After deflecting a series of blows, Samson waited for a suitable moment and launched a counter-attack. A punch on the nose made the werewolf howl, a kick in the knee made it stagger and then a blow to the chest sent it flying into the trunk of the pine tree. There was a dull thud, but its skull remained intact. The monster roared and leaped, lowering its head like a charging bull, hoping to knock the giant over with its momentum. The attempt failed. Samson didn’t budge with the impact, but wound his arms around the werewolf. They stood like Theseus and the Minotaur, grunting, shoving each other and digging up the ground with their feet. Samson finally prevailed. He shoved the monster back and punched it, using his fist like a battering ram. There was a dull thud as its head met the trunk of the same pine tree. This time, Samson didn’t give the monster the chance to recover and attack. He leaped forward, aiming several powerful, accurate blows after which the werewolf found itself on all fours with Samson standing behind it. The creature’s rump, hairless and red, was the perfect target, impossible to miss, and Samson was wearing heavy boots. He kicked, and the werewolf squealed and flew through the air, smashing headfirst into the trunk of the hapless pine tree. Samson allowed it to get up just enough for it to offer its rump as a target again. He kicked it even harder this time. The werewolf tumbled down the slope, splashed into the river, waded out like a stag, squelched its way through the bog, crashed through the alders and fled into the forest. It howled once, from far away. Rather woefully, Reynevan thought.

Scharley stood up. He was pale. His hands were shaking and his calves trembling, but he quickly regained control of himself. He just swore softly, rubbing and massaging the back of his neck.

Samson approached him.

“Still in one piece?” he asked.

“The whoreson took me by surprise,” the penitent said, making excuses. “It came up from behind… Bruised my ribs a bit… But I would have handled it if not for those trousers…”

His companions’ knowing looks made him think again.

“I was on my last legs,” he admitted. “Almost broke my neck… Thanks for your help, friend. You saved me. To be honest, I could easily have lost my life—”

“Never mind your life—your arse was in greater danger,” interrupted Samson. “That lycanthrope is well known around here. As a human being, it had perverted tendencies, which remained with it in wolfish form. Now it lies in wait for someone to drop their trousers and expose their privates. The wretch usually seizes its victim from behind, holds him fast… And then… You understand.”

Scharley clearly understood, because he visibly shuddered. And then he smiled and held out his right hand to the giant.