The fields outside the city stretched before him. Waving green grass, ringed by the fence far in the distance that blocked the trees that hid the wild creatures, and the wolves. And in the center of the enormous field, Quickfang knew, were the sheep pens.

“Welcome to your first day,” the guardian next to him said. He towered over Quickfang.

Of course, most other dogs towered over Quickfang, even the curly-coated priests who had finally approved him for the position. He was short, on four or two, but despite his short legs, he knew deep down he was destined to be a guardian. The gods in their wisdom had willed it.

And starting today, he would be.

The wind rustled the grass, a fresh scent he appreciated—there were few patches of grass that grew within the village, the streets tamped down to dirt from the passing of so many paws. Along with it came the mossy scent of the woods, birch and oak and alder and lichen and then beneath it all, a scent that stirred something in Quickfang. A scent like a magnet, carrying natural joy with it, like the joy he felt when watching the beauty of the sunset on the lake that marked the boundary on the other side of the village. A scent he had never known before, but one that brought him happiness. The ecstasy of purpose, the priests called it. The joy of doing the job one was meant for, the job the gods willed.

With a bark of glee, Quickfang ran toward the scent of sheep.

“Hang on!” the deep bark of the trainer guardian slowed him, and the black and brown dog caught up easily. “There’s no need to race at them just yet. You want the sheep to respect you, remember? Don’t go gallivanting like a pup.”

Quickfang moved his gaze to the side and tilted his muzzle up. Apology. “I understand, Fleet.” The scent came again, the wind strong over the open grasses in ways it wasn’t through the wood and stone structures of the village. But he ignored the temptation this time. “Please, show me.”

A flick of an ear. Acceptance. Fleet adjusted the shoulder strap of the green tunic he wore, a match to Quickfang’s. The tunic of a guardian, helping them blend into the grasses that surrounded them. “Now come. There are many things to show you, and things must be done in order. Before you meet the sheep, you must learn how to patrol the perimeter.”

“Of course.”

From a distance, the fencing was hard to see. The scent of it was clear, though—old wood, hardened with age, formed together with sap and bound with twine. Just as fortified as the fencing around the village, but even higher. Quickfang had to crane his neck to see the top as they got close. Not even the long-boned dogs of the village who ran down forest deer for meat every day could leap this, surely.

Fleet sniffed the air, and shook his head. “Clean here,” he said. “But come. You should know what wolf scent is like.”

Quickfang’s heart sped up as they began trotting alongside the fence. He had heard much of wolves. But he had never smelled one before. As a pup, they were the stories that kept one inside the walls of the village. As he got older, and his dream of becoming a guardian grew, he knew he would face them. But his dream always revolved around the sheep, keeping them organized, keeping them…it was hard to put into words. Keeping them together.

But part of that meant keeping them safe. And that meant safe from wolves.

More scents met his nose as they ranged around the perimeter, trotting at a slow, methodical pace. Whiffs of the plants and trees outside, old scents from other guardians who patrolled, and the ever-present scent of fresh grass. The fence jolted higher as they approached what Quickfang knew was the gate—huge, heavy doors that would swing open via a complicated system of pulleys and ropes, something only the smarter dogs understood. The hunters would leave through the gate every day, bringing back meat for the village.

He could smell it now. The rich pong of deer, and a bit of the acridity of rabbit. Yesterday’s hunting had been somewhat slim. And then—

His nostrils flared, and he stopped just before passing the gate. That scent. An old scent, two days at least. Like dog, but different, tinged with the wild scent of a rainy day and the promise of lightning. His hackles raised.

He had never smelled it before, but he knew it. Wolf.

“Calm down, Quickfang,” Fleet said, turning to face him. “They’re long gone. But I’m pleased to see you have a good nose.”

The tension drained in the face of praise, and his short tail wagged slowly. He exhaled, as if shoving away the scent. “Why were they close enough to scent in the first place?”

“Why else? They want to steal our kills. And our sheep.”

Quickfang couldn’t stifle the growl. “They can’t. The sheep are ours.” Put under dog’s protection by the gods themselves.

“Of course. And it is good you think that way. You are a fitting guardian already.” Fleet’s tongue lolled, and Quickfang’s tail wagged faster in response. “Remember this scent. Wolves are wild and filthy things, but they are smart. At your size, if you meet one or detect a fresh scent, it is best to alert a larger guardian or a hunter.”

A quick raise of his upper lip. Frustration at his short legs, that he couldn’t fight himself. But it hadn’t stopped him from becoming a guardian. “I will do that. I will protect the sheep, as well.” As long as they stayed together, a wolf couldn’t pick them off. He would make sure of that.

“Good. Of course, the enemy is not your only duty.” Quickfang’s tail wagged faster. “Now, recall. Guardians and the gate.”

His tail slowed. Simple repetition, to show he knew all aspects of the job. “We check the gate every morning and evening, and take report from the one in charge of it.” He craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the gatekeeper. The nimble cats who managed it were hard to see when they wanted to be. He sniffed, but he couldn’t detect cat-scent either. The wind must be carrying the scent in another direction.

Fleet’s nostrils flared, his head dipped low and forward just slightly. And?

“We escort hunters to and from the gate in the morning and evening.”

“And why do we escort them, even if they are always larger and fiercer?”

He wondered if Fleet would say always if Quickfang weren’t so small. “Because our primary duty is to the sheep, and that means preventing other dogs from causing them fear.” Sheep were fragile, after all.

Fleet flicked an ear once more, and Quickfang’s tail wagged. “Good. Bandfur told me you were smart. Glad to see he was correct.”

Quickfang resisted the urge to puff out his chest with pride. Bandfur was the most skilled guardian in the village. Smart and talented, he made all the plans surrounding the field and its defenses. He had been the one to test Quickfang’s running and scent skills, and who had recommended him to the priests for the position of Guardian.

“Later, I will show you the workings of the gate,” Fleet continued. “But now I imagine it is about time you meet your fellow guardians, as well as your charges.”

Quickfang’s ears pricked. “The sheep?”

Fleet’s tail wagged in amusement. “Yes. This way. But not run ahead again—remember, things must be done in order.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Quickfang didn’t need the directions. He wouldn’t fail again. Not that he needed Fleet’s guidance toward the pens. The scent was everywhere, in the back of his nose but now brought forward, the scent he would track and follow anywhere. His charges. The reason he was a guardian.

“There will be others there. On your first day, you will not engage, merely observe how the sheep are controlled. Your celebratory feast will be tonight. And tomorrow, you will be permitted to guard. Observe the others closely. I am sure you have your own inner knowledge from the gods, but still, their talents and techniques will be useful to you. And you will be working with them.”

Quickfang wagged his tail and flicked his ear toward Fleet. Understood. He would watch and wait, and learn all he could.

As they got close, the scent of sheep grew stronger, mixed with the scent of other dogs. His fellow guardians. And when Fleet finally stopped him, watching from a swell of the hill on the field, he could finally see the sheep.

He couldn’t keep his tail from wagging. There were so many. Tight white fur in small curls—no, it wasn’t fur, it smelled different. Softer. Taller than any dog, but shaped so differently, with heavy bodies and long thin legs. Long ears, long snouts. And on their legs, instead of paws, they had hooves.

But like his fellow dogs, they weren’t mindless. They, too, had been chosen by the gods, and had to be protected by dogs since the gods had ascended. Their forelegs were different, ending in strange paws with dexterous fingers, with nails that looked like smaller hooves. Five fingers, rather than the two on their back feet. Some stood on two legs, their height dwarfing even the tallest dog. Some had horns on their heads, spiraling things that looked fearsome.

But Quickfang knew better. Large and heavy they may be, but sheep were docile. Peaceful. They needed protection. His protection.

As they drew close, he counted five other guardians. Some moved among the sheep, fast and agile, the sheep barely reacting to their presence. Naturally. The sheep must be used to them. Two others, larger guardians with fur almost as white as the sheep, stood still, the wind ruffling their fur, likely keeping watch for any signs of wolves. One of them met Quickfang’s eyes, and his muzzle split in a grin.

Quickfang’s tail wagged, but he knew better. He kept observing.

“He’s here!” the tall guardian barked. “Let’s show the newbie how we do things!”

“You heard him!” A black and white guardian barked. Fang knew that one, and he panted with happiness. Bandfur. He hadn’t seen him since the test.

Now Quickfang would get to watch him work!

With another bark, Bandfur began to run. Though he had passed the test, Quickfang knew better than to think he could ever outrun a dog like Bandfur. Maybe on two legs, but not on four, where Bandfur became almost a blur, his black and white fur flashing among the sheep.

And as he ran, the sheep ran too. They dropped to all fours to run, and Quickfang blinked in confusion. He had assumed that sheep were fast. In his dreams, he raced alongside them at top speed, keeping pace.

But Bandfur ran laps around the sheep, the large animals shockingly slow. A few tried to run on two legs, and were even slower.

Quickfang’s tail wagged. This job would be even easier than he thought. No wonder these sheep needed protection. They would never survive out in the wilds, with the mindless animals and the wolves.

Quickfang leaned forward, ears pricked, as Bandfur’s plan became clear. The sheep were running, but dogs behind them snapped and barked, driving them forward. Other dogs ran along the sides of the sheep, turning them toward the group.

The sheep were being herded. Just like he knew they would be. Quickfang’s heart beat in time with his own frantically wagging tail. He wanted to be there, running alongside and fake-nipping their heels, darting to the side and making then turn, rounding them into a group and guiding them back to the safety of their pens. The pens were fenced, and inside there were wooden dwellings to provide cover, small versions of the stone and thatch houses of the village. The sheep disappeared inside, doors shut, as the dogs guided them, the flock dispersing.

And Bandfur—

Bandur wasn’t with the enormous group. The group had left three sheep. One sheep and a ram. And...

Quickfang took a step closer. The third was so small. Perhaps it couldn’t run?

Bandfur raced in a circle around the three loose sheep, his black and white fur mesmerizing. As he ran, the sheep drew closer to the small sheep. And the ram lunged.

Quickfang stifled a bark of surprise. The ram lunged at Bandfur?

His ears swept forward, straining to hear over the sound of drumming hooves. The ram was shouting. Screaming.

“No!” the voice was higher than any dog’s. Quickfang lifted his muzzle, nostrils flaring. Picking out the scent. He had to focus. His tail wagged slower.

“No!” the ram shouted again, dropping to all fours, and he charged at Bandfur, tossing his curling dark horns. “You won’t take her! You can’t!”

The other sheep had mostly vanished into their small dwellings within the penned walls, but Quickfang couldn’t look away from Bandfur and the ram. Bandfur darted toward the ram, white fangs snapping, but the ram didn’t run like the others. Instead he charged again, the curled horns swiping, but he was hopelessly slow.

Bandfur raced back, and stopped. Staring at the sheep with the small one.

The pup. No, not pup. He had learned the word for it. A baby sheep was a lamb. The lamb was being held by its mother, the sheep staring at Bandfur, her eyes dark and huge. The scent of her fear met Quickfang’s nose, fear more intense than any he had ever scented. This wasn’t anxiety about succeeding at a task. This was terror.

Bandfur stared, not moving. Quickfang’s heart pounded. He knew this ability. He had heard chatter about it, the way Bandfur could stare and control a sheep with just his eyes.

And now he would see it.

And part of him suddenly dreaded it.

The ram charged Bandfur, who merely sidestepped, never breaking his gaze on the sheep and her lamb. The ram blew past him, stumbling. Then he cried out.

“No, Tufttail! DON’T RUN!”

Bandfur stared. He took one step forward, his gaze never breaking.

Then the sheep broke and ran.

“NO!”

Bandfur ran too. He knocked her down, the lamb falling out of her arms. It cried out once, a braying sound full of confusion and fear, and then Bandfur was on it.

Then it was quiet.

Quickfang’s tail was still. The scent of fear was everywhere, mingled with the scent of grass and dog and sheep and blood.

The scent of fear was mingled with the sheep. It had been there the whole time, and he hadn’t noticed.

“NO!” the ram shouted. “YOU MONSTERS! She wasn’t ill! She wasn’t old! Why?”

Bandfur didn’t answer. The lamb was in his mouth. With a toss of his head and a flick of his ears, two other guardians came over, circling the ram and the sheep. The sheep was still where she had fallen, alive but not moving, staring at her empty arms.

“Welcome to your first day,” Fleet said. “You are a guardian. The sheep are our charges.” Quickfang knew that already. The priests had told him that.

The ram was screaming now, a high-pitched bray, over and over. “Why? Why? Why?”

“The sheep are protected. They would all die without us. But they in return provide us meat when it is scarce. This is something only guardians and priests know. We take the old, and the sick.”

Quickfang swallowed hard. “But then why…why the lamb?”

Fleet didn’t answer. Bandfur approached. He walked on two legs now, and held the lamb in his arms, its neck red and the scent of blood overpowering. His muzzle was red too. Behind him came the other guardians, the sheep all vanished into their pen, their homes behind walls. Safe. Except for the parents. The ram still crying. The sheep slumped, silent.

“Quickfang,” Bandfur said, and Quickfang met his eyes. Bandfur held out the lamb.

“A gift, for your first day,” he said. “This will be the most tender, delicious meat you’ve ever tasted. The books of the gods speak of it. Join us as a guardian, and eat.”

Eat.

Quickfang stared at the lamb. Tuftail’s lamb. It must have had a name too.

He wanted to run with the sheep. To protect them. To guide them. They needed his protection, the protection of his fellow guardians.

“Things must be done in order,” Fleet said. “You want to be a guardian, don’t you?”

He wanted to be a guardian. The gods had given him the calling. Speed, despite his short legs. Good vision, a good nose, a strong sense of duty. And a fascination with the idea of sheep, ever since he was young. Another intelligent species, chosen by the gods. He wanted to talk with them. To guide them.

He wanted to protect them. This…this wasn’t protecting.

He looked away from the dead lamb, and met Bandfur’s eyes. They rooted him in place, blue iris and deep pupils, white sclera. All of Quickfang’s muscles went tense, his throat tight. Part of him wanted to growl, and another wanted to raise his muzzle fully, show his neck and submit.

This was the same stare Bandfur used on the sheep. That he had used to make the lamb run. The other guardians knew it. Fleet knew it. Quickfang knew they could smell his anxiety, swept up in Bandfur’s calm command.

If he didn’t eat…if he ran, like the sheep had…

His gaze flicked to the other guardians. All stared, but not with the power Bandfur had. There was no help. Fleet ear’s swept forward in expectation.

Only one other guardian caught his eye, and for a moment hope bloomed in Quickfang’s chest. Cloudfur, the largest of the guardians, his fur as white as the sheep they protected. Were supposed to protect.

But Cloudfur’s gaze flicked away and then back, and his tail wagged once, slowly, to the left. His pricked ears flicked once. Fear. Submission.

You should submit.

“Eat,” Bandfur repeated. He never looked away.

Quickfang took the lamb and bit down. He was no stranger to kills. As the meat filled his mouth, the tension evaporated. Tails wagged, and tongues lolled. Cloudfur’s muzzle dipped in acknowledgment.

Quickfang’s stomach flipped. He would regret this forever, he knew. His calling was from the gods, but this…

The gods didn’t want this. He didn’t know how he knew, just as he didn’t know why he knew how to run and dart and want to badly to guide sheep. He knew this was wrong. Somewhere, in their ascended halls, the gods must be angry with him.

Behind Bandfur, the ram was staring at him, his dark eyes burning, his head low.

But Bandfur was right about one thing.

The lamb was delicious. The most amazing meat he had ever tasted.

And after this, Quickfang vowed he would never eat it again.