Thirteen wore his dour sour coat over blued mail, coif war hat over his black cowl. Yet for the weight of the mail, which Peter could only imagine as it had ever been on that broad, elongated back, the Knight moved lightly, feet close together, knees bent, left hand circling in a half-extended attitude, gauntlet open, ax raise high over head.

The Wendigo King crouched in an awful coil of of menace, slathering, charging to half circle, charging to leap back, charging and feinting the leap, stopping even to tear up icy snow crust, to piss, hiss, clack his jaws. The advantage in footing was held by this thousand pound beast, whose hind hooves clove through to the earth beneath, of a size that though goatish in look, were more the haunches of a bison.

Thirteen, Peter sensed, was in some danger of slipping.

Five feinted charges the beast king tried, never gaining the flinch—then onward he came, goat hooves tearing down to the turf behind him in a torrent of reeking hair and slathering jaws. This excited Peter, the wonder of it, a thing up from hell, shoulders six feet across, lowered head six feet level to take the man in his chest with those tusks. The thing did not run on all fours like its mates, who clacked off to the southwest, but came on with arms extended to engulf the man, to permit no side stepping. To step back was certain death.

Thirteen stood his ground, ax held high—and jumped, first the right knee lifted high as if to set some thing on a high place, by springing off the rear foot.

The man went up, so that his head and shoulders were five feet above the beast, his knee crashing into the hooked left arm inside the elbow, those razor claws raking the mail skirt about his hip. The beastly head, feeling that the arm had ensnared its prey, turned with a crimson glower of the eyes to bite, gore and rend. In the same instant the great neck separated under the downward chop of the felling ax, dropping that head to the snow.

Though the snow held the head, which eyes did roll and slide from its low seat to look above to the struggle, that struggle was continued by the headless body.

The ax had been swept clear to fall at Peter’s feet.

Thirteen grunted as the wind was driven from his lungs—but clinched; hooking his left arm over that mighty right arm which sought to tear off his face, hooking too the left arm, its claws caught in his mail.

The right claw tore at the knight’s back, the left at his hip, the sound of sourcoat tearing and the mail links popping, sending a shiver into Peter. He thought to intervene—squashed that dastard thought, and prayed aloud against the hoots and howls of the jeering wendigo gallery, “Olyphant of our hearts, stand!”

In that driving embrace the knight was bulled over, failing to stand. Yet the headless monster had such force that it rolled clean over the knight, who got to his feet, between the beast and its head; the beast turning this way and that in confusion, somehow blood not gouting from its neck stump, the head rolling its eyes in consternation.

Thirteen, stalked over to the great head, about the size of a grizzly head, and tore out the eyes with his scooping thumbs. The head howled in agony, enough air left in it to power a last gasp. Picking up the head, tucking it under his arm, he walked up to the beast, held the head before the body, the arms of which clawed the air for its head as the knight played the juggler, then cried, “My Master, crack the shot,” tossing the head high in the air, then heal-tripping the beast body.

Peter unslung his rifle, raised the muzzle, and shattered that falling head with a shot that caused the wendigo to moan all aloud like mighty toddlers of hell bereft of some vile hope, and the big beastly body to shiver and run slack, its neck running blood into the snow.

Father began to order the culverns about, with a “Men,” but was halted by Peter’s raised hand, his son’s voice booming, “Not on my honor.”

The fiends then rose from their haunches, looking across to him in perplexity, and saluted, by placing snouts to claws, and pining, “Thank you, Master. We were men once.”

They then shambled off up the mountain, weeping like women at a wake, if women had voices of guttural aspect that made men’s hearts quake.

The men cheered a garbled mixture of epitaphs, blessings, “we got you fiends,” and “freedmen equal ten,” and such.

Peter had forgotten Tory Ball behind him, who said, “Captain Peter, a captain you must be, mine for a certain.”

Peter turned as Thirteen stoically went about the business of cleaning and belting the ax and gathering the head and dragging the body to the two wendigo who skulked dejectedly on the other side of the creek.

“I will be amazed no more, I think, Captain,” said Tory Ball, as he came to stand next to him and watch the giant knight, looking so bodily slight, skidding the great body behind him across the ice with two hands under the armpits, the blind, ruin of the head placed there on the broad chest with some care, over to the two fiends out of a Grendel family wake, waiting sheepishly.

Thirteen exposed himself to attack, yet brought the body down to the creek, stepped back, took to one knee, an absurd chance, had some soft brief words over the corpse, rose, and saluted the two monsters, who placed their snouts in their paws, in their attitude of obedience. Thirteen stood and watched, ax in belt, not at all ready, as the two things, one the head and one the body, hooted piteously, and bore their king up the north face to their sulking fellows.

The heavy tramp of Father striding up to him had Peter wondering if his first cuffing was in ready store. He turned, to see the hero of his heart smiling, “A man can rest easy with such a son as you. Just you recall, that ordering me about inside the hall before women and children, will call for fisticuffs.”

“Father,” he grinned, “I meant no disrespect.”

“None received. Now, let us entertain Tory Ball and find out what has sent him up in such a wicked rush to Grim Hall, while your weird knight directs the raising of the west wall. Tonight we restin’ forted right.”