Morgulon barked sharply and Lane saw the Rot all around her sway like leaves in a breeze. The two remaining golems didn’t seem to hear her, just as they hadn’t been affected by the Rot’s foulness. They mostly acted as if the werewolves weren’t there and continued to stomp and kick and crush the ugly bastards underfoot.

Morgulon looked at the queens in front of her contemptuously and barked at them again. There was a clear challenge in the tone. The Rot-queens answered with a howl and a bellow from the dryad.

Even that couldn’t drive the rest of the Rot to attack the elder she-wolf and her companions.

The fur on Morgulon’s neck stood high on end, a thick mane except for where the skin had been burned too badly. Her focus was on the larger of the two queens, while Ragna and the stranger tracked the movements of the dryad, which was trying to circle them to get in Morgulon’s blind spot.

The powers clashing charged the air, enough for small blue storm fires to appear up on all the tips of the wooden fortifications around the camp, and on some of the pikes the navvies used. When Lane’s axe got close to the blade of Isaac’s shovel, a ribbon of blue sparks appeared between the two metallic surfaces.

More blue sparks burned in Morgulon’s fur, forming a flame, and then a sort of blue halo that surrounded her whole head. She threw herself at the larger of the queens – the dryad tried to stab her in the back, but was blocked by Ragna and the stranger. It was hard to see what happened next – Morgulon and the Rot-werewolf were moving too fast, teeth bared, hissing and growling almost like real wolves. Around them, shadows flickered and sparks of light flew high.

It slowly dawned on Lane that she had never ever seen Morgulon fight before. Not really. It was a weird realisation. She had been at Deva, after all, had seen Morgulon rip apart the human sacrifice there – but that had been a dance, Lane now realized, a performance arranged for the nobles in the ranks. Later, after the battle at Oldstone Castle, Lane had heard soldiers claim that Morgulon had cleared the western wall all on her own, but had thought that to be an exaggeration.

Now, she wondered if it hadn’t been true.

There was clearly a dimension to this fight she couldn’t truly fathom – she just barely sensed how the powers charging the air heaved and shifted around the fighting werewolves like the unruly sea, but she couldn’t tell who was winning.

Something green flashed past, Ragna right behind it. The small, black elder with the grey muzzle barked sharply, and at the sound, most of the other werewolves who had come with him gave chase after the dryad that tried to get away.

Greg swore inwardly and raced after the small, green figure that had shot across the destroyed camp like a bullet from a gun. His paws did not like this new exercise, especially not his barely healed hind-paw.

He didn’t have much choice though. Pierre’s order was echoing in his head, and he was way too tired to even think about resisting that. Pierre had sensed the Rot-queens moving just as they had reached the summit of the Crucible Ridge, so they had run – run – nearly constantly for the past two weeks.

They still needed to stop that fleeing queen. If it was allowed to replenish its strength and power, it might raze a town like Sheaf or the New Quarters of Eoforwic all on its own. Or even the whole city, and wouldn’t that be a mess? Especially if word got around that a single, young werewolf – like Greg – could turn into that kind of city-destroying monster.

Still, he stuck close to Gertrude. Pierre had told them stories about the last Rot-queen he had fought, twenty years ago, and if that dryad managed to get him alone, he was toast.

He had just thought of it when the tiny green figure appeared right in front of him. It held out its tiny hands, a child’s hands, really, as if it wanted to hug him. Greg tried to avoid it, jumping and throwing himself around, doubling like a hare. He hadn’t even known he could do that!

The dryad was still right in front of him.

There was no way he could stop, so he didn’t even try to slow. He should have run the creature over like a horse trampling a child.

Instead, he smashed into the dryad as if it was a century old oak tree. He didn’t even have enough air left for a shriek when the arms snaked around him and chocked him like a garrotte. His first instinct was to gasp for more, which the queen had apparently been counting on: vines shot out from its body, wrapping around his jaws and muzzle, yanking them apart further. An arm-thick, slimy something snaked up to his open mouth, dripping a viscous black substance that looked like poison –

Gertrude slammed into the dryad from behind, and Annabelle came at it from the other side.

Greg felt the grip on his lower jaw ease and he snapped his teeth shut. The slimy something slapped against his nose. There wasn’t much force behind it, yet Greg staggered, as if he had been punched in the face. A few droplets of the unknown liquid burned on his mucous membranes. He felt dizzy and his vision grew dim, then dark.

He came back to his senses to someone licking his face urgently. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to know that it was Morgulon. She was glowing in his mind, bright like those special alchemical fires Mr. Higgins had shown him, the ones that the teacher used in his photography. Only that she wasn’t burning up nearly as quickly.

He’ll be fine, Morgulon informed whoever else was there. Get that Rot-queen. I’ll take him back to the camp.

Someone walked off.

Get up, Morgulon ordered him. I know you’re awake. It didn’t get you that badly.

Greg wanted to protest. The forest floor was quite comfortable here, and he was tired. His head still rang from his brief encounter with the queen.

You can sleep in camp. Get up, Morgulon ordered again.

Greg wanted to growl at her but couldn’t get the sound out. Instead, his legs started to move on their own, pushing him up. He was hesitant to open his eyes, but when he finally did, he realized that the light was purely in his head.

Why was she so bright suddenly? He was certain she hadn’t been this bright at Oldstone Castle. And certainly not when they had set out last spring. Even he wouldn’t have missed that kind of flame.

I had just given birth at Oldstone Castle, Morgulon replied. And there was hardly any Rot here last spring.

She walked him to the camp, right over to Pierre. The ancient werewolf inclined his head respectfully to her. Morgulon. Thank you for bringing him back safely.

Morgulon nodded, too. Keep an eye on him, she said. One is still at large.

With that, she jogged back towards the forest.

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Pierre rounded on Greg as soon as her back was turned, washing his nose roughly. I told you, he scolded him, I told you to be careful!

I was!, Greg protested. I was running right next to Gertrude, but that – that thing came out of nowhere! As if it grew right out of the ground!

He didn’t even try to shake the elder off, who was done with his nose and muzzle and was now moving up to his neck and ears.

That’s what the Rot does, Pierre sighed. As if that was something Greg should have been ready for.

“Aw, did little Gregory get dirt on his face?” Isaac teased.

Greg was so glad to see him, alive and mostly well, he didn’t even mind the gleeful grin on his friend’s face that told him that he was going to suffer for this. Isaac wasn’t deterred by Pierre’s presence, either, wrapping his arms tightly around Greg’s neck. For once, Greg really didn’t mind. Pierre barely paid attention to them, he was looking at something else.

In the distance, a triumphant cheer went up. Greg turned his head, but his vision greyed out again and he stumbled into Isaac, who was just letting go. As fast as the spell of disorientation had started, it ended again. Greg blinked, confused and a little annoyed.

“Ye okay?” Isaac asked.

Pierre stared at Greg intently, but then nodded.

The Rot-queen is dead, he said. He sounded tense, despite the good news. And I’m glad to see it didn’t get you. Now, perhaps you would like to introduce us?

Greg was just about to ask what had the elder so worried when he spotted Andrew and deLande coming closer with Eyal and Digger.

Right. Time for the pack to meet his family.

I’ll need to get dressed.

Isaac matched his pace as Greg trotted over to the group and tugged Andrew’s sleeve gently.

“Let me guess. You want some of my clothes?”

“He’s got some,” Isaac said helpfully, just as Greg shook himself, which made the bundle on his back bounce up and down.

“The inn is closest and you can check what happened there,” Lane suggested. “I’ll wait here for Morgulon.”

Greg was already moving. He needed to hurry up – the nervousness of his pack leader was setting his teeth on edge, too. Andrew and Isaac had to jog after him.

Greg could feel rather than see Pierre’s pack returning to the camp through the cracks in the outer wall, plus the five werewolves Lee had convinced to come along. They gathered around Pierre in the big open space right in front of the inn. Laurent was the oldest of the five, older than Ragna. Greg had no idea where she and Morgulon had gone.

One of the huge, destroyed clay figures had collapsed right in front of the Inn’s entrance, interrupting the line of sight between Greg and the pack. Pierre clearly didn’t like letting him out of his view: Greg had to struggle to move past that point.

Isaac and Andrew noticed his hesitation, of course. It was Isaac who asked: “Ye okay, man? Why did that guy kiss ye back there, and with so much tongue, too?”

Greg shook the thick fur in his neck in annoyance and rolled his eyes, which apparently told Isaac something, because he looked relieved. “Ye’re okay, yes?” he repeated.

Greg nodded, still annoyed.

Pierre had not kissed him. Thoko wouldn’t like that, and aside, Pierre was old!

“Greg. Ye know I was just kidding, don’t ye?”

Greg grumbled softly to himself, but it wasn’t like he could tell Isaac who Pierre was. Also, they had reached the coaching inn. Unlike the barracks that made up the rest of the camp, this building was several hundred years old and had been built for the exact purpose of withstanding the Rot. It had its own protective palisades and reinforced stone walls. Every part of it was doused in alchemy, paid for by the Empire to keep the postal coaches running. Good alchemy, in other words. As a result, the Rot had had a much harder time getting in.

Still, at least one brute had managed to force its way through a window. Its motionless husk had fallen right in front of the bar, the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn’t been completely trashed. Soldiers were busy digging their fallen comrades out from underneath the wreckage of tables, wooden pillars, and parts of the ceiling. Moans of pain from the injured filled the air. Despite a young werewolf’s best efforts, Greg saw a lot of wounds turning foul and the stink of the Rot remained heavy all around.

“Take the injured outside right away,” Andrew ordered a soldier with sergeants stripes. “The new werewolves will be able to help even where Anthony can’t. Lady deLande is out there, she’ll see to it. Is it safe to go upstairs?”

The sergeant gave him a blank look and mumbled something about sending an expedition up.

Greg didn’t have time for that. He walked past the bar, taking the first open door: There was a dark corridor on the other side. A tiny bit of light fell over a threshold that had the door ripped out. Greg padded into the room on the other side – probably for staff. It was tiny, with a narrow bed, just big enough that Greg could turn around while wolf. He started his transformation just as Andrew and Isaac followed him. He rushed himself, which meant he stumbled around a lot and nearly crashed into the bed.

“Who is the guy who was washing your face?” Isaac asked once Greg reached for his clothes. “What was that about?”

“Pierre.”

“Ragna’s Pierre?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, the very same.”

“Finally, some good news,” Andrew muttered. He looked over his shoulders just as Greg sat down on the bed to put on his boots.

“And why did he wash you so thoroughly?” Isaac wanted to know.

“I ran into that smaller Rot-queen,” Greg grumbled. “She grabbed me, tried to force something into my mouth. It’s fine, no need to look so shocked, Pierre made sure I was fine. That’s why he licked my face, cause it had gotten something into my nose. I swear it’s fine. The queen is dead, and Pierre was sure he’d have noted if it had gotten me.”

Greg finished putting on his boots. Before he could quite straighten up, Andrew wrapped his arms around him, muttering: “Sun, I’m glad to see you, little brother.”

“How did you guys know to come here?” Isaac asked. “We’d have been toast without you.”

“We’ve been running for weeks like the Inquisition was behind us to get here in time,” Greg said when Andrew let go. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

He turned to the door. Of course, the monster waiting in the shadows of the hallway picked the exact moment when he stepped outside to jump them, raking misshapen claws over the arms Greg raised to protect his face on instinct.

He cursed and grabbed it before it could duck around him to get to Andrew or Isaac. In the narrow, dark corridor, without torches or proper weapons, they would have been in a rather fine pickle with a full-grown brute bearing down on them. But the Rot-queens were dead, and Pierre and pack were right outside, so all Greg needed to do was scream as loud as he could and hold on.

No, it wasn’t particularly heroic, but it only took a second for Pierre’s answering howl to echo through the camp. Suddenly, the old pack leader burned as brightly in Greg’s mind as Morgulon had until a few minutes ago.

“Backup?” Andrew asked behind him.

A grunt was the best reply Greg managed. The Rot was bloody wriggly, raking its claws across his back. The damn thing couldn’t have attacked before he got dressed? That was another perfectly good shirt ruined.

People screamed in the main room and then Greg heard claws on the stone floor.

Saved again by a girl, Gertrude teased in his head even while she ripped the Rot-monster to pieces.

“Yeah, you know, I really don’t mind.”

“What?” Andrew asked.

“Gertrude pointed out that this is the second time she’s had to save my arse,” Greg translated. “Today,” he amended. “The second time today.”

“Don’t let Thoko hear that,” Andrew said wryly. “And thanks, Gertrude.”

The three of them hurried back outside, while the she-wolf stayed behind to explore the rest of the roadhouse, in case there were more brutes or creepers hiding.

The pack was clearly waiting for their arrival. Morgulon was nowhere in sight. Neither was Ragna. Calder, Anthony and Rhuad kept their distance, tending to the injured soldiers. That left Pierre, the five remaining werewolves of his pack, and the five that either Lee had found or that had joined them on their way back. Lee and Edith were taking the long way back, to see if they could find others who might help, way up north.

The werewolves present were all very, very nervous. Even Pierre had his hackles raised, but didn’t quite dare to growl at deLande, who stood facing the direction Morgulon had left in. The navvies carefully kept their distance from the large, restless pack, forming a wide ring around them. They moved to let Greg, Andrew and Isaac pass to the point where Digger and Eyal stood.

Eyal nearly crushed Greg in a bear-hug, and even Digger looked like he was considering grabbing him.

“That was some amazing timing you guys had,” Eyal said as he let go. “Thanks a lot for saving us.”

“How did you know we needed help?” Digger asked.

Greg took a few steps forward, until he stood closer to the middle of the circle. “This is Pierre,” he introduced the elder. “He’s the oldest werewolf this side of the High Plains. Two weeks ago, he sensed a Rot-queen moving in the distance. We’ve been running ever since to try and catch it, especially once we realized where it was going.”

We’re glad we made it here in time, Pierre added, finally turning his back on deLande.

Greg dutifully translated that. Then he went around and introduced the other werewolves.

Slowly, the pack calmed down when it became clear that neither of the two hunters present was interested in shooting them. Some of them even went over to help clean the wounds of the injured. The rest just settled down in the middle of the camp, out of the way, while the navvies got started on cleaning up the chaos all around. And on dinner, in Nosson’s case.

The calm lasted right until Morgulon and Ragna finally returned with Oli. Who had been shot with silver.