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Lunging at Mulvaney, I thrust my sword at his chest, aiming for his heart. At the last second, he steps back and deflects my thrust with the flat of his rusted blade. I am caught off balance and stumble forwards, trying to turn my slip into a tackle. Mulvaney sidesteps, and I fall crashing to the wet ground, my sword sliding away from me, out of reach. Mulvaney points his sword, like he did that night, at my head and speaks.

'Again.'

Training was not going well. Mulvaney had lent me a 'spare' sword, about which he would not answer any questions, and would box my ears when I got too inquisitive. I could only hold it up with difficulty, and when I had managed to hoist it up to waist height, there were a whole host of other problems to be dealt with. First, I found the sword unwieldy, even though I was told it was one of the lightest, and when we sparred, I sometimes swung it around in a manner that was extremely dangerous to both Mulvaney and myself. Since our blades were not guarded, and we had no training swords, we had to practice with extreme caution, lest we injure one another, though I am sure if I had managed to injure him it would have been more by accident than by design. For such a big man, he was amazingly quick on his feet even when wielding his broadsword, and never looked in difficulty against me even for a moment. I could put up as much of a fight as I wanted, but if he got bored, or saw me getting tired, I would be on the flat of my back in an instant.

Another problem was that of strength. I had managed to build up some decent muscle during my training, but I was considerably dwarfed by that of Mulvaney, who had to hold back considerably, on account of the fact that he was strong enough to knock the sword out of my hand with one address. There were some times where I wondered if I was ever going to become competent at wielding a sword, though I didn't share these concerns with Mulvaney, whom I knew would be annoyed at my pessimism, and disappointed that the 'spare' sword had been a waste of time. For these reasons, I persevered as best I could, though my patience was sorely tested by the endless cycle of start, attack, fail, and face plant.

Despite these concerns, it was obvious that slowly but surely I was improving, though both Mulvaney and I knew that my progress was frustratingly slow. After about a month of daily practice, I had learnt how to predict the movements of my opponent to the extent that I could spot a lunge, and put up a decent defense, though actually winning a fight was still far beyond me. My actual sword work was still pretty woeful: though I could now lift the sword without too much difficulty, I was constantly letting the tip down, or slackening my guard, or doing something else that I was unconscious of, but was apparently an unpardonable sin in the art of swordplay.

My training progressed in this fashion for several more weeks, and sometimes I had to work hard to keep my impatience from boiling over. I hated my sword, and became convinced that all my failures were down to it, and were no fault of mine. In retrospect, I wasn't really sure that my wish for a sword that was as sharp as a razor, hard as a diamond, and light as a feather was altogether realistic. Despite this, I was never daunted in my belief that such a sword really did exist, and also that if I wielded that mighty blade, my skill would have been somehow improved; how exactly, I again don't know.

We had just finished one of our evening sessions and I had settled down to sleep. Mulvaney had stayed awake by the fire to keep watch, and we had agreed to change places at 2 o'clock in the morning. The last thing I saw before I drifted off to sleep was Mulvaney, stalwartly sitting by the fire, watching over me.

I was woken by a hard slap across the face. Coughing, I looked up to see Mulvaney being restrained by three armed men, and a fourth armed man with a polished silver helmet and a badge on his collar leaning over me, a horrible grin on his face.

'Who's the kid, Adam?' He said, leering at me.

Mulvaney didn't speak, but struggled harder than ever, causing one of the men to take a truncheon from a holster at his waist, and strike Mulvaney in the gut with a dull thump. I felt the blow too, though it was my heart that was in pain. Mulvaney doubled over, each of his arms still restrained by an officer. He attempted to speak, but coughed violently as soon as he opened his mouth. Unable to speak, he looked straight at me, wide-eyed and horrified. The man who had struck me, who I presumed to be the leader, looked amused at Mulvaney's plight. He moved to Mulvaney's side, a cruel smile etched on his snake-like features. To my shame, I was too terrified to move a muscle.

'I'm sorry, Adam.' He said, looking as far from sorry as it was possible to be. 'Did you want to say something? Remember, anything you say may be used against you, so choose your words carefully, traitor.'

Mulvaney looked up, and with a gargantuan effort, spoke, not taking his eyes from the ground, refusing to look at the soldier.

'Let... him... go... Max' he breathed. 'Max' laughed.

'You soppy old sod! You're a joke. Anyway, rules are rules. You're a traitor, and him'- here he jerked he thumb at me-'being with you makes him an accessory. When you get found guilty, you'll hang, the pair of you.'

Mulvaney, the rock around which I had built my life, had no fight left in him. He hung his head, beaten and broken, and started to weep.

I couldn't move or speak; I was too shocked at the dreadful spectacle in front of me. I felt that it really was all over. If Mulvaney, the strongest and greatest man I knew, had given up, then maybe this really was it. I could see no way out, no possible escape route. Was my new life really going to end here, alongside the man who had saved me?

Max made his way over to me, still smiling.

'All right kid, you're coming with me. Don't try to struggle, or I may have to use force, which I really wouldn't want to do. The paperwork you have to fill out afterwards is just atrocious.'

He grabbed my arm and gave it such a wrench as he pulled me upright that I thought my arm had been yanked right out of its socket. The other soldiers pulled Mulvaney upwards. Even in a standing position, Mulvaney kept his eyes down. He had stopped crying, and I had a horrible feeling that he had done so for my sake. He was now completely silent, as he stared down at the ground, and I felt that I had preferred him when he was crying, as then he had given some indication of being alive and as well as someone could be in his condition. It was selfish, but I also wanted to hear him cry to hear his voice, reassuring to me even in the tone of despair he had adopted.

We had barely gone three steps when I heard a howl. It was faint and far off, but everyone stopped dead, as though we had reached an invisible wall. Another howl sounded, closer and on the other side of the wall that surrounded the garden. It was a terrifying noise: a horrible, bloodthirsty shriek, which seemed to go on for half a minute, and made every individual hair on the back of my neck stand up. For a moment, we stood there, all frozen, all terrified, as we heard many other howls spring up, some near to us, some far away, all around us and all getting closer.

Suddenly Max sprang back to life with a shout.

'Dump them and run! They're dead anyway!'

He and his three fellows pushed us aside and pelted for the garden gate, fumbling with their weapons as they ran. I watched in horror as they sped through the gate and out into the night, running as though their very lives depended on it, which they did. We were now alone, Mulvaney and I, as the howling got closer and closer. I glanced at him; his skin was pure-white under his red hair, and he was still looking down and seemed like a wide-eyed corpse that had been made to stand in the same rusted armor that it had worn all through its life. I never felt as helpless as I did then. We had been spared hanging to be killed and eaten by these terrifying beasts that had for so long haunted my nightmares, and now were real and closing in fast. The fire crackled and sputtered, the only light in the garden apart from the baleful moon, which stared down at us, safe in the sky.

Something clattered at my feet. I looked down and saw my sword lying across my shoes. I picked it up, wondering how much use it could possibly be against the onslaught of wolves that were approaching fast, hell-bent on killing us. I looked up and saw Mulvaney, still as he had been before, eyes wide and trembling, but he had his sword in his hand, and was in a combat stance. I reached down and took the hilt, an ominous feeling weighing heavy on my shoulders, and straightened up. I could now hear their footpads striking the ground, heavy and quick, getting closer. I looked at Mulvaney, and we both spoke, uttering precisely the same words.

'Well, this is it.'

Almost as soon as we had spoken, a huge dark shape sprang over the wall and sped at Mulvaney, claws outstretched, aiming to kill. He dodged underneath the swipe, and struck upwards with the sword as he did so, slicing off the beast's arm. It howled in pain, but didn't have to suffer for long as Mulvaney straightened up behind it, and plunged his sword into its back. It trembled for a moment then went still. Mulvaney wrenched his sword out of the body, which collapsed to the ground, and turned to face me. He was no longer staring and trembling, but looked grim and ready to kill, just as he had done on that night. I nodded at him, trembling slightly, and turned to face the oncoming footsteps, which I could hear fast approaching. A werewolf sprang over the wall, and landed about two meters from where I stood, its jaws gaping and wet with saliva, eager to rip me apart and devour me. It leapt forwards and I sidestepped, leant agility by my fear, and swung my sword blindly at it as it passed. By chance, my sword struck its neck, and its head was cleaved off. Its body dropped to the ground, the open neck wound spraying black blood everywhere. Three more shapes appeared close to Mulvaney. He quickly stabbed one through the heart, then turned to face the other two. But before he could attack, three more shapes appeared over the wall and made straight for him, so that I saw his grim face, spattered with black blood, obscured from view amidst a sea of black fur. I didn't know what had become of him, until I heard his voice cry out from amongst the blackness:

'ASHE! RUN!'

I jolted as though I had received an electric shock and ran, straight up the garden and up to the door of the house. I didn't know whether or not I had been spotted, but as I turned the rusted door handle, I heard a terrible howl, and guessed the worst. I darted inside, and slammed the door to, fumbling with the lock in the blackness. By pure good fortune, I managed to lock the door, and had got about five steps away from the back door when it was almost smashed off its hinges by a heavy body smashing against it. Panicked, I ran to where I could see a window opening up onto the cobbled street beyond, and desperately tried to unlock the door to escape. But as soon as the lock sprang open on my door, the back door was rent apart, and one of the huge shapes sprang into the house. All I could see in the darkness of the house were its red eyes, but I could tell that it was about seven feet tall, and getting seemingly bigger all the time as it bore down on me. The old wooden floorboards creaked ominously under every step that the dreadful beast took, and the noise got louder and louder as it got closer and closer. I tried the door, but it was one of those that swing inwards instead of outwards, and it would not budge, since I had my back pressed against it. Looking closer at the oncoming werewolf I noticed that its red eyes had no pupils, and I could see by the light of the street lamps outside that its black fur and its muzzle were splattered with blood, though I didn't know whose. I could vaguely feel that I was still carrying the sword, though I might have been carrying a breadstick for all the difference it would have made. The werewolf obviously thought so too, and gave a sort of chuckle as it advanced towards me. Without warning, it pounced, and as I flung out an arm to try to defend myself, I felt its jaws close around my arm. I screamed as I felt my bone splinter under its powerful jaws, and as I writhed in pain, I dropped my sword, and pushed my free left hand against the werewolf's head, trying to prise it off me. As I struggled, I felt an odd sensation in my hand, like a buzzing or a prickling sensation in my palm. On a desperate impulse, I forced my left had right between the eyes of the werewolf, and splayed my fingers wide, so that my palm was exposed.

A ball of flame erupted from my palm and hit the werewolf full in the face. It let go of my arm, and flailed around, howling in agony this time, and clutching at its burning fur, trying desperately to put out the fire. Still howling, it collapsed on the floor, and its burning fur touched the ancient wooden floorboards, which set alight. The fire spread along the floor and up the old wooden beams, which were dry and lit up almost instantly. I was suddenly surrounded by fire on all sides, closing in and crackling as it devoured the insides of the house. I turned, and again fumbled with the lock, only able to use one hand now. By the fire's light I saw the bolt and was able to pull it back with one hand. I wrenched open the door and ran out into the cool, silent night, the heat of the fire licking my back as I sped out of the door.

I don't know how far I ran, or for how long. I seemed to run for hours, desperate to put as much distance between myself, and the horrors behind me. Eventually, I reached the river, by which just a few days ago I had peacefully sat. Knowing I needed to hide, I ran along the riverside until I reached a bridge. I crept underneath, and curled up, sobbing, cradling my arm until, exhausted, I fell asleep, back into the realm of nightmares