see it.
But past the watermill the fields opened, cut by treelines and orchards, by low walls and small ridges. That man was still closing the distance, so slowly that if not for her blood she would have thought he hadn't turned.
When she approached his location the first thing she saw was two horsemen, men-at-arms from the castle wearing tabards, spear and shield, who had stopped to look at the approaching beast.
Then was the cursed man, turned into a monster fully, who had stopped limping to run toward those warriors.
In a moment she measured the distance and realized she would be too late to stop him.
Those guards were dead.
The werewolf was charging them, almost on all four, eyes in a craze and mouth drooling. She was charging as well from the opposite side, still too far. Magic! She thought, magic would stop it and still she held back.
Three would die, that was all, she would just pay for her hubris and carelessness.
The guards in turn had turned their spears to the approaching beast, pushed their horses and readied their strike. And seconds before they would meet the beast was struck, stumbled before them and thrashed on the ground.
A bolt in the back.
An iron bolt had pierced the thick hide, hit the heart and remained stuck, the curse unable to heal that wound, only making it churn and weakening him.
Joan had missed that hunter, so quiet had he been hidden under his mantle behind a couple trees.
Grisval!
He had already dropped his crossbow to run toward the downed beast, drawing an iron sword in one hand and in the other a silver dagger with red ribbons at the guard.
His prey had grasped the bolt with one hand to try and pull it out, which only cut deeper in his heart. He would take it out eventually but the hunter gave him no time, reached him and the sword hardly but grazed his shoulder.
Yet his fur caught fire and skin under, scorched suddenly, opened in a horrible wound.
With this the werewolf could not react and Grisval turned that blade on his neck.
She slammed into him like an ox, sent him flying a meter or two until he hit the ground. His body had cracked at that charge powerful enough to break bones.
And the men-at-arms faced that second foe, not a dog but a beast proper, fur of silver and wild; they hesitated but barely before striking her with their spears.
Joan let one graze her harmlessly, seized the pole and pulled it to her, disarming that guard. She spinned that weapon around, turned the wooden end against her assailant and lunged, hitting him at the head.
The iron helmet took it hard; the guard wavered. Yet even with blood spilling on his face he remained standing, drew his axe and readied again.
The other charged as well, yet his mount took fear and pushed back.
"Stay back!"
It was Grisval to the men-at-arms. The hunter had thrown a gourd from which he had drinked and was getting back up as if unharmed.
"You can't fight that monster!" He warned them. "Go back and warn the saintess!"
He meant the church.
And suddenly Joan realized how mere iron could have burned a werewolf. So humans could bless their weapons. They too knew spells, whether they called it magic or not.
But she turned to the hunter fully and the guards, after a moment, turned around to leave. "Be safe, hunter!" One yelled. They pushed their steeds into a gallop. Only with the distance and safety would those men finally consider what unbelievable things they had witnessed.
Joan didn't care.
She and Grisval were facing each other, her with a spear and him with his blades. He seemed so puny and yet she couldn't help but feel thrilled, so excited at the idea of facing him. It was exhilarating!
Intoxicating, even, to have those murderous eyes fixed on her.