Lane woke up warm, almost uncomfortably so. In front of her face, there was nothing but snow, but behind her was something, something hot. Something huge, and furry, and breathing. Lane’s questing fingers felt something wet and sticky, and then her mind finally shook off the last of the sleepiness.

The Morgulon was right behind her, curled up against her back.

Lane rolled away from her, onto her feet, to stare at the monster in shocked surprise.

The werewolf didn’t stir. Its eyes were open, tracking her, but it didn’t move. Lane wasn’t sure it could. The wound on its shoulder was a huge, festering mess, still oozing blood and other fluids, and its flanks were so sunken and gaunt that Lane could count every rib.

This was her chance. Her chance to end it. To do what the Grey had sacrificed his life for. She fumbled for her silver knife, her fingers moving terribly sluggish. The Morgulon made no attempt to flee. It just closed its eyes, and Lane couldn’t even see it breathing any longer.

She took a step towards the monster. She wanted to kneel down at its side and finish the job, but she couldn’t move. Not a single muscle, no matter how hard she fought.

Something was rustling behind her.

Slowly, dimly, Lane grew aware of the pain around her skull, and the smell of rotten meat and fetid swamps in her nose, just before the paralysis made it impossible to breathe altogether.

“Hello beautiful,” a voice whispered inside her head. It sounded like Maxence’s, her dead husband’s, voice. She could smell the alcohol on his breath – “godly men don’t overindulge in the grape, are you calling me an ungodly man, wench?” – and she could feel his huge hand gripping her arm, shaking it, as if he wanted her to drop the knife. Lane’s fingers only cramped tighter around the hilt – “Relax, honey, it won’t hurt at all” – One questing hand was travelling up her leg, pinching her butt, and then further up her spine, finally caressing her lower jaw roughly.

Yet another hand was still gripping Lane’s arm. She wanted to scream, but didn’t have the air to do so, when her weak fingers opened without her saying so and dropped the knife.

Morgulon’s head snapped up as soon as the silver blade vanished in the snow, and it barked. Lane dropped like a sack of potatoes when the thing that held her up let go, and she gasped for air. She tried to crane her neck, but her vision was too blurry to see anything.

The werewolf barked again. Lane’s vision cleared a little and she got a first look at the Rot-thing that had grabbed her. Its body was fairly small, no bigger than a human head, but lifted up high by a multitude of very long, very thin legs, like the ugliest spider in existence.

Lane blinked and the spider blurred again. The air was warm, suddenly, hot, sweltering. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and the walls were closing in on her – the windows were barred and a huge man stood between her and the door – “You’re my wife now, beautiful, better learn to please your husband,” –

A dog barked outside – no, not a dog. And not outside. A werewolf. Which stood only a couple of yards away from her in the freezing snow.

A tree had walked out from amongst the others, covered in lichen and fungus. It circled the tiny camp, looking unbalanced and awkward, walking on roots that had never been meant to carry it. It turned a little from left to right, as if trying to get a better look at the werewolf, despite the fact that it had no eyes. The spider, in one disturbing movement, jumped to its side, and then there were four more Rot-creatures. One second, there were two, and then she blinked, and suddenly there were four – no, six of them. Lane couldn’t look at them directly, but out of the corner of her eyes, she saw them all repeating the same weird half-turning motion the walking tree had done.

When the six Rot-monsters took a step forward, Lane could feel herself sink into the darkness of memory again. But then Morgulon growled and as long as the echo lasted, the clearing came into focus again.

Something else was approaching. “If you think I’ll let you run away into the forests you got another thing coming,” – Lane could feel it before she could see it: a wave of sickness that came over her, terribly familiar. She had felt the same nausea a couple of months ago when the three Rot monsters had become one through the idiotic duke’s amulet.

The thing that broke through the trees was nearly as big as the Rot-bulldog the Feleke-wolf had destroyed, but shrouded in some kind of mist, except that her head and eyes hurt when she tried to look at it. The other six creatures moved forward in step with it, over towards the dead horse.

The Morgulon heaved itself up onto its feet, and balancing on just three legs, hobbled forward to grip the closest Rot monster with its teeth, cutting it in two halves as if the Rot was made of butter.

Lane blinked. Was this real? Was this just another illusion, something to make her let down her guard? But what guard? There was nothing she could do to fight this foul magic!

But it couldn’t be real, could it, Lane wondered while the Morgulon did the same thing to the next three of the smaller creatures. Even the walking tree went down as if it was just a blade of gras. It didn’t even have a chance to struggle. The Morgulon clamped its teeth around the trunk, bit down, and shook its head once, and the pieces of the Rot went flying everywhere.

The werewolf growled softly at the biggest of the monsters, just a warning, Lane thought. But there was power in that growl, power bright as the sun. Lane stared at the huge Rot-monster that was suddenly clearly visible. It was certainly as heavy as the one the Feleke-wolf had fought, but taller. It looked more like an insect, with too many legs and a body that seemed to be parted into segments.

The wounded she-wolf couldn’t dance with the thing as that Feleke had, and it didn’t even try. It just sidestepped the first charge and caught the insect between what would be the head and the second segment. And when the werewolf shook, the Rot-head went flying.

Lane hurried to throw herself aside before it rolled into her lap.

Two, three more bites from Morgulon, and the thing was nothing more than rotten leaves, a heap of fungus, and firewood. The last creature to die, equally fast, was the spider-thing that had grabbed Lane.

The huntress sagged back into the snow and stared, stunned. Then she rubbed at her eyes, pinched herself. It hurt.

So this was real. The Rot was dead. Destroyed.

Somehow, she was still alive.

Lane stared at the misshapen head that had nearly rolled onto her lap. She couldn’t help herself, she picked up the silver knife and gingerly poked the dead wood. There was no reaction. No reaction at all. Not even the sizzle that occurred when werewolf-blood touched the silver.

She dropped the blade into the snow again, shaking. There’d been no time to get scared when the Rot had first shown up, but the panic was catching up with her now. Lane wasn’t scared of dying on a hunt – or rather, that was a risk she was willing to take. She wasn’t even all that scared of being bitten. She was sure she’d be able to put a silver blade to her wrists should it happen. But this was something else.

The Rot was – Lane shuddered again, wrapping her arms around herself before looking around at the clearing full of Rot-corpses. She couldn’t fight the Rot, couldn’t even put up a token of resistance like against Maxence. Because the Rot could turn her own mind against her. It took everything, corrupted everything it touched – there was no escaping that terrible power – unless...

Lane didn’t know how long she sat there in the snow, first shaking with fear, and then with the cold that was seeping into her bones. Every now and then, she glanced over towards the werewolf, who was feeding on the carcass of the Grey, every movement slow and visibly painful.

The werewolf was dying. It had lasted a lot longer than Lane had expected, held up better with the silver bolt than she had ever thought possible, but there was no doubt that it was coming to the end of whatever strength had kept it alive. All that horse meat could, at this point, barely delay the inevitable.

Lane laughed softly, a little hysterically. She had done it. She had killed the Morgulon. She could just walk away from the clearing and be secure in the knowledge that within another night, maybe two, her job would be done.

It was suddenly a very terrifying thought.

Lane took off the ugly winter hat she had bought at New Market. She had really thought that the cap alone had kept her alive. What foolishness! As if a couple of coins’ weight in silver could do that! It probably wasn’t even a bad protection, but looking at what had shown up at the clearing, there was just no way it had kept the Rot away alone.

No. She was only safe from the Rot as long as she was within a hundred yards of where the Morgulon was.

Lane glanced over towards the werewolf again. The werewolf had allowed the Rot to come into their camp, hadn’t it? The smaller creatures at the very least? It clearly could have stopped them easily. So why hadn’t it? To scare her?

If that had been its plan, it was working, sun, was it working.

How many days would it take her to get back to New Market? She didn’t even know which direction she needed to go to get back to the road!

Plenty of time for the Rot to catch up with her.

Lane stared at the snow all around her and struggled to fight down the terror that gripped her at the thought of leaving this tiny, protected spot. As cold as her feet were, there was no way she was moving.

That was, until Morgulon started to paw the saddle that was still on the Grey, to get to the meat underneath.

Lane swore softly at the sight and hurried over, never taking her eyes off the huge shaggy beast, while she struggled to take the saddle off the carcass before the werewolf could try and eat that, too. She dragged it a good distance away, back to where she had cowered in the snow, and began to check her saddlebags. To Lane’s annoyance, her crossbow was missing. Or maybe Morgulon had buried it in the snow while Lane hadn’t been paying attention. But she still had some food left, since she hadn’t been able to bring herself to eat the last couple of nights, so she might as well have some breakfast.

Lane had to burn the greasy paper in which her last piece of ham had been wrapped to get a fire started, and soon their small campsite smelled of pine resin. Which was a little strange, because Lane was mostly burning parts of the Rot.

The Morgulon stayed away from the flames, with the dead horse. Lane picked up her silver knife again but placed it in its scabbard. As slow as the werewolf was moving, Lane felt there was no point in keeping the blade in hand all the time and the silver would just tarnish even more.

She ate the last of the ham for breakfast and boiled some snow to make tea. Every movement she made, the werewolf watched, and Lane jumped a little every time the beast stirred. But the werewolf seemed to have no intention to walk away from the dead horse or attack Lane, and so they each stayed on their side of the little clearing.

More clouds moved across the sky, and it started to snow again. It felt heavy, oppressive, as if the grey sky were about to smother the whole mountain flank. Lane’s head was pounding and she wondered if the Rot was close again. The thought made her inch closer to her meagre fire.

She jumped when the Morgulon got up and dragged itself back towards the snowbank it had slept behind. To get out of the wind that had picked up again, Lane guessed.

With the werewolf only a couple of yards away, the pressure on her skull vanished again. Lane cursed inwardly and stared into the falling darkness. She couldn’t see anything in the shadows, but that didn’t mean anything.

Could the creature understand her, the way the Feleke-wolf had understood? But what would she even say? She really wanted to know why the Morgulon had shared body heat to save her, but that wasn’t a question the wolf could answer with a nod or a shake of its head.

Why didn’t it turn human, anyway? Most werewolves seemed to prefer their human form when the moon was less than half full. Or was that because of the cold?

“My name is Lane,” she said suddenly, surprising herself a little. The Morgulon didn’t react, though. Its eyes were closed again, and its breathing was shallow. Blood was darkening the fur. Lane stared at her handiwork, then at the silent trees again. She couldn’t see or smell the Rot, but she had no doubt it would be all over her before the werewolf’s body had cooled.

Lane took a deep breath herself. “I’m going to try to get that bolt out of your shoulder, okay?” she asked because, damn it, she could not sit here and watch the creature die on this mountain. Not yet.

Lane did not want to die by the Rot – suffocated by the stink, paralysed, caught in the memories of the worst moments of her life.

“And then you can help me get back to the road safely. Deal?”

Again, there was no reaction.

All right, maybe she had to show some goodwill first.

When she stepped closer to the werewolf and pulled a knife, a normal blade made of steel, from its scabbard, the Morgulon didn’t even flinch.

This was why the werewolf had saved her, right? And why it had allowed the Rot to scare her? Because it needed her help.

Lane ground her teeth together and stepped even closer to the werewolf, then kneeled down carefully. Mithras damn her, but she wouldn’t let the Rot take her.

Even if the damn werewolf had somehow orchestrated the earlier attack just to shock her into helping. Was that even possible?

Lane’s right hand, holding the knife, shook violently, and she couldn’t make herself look at the wound, could only stare at the huge head full of gleaming, cursed teeth. Blindly, her left hand dug into the fur around the injury, until she felt blood.

With another steadying breath, Lane put the knife down into the snow and made herself look at the mess her bolt had made of Morgulon’s shoulder. The silvertip had barbs meant to bury even deeper into the flesh, and buried they had. At some point in time, Morgulon must have tried to tear out the bolt, but all that had accomplished was that the wooden shaft had broken, and the flesh had been torn even more.

“I’m going to have to cut this out,” Lane said, her voice a little strangled. Her hands were shaking the most, and it didn’t help that the beast was still not giving any sign of whether or not it understood what Lane was about to do.

“All right,” Lane whispered to herself because she didn’t know what else to do. “I’m no doctor,” she added. “But I’m pretty sure this’ll hurt.”

With an effort of will, she managed to still her fingers. Slowly, very slowly, she put the fingertips of her right hand onto the wound, holding her breath. When the werewolf still didn’t stir, she exhaled deeply, and added her left hand. As gently as she could, she began to feel for the parts of the bolthead she couldn’t see, until she was fairly sure she knew exactly where it was.

Now she had to make the first cut.

“Do not bite me,” she muttered, trying to gather her courage. When she stared down at the place where she had put down the knife, she saw movement out of the corner of her eyes, the faintest rustling of the werewolf’s tail in the snow. As if it was wagging only with the tip of it.

“Right,” Lane muttered. “I’m going to take that as an agreement.”

When the knife cut into the swollen and angry red flesh around the barb, the werewolf finally moved, a short, weak flinch. It didn’t try to push Lane away, though, so it probably did understand that she was trying to help, despite the fact that she’d been the one who had fired the bolt at it in the first place.

Red blood welled from the fresh cut, followed by a trickle of yellowish discharge that made Lane swallow hard to stop herself from gagging. She didn’t stop cutting, though, even when more blood welled up, until she could grip what was left of the wooden shaft and pull the bolthead out. It came loose in a wave of fresh red blood and a little more pus, and while Lane was still staring at the wound, wondering whether she had just killed the werewolf, the creature changed, the injury moving from its side to its back, as the shoulders rearranged themselves. The fresh cuts Lane had just made were gone, but the rest of the wound remained. On the pale, human skin the angry red of the inflammation was even starker.

“I – uh – I think I have some bandages,” Lane muttered.

Morgulon looked at her, its head turned as much as possible. The weird, wolfish golden eyes blinked once. “No,” it said. And then the human was gone again.

Lane stumbled backwards when she found herself face to face with the beast, feeling a little stupid.

On the positive side, at least the werewolf seemed to have some understanding of the spoken word. Maybe communication was actually possible.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

For a while, Morgulon just lay on her side – no, its side, it was a monster, she couldn’t forget that! – its breath coming in short, laboured huffs. It didn’t seem to be interested in Lane at all, never looking up when Lane stoked the fire. It made a few attempts to lick the wound on its shoulder, but couldn’t quite reach, and eventually, it seemed to fall asleep.

Lane waited a little longer, until she was sure that the werewolf was out cold, then crept up again, to have a closer look. Not at the fresh injury at the shoulder, but at the old scar on the left half of the face, the large burn. The muzzle and a patch right underneath the eye were fine, but there was no fur growing between the eye and ear, and what fur was growing from the forehead all the way down to the jaw was thinner than on the right side. There were more patches along the neck, the back, and both shoulders where the fur thinned.

Half its body must have been burned, and yet it had somehow survived. Even though fire was supposed to kill especially those monsters cursed by the Sun God. Just like silver was supposed to be especially deadly to werewolves, and yet the Morgulon had survived for days with the bolt lodged into its skin.

Any other werewolf Lane had ever hunted would have been dead before the moon rose again after new moon.

“So why didn’t you die?” Lane whispered to herself. “What makes you so damn special?”

There was no answer, of course.

They stayed for another two nights with the dead horse, despite the fact that the Rot was drawn to the same place. Lane didn’t have to look for firewood once. Instead, the dead wood came to them. Lane burned as much of the Rot as possible and was shocked when Morgulon tried to eat the other parts.

On the morning of the third day, Lane was woken by someone poking her. She jerked awake, grunting, and saw Morgulon, crouched low, as far away from the little campfire as she could manage, but with one paw extended to poke Lane in the side.

The large tongue was lolling out of her mouth, and Lane got the strange impression that the werewolf was grinning at her.

When she was sure that Lane was awake, the huge wolf got up and limped to the edge of the camp, then back towards Lane.

Lane stared. After a few seconds, she rubbed her eyes to be sure she was actually awake.

“Ready to leave, are you?” Lane muttered.

She should have been awake hours ago, damn it!

She had expected the werewolf to leave today: Since last night, there was nothing left of Lane’s dead horse; Morgulon had found every last scrap of meat, and chewed through every bone to get to the marrow. So Lane had expected her to move on soon. She just hadn’t thought that the werewolf would wake her up before she did.

“Right,” Lane muttered when the werewolf wagged her tail a little. “I just need a moment.”

She had compiled a list, in her head, of the things she would take and the things she would leave with the saddle which she had no way of carrying, but when she started emptying the saddlebags, Morgulon came limping over, scratching the leather. When Lane stared at her blankly, the werewolf bit into the leather, dragging it a few inches over the frozen ground, then let go and turned her head as far as she could.

Lane felt her jaw go slack. “You want to carry this?”

Morgulon shook her head but began to dig out those things Lane had decided to leave behind, fabric for bandages, her small hatchet, a long rope, and smaller strings to make traps, some dirty clothes, though she wore most of the clothes she had brought. Lane watched for a minute while the werewolf fought to open the latches with her paws until it finally dawned on her what Morgulon was trying to tell her.

“Not the saddle. But this stuff?”

That earned her a proper nod, not just a wagging tail

“Right,” Lane muttered and began to string together what she had. Morgulon watched impatiently for a while, but eventually turned her back on Lane, and sniffed around the remains of the horse some more without luck.

“I’ll see what I can do about finding some food,” Lane promised, since it was pretty clear that Morgulon wouldn’t be able to hunt with her bad shoulder. It had barely healed at all, and Lane wondered how far Morgulon would be able to walk.

It took some time to fix the bundle Lane had tied onto the werewolf’s back, especially since Morgulon did not seem particularly interested in the process, despite the fact that this had been her idea. She didn’t stop her foraging, while Lane tried to find a position for her things that would stop them from sliding off Morgulon’s back, without aggravating the injured shoulder any more.

When they were finally ready, Lane let the werewolf lead the way, since she still had no idea where they were. Morgulon raised her head, sniffed the air, and then set out along the flank of the mountain. South, as far as Lane could tell. Her compass was annoyingly unreliable in these mountains, so she could only judge from the sun.

New Market should be north of them, Lane was almost certain.

“Are we going back towards the coach road?” Lane asked.

Morgulon wagged her tail once.

“Really?” Lane asked. “Because we’re going south, and the road should be north of here.”

Morgulon paused, looked back at her, and sort of shrugged before she simply started limping forward again. When Lane didn’t follow, the she-wolf stopped, wagged her tail some more, and stepped forward, waited again.

“Damn it,” Lane swore, but she followed. Not that she had any other option.

At least the werewolf seemed to have a clear goal of where she was going.

There had to be other roads through the Argentum Formation, right? There were certainly other passes across the Crucible Ridge, and with silver in such high demand, surely there were some settlements all along the Formation?

Lane could only hope so. She had never bothered to learn much about Loegrion’s geography beyond the heartlands.

It was slow going. Morgulon needed two breaks before it was even noon, and she was still leaving a thin trail of blood in the snow. Lane was a little amazed that she hadn’t bled to death yet.

She still looked starved, though, as if she hadn’t eaten a whole horse over the past few days. When Lane thought about it, she wondered if maybe the werewolf was needing all that sustenance to replenish the blood she was losing. If that was true, what would happen if she had to go without food for a night or two?

Morgulon collapsed after just a few hours, with a half-strangled whine, and didn’t get up again. Lane bit her lips and had to force herself to step closer to the huge wolf. Suddenly she felt nervous again around the creature, though she wasn’t sure herself if she was scared that Morgulon would attack her, or die on her.

The monster was breathing unsteadily. Lane looked around nervously.

“Anything I can do to help?” Lane asked, and took the pack off of Morgulon’s back.

The werewolf did not react.

“If you can tell me if the Rot is about, I could try to find some food,” Lane offered with a sigh. She wasn’t even sure that the werewolf was able to reliable sense the Rot. But she needed to keep her alive, and all she could offer was food.

Morgulon wagged with the tip of her tail.

“Does that mean I’m safe to go?”

In answer, the werewolf finally gave a clear reaction: The faintest nod of her head.

Lane looked around. “Sun, I hope you’re right,” she muttered. She shouldered her crossbow, and set off again, even though her own legs were protesting. At first, she tried to stay within sight of where Morgulon lay, but all the game had fled. Finally, Lane squared her shoulders and set out in a straight line away from the werewolf.

She had to keep the beast alive, at least until they reached a road. Or a settlement. Some modicum of civilization. Once they reached that...

Lane bit her lips. She wasn’t sure what she would do once they reached other people. Take Morgulon to the mad duke, as she had been ordered? Shoot her? Or let the werewolf go, just once, and head onwards towards Clyde’s Pass?

“Worry about that later,” she whispered to herself. “Find some game first.”

She had really hoped for some mountain goats or sheep, something with a lot of meat, but couldn’t find any trace. She was just about to give up for the day – there was no way she would walk around the trees past dusk – when several large birds took flight from the underbrush right in front of her. Lane shot without even thinking about it, the double crossbow singing twice. Two of the birds fell, and Lane collected them quickly. Some type of wood or mountain grouse, she guessed, when she examined her prize. Just one would have kept her fed for a couple of days, easily, but for a werewolf, it probably wasn’t much more than a mouthful.

It would have to be enough.

The next day, it snowed some more, and Lane couldn’t find any prey at all. Again, Morgulon only managed a few miles, and the day after, after a long night with no food, the werewolf wouldn’t walk at all.

Lane set out alone again and was finally lucky enough to shoot a young boar. She had to cut the game to pieces to carry it, and she was shaking with terror as much as with exhaustion by the time she had dragged all of the dead animal back to where she had left Morgulon. She had felt the Rot several times, but each time, Morgulon’s bark had echoed through the trees. It made Lane wish she knew more about the werewolf’s abilities.

After the meal, Morgulon was at least strong enough to continue their journey.

They reached the coach road several days later. Lane stared at the street that carved like a scar through the forest, then back at Morgulon.

She could rid herself of the werewolf now. Finish the job and her revenge. Do as Mithras commanded.

She knew she wouldn’t, though.

Maybe her father had been right, and there was something wrong with her, some taint deep inside that kept her from god. Because the conviction that had driven her for the past ten years? It had been shaken the moment Morgulon had destroyed the Rot.

How could something be wrong, even cursed by Mithras, that so effortlessly destroyed the worst corruption in this world?

Blasphemy, her father whispered in her ear.

Morgulon gave no sign that she was going to walk away, either.

Lane stared towards the East, then the West. Do as the duke had commanded, or run away?

But she didn’t feel like running. She had a home. A duty to her people.

“I need to find a settlement,” Lane said aloud. “If you will wait in the forest close by, I can bring food. How does that sound?”

Morgulon wagged her tail again, a sign of agreement, as Lane had learned by now.

“Do you want me to find clothes for you?”

The werewolf shook her head at that.

“Fine,” Lane sighed. “Let’s go east, all right?”

Morgulon simply started walking in the direction Lane had named, and Lane wondered. Did the werewolf know where east was? Or had she simply picked a random direction and been lucky? Or had she meant to go in that direction anyway?

And was this the same coach road Lane travelled before, or a different one?

“When I come back, I’m going to need to talk to you,” Lane said.

She was pretty sure Morgulon rolled her eyes at that.

About an hour after lunch, they reached a settlement. Not New Market, which was a bit of a relief. Lane wouldn’t have known what to tell people there. This one was just a roadhouse, and nothing more. Lane was almost certain that she had ridden past this place before.

The guards questioned Lane for the better part of an hour. But her reputation had apparently even reached this flame-forsaken place and it was enough that they eventually let her into the main room of the inn. The innkeeper there confirmed that she had reached the main road. Lane stayed the night and bought as much food as she could carry the next day. She could feel the guards stare at her when she left on foot to find Morgulon.

The werewolf stepped out of the forest as soon as Lane was out of sight from the inn, and she still didn’t really look any better. The wound was still oozing fluids, and the skin around it was red, hot, and swollen when Lane checked. She tried to convince the werewolf to turn human, while Morgulon wolfed down the food she had brought, but was ignored.

Who knew that werewolves liked bread?

Walking on the road was much, much easier than through the forest, and despite Morgulon’s injury, they reached the next coaching station, ten miles away, before the sun set. Just outside, Lane shot a lone boar that wandered across the street, bold as brass.

It wasn’t until Morgulon was happily feeding on the meat, just out of sight from the inn, and Lane stood at the gates of the roadhouse, that she looked up into the sky and realized that in less than an hour, the first night of full moon would be upon them.

People at this place were very surprised when she knocked so late, but they accepted that she was a huntress who had lost her horse once she caught the silver tossed at her with her bare hands. Lane however sat awake for hours at night.

If she wasn’t going to shoot her, she needed to talk to Morgulon, to have an actual conversation about the future. And Morgulon would need to be human for it.

But how to convince her to transform? It wasn’t like Lane hadn’t tried over the last few days. She had used every argument short of threatening the werewolf, and she was fairly sure that pointing another silver bolt at her wouldn’t help convince Morgulon to listen.

Lane stared at her wine glass. Threats wouldn’t do her much good. But maybe bribery could work?

The next morning, right before she left, Lane bought a bottle of the finest whiskey they had, mostly for herself, and also, though the prices out here were ridiculous, some honey cakes and candied fruits for Morgulon. Also enough bread and meat for a week of travel, or a single day for a werewolf.

Morgulon was once again waiting for her just around the corner, only half-hidden behind the trees. Despite the cold, the werewolf was panting like a dog trying to cool down. Lane took a few steps into the forest and smiled when she found a fallen tree.

“I’ve brought something special,” she said when Morgulon followed, and placed her offerings on the trunk. “Have you ever had candied fruits? Or honey cakes? Yes?”

She unpacked the cakes and watched Morgulon limp closer. There was something in the stiff-legged way the werewolf moved, the tail waving left and right hesitatingly, that made her think Morgulon knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I’ll share,” Lane said. “But not with a wolf.”

Morgulon sniffed twice, and then stumbled forward in a hurry, changing shapes between one step and the next, much more elegantly than Greg had.

“So you’ve had honey cakes before?” Lane asked.

It took forever, but eventually, Morgulon nodded, her eyes fixed on the food. Her good hand ghosted up to the scar on her face, and she said: “Before.”

“Before what?” Lane asked. “Wait – you mean before the fire? When you were with the circus?”

Morgulon nodded without looking at her. Lane offered her a long woollen dress, to cover herself up, and Morgulon hesitated again, but eventually accepted the simple garment. Pulling it over her head seemed to take a lot of consideration as if she had to first remember how it was done. Then Lane had to help her with her bad shoulder.

“Food?” Morgulon asked, sounding hopeful, once she was dressed.

Lane broke one of the cakes in two and handed one half over. Morgulon stared at her, never directly, but from the corner of her eye. Only when Lane took a bite herself did the werewolf start eating. As soon as she did, a smile crept over her face, and she closed her eyes.

“You like that?” Lane asked. “You could have more food like this,” she added when Morgulon didn’t say anything. “Regularly, I mean. If you come with me. There is a man – Duke George Louis is his name. He is looking for werewolves to protect his workers from the Rot. So that they can build him a railway line.”

Lane paused, unsure whether Morgulon was even listening. “Do you – do you understand that?”

She had to wait a long, long time, but eventually, Morgulon said: “Fight Rot. Get food. Yes. I understand.”

“And... would you be willing to come with me?”

“More food?”

“Right,” Lane muttered. She handed over a second honey cake and watched Morgulon break it apart slowly, carefully, savouring each piece.

“There will be more food, yes,” Lane promised. “I will hunt some more, too. If you come with me.”

“Food first.”

Lane huffed in frustration. “Yes, I’ve brought more food. Bread, and butter, and sausages.” She sighed. “We need to go to Eoforwic,” she continued. “Do you know where that is?”

“Northern heartlands,” Morgulon said, surprising Lane.

“Yes – yes, that’s right. Do you know how far that is?”

Morgulon seemed to think about that, looking up towards the sky, as if she could find an answer there, then back down onto her cake. “Hundred and fifty miles?” she finally said. “Two hundred?”

Lane opened her mouth and closed it again, because, really, she didn’t know it any more accurately, either. “Right,” she finally managed. “Are you willing to travel that far with me? And then work for the duke?”

“Work for food?”

“Yes, work for food. Maybe some money, as well. Copper,” she quickly added, because Morgulon flinched back. “No silver.”

“Food,” Morgulon repeated, nodding to herself.

Lane sighed but decided to take that as a yes.

“Help?” Morgulon added.

“Help with what?”

Morgulon swallowed the last piece of her cake and pointed at her injured shoulder.

“I – I don’t know how to help you,” Lane said. “I don’t know why it’s not healing.”

“Silver.”

“Well, yes. But I cut the bolt out, and I don’t know what else to do.”

“Some silver left.”

“No, that – are you sure?”

Morgulon nodded. “Help,” she repeated.

Lane opened her mouth and closed it again. “I’m no doctor, Morgulon,” she said. “I really don’t know if I should...”

But there was no one else, was there? And even if there was a doctor around here, they most certainly wouldn’t treat a werewolf.

“I can’t really make it worse, can I?” she sighed.

Morgulon tilted her head. “Yes,” she said slowly, forming the word very precisely. “Silver.”

Lane opened her mouth and closed it again, and found herself laughing despite herself. “Right. No, I won’t use the silver blade. Let’s eat first, though.”

Morgulon was quite enthusiastically in favour of that.

Lane couldn’t help but watch her while they ate. Her father had described this face hundreds of times for her, had called it monstrous and scarred and beastly.

It wasn’t, though. The only thing inhuman about Morgulon’s face were the eyes. The rest, Lane might even have thought to be rather attractive, had Morgulon been human. There was a strange elegance to the werewolf’s long slender limbs, a perfect symmetry to those high cheekbones, despite the scars. She was very tall, for a woman, would have been fairly tall even amongst men.

“Why did you save me?” Lane asked.

Morgulon looked up from her piece of bread and for once faced Lane directly, then huffed softly. After a moment, Morgulon seemed to realize that she was staring, and looked away again, shrugging.

“You must have had a reason,” Lane tried again.

Morgulon repeated the soft huffing sound, shaking her head, a little tired it seemed, or maybe frustrated. “Stupid,” she finally said.

“Stupid reason?” Lane asked. “Stupid question?” she added because Morgulon kept shaking her head.

“No,” the werewolf sighed. “But too. Humans are weird.”

Lane had no idea what to make of that. After a few minutes of silence, Morgulon suddenly said, very slowly, as if each word took effort: “Stupid. Death. For revenge.”

Lane stopped eating and stared down on her own piece of bread. Somehow, she couldn’t help but laugh about that, though it really wasn’t funny. “What’s a good way to die then?” she asked.

Morgulon considered the question, turning the bread in her hands. “Late,” she said.

“Late, of course,” Lane sighed. “What I meant was, what is a good reason to die for? If revenge is a stupid reason, I mean.”

“Humans are weird,” Morgulon repeated, which seemed to exhaust her limit for philosophical discussions.

They ate in silence, or at least Morgulon ate, and Lane watched her, trying to decide what to make of this conversation. How much thinking was going on behind those golden eyes? Or rather – how different was that thought process? Morgulon spoke slowly, as if she had to struggle with each word to get it out. Yet she did seem to understand quite well, and she was clearly able to contemplate abstract concepts, like death and revenge. Had she really understood what Lane had offered? What the duke was offering? If she had, shouldn’t she be asking more questions?

But the werewolf seemed content with the silence.

“Where will you go tonight?” Lane asked. “Since it’s full moon?”

Morgulon just waved at the trees surrounding them.

“Forest, right,” Lane sighed. “I meant, how will I find you again?”

Morgulon chewed on that question. “Won’t,” she decided. “Find you.”

Lane didn’t like that answer at all but didn’t argue. If she knew where about Morgulon would enter the forest, she should be able to track her down. That might take days, though.

“Find you,” Morgulon repeated. “Bring food?”

“Of course,” Lane said, rolling her eyes, and reaching for the bottle of whiskey she had brought. She had meant to save it for later, but really, it was almost full moon, and she was sitting on a tree trunk in the forest, having breakfast with a werewolf, which she was about to cut open. Not to kill it, but to save its life. Or at least help it heal. She deserved a drink.

Morgulon eyed the bottle, clearly curious. So Lane took a swig and asked: “Want some?”

Morgulon sniffed the mouth of the bottle and grimaced, handing it back.

Lane laughed. “What, you’ve never had whiskey before?”

“Breakfast,” Morgulon pointed out, sounding scandalized.

“You’ve never had whiskey for breakfast,” Lane sighed, and had another drink, because what the hell, she was being lectured about the appropriate time to drink by a werewolf.

Then she held out the bottle again. “It might help,” she said. “With your shoulder. Make it hurt less.”

Morgulon considered that and took the bottle slowly. She sniffed the whiskey again, before taking a tiny sip. Lane couldn’t stop herself from laughing about the expression on the werewolf’s face, the look of surprise and total disgust.

“You don’t like whiskey, fine,” Lane laughed. She had another quick sip herself when Morgulon handed the bottle back. She was really not looking forward to this, to cutting that shoulder open again. When she had done it the first time, she had at least been able to see part of the bolt and had an idea of where to cut. This time, she would have to cut basically blindly, and rummage around until she found the piece that was still in there.

Provided Morgulon was even right about that.

“This is going to be a mess,” she sighed and put the bottle away. “And it’s going to hurt like hell, too, you know that, right?”

Morgulon shrugged with her good shoulder. “Hurts now,” she pointed out.

Lane sighed again and pulled her knife out, felt the blade to make sure it was sharp. Morgulon was already struggling to get out of the dress, something she clearly hadn’t done in a long time. Lane had to help her.

Lane shuddered when she saw the injury underneath, hot, and red, and swollen.

“Damn it,” she muttered, and took a deep breath before she made the first cut. “This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done,” she complained, to distract herself.

Blood and other stuff she didn’t want to look closer at trickled over her hand.

“And I’ve gutted a lot of deer, believe me. Hell, I’ve reached into a mare’s backside to help her give birth, and that wasn’t nearly as disgusting as this.”

Morgulon made no sound at all while Lane dug around inside her flesh. The splinter she finally found was tiny, and she would have missed it completely if Morgulon’s flesh hadn’t looked so different around it, burnt. As if an ember had travelled through the muscle.

“I’m pretty sure this is it,” Lane said, and tried to show the piece to Morgulon. The werewolf flinched back, though, and while Lane still stared, she changed shape.

“You really can’t stand being human, huh?” Lane asked, but of course, there was no answer. Morgulon just sniffed at her bag of food, so Lane gave her another sausage before they finally got moving.