The thoroughfare was silvery dark in the moonlight; lit at regular intervals by the high lamps of the city through which my prey crept, a creaking-clicking mix of chrome and rust; clockwork wolf.

It snarled when it noticed me, which took longer than I’d expected – the fact that I’d sat my mount unmoving, watching it, memorizing its movements – that seemed to confuse it for a time.

But no longer. It knew me for what I was, just as I knew it (and myself, finally, thanks to the witching woman, my personal Morgan the Fey). Two sides of the coin. Nightmare and Dream catcher. Hunter and hunted. Prey and Defender of the Weak. Pray and the Fender of the Week. Something.

It started toward me, its body sagging into a strange, rattling lope. I watched it come for a moment, then gave Velo a nudge and began my charge.

It had taken days -- weeks, actually, of careful work and diligent questioning of my subjects, but truth will out, and I had finally understood the whole of the threat.

Demons walked the streets of my fair, foul city. Fairly foul city. Something. Matchstick men, charging across Wollman Rink at succubi in leg warmers, burned alive by the smoldering glances of their foe.

That, I didn't worry about. Both factions would fade, given a little time. Fame was fleeting, and the pencil people inevitably broke.

The wolves, though; the wolves were a problem. A danger.

"Jerome..."

"Address me correctly, or I'll have none of your talk."

Matthew watched me, saying nothing, as I saddled my mount.

"Well?"

Matthew sighed, rubbing at his cheek. "Your Majesty."

"Yes."

"This is cr -- it's not safe. You're going to --" I glanced over my shoulder at him, still cinching up a belt, and he changed his tack. "You're... too important to risk... sire. There has to be someone else who --"

"There is no one else, Matthew." I patted the neck of Velo, murmuring encouragements before swinging into the saddle. "The rest are dead, or gone, and these are my people, my subjects."

"They don't know that," Matthew muttered, thinking I wouldn't hear. He caught my expression out of the corner of his eye and had the good grace to look ashamed.

"Though they have forgotten me?," I admonished from my perch. "That does not mean I forget them."

He nodded, abashed. What else could he do?

I turned forward in the saddle again, reviewing my preparations. No gleaming armor for this battle -- this was a magical duel, and I'd girded myself as the witching woman had instructed. Feathers and glass beads dangled from the borders of my tabard. The horse-head sigil the witch had given me hung round my neck on a cord.

I was fully attired for this battle, as was my mount. Above and behind me, my banner flew.

"Give me the shield."

"Jerome."

I locked my gaze on his and my old friend relented, as he always did. As was proper. "The clockwork wolves await, Matthew."

"I know, Majesty." Matthew handed over the shield, then my weapons, one by one. His face was a unhappy mask. "I know."

The first was easily taken; its tarnished, sterling eyes watched the weave of my weapon, never guessing at the real threat as it eyed my dancing distraction. We closed on each other, and the beast sprang. I took the weight of the thing across the wide expanse of the Shield – nothing of note to mortals such as myself and my subjects, but to this nightmare creature, the witch’s second gift was death – the wolf vanished (or was pulled within) the moment it touched the Shield, which seemed now ever so slightly heavier.

I pulled back on the reins of my mount with a surprised laugh. Until that moment, I hadn’t fully believed the witching woman’s claim, but I did now, and the joy I felt – the realization I could do something – was a welcome relief after all the years of –

I shook my head, banishing the thought, and leaned over the neck of sturdy Velo, stroking the horse-head pendant. "Let’s go hunting, old friend."

The wolves fell by the dozens, each defeated by their own greedy desire to get at my flesh or that of Velo; rush and snap, they encountered the shield -- which I wielded like a barrier and bludgeon all at once -- and were gone. My exhilaration countered the growing weight of the talisman. My hunt took me spiraling toward the heart of the Pack. The Den. None of its outlying guardians could stand against me, and with each victory, my people were that much safer.

It was a marvelous night. Marvelous Knight. Marvel us, Knight. Something.

In the final fight, the Pack came on me in droves, from many directions, and only then did I know some fear of failure as I rode upon the greensward. I thought the fight itself would never end, or that my supply of foes would never cease, which amounted to the same thing. Some I had to wound with my weapons before I could capture them within the Shield. To finish the final two, I actually threw myself from Velo’s saddle and bore the shield and my body down upon them, crushing them into the grass and oblivion.

Then it was over. I rolled to my back, sat up, and levered myself to my feet with my sword and a grip on Velo’s stirrup.

A growl greeted me; huge, rumbling through the ground and up my shaking legs.

The leader; twice the size of my mount, bristling antennae mane and stainless steel teeth, he crouched on the shore of the glass-smooth, oil-black river that bordered our field of battle.

My legs were almost too tired to hold me as I pushed myself back into Velo’s saddle; my arm could only grip the Shield, not lift it.

It was too much. I was too old.

Knowing that, I pushed Velo forward and began my charge.

The alpha male was wilier than its lesser kin, and that cost me Velo. He shot across our bath and my mount twisted, trying to keep me facing him, caught a stone, and went over, dumping me to the grass and atop the Shield. My weapon went flying.

The beast, seeing my true weapon pinned beneath my body, recognized its chance and leapt. Numbing pain tore down the left side of my back, but if he expected a scream of pain, I hope he was disappointed getting nothing but the deep groan I gave him as light faded from my eyes, my free hand scrabbling for some hold, some weapon...

It found the carved horse head hanging round my neck.

Memories flew back to me; lit my darkness from within – noble deeds done to save the damsel, save the King, save the Queen, save the Princess...

Save my princess. My baby girl.

... though she has forgotten me.

I pushed myself onto my back, then. In the end, that was all it took. The nightmare clockwork lunged back in to tear apart my weakened left side (already a mass of dark numbness, wreathed in pain) and he grazed my Shield, and was gone.

The pain stayed on for a short while. Then it too was gone.

As was I.

What you find, when you find me, is no knightly king, ravaged by the claws and teeth of clockwork wolves, covered by his own shield, lying next to his loyal mount.

You find an old man, dressed in the ragtag clothing of the homeless. His three-wheeled bicycle is tipped on its side nearby – a casualty of its owner's collapse – heart attack, very likely. He is gripping a very large dream catcher in his left hand – the size of a taxi tire – old and battered and discarded, but very heavy. His right hand clutches an old wooden chess knight, dangling from his neck by a leather cord.

That is what you will find, because you have not the wit to see what the witching woman showed me, but that is all right.

I saved you.

I saved her, though she has forgotten me.

That is enough.

-- Doyce Testerman

• Flip
• The Snows Of The Street
• My Princess
• Though They Have Forgotten Me?

The Stories