Lane stared out of the window of her room, at the full moon just climbing over the trees. She could hear a wolf howling in the distance and wondered if that was Morgulon or just an ordinary animal. Were there hunters out there right now?
It seemed unlikely, but still. It was possible.
Lane looked back down at the glass in front of her. How strange that she of all people worried about a werewolf. And not just any werewolf. The Morgulon. The legendary Morgulon. A werewolf who could fight the Rot as if it was nothing at all. Duke George Louis should better be happy about this.
The werewolf who had killed her parents.
Was there any point in trying to talk to her about that? Did she even remember? And if she did, would she be willing to talk, or just repeat how strange humans were?
Lane sighed and sipped her wine. It was probably pointless to reopen that old wound. It seemed rather unlikely that Morgulon would apologize, even if she did remember, and Lane wasn’t sure if she deserved an apology, anyway. And other than that, what did she even want to hear?
Mostly, she wanted to know, that was all.
There was something else nagging at Lane, though, something that had fairly little to do with Morgulon herself: Duke George Louis wanted werewolves to protect the workers building the railway, and no doubt he would send her to cover the worst part of it, the swamp right and left of the Savre. And sure, eventually, people would profit from that. Not Lane’s people though, not the people of the earldom she had inherited from her mother, Wardshire. It would take years for the railway to reach them, and even then they would profit in very small ways at best.
It didn’t seem good enough. It didn’t seem good enough to Lane that it should be her who brought Morgulon out of the wild, back into civilization, and her people wouldn’t even profit. Especially since they wouldn’t start building the railway until spring.
Lane hesitated a moment longer, then went to round up some paper and an envelope.
“Your Highness,” she began and hesitated. There was always the risk that a letter was intercepted, so she continued:
“I have found another hound of that rare mountain breed we talked about at our last meeting, a young bitch of quite impressive talent. I’m taking it home to Warden Hall to complete its training. If you are still interested in acquiring the dog for your collection, please let me know.
Yours respectfully
Countess Lane deLande”
She read it again, but she was fairly certain that not even the Inquisition would guess what she was really writing about, especially since Duke George Louis did breed hunting dogs. Maybe she could buy a dog somewhere along the way, but it probably wouldn’t be necessary.
Outside, the howling started again. It sounded pained, Lane thought, but maybe that was just the worry clouding her senses. She needed Morgulon alive, or there was no telling what the duke would do. Lane didn’t feel too confident that he would believe her if someone else killed the werewolf she’d been hunting all her life.
She lay awake in bed for hours, listening for the faint sounds from outside. The howling still sounded pained to her, and there was an echo to it that sounded like screaming. She had left the windows open, despite the winter cold, but after a while, the howling stopped altogether. Lane closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that the werewolf had simply moved further away.
Lane was one of the first guests of the inn at breakfast, despite the short night, and as soon as it was light enough to deter the Rot, she was on her way. There was no Morgulon waiting for her around the corner today. Maybe she had gotten turned around during full moon. Or maybe she had decided she didn’t want to go with Lane after all. Or maybe she had been injured again.
Lane turned around and walked back to the point where she had left Morgulon last night, and soon found the werewolf’s trail. There was still some blood, which made it easier to follow. It criss-crossed back and forth, crossing the road several times, almost as if Morgulon had circled the inn. Maybe she had been trying to find a way inside, in her full moon rage, to kill every single soul inside the walls.
Lane shuddered at the thought, but still followed the trail deeper into the forest, and suddenly stumbled out of the forest and onto a battlefield. The site of not just one, but two battles.
The first one had been many, many years ago, probably back when the Valoisian Empire had first claimed these lands. Ancient muskets, pikes, swords, and pieces of armour were scattered everywhere, and half-buried in the ground right in front of Lane was a line of rusted cannons. It took her a while to understand what else she was looking at:
In the middle of the field was a mountain, a mountain of bones, all piled up like a macabre anthill. The husks of dead – or rather destroyed – Rot creatures were littered around it as if they had died defending the mountain. There had to be dozens of them.
The stink of the Rot was still lingering on the field, thicker than Lane had ever smelled it, and she turned around, retreated, swallowing hard to keep her breakfast down. She tried to find the trail again, but she couldn’t concentrate. The mountain of sun-bleached white bones was stuck in her head, and Lane couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it didn’t just look like an anthill. What if it was some kind of nest? Was there such a thing as a – as a queen of the Rot, laying eggs or otherwise creating more of them? Was that why the creatures had defended the place?
Lane lengthened her strides without even thinking about it, her crossbow ready, even though supposedly there was little point in shooting the Rot. Lane had never tried.
She was so distracted that it took her a while to realize that she was being followed. When she finally did, she brought her crossbow around without even thinking about it and fired a bolt, jerking the weapon away in the same movement.
“For flame’s sake, Morgulon,” she called when the shot went wide. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
She sighed when the werewolf kept her distance and took the remaining bolt out of the action. “Look, you surprised me. Don’t do that.”
Morgulon growled softly, and Lane froze, every instinct screaming at her to put the bolt back where it belonged and draw the string again. She didn’t move, though. There was no way she could fumble the lever out of her pocket that fast anyway. If Morgulon wanted to kill her, she was dead.
The werewolf just huffed, a sound Lane was beginning to recognize. When Morgulon shook herself, a full body shake, like a dog trying to dry its fur, she managed a slow, unsteady breath.
“Let’s get going,” she said, turning around, and almost managed to sound like the werewolf hadn’t scared her to death just now.
She had only taken a couple of steps, when Morgulon shoved her from behind, hard enough that she lost her balance and almost ended up on her face. Lane threw herself around, her heart beating high in her throat again, painfully fast, but the huge wolf just sat there, tongue lolling out between the gleaming cursed teeth, tail thumping the snow-covered ground. While Lane still stared, Morgulon changed.
“Told you,” she said, and the self-satisfied grin vanished from her face as she spoke, turning serious again. “I find you.”
“Right,” Lane muttered, staring at Morgulon blankly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Morgulon remained crouched in her human form for a few seconds longer, for once not avoiding Lane’s gaze. When she turned wolf again, it was the fastest, smoothest transformation Lane had seen yet.
The werewolf did not turn human again a single time for the next two weeks. To her own surprise, Lane found herself wishing Morgulon would. She felt stupid when she was trying to carry both sides of a conversation. The silence was starting to feel oppressive, even though Lane was used to travelling alone, and had never been bothered by it before.
The only positive thing was that Morgulon’s injury finally started healing, though it was slow going.
Lane left Morgulon some clothes when she left her alone on the last night before new moon and was surprised when Morgulon was still wolf when she found her again the next morning, carrying the clothes around in her mouth. They had been walking for less than an hour, when Morgulon stumbled, fell, and landed in the snow human. This transformation seemed to take longer and looked like it was more painful than Morgulon’s usual transformation. She just remained laying in the snow for a minute.
Morgulon groaned softly while she struggled to her feet. At the sound, Lane hurried to pick up the clothes Morgulon had dropped, and shake the snow out of them.
“Here,” she said, offering Morgulon the dress.
Morgulon groaned again, but eventually accepted the clothes, staggering across the road and vanishing between the trees. Lane followed her, bewildered.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Sleep,” Morgulon said, stumbling on blindly. Somehow, she had managed to get completely tangled up in the dress.
“Hang on,” Lane said, but she had to grab the fabric to stop Morgulon. “Here, let me help you.”
“Hate new moon,” Morgulon grumbled, while Lane managed to get each of her arms into a sleeve, and her head through the right hole.
“You really want to go to sleep now?” Lane asked.
“Yes,” Morgulon said, trying to pull the sleeves over her hands. “Tired,” she added, then paused. “Bring food?”
“I brought food, yes,” Lane said. “Do you want to eat now?”
Morgulon wrapped her arms around herself. “Shelter first,” she sighed. “Then food. Then sleep.”
Lane considered protesting that plan, but there didn’t seem to be much point to it. She couldn’t force Morgulon to keep going, so she just said: “All right, fine. What kind of shelter?”
Morgulon just swung her head left and right and continued walking, always going downhill. Sometimes, she tested the snow but seemed either unwilling or unable to describe what she was looking for. Eventually, she stopped in front of a bank of snow higher than Lane was tall.
“Stay?” she asked.
“Stay here?” Lane asked, and was surprised when Morgulon reached for her hand, shaking her head.
“Stay,” she repeated.
“Oh, will I stay?” Lane asked. “I – I guess,” she replied.
Morgulon gave her a brief smile and started digging into the snowbank using a stick. When Lane offered her the small hatchet, she accepted but didn’t want any help beyond that. So Lane left to gather firewood and maybe find some more game.
It was a bright, sunny day, almost blindingly so. Lane often had to shield her eyes against the glare of the reflected sunlight on the snow, and there was almost no wind. It would have been a good day to travel.
As it turned out, it was a good day to hunt as well. Lane managed to shoot two snow hares that were out and looking for food, and also another of the big grouse-like birds. Hopefully, that would be enough meat to keep a werewolf happy over the two days of new moon.
When Lane returned to the snowbank, Morgulon was nowhere in sight. All there was, was a hole in the bank, big enough to crawl into. When Lane pushed her head in, she came face to face with a load of discarded snow, which Morgulon was pushing out with her feet, as it seemed. Lane jumped back.
“I’ve brought food,” she announced. She could hear scraping on the snow, and then Morgulon came tumbling out of the hole she had dug.
“Shelter,” she explained, gesturing at the opening. “Almost done. Come see?”
She seemed excited to present her work, so Lane pushed her head through the opening again. She had to crawl up a short slope, and found herself inside a surprisingly large cavern dug out of the snow. Light filtered through the roof, showing a room high enough that she could sit easily, and both long and wide enough for two humans to lay down. A long, straight branch was poked through the ceiling, the hole widened a little. To let in fresh air, Lane guessed.
“You’ve done this a lot, huh?” Lane asked, impressed with how much work Morgulon had been able to do.
“Every new moon,” Morgulon said, following behind. “All winter.”
“How many years have you been hiding out here in the mountains?”
Morgulon shrugged. “Long.”
“Long, right,” Lane said, smiling. “Want to go outside again and eat? I’ll get a fire started.”
“Soon,” Morgulon said.
“I see. Want to finish first?”
“No,” Morgulon said, a look of intense concentration on her face. “Since soon after. Your father. Came back, sometimes. Bad winters. Bad summers.”
Lane opened her mouth and closed it again. “You remember? You know that – who my father was?”
“Yes.”
“How?” Lane couldn’t help but ask.
“Smell,” Morgulon said. “Smelled you. With your mother.”
“Why did you kill her?” Lane took a deep breath but couldn’t quite calm herself. “Why did you – she wasn’t even a hunter!”
Morgulon shrugged.
“Oh, come on. You can’t just start on this, and...” Lane stopped when Morgulon raised a hand. She could see the werewolf’s jaws working, and clamped her own teeth together.
Eventually, Morgulon said, her speech halting, as if each word was a fight: “Seemed fair. Back then. Your father – killed my family. Mother. Father. Brothers. So. Kill his family. Seemed fair.”
“You – you had a family?”
Morgulon tilted her head to the side. “Course.”
“Right, sorry, I just assumed – people say you were – were born a werewolf. So I always thought your parents must have been dead before you entered the circus.”
Morgulon shook her head. “Mother. Werewolf. But pretty. Not like me.” She pulled at her hair, grey, and brown, and black, so much like the markings on her werewolf face.
Lane frowned and almost said that Morgulon was pretty too. “She was a werewolf, but she looked human?” she guessed.
Morgulon nodded. “Trained dogs for father. Had a cage, like mine. For full moon. Lots of cages in a circus.”
“Your father, was he human?”
“Human, yes. Tried to save us, that night. Got me out first. Went back for mother and my baby brothers.” Morgulon looked away. “Mirko was baby. Tiny baby. Steven just started walking,” she growled. “Fire took them all. Your father. Murdered. Them all.”
Lane flinched back when Morgulon turned her golden eyes on her. “It was not enough. For him. He would not stop. Hated himself too much, hated how I made him feel. Too much. To stop.”
“What are you talking about?” Lane asked, bewildered.
“Lust,” Morgulon said with a hollow laugh. “Strong smell. Very strong. He saw me naked, and he. Felt like you.”
“What are you – you were what, eight years old back then? Nine?”
“Yes,” Morgulon whispered. “Child. But he wanted, still. Hated it. Came back every night anyway. Watched me perform. Sometimes three times. In one day. Came to my cage, too. One night he brought fire. Murdered them all.”
The werewolf was quiet for a long time, her eyes glowing faintly with anger in the gloom. Then she just blinked, shrugged, and the tension, all the grief, and all the fury seemed to bleed away. “Stupid,” she said. “To kill for revenge. Changes nothing.”
“Stupid,” Lane whispered to herself. Had her father really been – had he really lusted after a child? A werewolf child, but still?
Why didn’t this sound like slander? Why was she even entertaining the idea, why wasn’t this making her angry, after all those years he had spent trying to drive her down the straight path of what he considered righteousness?
But maybe she had always known that a man who could lead her onto that path by example wouldn’t have needed to beat her bloody quite so often.
“Food, now?” Morgulon interrupted her thoughts.
“Right, food,” Lane said. “Let me start a fire and grill some meat, then we can eat.”
Morgulon nodded. She didn’t quite flinch on the word fire, but she was perfectly happy to dig in the snow some more, while Lane built a fire pit outside and skinned one of the rabbits. She had bought bread and some hard cheese and sausage, and there was also a piece of the candied fruit left for each of them.
Morgulon was clearly torn between wanting the warmth and keeping her distance from the flames when she came out of her snow cave to eat.
“Do you usually eat the meat raw?” Lane asked. “Even on new moon?”
Morgulon rubbed the scar on her face. “I hate fire,” she said. “No lighter, too.”
“You’re speaking more, today,” Lane noted.
“New moon,” Morgulon said, “makes it easier.”
“Did you use to talk more?” Lane asked. “Back when you were with the circus, I mean. Before you lived out here on your own.”
“Never liked being human much,” Morgulon shrugged. “Never felt right. Mother. Different. They worried, first, that I would. Be dangerous.”
“But you weren’t,” Lane said. “Are there others like you? Werewolves that were born, not bitten?”
“Now? Don’t think so.”
“Do you think it makes a difference?”
Morgulon tilted her head. “Difference how?”
“Well, you were able to fight all those Rot-creatures on that battlefield on full moon, and there must have been dozens of them. A few months ago, I watched another werewolf almost get killed by one single Rot-creature. He managed to destroy it, but it took him hours, and he got injured, too.”
“Young one,” Morgulon said, nodding along.
“Not that young,” Lane said. “He must have been seventeen or eighteen.”
“No. Young werewolf. Not young human.” She paused, forehead furrowed. “Strength of a hundred full moons,” she finally said. “And the Rot becomes...” She waved vaguely. “Queens are still hard, even now. But they’re rare. Thousand full moons, and even they become...” Morgulon shrugged.
Lane raised her eyebrows. “A thousand full moons?” she asked and tried to estimate what that meant. “You’d have to be a werewolf for what, eighty years? Ninety?”
“There was someone,” Morgulon said. “Someone like me. He’s gone now, but he protected the Torrent’s wellspring.”
“He protected the wellspring of the White Torrent?” Lane repeated. “Wait, is that why the river was never overtaken by the Rot?”
“Will be,” Morgulon said, shrugging. “Soon. The Old One died, a while ago.”
“Well, shit,” Lane muttered.
That explained a lot. The White Torrent was the second biggest river of Loegrion after the Savre and the only navigable stream of Loegrion that was free of the Rot. Or had been, at least. It passed right through the heartlands, cut Deva in half, and reached the sea at Deggan. Last time Lane had been in the capital, there had been no other topic of interest.
She’d have to let the duke know, but it would have to wait until they could actually meet.
Lane took the meat out of the fire and checked on the tin pot that she had filled with snow, to make tea. Morgulon was hesitant to accept a cup and then set it down on the ground. She didn’t drink it until it couldn’t be more than lukewarm. She was very enthusiastic about the grilled rabbit, though.
After they had eaten, Morgulon retreated into her snow hole, and Lane followed her after a moment of hesitation. The sun was already vanishing behind the mountainside, and it was getting cold, fast. Inside the shelter the werewolf had built, it was at least a little bit warmer.
“Bad night,” Morgulon muttered, while Lane tried to get comfortable. It was too early for her to go to sleep, so she sat, leaning against the back wall of the cave.
“Why is it a bad night?” Lane asked.
“Cold,” Morgulon sighed. “Outside. Very, very cold.”
Lane nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “When you killed my father,” she said because this might be her only chance to ask, “was that before or after you decided that it is stupid to kill for revenge?”
“After,” Morgulon said.
“So why did you do it?”
“No choice,” Morgulon sighed. “Too much hate. He followed. Everywhere. Paid others, too. Killed him. So they would forget me.”
“Do you know that they’re still telling stories about you?” Lane asked. “There’s no other werewolf who ever lived that long and escaped from so many hunters.”
“Tired,” Morgulon muttered, closing her eyes. “Tired of running.”
“It’s a good thing that Duke George Louis wants you alive, then,” Lane said.
A few minutes later, Morgulon was snoring softly. There was no sign, no hint at all, that she was still scared of Lane. Even though she was at her most vulnerable tonight.
Lane reached for her knife – her normal knife, with a blade of steel. She had left the silver one outside the cave, together with her crossbow and quiver. But tonight, even the steel blade would be deadly to Morgulon.
Lane sighed and threw the blade at the opposite wall of snow. It hit hilt first and tumbled to the ground.
Lane stared at it for a few seconds, but then got up to pick it up again. She threw it a second time with the same result, which annoyed her to no end. Granted, it wasn’t meant as a throwing knife, and she hadn’t practised in a while, but still. This was embarrassing.
Throwing the knife was a welcome distraction from all the other things that kept running through her mind in a circle. What Morgulon had said about her father. What Morgulon had said about her.
Lust is a strong smell.
When the knife finally got stuck in the snow like it was supposed to, Lane rubbed her face with her hand. She hadn’t even allowed her thoughts to wander in that direction, not once when she had seen the werewolf naked in her human form!
Lane glanced over to Morgulon, then back at the knife that was still stuck in the snow. She picked it up once again.
Abomination, she heard her father’s voice.
“You were worse,” Lane whispered into the cold air. It was still bright enough that she could see her breath turn into fog. “Weren’t you? That’s why you had to flee to Loegrion. Why you weren’t allowed to go through the first trial. Because you –“
Touched a child.
She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud, but that made no difference. She knew it was true. Because suddenly, it all made sense.
Lane waited for the anger to come, but she just felt cold. Lost.
After a while, she glanced over at Morgulon again. She should kill her. Kill the monster.
“The only godly desire you ever expressed,” her father whispered promptly. “Hold onto that hate. We’ll kill the werewolf, avenge your mother, and wash you clean of your sins in its blood.”
But the hate was gone, wasn’t it? Lane couldn’t even imagine shooting Morgulon, no more than she would shoot any other person in the street.
She threw the knife again.
When Lane woke up the next morning, Morgulon had rolled up to her, so that they were laying back to back. Lane sat up abruptly and brought some distance between them. The werewolf didn’t wake when she crawled out of the hole, closing the snow door behind herself that Morgulon had made. The air outside was completely dry and so cold that every breath hurt. Lane hurried to light the fire again and get a fresh pot of tea going.
Morgulon didn’t wake until noon. By that time, Lane was roasting the second rabbit she had shot yesterday. The smell of sizzling meat finally got her moving. The werewolf didn’t talk much, though, and transformed as soon as the slightest sliver of moon was visible again.
Three days later, they had left the Argentum Formation behind for good, and another day later they crossed the river Abhain. Lane stopped for the night at the road house on the western side of the heavily fortified bridge, high above the icy, dark, Rot-infested waters. Morgulon found her own way across.
After another two days of quick travel, they reached a fork in the road. Lane asked at the little village that sat right at the crossroads and was assured that both routes were lined with coaching inns and would take her across the Crucible Ridge. Lane picked the southern one since she had abandoned the plan to take Morgulon straight to Eoforwic.
They spent another full moon up in the mountains, and then the Winter Solstice, too. It was the first time in her life that Lane didn’t attend the Sun’s Rebirth Ceremonies at church. She tried to at least pray, but no words would come to her, so she just fasted.
Finally, they reached more densely populated areas which meant that soon, they were travelling mostly after dark, when everyone else was behind closed doors. The deeper they moved into what Lane considered civilized lands, the more nervous and impatient Morgulon seemed to become. Sometimes she went so far as to nudge Lane with her nose to make her walk faster, her ears constantly flicking back and forth.
“I only have two legs,” Lane sighed when Morgulon shoved her so hard that she nearly lost her balance. “And if you make me break one, I’m not likely to walk faster, either.”
Morgulon growled softly, and raised her head, sniffing the breeze, then shoving Lane again, even harder, as if she was trying to push her huge head between her legs from behind.
“What the – what is wrong with you?” Lane hissed, stumbling out of the way.
Morgulon threw her head around as if she was trying to point at something behind them. Lane stared at her.
“Are you – are you offering to carry me?” she finally asked.
Morgulon nodded vigorously, giving Lane another push.
“You’re crazy,” Lane said, but Morgulon just crouched down like a dog that had been told to lay down.
“This is insane, Morgulon,” Lane sighed, but after a moment, she stepped closer, and carefully swung one leg over Morgulon’s back.
“This would be less awkward if you weren’t laying down,” she muttered, so of course Morgulon jumped up to her feet and nearly threw Lane off again.
“Very funny,” Lane muttered, but she managed not to fall when Morgulon took off in a quick sort of trot. Lane could feel her teeth chatter together while she was trying to find a way to hold on without tearing Morgulon’s fur out. She had always hated riding bareback, and the werewolf’s gait wasn’t nearly as smooth as the Grey’s had been. They were moving a lot faster, that much was true, but they hadn’t yet gotten very far when Lane heard the howling. There was another werewolf nearby.
Morgulon started running.
“That one of the mad ones?” Lane asked quietly.
There was no answer, of course, but Morgulon didn’t even slow down to shake her head or nod. Which was probably as good as a yes. Besides, it was just a night after half-moon, and a sane werewolf would not be calling attention to themselves like that.
The howling came closer until Morgulon slowed down. There it was, another werewolf, just as tall as Morgulon, but heavier, wider in the shoulders. Probably stronger than Morgulon, Lane thought with a shudder. Its fur was darker around the muzzle. Or maybe wet. Or bloody.
The stranger moved sideways, circling Morgulon awkwardly as if its front half wanted to attack right away while the other half was more careful. Morgulon waited, eyes and ears fixed on the other werewolf, calm, now that the confrontation was unavoidable.
Lane reached for the crossbow she had slung across her back, which she kept loaded with silver when she wasn’t hunting for food. She trusted Morgulon to defend her against the Rot, but Lane wasn’t about to put her life into her paws when it was another werewolf.
The stranger leaned its head back and howled again, a shrill, piercing sound that didn’t sound like a regular wolf at all. Morgulon growled softly in warning, and to Lane’s surprise, the howling stopped, and the stranger retreated a couple of steps. It didn’t look like the other werewolf was even aware of Lane’s presence. Its full attention was on Morgulon. Suddenly, it jumped forward, but landed wrong, almost falling over and still looking as if its two halves wanted to go in two different directions. Its jaws were working and there was foam around its muzzle.
Stolen story; please report.
When Morgulon growled again, louder, it actually ran away a few yards, but then came looping back with a mad scream.
Lane’s shot hit it right in the eye.
It staggered a couple of steps further, and then collapsed, almost silently. Morgulon walked up to the body slowly, sniffed it, and shook her head with a sigh. She circled the body, still swinging her head left and right, and eventually stopped, ears flickering, head raised into the icy breeze. Then she went down on her belly.
Lane obediently jumped to the ground, and before she could say anything, explain anything, Morgulon took off. Lane cursed silently and stared after her. She clamped her teeth together over the urge to call for her, to scream the werewolf’s name. She wasn’t going to apologize for defending her own life, no way. But maybe she should at least follow the werewolf? Trail her, so that she’d be close when she calmed down?
Just as she was about to step into the darkness between the trees, she finally noticed the sound of hooves on the frozen ground.
Lane spun around, her heart suddenly beating high in her throat. There were other hunters in this forest with them. Morgulon hadn’t left because she was angry, but because she trusted Lane to cover for her.
Lane pulled out her silver knife, stepped closer to the dead werewolf, and tried to remember what she would be doing if she were in this forest alone, to actually hunt. Only she wouldn’t be in this forest alone, because hunting a mad werewolf on foot, in a forest she didn’t know, was reckless even by her standards.
She took a deep breath and cut the werewolf’s throat because that was routine. That was something she should have done right away, to make sure the monster was truly dead.
Blood welled out of the wound and sizzled on the silver blade, just as four riders appeared from between the trees, three of them armed with crossbows, one with a pistol. Lane’s heart sank. She knew two of these guys, Little Roy and Big Bart. They didn’t just sound like a circus act, they hunted like one, too. Bart was a decent enough guy outside of the forest, but he sat on his poor horse like a man who had learned to ride only yesterday, and Roy...
Lane called him Little Rat in her own mind, because he wasn’t above the occasional swindle if he thought he could get away with it. Thought himself a big inventor, but half the stuff he came up with was completely useless, and the other half often more dangerous than helpful. The pistol was a point in case. What good was a weapon, no matter how high its penetration power, that would alert not only the prey you were currently hunting but every other living thing for miles about your exact position? For war, sure, for war firearms were useful. But that was because killing humans was easy.
Lane ran her knife through the fur of the werewolf to get most of the blood off and straightened up.
She was fairly sure that she had met one of the other hunters as well, the tall, lean one with the long hair pulled back in a ponytail. She couldn’t remember his name, though. The last one was hardly more than a boy, rather short and stocky, who was looking around nervously. Probably on his first hunt.
“Hey!” Big Bart called, when he saw Lane, and climbed cumbersomely out of the saddle. “What do you think you’re doing? That was our...”
He broke off when he recognized Lane.
“Miss – I mean Madame?”, he asked. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know you had taken this contract, too.”
“I hadn’t,” Lane said. “I didn’t realize there was one. That bastard killed my horse.”
Everybody stared at her after that.
“It – killed your horse?” Big Bart asked. “Are you saying you went after it on foot?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to let it get away with that,” Lane gave back coolly, trying to sound as aloof as she possibly could, hoping that it would stop them from asking for more details. She wasn’t even sure where exactly they were, and she had no idea what route the dead werewolf had followed, so if they asked her where she had lost her horse, the best she’d be able to say would be something like “two villages back,” and hope that the other hunters hadn’t been on its tail there.
“You followed a werewolf on foot,” Little Rat repeated. “And you killed it.” He sounded a little faint.
Lane shrugged, trying to look like nothing about this was unusual for her.
“Well, damn,” muttered Little Rat.
The youngest of the group was already eying the dead werewolf. “Right in the eye,” he announced.
At which point the man with the long ponytail raised a horn to his lips and gave a short signal.
“How many werewolves are you after?” Lane asked, trying to sound casual. Morgulon might be in trouble if these people were expecting a pack.
“Just this one,” Little Roy said. “Been a tricky, one, though.”
Lane nodded. “Who put up the bounty?” she asked.
“You really haven’t heard about that?” Little Roy asked. “His Excellency himself, High Inquisitor d’Evier.”
“I hadn’t heard, no,” Lane managed to say. “I was following a different trail, up in the mountains. I didn’t know that the Inquisitor was back in Loegrion.”
Inside her head, she wanted to scream. D’Evier back in Loegrion, that was just about the worst news imaginable. Everybody in the country, Loegrians and Valoise alike, had been relieved when the High Inquisitor had returned to the capital of Valoir. He was absolutely merciless in his thrive for power, and a fanatic to boot, so unlike his predecessors, he didn’t focus on the rest of the Empire, and kept trying to advance the Inquisition’s cause in Loegrion. The worst thing was, that one could never be sure which urge would win out. D’Evier might spare someone who was guilty of a deadly sin, or he might have somebody tortured to death for the slightest transgression, depending on whether or not he considered that person useful. What he did consider useful, however, seemed completely arbitrary to Lane.
So far, d’Evier had not sent the Inquisition after Duke George Louis, but Lane was fairly sure that it was just a matter of time. She really didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.
But it was too late for that, wasn’t it? She had saved Morgulon, and she had no intention of handing her over to d’Evier, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe not even to the duke.
Lane noticed how Big Bart and Little Roy looked at each other, and a shudder ran down her spine. She had taken their kill, and then she’d been dumb enough to tell them that nobody was likely to miss her for a while. And it was so easy to get yourself killed when hunting werewolves.
“Perhaps we can offer you some help in getting the creature into town,” Little Rat said. “And share the profits?”
Lane tried not to sigh in relief and instead look like she considered the offer. She hadn’t expected to make any money at all until she got back home, but she was really low on silver, after the long journey and trying to keep Morgulon fed.
“I would be willing to split half and half,” she said after a moment. She expected the men to haggle about it, especially since she had no hope in hell of getting the dead body out of the forest on her own, but Big Bart just said:
“You are most generous, Madame.”
Even the little Rat looked relieved. How good was the price for this one?
Before she could ask, two more riders came down the road.
“You got it?” one of them asked. “Finally.”
“We didn’t,” Big Bart said. “Lady deLande beat us to it.”
“She’s willing to share the profit, though,” Little Roy added quickly. “Since she’s on foot.”
“On foot?” repeated the newcomer.
“The bloody beast killed my horse,” Lane said, waving vaguely into the direction from which she and Morgulon had come. “I wasn’t going to just let it walk away after that.”
The newcomer who hadn’t spoken yet said: “We should get a move on. We found tracks of at least one other werewolf, and there were no other bounties in the area. I checked, and I don’t want to risk my life for a general warrant.”
“Kilby is right,” said Big Bart. “Let’s get this mess packed.”
The werewolf was tied to a long branch so it wouldn’t drag over the ground and ruin the pelt when Bart and the man with the long hair shouldered the wood. Lane climbed onto the horse behind Kilby, and off they were.
When she looked over her shoulder, Lane was almost certain that she could see the faint glow of a pair of golden eyes in the pitch black underneath the trees.
“Everything all right behind us?” Kilby asked when Lane craned her neck for the third or fourth time.
“Yes, it’s all good,” Lane said. “I thought I had seen something, but must have been a trick of the shadows.”
Kilby looked over his shoulder as well. “I have some extra bolts,” he said, “if you need some. I swear, there’s at least one other werewolf out there, I saw the tracks.”
“Thanks,” Lane said. “I’m good.”
She knew that there was another werewolf behind them, but she still replaced the quarrel she had fired and tightened the string again. Just in case, and also to keep up appearance.
No werewolf showed its fangs, though, and Lane hated it. She hated leaving Morgulon behind without knowing when and where they could meet again, hated letting her out of her sight.
When the morning dawned, they reached Northwold, a good-sized town that was surrounded by a bunch of smaller villages. A large cathedral towered over the quaint city centre. Industrialization hadn’t yet turned all the houses black, but it was just a matter of time. Down by the river, there were factories sprouting up, weavers mostly, if Lane remembered correctly.
The town was already wide awake when they passed the gates, and people stopped to stare at the dead werewolf. Several of them made the sign against evil.
They rode straight down the main road, towards the cathedral. In its shadow stood the town hall, which included the Imperial magistrate for the county. They put the dead werewolf down in the small square in front of the huge building with its excessive decorations. Guards stepped forward to keep away the people who were already gathering.
One of them led Lane and Little Roy inside, to the door of the responsible bailiff. There was some back and forth, because Lane hadn’t been officially on this contract, and the bailiff claimed that therefore she could only collect the general warrant. Lane didn’t really give a damn either way, but Roy did some fast-talking, and suddenly she was officially a subcontractor of his and Bart’s.
“Only for this hunt,” Roy assured her softly.
The bailiff didn’t look happy, but he pushed his fat bottom out of his chair. “Let’s go see if it’s even the right werewolf,” he grumbled.
The bailiff made a show of comparing the dead creature to the warrant, but of course it was the right werewolf. Big Bart and Little Roy weren’t entirely useless.
The headsman was already standing by with his huge axe, the dead body was propped up, and a big cheer went up when the head fell. Lane never quite understood this part; after all, the werewolf had been dead for hours. But the spectators cheered as if something huge had been accomplished before their very eyes. A procession followed the two guards who picked up the head to put it onto one of the spikes in the centre of the market square. Still grumbling, the bailiff handed over the reward, and when Lane saw the chest full of silver, she understood why Roy and Bart had been so eager to get this contract.
They split the silver half and half, just as Lane had said. The four hunters Little Roy and Big Bart had hired to help out each got a share as well. They actually looked quite happy.
“Are you going to buy a new horse now, Milady?” Big Bart wanted to know, as she bagged the money.
Lane considered it. “I might,” she said slowly. “Only if there is a good one on offer, though. I’ve got a young mare back at home, all trained and ready, and I can always take the coach, if necessary.”
She kneeled down next to the headless corpse, to start skinning it. The fur was grey, and white and black, just like Morgulon’s, and Lane could feel her fingers shake when she put the knife to the thick skin. Which made no sense at all. This wasn’t Morgulon. It was one of the mad ones. Hell, Morgulon hadn’t even tried to stop her from killing this creature.
She still felt dirty as she carefully cut along the inside of the legs. The less damage there was to the pelt, the more money it would fetch. And if the huge paws were still attached, even better. Lane pulled the claws, though. Those would sell separately, alchemists paid even more for them than the tanners. For the customer, they’d be replaced with horn, cut to look like claws, and the buyer would never be the wiser.
“Want a hand?” Big Bart asked.
“I’m good,” Lane said curtly, though she could feel a cold sweat forming on her forehead. She wanted the other hunters to go away, to leave her alone, so she could sell the pelt and get out of town, to find Morgulon, and be on her way.
Hell, she should just leave the bloody pelt.
But the fur was worth a lot of money, just like the claws, and people would talk if she just left it behind. It was one thing to be out hunting on foot without backup, that was daring, or foolhardy, maybe a little fanatic. But leaving a perfectly good pelt behind was just plain insane, and people would talk.
They would talk in any case, but Lane was okay with being known as a crazy fanatic who hated werewolves so much that she risked her life to avenge a dead horse on foot. With people knowing that she was badass enough to pull it off. That way, at least people weren’t likely to believe that she was riding home on the back of the legendary Morgulon. Or that she would support Duke George Louis and his mad schemes.
Lane looked up because her name was called. A young woman was standing over her, about her age, Lane guessed, with the just slightly darker, olive tinted skin and black hair of the native Valoise. She was holding a notebook and a pencil and looked at Lane with a slightly worried expression.
“Countess deLande?” she repeated. “Is that correct?”
Lane ignored her. She hated talking to the press. If they needed a story with lots of blood and gore, they could go talk to the hangman. Or the constabulary. Or Little Roy.
“Lady deLande, is it true that you chased and killed this werewolf on foot? Or is that an exaggeration of your partners?”
“They’re not my partners,” Lane groused. “I ran into them in the forest, after I had killed the werewolf. They just helped me bring in the kill.”
“But you hunted on foot?”
Lane sighed. “It killed my horse, and I wasn’t going to let it get away with that.”
“Where did it kill your horse?”
Lane gritted her teeth, cursing herself for not keeping her mouth shut. “I don’t know, exactly,” she said. “I was on the trail of a different werewolf, somewhere deep in the forest.”
“And how did you survive the vicious attack?”
Lane sighed. “I came across a group of charcoal burners, I got out of the saddle to talk to them, find out if they had seen or heard anything when this mad bastard here jumped out of the brush and dragged my horse away.”
“You say ‘mad bastard.’ Can you tell our readers how they can recognize a mad werewolf?”
Lane stared at the woman, who was clearly a little mad herself. “If it attacks them in their homes and it’s not full moon, it’s a safe bet that it’s as mad as a march hare.”
“And outside? How could you tell that this one was mad, and not just hungry? Or did it attack you, or the charcoal burners?”
“I didn’t see it attack anyone but my horse,” Lane gave back. “But I know it was mad, because I killed it, alone, in the forest, on foot. If it had had half a brain left, it could have easily gotten away from me, but instead of just running as hard as it could, it kept going back and forth. Look, if you want to know the details about all the people this monster killed, go talk to Big Bart and Little Roy.”
“Thank you. I shall do that.”
Lane shook her head and went back to her work. At least her hands had stopped shaking.
Lane should have known better than to send the woman to Little Rat for a story. Hours later, when she had finally managed to sell the hide for a decent price to a tanner and found a horse that would get her home, the evening issue of the city courier was just being sold. The headline read: “MAD CHASE: the monster of Northwold killed by Lady deLande ON FOOT.” The layout, admittedly, had been quite cleverly done. From a distance, it just read: “Mad chase on foot.” What followed was a lurid tale full of details Lane had never invented herself and came probably from Roy, who, unsurprisingly, had played a much bigger part in bringing down the monster than Lane remembered. It ended with: “The good citizens of Northwold, and indeed, all of Loegrion can rest peacefully. Brave and beautiful Countess Lane deLande and her faithful companions, Little Roy and Big Bart, are tirelessly on the tail of even the most dangerous creatures.”
The word ‘brave’ could be found no less than six times in the text, along with ‘daring’, ‘dashing,’ and of course ‘handsome.’ Roy was nothing if not vain.
Lane groaned and rubbed her face. She could only hope that the City Courier didn’t have much of a readership. Because otherwise, the Feleke brothers would never let her live it down that she had needed or even accepted help from the Little Rat and his sidekick.
And the worst part was that it was too late to leave the city now. Dusk was already falling, and after that article, people might notice if she left for the forest right now. Better if she didn’t draw any more attention to herself.
For a long time, Lane just stood on the sidewalk, patting the nose of her new horse and staring up into the purple sky, trying to convince herself that it would be okay. Morgulon was smart, she’d be fine, she was safe in the forest. Kilby might know that there was a werewolf out there, but there was no way he would ever catch up with Morgulon. No one had managed for over thirty years. Lane had only managed by sheer luck. And if she couldn’t kill a werewolf, then nobody could, short of, maybe, the Feleke Four.
Why was she so worried, anyway? It was just a werewolf, damn it.
But it wasn’t just a werewolf anymore. Morgulon would never be “just a werewolf” again. Morgulon was – Lane wasn’t sure what she was. Calling her a friend seemed wrong, Morgulon wasn’t quite human enough for that, except...
Plenty of people called their dog their friend, didn’t they?
How would Morgulon react, if she knew that Lane compared her to a dog? But she’d probably just huff and repeat that humans were weird. Lane could see it, easily, Morgulon, not quite looking at her, but shrugging, could hear the exact tone of her voice as she spoke the words.
Lane froze. Sun, she was in trouble, wasn’t she?
After a while, Lane realized that people were staring at her, so she climbed into the saddle, and went to find a place to spend the night. She knew where she was going without having to think about it. Northwold was one of those towns at the border between the densely populated and intensely agriculturally used flat areas of the heartlands and the much harsher, mountainous regions. So it had a few hotels catering especially to trappers, silver miners, and other people who only came in from the wild for short periods of time, who, while not necessarily the most refined of characters, still wanted to live like kings for those few days. Especially since they had the money to pay for it.
Lane had always preferred the loud, boisterous atmosphere of those places over the posh, stuck-up hotels that tried to mimic the life at the Imperial courts and insisted on the same etiquette. There were or course plenty of cheaper places to spend the night, too, but Lane didn’t want to miss the comfort. Just the attitude.
She really, really did not want to be a lady tonight.
Her father would have called the Beaver Tail a cesspit, a hotbed of vice and fornication, and would never have set foot in there.
Or maybe, if Morgulon was right, he would just never have admitted to setting foot in there.
A few months ago, Lane would have entered with a latent bad conscience, and the promise of a big sacrificial offering as soon as she was home. She could still almost feel her father’s disapproving eyes on her, preaching to her about lust, and sin, and how just one step off the path of righteousness might damn a soul for all eternity.
“For this is our sanctification,” he used to say in that grave voice that had always made her giggle as a child, “that we abstain from sexual immorality; that we know how to maintain our own bodies in holiness and honour, not let them be consumed in the maelstrom and passion of lust.”
Today, it made her grin somewhat bitterly. Her life had been saved by a werewolf, a creature cursed by grand Mithras to suffer for all eternities in the icy pits of the deepest damnation, a creature all the righteous should kill on sight. And she hadn’t just not killed it but saved its life in return. What was a little lust compared to that?
Besides, it was perfectly possible to do both, at the same time. She could spend hours watching the whores, while still maintaining the “holiness” of her own body. All without feeling the need to burn the place down.
She asked for a room and dropped off her coat and what little else she carried with her. Northwold had hot, thermal springs, so she had a quick dinner and then went downstairs. The baths filled the whole basement, several rooms, some of them warm, some cold. There were divan beds for the guests to rest on, and stoves in most corners, heating big stones. Scantily-clad girls, and some young men, poured water and fragrant oils over the stones to fill the rooms with steam, served drinks, offered massages, danced to the music, and fulfilled whatever other wishes the guests might have.
Lane smiled a little wistfully to herself as she got out of her clothes but kept a knife in a sheath tied to her ankle, just in case. As she wrapped herself in a towel provided by the Beaver’s Tail, she wondered if Morgulon had ever, or in the past twenty years, had had a real bath, one with hot water, where she could lay all the way down, not sit in a trough and make do with a washcloth. Or worse, rub herself in snow to get clean, as she had done on new moon. Lane really wished she could show the werewolf all this.
But there’d be a panic, at the very least, if she brought Morgulon here, and she wasn’t even sure how Morgulon would like this, the crowd, the noise from the gambling tables, the music, the heat, the press of naked bodies all around, often half-hidden in the steam. Lust was a strong smell, the werewolf had said. But was it a good smell? Or would the whole room be reeking to Morgulon?
Lane found a free bench seat and dropped her towel, before climbing into the water. As soon as she did, a young girl appeared to ask what she wanted to drink and if she needed anything else. Lane ordered wine but declined all other offers, and then settled down for a nice, long soak. And then some more wine. For once, the serving girls were barely catching her eyes. Instead, she found herself wondering if perhaps she could buy more sweets to bribe Morgulon into turning human, just for an hour or two. Northwold would have a lot more variety on offer than the inns up in the highlands. She could get some of everything, find out what Morgulon liked best. She was looking forward to new moon, somehow.
Lane found herself back in her room earlier than she had expected, alone, and a lot less drunk, too. In the past, when she had come to the Beaver, it had been for a night or two of wanton abandon, of too much of everything, and that generally included regret the morning after.
This time, she wasn’t even hungover, so she got up early, had the new horse saddled, and left for the intersection close to the centre of town where the confectioners, sweet shops, and chocolatiers had their shops. After a quick look around it became clear that “getting some of everything” was out of the question; there was no way Lane could transport that much food. Especially not the delicate creations sold here. After a moment of consideration, Lane picked three different shops that looked promising. The plan was to get a small selection from each shop, but it was hard to choose just a little when it all looked so good. And she wasn’t even particularly fond of sweets.
Lane stared at the large parcel and considered leaving it at that. But Morgulon would need more sustenance, so she went on towards the nearest butchery. And then a bakery, too.
Despite her early start, it was almost noon by the time Lane left Northwold, packs full of food on her back, and tied to the saddle. Enough for a month, or at least a couple of weeks, if it were just her. As it was, Lane would be surprised if the supplies she had bought lasted until full moon.
She still should have gotten less. The pack was so heavy, the horse was tired by the time she reached the forest where she had last seen Morgulon. Once she stood underneath the bare trees, she didn’t have to ride very far. Morgulon found her quickly. Lane had to get out of the saddle and calm the panicked horse before it threw her off. Morgulon said hello by bumping her huge head into Lane’s chest for a quick greeting, and then promptly began to sniff out the packs of food. The horse rolled its eyes but didn’t run away.
“Want some?” Lane asked, and tried to sound nonchalantly about it. “I brought some more tuck. That’s what it’s called around here, right? Have you ever eaten chocolate?”
She had expected Morgulon to nod or shake her head, but to Lane’s surprise and secret delight, the werewolf took a couple of steps forward, and somehow, between the first and the second, the huge creature flowed together into her human form.
She was holding out her hand before it had fully re-formed as a hand and stumbled a little over her missing two paws. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes were huge, and Lane grinned.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” she said and dug into her bags.
Morgulon stared at the clothes she offered her, then sighed, and took them. Putting them on was a struggle, as usual.
Lane smiled but looked around. “Let’s get off the road,” she said, and Morgulon nodded, somewhat reluctantly. She still wasn’t talking but took the lead. Apparently, she had a destination in mind, deeper in the forest than Lane had expected. She was happy to carry some of the food, though, so Lane didn’t mind following her for nearly an hour, even though the trees were too dense to ride. Eventually, they reached a cave, quite a deep hole in the side of a hill, the entrance narrow enough that it should be fairly easy to warm the air inside. Morgulon looked at her questioningly and put down the pack outside.
“Are you all right?” Lane asked.
Morgulon nodded. “Food, please,” she whispered after a moment.
“Sweets first or bread and ham first?” Lane asked. When Morgulon didn’t answer, she pulled out the fresh bread she had gotten them, butter, and a large piece of ham. Morgulon started ripping pieces out of the loaf before Lane was finished.
“Did you see anyone out here?” Lane asked while she tied the horse to a tree, giving it some feed as well.
Morgulon hesitated for a long time, chewing slowly, but eventually nodded, swallowing hard, and pointed at herself.
Lane frowned. “Another werewolf?”
Morgulon nodded.
“Trouble?” Lane asked. “Should I...”
She broke off when Morgulon shook her head violently.
“All right,” Lane said. “I’ll leave them alone.”
Morgulon relaxed visibly at those words, and Lane sat down opposite from her, pulling her knees to her chest. Trying to make herself less threatening, which was ridiculous – she was pretty sure Morgulon could transform and kill her easily before she could grab the crossbow she had put down with the food. Within arms’ reach, but still.
And yet, Morgulon appeared to have been worried on behalf of this unknown werewolf.
“A sane one, I take it?” Lane asked, doing her best to sound like she really wasn’t all that interested.
Morgulon nodded. Since she still wasn’t talking, Lane told her about Big Bart and Little Roy, and the newspaper article. That finally brought a small smile to Morgulon’s face.
“Are you all right?” Lane asked when Morgulon went back to concentrating on her food.
She had to wait a long time until Morgulon finally asked: “Eoforwic?”
Her jaws were working like she was trying to force out more words, but then she just began drawing lines into the cold earth.
Lane considered the question. “I said we’d go there, is that what you mean?”
Morgulon nodded.
“Right,” Lane said. “Sorry, I should have told you about that. I’ve changed my mind. I sent Duke George Louis a letter, to let him know that I’m taking you home. To where I live, when I’m not hunting.”
Morgulon tilted her head and looked at Lane quizzically.
“Why?” Lane smiled wryly. “The duke already has a werewolf who works for him. Guy’s name is Gregory Feleke. I think I’ve mentioned him before. He used to be a werewolf hunter, like his whole family, but got bitten early last spring and has worked for the railway since then. He protected the workers who built the line from Eoforwic to Sheaf. He originally signed up with a crew just to get out, get away from populated areas, but they got attacked by the Rot before his first full moon with them. These workers, they actually asked him to stay, even after they knew. Duke George Louis, he didn’t find out about it until after the line was finished. That’s when he met Greg and sent me and Greg’s family out to find other sane werewolves.”
Lane shrugged. “Anyway. My point is, Greg isn’t like you. Like, at all. You could meet him, and think he’s as ordinary as the next guy. And I’m worried whether Duke George Louis realizes that a sane werewolf isn’t necessarily like that. If he did, he probably wouldn’t have asked us to bring all stable werewolves we find straight to Eoforwic.
You don’t need to worry,” Lane added quickly because Morgulon had put her bread down, looking scared. “There’s a big stretch of forest where I live, nobody ever goes there. There’s an old battlefield nearby, and, well, there’s a lot of the Rot. It’ll be safe, and I’ll make sure you’ve got enough to eat, don’t worry. The duke can come there, meet you, we’ll show him that you aren’t one of the mad ones. He can decide whether he wants you on the railway. And if not, well, it’d be great if you can drive the Rot out of my forest.”
Morgulon picked at her bread, pulling out the soft innards from the crust, nodding slowly.
Lane hesitated. “Do you think – could you keep the White Torrent free of the Rot?”
“Yes,” Morgulon said softly, and Lane found herself smiling at that little word because it was an unnecessary word. But apparently, Morgulon was calming down a little. “Want me?”
“That’s – it’s not that easy,” Lane sighed. “Duke George Louis, he – he will decide what he wants you to do. And me, too,” she had to admit.
“Shoot me?”
Lane frowned. “Did I shoot you because he wanted me too? When I first found you?”
Morgulon shook her head. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then made a fist and opened that again, staring into the forest, visibly frustrated. Her forehead was carved with deep lines.
“No,” she said and repeated the word. “No.” That small word seemed to unlock more, and she added: “What if. Now. He says: shoot me?”
“He won’t,” Lane said. “That wouldn’t – Duke George Louis wants – he wants to become king of Loegrion. He hasn’t outright said it, but it’s pretty clear that he’s after the crown. But that means he first has to drive out the Valoise. And to do that, he has to find a way to fight the Rot, because otherwise, even if he can put together a bigger army than they, they’ll just raise the Rot and the duke will be turned over to the Inquisition.”
“You,” Morgulon pointed out. “Valoise.”
“Yeah, well, he – he knows things about me, stuff that would – would get me killed, too. I can’t prove that he’s planning a rebellion, and he – he’s powerful. And he’s got powerful friends. So he roped me into finding werewolves for him, even though I didn’t think it was really possible. Until you saved my life and killed those Rot creatures in the mountains.”
Lane shrugged. “You’re probably the oldest werewolf in all of Loegrion right now. He needs you. He may not want you on the railway, because he needs to find a lot of people to build that, and you might scare them. But there are a lot of other places where he can still use your help. Use your power. You said the werewolf who defended the well of the White Torrent had seen a thousand full moons. There’s nobody even close to that age, as far as we know. But Duke George Louis will be very interested in keeping the river free, so he might want you to try. Or he might even send you all the way to the source of the Savre.”
Lane thought about it. “Or maybe not. The source of the Savre is probably too far away. He’ll want you closer, in case the Valoise come after him. Hell, he might even want you as a sort of bodyguard, eventually.”
“Chocolate?” Morgulon asked, hopeful, when Lane fell silent.
Lane grinned about that and pulled out the sweets. “I brought more, this time,” she said.
The werewolf stared at the three parcels. “Lots,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know what you might like,” Lane said.
Morgulon huffed a laugh. “Food,” she pointed out. “I like food. All.”
Lane shrugged. “Figured you might like some things more than others.”
Morgulon seemed to find that funny. Lane grinned, too, about her excitement. She started building a fire since it was getting dark already, while Morgulon tried different sweets.
“Duke,” Morgulon said suddenly. “You say. He wants king. Be king?”
“He wants to be king of Loegrion, yes,” Lane said.
“How?” Morgulon asked. “Before Greg. How?”
“I don’t really know,” Lane said. “I think his plan was completely based on the railway. You see, if he could get a line built all the way across the mountains, from the east to the west coast, he could open up so much land. All the gold people think is up there could be his, and even if there is no gold, he would control the trade. He wouldn’t just get rich, he would also make a lot of people dependent on himself.”
“But. Mannin? Sheaf?”
Lane couldn’t help herself, she had to laugh so hard at herself, she couldn’t answer right away.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Morgulon glared at her. “It’s not a funny question, really, it’s just – I keep wondering how much you even understand, and then you pick up a detail like that.”
Morgulon huffed again but kept staring at Lane from the corner of her eye.
“Sorry,” Lane repeated. “Sheaf was a test, I think. And I also heard somebody say that the company needed the iron that’s smelted in Sheaf, to make the rails.”
“Preparation,” Morgulon said.
“Yes, probably,” Lane confirmed.
“Duke,” Morgulon continued. “Honest?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Lane said. “But I don’t know him all that well.”
“Greedy?”
“Greedy for power.”
“Count on that?”
“Yes, you can count on that,” Lane said, smiling wryly.
“So. I help, he protect?”
“He’ll protect you, yes. As long as he considers you useful, he’ll do his best to keep you alive. He’ll throw you to the wolves to save his own hide, though.”
Morgulon smiled at that. “Rot,” she said. “Me. Always useful.”
Lane smiled, too.
“Old plan, railway,” Morgulon continued. “Many, many years, yes?”
“Yes,” Lane said. “The duke’s old plan would likely have taken decades. I think that’s why the Valoise have allowed him to continue. They aren’t really worried about it yet, and in the meantime, they will profit from his railways as much as everyone else.”
Morgulon nodded. “One werewolf, help. More werewolves, much faster, yes?”
“I don’t know how many more sane werewolves there even are,” Lane said. “But I bet the duke will try to find as many as possible, yes, to speed things up.”
Morgulon thought about that for a long time, studying the piece of candied fruit she was holding. “War?” she finally asked.
“What about war?”
There was another long pause. “You say Valoise don’t act. Because no danger. But with werewolves? More danger.”
Lane thought about that. Morgulon was right, unfortunately. If Duke George Louis found enough werewolves to pose a significant danger, the Empire would act. Decisively.
“I guess he’ll try to keep it all a secret,” Lane said slowly. “But I don’t know. He doesn’t exactly tell me the details of his plans. Are you still going to help?”
Morgulon nodded. “Valoise gone. No more Church. Means a chance for us. To get left alone.”
“I see,” Lane said quietly. It was true, probably. The Church was often the only entity that put up bounties on sane werewolves. And without the base prize that the Empire paid for every dead werewolf, the only reason to go after a sane one would be the price of the pelt. A lot of hunters would think twice if that was worth the risk. Some might even stop hunting altogether.
Morgulon was picking her way through an assortment of biscuits and didn’t speak anymore. Lane wasn’t surprised. She had talked a lot. The werewolf seemed to be less worried about the fire than she had been when they had first met, too.
They reached Warden Hall two days after the next new moon, late at night, when hopefully all the servants were fast asleep. There weren’t that many to begin with, since Lane was hardly ever home. A handful of guards would be on duty, too, but she knew exactly where they would be patrolling, and it wasn’t hard to avoid them. Lane placed her new horse in one of the paddocks of the estate. Morgulon followed her, human, because it was easier, and very obviously uncomfortable.
“Are we – breaking in?” she asked after one of the guards had walked past them and around a corner.
“It’s my house,” Lane said. “I don’t think that counts as breaking in.”
“Climbing the wall?”
“Would you rather introduce yourself?” Lane hissed back.
Morgulon shuddered but followed Lane without another word. They did, in fact, climb the wall, slipped through the kitchen garden, and in through the kitchen door. It didn’t so much as creak, the hinges well oiled.
“Your house?” Morgulon asked when Lane put the keys away.
“Yes,” Lane replied. “Why are you sounding so surprised?”
Morgulon shrugged. “Your father,” she said, while they climbed the dark stairs. “Lay priest.”
Lane turned around to stare at her. Morgulon was so nervous, she was almost vibrating out of her own skin – literally. She seemed to have serious troubles to keep her human form, her lower arms and hands shifting visibly even in the low light, fingers growing and shrinking, fur drawing a pattern on her skin and vanishing again.
Lane shook her head. There was probably no point in asking her where she had heard that, not right now, so Lane continued up the stairs.
“Father was born noble,” she explained. “But he was the youngest of three brothers, and there was nothing for him to inherit. So he was sent away to become a priest. He never said what happened next, but it was pretty clear that he didn’t come to Loegrion because he enjoyed the climate here so much. He never got to go through the first trial, anyway, so yeah, technically he was only a lay priest. He was a zealot, though, and a good preacher. A bit of an ascetic. I guess that’s what impressed my mother. She was a countess, this land was hers. She had to marry to keep it, so perhaps father’s low rank was appealing, too. Gave her more influence than if she had married someone higher born.”
Lane opened the door to her bedroom. “There we are.”
Morgulon looked around the generous suite. Another shudder shook her body, fur sprouting all over her skin and vanishing again within a heartbeat.
“Stay here?” she asked. She did not sound happy.
Lane sighed inwardly. She had known that this was a bad idea, and still hadn’t been able to stop herself. “We won’t make it all the way to the safe parts of the forest tonight,” she said. “It’s just for the day. I’ll get you out of here tomorrow, soon as it’s dark.”
Morgulon’s face said quite clearly that she would have preferred an unsafe part of the forest over spending a whole day indoors.
“I’ll round up some food, how about that?” Lane asked.
Morgulon was still hesitating, which just showed how freaked out she was.
“Half a deer,” Lane offered. At which point Morgulon breathed out in relief, shredding the clothes Lane had given her, as she transformed.
“Right,” Lane said. “I’ll be right back.”
She closed the door behind herself and stopped at the landing, listening for a few seconds. There was no sound beyond her own too-quick breathing. She really should have just taken Morgulon to the forest. If one of the maids ran into her, someone would have a heart attack, and Lane wasn’t sure who it would be. Morgulon did not like being indoors. At all.
Lane shook her head and walked downstairs, not bothering to be quiet. Everyone was fast asleep, and most of the servants slept in a different part of the building anyway. She had thought the biggest issue would be keeping Morgulon hidden, and that wasn’t such a big issue after all. She could always hide Morgulon in the dressing room, which she never used and therefore got dusted only once a week. She hadn’t expected Morgulon’s reaction to be the far bigger issue.
Lane sighed softly. She had half hoped she could keep Morgulon around, at least until Duke George Louis demanded her help on the line to Mannin. They could make some room, down in the coal cellar, close the trapdoors, it would be fine for full moon. The people working here were long since used to crazy. With her father, it had been the introduction of obscure fast days he had made everybody observe, overly strict sumptuary laws, prayer times that would change with his moods, ceremonies he would sometimes force them, sometimes forbid them from attending. After his death, Lane knew she hadn’t been much better, sometimes demanding that everybody upheld the strict rules her father had set, sometimes yelling at them just for mentioning Léon deLande.
Later, it had been the awkward attempts at flirting with the girls and women on staff, especially after a bottle of wine, which even Lane would have liked to forget. And always the dirty, bloody clothes, strange injuries, the fights she got into with guests, when they wouldn’t take no for an answer, the all around inappropriate behaviour for a lady.
It could have worked. If the servants hadn’t turned her over to the Inquisition yet, they likely wouldn’t do it for bringing a werewolf into the household, especially once they saw what Morgulon did to the Rot.
But it would only work if Morgulon was willing, and it didn’t look like she was. A frightened werewolf was a lot scarier than a happy one.
Lane reached the cold cellar underneath the kitchen, were in a corner, meat was hanging to ripen. Mr. Alby the gamekeeper regularly turned in his kills, and there was, in fact, half a deer hanging there. Lane took it down and grabbed herself a bottle of gin on the way out.
Morgulon had hidden herself behind the large four-poster bed, which was actually big enough to shield her from view, at least to anybody standing in the door. The torn clothes on the floor, of course, were not exactly inconspicuous. When Lane came in, the werewolf raised her head, eager for the meat, but hesitant to come out of her corner.
Lane put down the game right by the door, because a half deer was bloody heavy, and watched how Morgulon skulked up to it, ears flicking and nose working as if she expected a trap. Then she grabbed it with her teeth and pulled it with her, but instead of eating, she laid down, sniffed one of the carpets, got up again, and dragged the half deer a little further. Finally, she turned to Lane, head slanted, and pawed at the floor.
She had to repeat the gesture before Lane got it. “You are – you are worried about the rugs?” she finally asked, a little incredulous. “Right. Here.” Lane pulled one of them away, revealing the ancient oak floors underneath. There was already a stain there, probably from when somebody had dropped a pot of gleaming ash. Lane had forgotten about that, but Morgulon placed the deer right on top of it.
“It’s fine,” Lane sighed. “I swear it is, don’t worry about the bloody floor. Or about getting the floor bloody.”
Morgulon growled softly and finally sunk her teeth into the meat. Lane sat down in one of the armchairs by the cold fireplace and opened her bottle. The sound of Morgulon chewing through bone should have been disturbing, but somehow wasn’t. She could sleep to that sound, actually. And Morgulon was calming down as well.
“Should I get you something to drink as well?” Lane asked, and took a sip of gin.
Morgulon’s ears flicked, but she never looked up.
Lane looked around the room. “Are you fine with drinking from a flower pot? Right, of course you are.”
Morgulon didn’t look up, when Lane left the room again and walked down to the kitchen a second time. There was still some water there, from the little well outside. She filled a carafe, and back in her room poured the water into a large flower pot. Morgulon lapped some but quickly returned to her meal.
Lane watched her in silence, sipping from her bottle every now and then. She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but eventually, she found herself back on the floor, Morgulon curled up against her back. Just like when Morgulon first saved her life.