Greg’s third day of working with the navvies started just the same as the days before had, but Eyal announced that the following day, they would not be working and that they would start preparing for the night early. Obviously, there were no complaints. In the evening, Eyal and his family gathered in a tight group, and Greg got the strong impression that they were going through a ceremony of some sort. Clearly not a Mithran one, though – there was no way they could have the required bonfire inside their tent.

Afterwards, they all washed their hands, and then Eyal spoke words in a language Greg didn’t understand over a loaf of bread. The bread was dipped in salt and everyone who wanted, not just family, received a piece. Most people accepted the offered bread.

That was slightly surprising, Greg thought. After all, the worship of anyone other than Mithras was strictly prohibited and technically, they could all get in trouble for taking the bread, should word ever get around to the Valoise.

Greg shook his head at himself. He was being a fool, wasn’t he? Every worker on this line was helping Duke George Louis cock a snook at the Empire. Taking part in a “heathen” ritual would be the least of their worries if the Valoise decided they wanted to take offense.

The dinner afterwards was a lot more generous than the nights before, still stew, of course, but with very good beef cuts. Greg could feel the whole camp relax a little.

Tonight, Eyal and his family didn’t bother to retreat into the big tent when they began their singing, but they did retreat the next day for quite a long while. Greg stayed in his tent for most of the time, for a soft drizzle had started. Not enough that they would have to worry about keeping the fire going at night, but plenty annoying.

The rain continued on and off over the next couple of days, making everyone both miserable and grouchy. Finding twigs that were dry enough to start the fires at night grew increasingly difficult, and on the third night, the fireguards spotted the first Rot creatures moving beyond their camp, which was followed promptly by the first three convicts making a run for it.

Greg thought their timing was pretty darn stupid. They could have run before the Rot showed up. Now they would have to face the monsters alone. Or maybe they had waited this long hoping that they wouldn’t be chased. In that case, their plan worked: The mercenaries who were supposed to keep them in line had no interest in leaving the camp’s protection.

With the rain not letting up, Eyal ordered the soldiers to walk around the working site with torches. They could all smell it, the smell of rotten meat, and fungus, of stagnant waters, and slowly decaying plants, and everything else that was vile in the world. And they could feel them, the putrid aura the Rot carried, a sense of terror, of hopelessness, and madness, coming and going like a shadow that was always out of sight. There were more arguments everywhere, and people were concentrating less. One worker was killed by a falling tree, and two more sustained heavy injuries, one of them axing himself in the foot, another one passing too close behind somebody who was taking a swing and taking the handle to the face. Greg didn’t know either of them well, but it still came as a shock.

The nights, of course, were the worst. The stink seemed to thicken around the camp, and guards kept asking each other: “Did you see that? Did you hear that?”

Because they couldn’t trust their own senses after nightfall. More than once, men just froze in their steps and had to be shaken out of the paralysis that followed after the hallucination. The only lucky thing was that no one actually went mad and attacked a comrade on purpose.

One night, Greg woke with a start, his head feeling like a giant had gripped his skull and tried to crush it, and when he pushed back the flap to his tent, he realized that everyone out there had frozen. There were creatures moving just on the other side of the fire ditches, formless in the deep shadows. They didn’t dare come into the light, but they were out there, ambling about, waiting for the fires to die down. Then they would move into the camp and just sit with the people, who were frozen, unable to move, caught in their hallucinations. The Rot didn’t usually kill, unless it was driven by other magic, didn’t need to. The creatures just waited, until their victim eventually stopped breathing, maybe because they starved, maybe suffocated by the stink, maybe poisoned by the dark, corrupted magic that gave the Rot its strange not-life. Once the victim was dead and the body started to decay, it was either integrated by the thing that had killed it or became a Rot creature of its own.

Greg scrambled out of his tent and tossed some wood into a part of the ditch that was almost down to embers before he began shaking the guards back to their senses. It didn’t do much good until he picked up a torch and tossed it into the thickest group of moving shadows. They jumped apart, away from the flame, and some life seemed to return to the rest of the guard.

“We need more wood,” Greg said quietly, though he could have saved himself the breath. The guards might have been a little unsure of the details, but they all knew they had been overcome by the Rot, and were already running to stoke the fires.

When the heat washed over them, they all settled down a little. The vice-like grip on Greg’s skull eased, and he reckoned it was safe to go back to sleep.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Thoko asked him later the next day, while they were working together on digging out a tree stump. “Cause, a lot of the people on guard last night say you were the one waking them up, but you had first watch, right?”

Greg looked over to her. He didn’t like the question, especially given what she had said to him back in Eoforwic, but if he just claimed to not remember anything, she probably wouldn’t believe him.

“I woke up in the middle of the night,” he finally said. “I don’t know what woke me up. There were a lot of people frozen right outside my tent, so I shook them awake.”

“Why weren’t you frozen?” Thoko asked promptly.

Greg hacked into an especially stubborn root. “Hell if I know,” he lied. “Had some silver under my head, maybe that did the trick.”

“Damn lucky,” Thoko said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“It was,” Greg agreed. “Let’s just be grateful the rain has let up.”

There was indeed a sliver of sunlight breaking through the clouds. It wasn’t much, but so far, it was keeping the Rot away.

Isaac joined them at the next tree stump. The mood in the camp was subdued, and the three of them didn’t talk for a long time until Isaac asked: “Where do ye reckon the creatures are now?”

“They must be far away, right?” Greg said. “I can’t feel anything, or do you?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Thoko said, huffing. “Father said the Rot just sort of sinks back into the ground. That’s why it survives, you see? Back home, the sun burns it out of the earth. But here?”

She swiped her foot through the layer of last year’s leaves on the forest floor. “It just hides.”

“But shouldn’t we still feel it then?” Greg argued.

“With magic?” Thoko gave back. “And worse, corrupted magic? Who knows.”

“Why would it retreat so far?” Isaac chimed in. “If it’s hiding from the sun, it can do that right over there, ye know?” He pointed towards the underbrush, just a few yards behind them.

“Good question,” Greg said. “But if it’s close, again, why can’t we feel anything?”

“Cause of the sun, I reckon,” Thoko said. “That’s why the Valoise worship it, right?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Greg said, wiping the sweat from his eyes, “that they worshipped Mithras before they knew about the Rot. I mean, the Church of Mithras is old, like, a couple of thousand years old. And the Rot is only known since the Valoise started expanding their Empire, about four hundred years ago.”

“And how do you know that?” Thoko wanted to know. “I mean, how did you know about Maravi?”

“My parents think education is really important,” Greg sighed.

“For hunting werewolves?” Isaac asked.

“I’ve got three older brothers,” Greg said. “Only one of us can inherit. So we were all educated by a private tutor, Mr. Higgins. How about you, Isaac?” he tried to change the topic. “Where are you from, your family?”

“My family is much like yers,” Isaac said with a shrug. “Been here since my grandparents came, lived in Eoforwic. It’s a good community, and the Mithrans hardly ever bother us. I feel ye for the whole education thing. We didn’t have a private tutor, though, and school… Well, it just wasn’t for me, ye know? Started when I was just a little boy and had to learn me letters. I could memorize the whole ABC, no problem, ye know? Draw them nice and clean on the chalkboard and all that. But when I was supposed to put them together and read, I couldn’t do it. The teacher thought I was lazy, of course, beat the crap out of me. But I just didn’t – couldn’t do it, even if my life depended on it.”

He wiped his face. “Luckily, my parents gave up pretty fast and sent my little brother instead. Done all sorts of jobs since then.”

“How old are you, anyway?” Greg asked.

“Twenty-tree,” Isaac said. “What about you?”

Greg was so surprised about Isaac’s answer that he forgot to lie. “Seventeen,” he said, which made Isaac nod his head.

“Thought so,” he said but didn’t ask anything more.

At night, Greg threw himself around inside his tent. He should make use of the good weather, but he couldn’t forget what Thoko had said. That the Rot was close, lurking right beneath the surface of the forest floor. If that was true, then one rainfall would be enough to bring it back out.

And if he wasn’t there…

If he hadn’t been there, everyone in the camp might have died last night. And he liked these people, Isaac, Thoko, Smith the engineer, Eyal and the rest of his family. Even some of the mercenaries, though most of the time all they did was make jokes about how the rest of them worked.

If he left, he put them all in danger. If he stayed, he did the same.

But he could probably stay a little longer.

For the whole next week, the sun was warm and bright, and there was no sign of the Rot. The moon, meanwhile, went from a narrow crescent to half, and then to gibbous. Greg still couldn’t bring himself to leave. Two nights before full moon, he told himself, that should be plenty of time to put distance between himself and the camp.

He knew he was cutting it close, and so of course, as soon as he had packed his belongings, the weather turned again. He had meant to make his move during his fire watch, but at noon, big, towering black thunderclouds moved over their stretch of forest. Eyal stared at the weather front for a few minutes, had a word with Smith, and then ordered them to stop working and to return to camp immediately. They had built up a nice stack of firewood by now, but as soon as the trenches were filled, Eyal had them cut up more trees, just in case.

“This is going to be bad,” Isaac grunted, while furiously swinging his axe.

Greg agreed silently, though for different reasons. There was no way he could leave tonight, but even if he could, somehow, protect them all from the Rot again, how could he then save them from himself? Would he get far enough away, before full moon came?

“Might blow over us,” Thoko said, but it was fairly obvious that she didn’t believe her own words.

Half an hour later the first big drops hit their tents, and the wind did its best to blow them off their feet. Soon, it was almost as dark as night, and they had to light the fires early. It was a fight to get them to burn at all, despite the fact that they had spent the last week collecting as many dry twigs as possible.

When the flames finally guttered the gang came together for a late lunch. Greg wasn’t the only one who kept glancing over at the ditches. They were all calculating. How long could this rain last? Did they have enough wood? And what if they couldn’t keep the fires burning?

“Maybe the Rot won’t come,” one of the mercenaries said. Greg couldn’t remember his name; Randy, or Randal, or something like that.

But Greg could already feel it, the pressure on his whole skull, like a vice locked around his temples, slowly crushing them. From the way Thoko and Isaac grimaced, he reckoned that they could feel it, too.

“Think we’ll make it?” Isaac asked after a while.

He hadn’t spoken very loudly, and yet every movement seemed to still as people strained to hear the answer. Greg wasn’t sure if he was the right one to reassure them – wasn’t that part of Eyal’s job?

But then again, he was one of the people Isaac had been talking to, and he actually had some reassurance to give.

“Just keep your torches close by,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

“You going to sleep on your purse again?” Thoko asked, and tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all.”

He did climb into his tent, eventually, mostly to get out of the rain. The pressure on his head was still mounting, and suddenly he could feel something new, too, something he suspected had nothing to do with the Rot, or the weather, or the sense of doom all around him, but rather the time of the month: He wanted to go out and fight, rip – something – apart with his bare hands. It didn’t even have to be the Rot, he would have been perfectly happy to take on anyone right now, as long as he got to do some violence.

Greg wrapped his arms around himself as if he could keep this new urge inside that way. He had never felt like this before. Part of the reason why his father and brothers had been so hesitant to take him out hunting was that, as a boy, he had absolutely hated conflict and fighting. He had cried for hours after he had killed his first rabbit. Granted, he had only been five, but still, it certainly hadn’t been the prospect of killing anything that had made him want to follow his brothers again and again.

Around Greg’s tent, the wind was howling. Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled, and the trees were groaning in the storm, and still, every few minutes he could hear someone walk by. Every time he heard the steps, he had to stop himself from throwing himself out there and taking a swing at the unseen guard.

Was this what going mad felt like? Was this what it started like for all the monsters his father had hunted, the ones that would creep into a village when the moon was barely a crescent, and murder farmers and livestock alike?

Greg tried to predict when the next guard would come by, and breathe in slowly, deep into his belly, hold it for a couple of seconds and release it just as controlled, a technique his father had taught him to calm his nerves before shooting. He closed his eyes, and in his mind fixed a target that wasn’t really there, imagined the pressure of the stock of the crossbow against his shoulder, the aiming, finally pulling the trigger.

He became so deeply immersed in his meditation that it took him a while to realize that all he could hear outside was the storm. Then a breeze flapped the entrance to his tent, bringing with it the fetid smell of the swamp, and it finally sunk in what that silence had to mean. Greg pushed himself to his feet and out of the tent in one tumble, and almost crashed into a not-anymore-deer-creature. It still had a hide of tattered brown on its back, but there was some kind of fungus growing on top of it, and the rest of it was – just wrong, even though Greg could hardly see.

Because the camp was dark, only a few embers left beside the ditches which had filled with rainwater.

Greg swore softly under his breath and looked around. In a flash of lightning he could see two, maybe three of the rotting creatures, and then the smell really hit him, the stink and the dark magic, like a right hook straight into his stomach. For one moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. And then the fury came flooding back, the mindless need for violence, and he was free, free from whatever influence the Rot brought.

Some part of Greg recognized the figure that was lying right next to the entrance of his tent: Isaac. That thing he had almost stumbled over had scuttled out of his way and was now crouched over his still form.

Greg kicked the thing and was surprised when it hissed at him. He hadn’t even known that the Rot creatures could make sounds. Apparently, they also defended themselves when attacked, because the thing tried to bite him with jaws that looked like they had grown from a piece of gnarly root wood.

It hurt, even more than Greg had expected, like a bite from a full-grown horse. And when the thing tried to run him over, it had all the power of a charging bull and none of the lithe gracefulness of a deer. Greg landed hard on his back, and in the next moment, he could feel his bones shift, as if in answer. He wasn’t sure how he managed to stop himself from turning into a wolf right then and there, but he was terrified of what would happen if he did. Would he be able to stop himself once the Rot creatures were destroyed, or would he take advantage of his comrades’ state and finish what the Rot had started?

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He looked over to Isaac again, and he could see the helpless terror in the other man’s eyes. Now that he was lying flat on the ground the deer-thing had returned to its victim, towering over Isaac’s body, just waiting. He needed a weapon, a shovel, anything, to drive this monster away. Could he even kill something that wasn’t really alive in the first place?

Fire should work. Fire should cleanse the dark magic animating the Rot. So should silver.

Fire was easier, though.

Greg pushed himself back to his feet and scrambled to where there were still some flames flickering by the ditch, pulling a burning log out of the sorry, soggy mess their defences had turned into. The deer-creature shrieked when Greg came at it with his new weapon and ran away. Greg shook Isaac, who didn’t move but at least seemed to be breathing steadily.

Greg hurried over to where the gang had stacked dry torches. One, he stuck into the ground right next to Isaac before lighting it. Then he lit a second one and dropped his log before his fingers got singed. Wherever he found a body he planted a burning torch, herding the once-deer and two other rot-creatures through the camp. When he opened the big tent where most of Isaac’s family slept, two more came at him from inside. One was tiny, no bigger than a fox, the other looked eerily like a small human, only made completely from dead plant matter.

Greg managed to avoid the humanoid figure but stomped onto the fox-thing with one of his heavy work boots. When he brought the torch around, it almost lifted Greg off the ground in its effort to get away, but then there was a sizzle, and the tiny twigs that formed what looked like ears caught fire.

The thing screeched an earsplitting shriek that surprised Greg so much he pulled his boot away. The thing raced across the camp like a tiny lightning bolt and was gone so fast Greg couldn’t even see where it vanished to. It still felt good to know he could actually hurt these things. A human wouldn’t be able to do what he was doing now, not without some major magic, the kind of magic that had spawned the Rot in the first place.

He planted a torch next to the entrance of the big tent, but that was the last torch he had, besides the one he had in his hands. Which was already getting rather short, too. As if they could sense it, the remaining four creatures were closing in on him. Greg retreated towards the pile of torches and managed to grab a couple more before the things corned him right next to the stack.

He managed to light one torch without dropping the other, then tossed the stump at the slowest of the four, a formless lump like a tree stump that had just gotten up and decided to walk around. It had a crown on top like an overgrown bird’s nest, only it looked like it might be made of bone, and Greg managed to get the burning torch stuck right in there.

The deep, bellowing roar of the thing shook the whole camp. When it took off it wasn’t nearly as fast as the Rot-fox had been, so Greg could see it go, see it pass through the ditch, and into the forest. For a second, Greg just stood there, staring after it before he remembered to light the second torch. When he pointed one flame at each of the remaining monsters they, too, fled, which was a shame. He would have loved to set them afire, to hurt them. Make them bleed, if they even could.

His bones were shifting again.

Greg had no idea how long he stood there, shaking, a torch in each hand, struggling to remain human. Eventually, one of the flames reached his fingers and he dropped it with a yelp.

The rain had almost died down, and the rest of the gang started to move again. Greg took another deep breath, to stop himself from pummelling anyone back into the mud, and walked over to the closest stretch of the ditch. It was almost completely filled with water, and what little wood was left in there was so soaked it would not burn for a few days.

Greg looked up into the sky. There was no way of telling what time it was, but he guessed that it wasn’t even midnight yet. They needed to get the fires burning again, all around the camp, and he needed to get out of here. The faster the better.

Although maybe he could find something to eat before he left.

People stared at him when he started carrying wood logs to the little bank that had formed alongside the ditch they had dug. He had to push them into the loose earth but did manage to set them on fire.

Suddenly, Eyal’s voice boomed through the camp:

“What are you all staring for? Give the man a hand, you sissies! Do you want the Rot to eat you? Go, go, go, get the fires going!”

There was a shuffle, and people started helping, but everybody gave Greg a wide berth. Which was just fine. It gave Greg a chance to slip back over to his tent, and grab the knapsack he had packed in the morning.

“Care to tell us how you did that?” Eyal stopped him when he exited the tent. “Or where you plan on going?”

Isaac stood with his uncle, and Thoko was there as well, but all three of them made it a point to stay way out of arm’s reach.

Greg took another deep breath, but couldn’t quite keep the belligerence out of his voice when he said: “You still haven’t figured it out, huh?”

The wolf was howling in his ears, where only he could hear it, telling him to run or fight, and as a result, he just stood there, frozen in indecision. He knew, in a detached sort of way, that he wasn’t thinking clearly, but he wanted to tell them. Wanted to yell at them, to scream, wanted them to understand or rip their throats out.

“Is this some Valoisian magic?” Eyal asked, and behind him, several navvies hefted their axes instead of tending to the fire. “Are you some sort of – some sort of spy?”

That made Greg laugh, though it sounded slightly hysterical. “Sure, I’m a spy. And the Valoise like you all so much, they specifically ordered me not to make a runner before I saved all your lives.”

“So is this something this girlfriend of yours gave you?” Thoko wanted to know.

“I thought you were smarter than that,” Greg huffed. He could barely hear himself talking over the growl of the werewolf in his ears. “I thought you didn’t believe me when I told you about the girl.” He rubbed his temples, but that didn’t help. “I told you all, right when we met, that my father hunts werewolves.”

“So?” Isaac wanted to know.

Greg stared at them. Really, they still hadn’t gotten it? Did he have to spell it out for them?

Should he?

But once the weather cleared, and they could all see the moon, they were sure to put it together, anyway. So what was the point of drawing this out? There was no way they could come after him, or even send for a hunter, and if he told them now, he’d at least know how far he needed to run.

“Oh, come on, guys, everyone knows this!” Greg growled when they just stared at him. “Every full moon, some hunters go out and kill monsters, and some get killed. And some are bitten.”

There was a long silence after this, but to Greg’s slight surprise, neither of the three took a step away from him.

He was just about to simply walk away when Eyal asked: “Is this your first full moon?”

“Second,” Greg said. “Does it matter?”

“Will you come back?”

“What?”

Greg wasn’t the only one who was shocked by that question. Several of the men had stopped working and were standing close enough that Greg could hear them muttering between themselves.

Eyal obviously heard them too, because he raised his voice when he said: “I don’t know about everyone else here, but the way I see it, you saved everyone in this camp twice in just the last two weeks. And I would rather be mauled to death and be done with it than have one of those hell spawns standing over me until the stink suffocates me.”

How very reassuring.

“I don’t know,” Greg said slowly. “I have no idea what will happen in the next few nights. And I really need to leave now. Unless you are in a hurry to get mauled to death.”

Eyal hesitated. “Just – think about it,” he finally said. “We won’t harm you if you do come back.”

Greg had some serious doubts that he was speaking for everyone in the gang, but he had no more time to waste discussing this.

The forest was dark and wet, and Greg was miserable and missing his tent before he had been walking for more than an hour. The rain didn’t start up again, but big, heavy drops kept falling from the trees and got under his collar, ran down his spine. Andrew and Nathan used to laugh at him because he jumped every time it happened, and still, Greg would have given everything to have them here with him. His father, and David, too. Provided they weren’t out to kill him.

Had they gotten his letter? Or had the kid forgotten it, or worse, decided to pocket the whole silver and just conveniently lose the letter?

Maybe he could send another one, sometime.

If he really could return to the gang once the moon had waned a little.

That thought hurt, that hope. He had almost made himself accept this new fact of life, that he would never be able to stay anywhere, with anyone, for more than a couple of weeks. That he would be lying pretty much constantly about who he was, where he came from. That he was on his own.

And there was no way Eyal would keep his word, was there? There was no way everybody in the butty gang, almost fifty people altogether, would be okay with a werewolf in their midst.

Right?

He would be insane to go back. All it took was for one of the mercenaries to cut his throat on new moon when he was nearly human, or for one of the workers to cave in his skull with an axe. Cut off his head any other night and he was just as dead. And surely there was someone there who had a piece of silver to spare if it meant killing a werewolf.

There was no way Eyal could keep his word, or guarantee his safety.

And yet…

All the way to Mannin, that was the goal of Eyal and his family, Thoko, Smith, some of the others. All the way to Mannin, that meant crossing the Savre, crossing the fetid swamp that surrounded it, an area where the Rot never rested, not even in the hottest of summers. Where even during the day they wouldn’t be completely safe.

Unless a werewolf stood guard over them.

And if it took six months to get to Sheaf, how long would it take to get to Mannin? Two years? More? Could this butty gang become his new family for that time?

But he was being absurd. He might, might be able to protect them from the Rot, but how would they protect themselves from him? It wasn’t like they could dig a dungeon for him every full moon, was it?

Sure, fire could permanently hurt or kill a werewolf, but that was only a deterrent to a creature that had a sense of self-preservation. It was perfectly possible for him to break through their wall of fire and go on a rampage inside the camp. So unless they found a way to restrain him, keeping their distance would be the safest way. Which would require him to leave the camp, not just two days before the actual full moon, but much, much earlier. And in that time they wouldn’t be safe from the Rot.

Greg cursed softly and pushed on through the underbrush. Could maybe a cage hold a werewolf? Something that could be loaded onto a cart? Could wood and iron be made that strong by human tools? He desperately wished he could ask his father. Bram would know, surely?

But the only thing that he knew for sure would keep a werewolf away was a strong enchantment. And those were not only impossible to come by, but they would also create more problems than they solved.

Because magic was both unpredictable, and also left a residue, a poison that seeped into everything it touched, twisting it, changing it. The more powerful a spell was, the bigger the side effects were, and the more refuse it left behind. The Rot infecting Loegrion was a direct result of the spells the Valoise had used during the war when they had first invaded the country. The Valoise had known of the danger. But before they came to Loegrion they had only ever invaded places with a similarly hot and dry climate as Valoir itself, where the fire of their sacred sun burned out whatever foul after-effect their magic might cause within a single summer. So regulating and limiting the use of magic had been enough to minimize the problem.

Not in Loegrion, though. Here, the magic had seeped into the ground with the plentiful rain, and many of the rivers and springs that had once made the island fertile and the harvests bountiful had been tainted, twisting everything that drew water from them. And thus the Rot was born.

It was drawn to magic, no matter what kind. Only fire and silver kept it away, and some complicated and expensive alchemy.

The Valoise had been shocked when they had realized that their sacred sun was not enough to destroy the Rot for good, that it survived in the shadows of the Loegrian forests, in the marshes and swamps, even in the soil of the rich green pastures and fields, that had made them covet the country in the first place.

Thousands of acres in the heartlands had been burned and ploughed under, and burned again, and there, even the forests were mostly safe. Still, a drop of blood spilled in the wrong place, a mother giving birth on the wrong day, the life force released with it could have terrible consequences. The very wealthy paid to have their lands treated by alchemists, but a common farmer could only dream of their services.

How would people react, if they knew that they might hire a werewolf instead? Surely, a sane werewolf was less scary than the Rot?

And how was it possible that in over two-hundred years nobody had found out about this?

Or did the Valoise know? Was that why the church ordered all werewolves dead, not just the mad ones? Yes, all werewolves were mad on full moon, mad to kill and spread the curse. But was that the whole reason?

The Valoise certainly profited from the Rot, from the fearful and desperate begging Mithras for protection, making donations, obeying their commandments. Even the alchemists were generally Valoise.

Greg chuckled darkly. This certainly explained why the Empire was willing to pay so much for any dead werewolf.

He stopped, exhausted, and sat down on a fallen tree. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the trunk of a birch tree moving on gangly roots, but he couldn’t smell or feel the malice the Rot brought with it. Certainly a magical side effect, but not as dangerous then. And even if it had been, Greg wasn’t sure if he’d have the energy to move. Within just one night the Rot had lost its ability to terrify him.

Greg had no idea how long he sat on his log, staring into nothing, just brooding over the situation. Eventually, he managed to convince himself to get moving again, to push on through the forest. The foliage and the clouds were so dense that he could rarely see the stars, so he was mostly guessing which direction he needed to go. Hopefully, he was moving north, further into the wildlands, not towards Sheaf or Eoforwic. Any road through the forest should be deserted this time of month, so he wasn’t too worried about running into travellers. Hell, anyone out in this area on full moon deserved whatever happened to them.

Greg shook his head. It was easy to say this now, but he knew he would never forgive himself if he ever found out that he did hurt somebody.

When he stopped the next time, the gloom of pre-dawn was creeping through the forest, and there was a deer standing right in his path. Greg froze before he realized that this was just a deer, not the strange undead thing he had fought against a few hours ago.

What he hadn’t been ready for was the instinct of hunt-kill-eat that came over him in the same moment, even though he probably should have, by now.

He had made three steps towards the prey before he could stop himself. What was he going to do, kill it with his bare hands?

The deer, of course, had taken off.

Greg looked after it and then shrugged. He hadn’t managed to bring any food from the camp, so he might as well follow his new instincts – in a smart way. He pulled the crossbow out of his pack and gave it a quick once-over. It seemed to have taken travelling better than he had feared. So he found himself a spot nestled into the huge root of another fallen tree, downwind from the deer crossing.

He spent a lot more time waiting for game than he probably should have. He did get lucky, though. A young fallow deer, a buck, walked almost into him, easily a hundred pounds of pure meat. Much more than one man alone would be able to eat or even carry.

But he wasn’t just a man, was he?

Only when he settled down to gut the deer did it hit him that it was, in fact, too much meat for him to carry. He cursed softly at himself, got up, and tried to lift the buck on top of his pack. He could barely move it. There was no way he was leaving the meat behind. Sun, he was hungry again.

For a minute or two, he just stood there. He could feel his thoughts go in circles, and eventually, hunger won. So he sat down again, got a fire going, and cut a piece of meat out of the shoulder.

He really should have considered the logistics of this. The hunter in him wanted to skin the deer and hang it so the meat could rest properly, but really, what was the point? He couldn’t even carry it, and the monster he would turn into tomorrow evening wouldn’t care.

But there was no way he was leaving any of his kill behind. Which meant that he had to either stay put where he was – not too bad a spot for a campsite, but just a few hours of walking away from the navvy camp – or he had to find a way of transforming right now. He knew that it was possible, he just had no idea how to do it.

Greg had no pan to grill the meat, and for a wild moment, he wanted to eat it raw. He did try a bite, but apparently, his instincts didn’t match up to his current body. Which was a shame, because he might have saved himself the time of building up his fire and cooking the meat first otherwise. It still wasn’t quite done when hunger overruled his patience.

After he had eaten, he gathered all his things together again and made sure everything was tied to his knapsack in some way, even the buck. Then he took his clothes off and tried to concentrate.

It couldn’t be that hard, right? Even the maddest monsters could do it, the ones who had no humanity, no reason, and mind left whatsoever.

All Greg managed to do was freeze his ass off.

How did he change his shape? He had almost done it just last night, when the Rot had attacked him, like the most violent defensive reflex imaginable. But how could he do it now, when he was mostly calm? What was the trick? Or wasn’t there a trick? Did you maybe have to be mad to turn when it wasn’t full moon?

But no, that couldn’t be right either. He had very nearly turned yesterday, and he wasn’t mad. He was refusing to even consider that possibility, because if he did, he would most certainly go mad.

No, he was being ridiculous. If he was mad, and only mad werewolves transformed outside of full moon…

Greg shook his head. This was insane. He was so cold, his breath came in short, painful bursts, and there was no way he could concentrate like this. When he tried to get up to retrieve his clothes from his pack, he stumbled, hitting his knees.

And there it was, the shifting in his bones, the cramping muscles. Greg took a few steadying breaths, just like he had when the Rot attacked, and just like last night, it went away again.

Greg swore loudly this time.

For a few seconds, he sat there, still breathing sharply. Then he swore again and reached into the glowing embers of his small fire. He didn’t even have to touch them: as soon as the heat became unbearable, his fingers felt as if they were retracting into his palm. Greg shuddered and pulled his hand away, holding his breath this time. He was balancing on a tightrope, losing his balance, in fact. But how could he control on which side of the rope he fell down?

Greg bit his lips and pushed his hand back into the fire. As soon as he singed his fingers, the pain spread everywhere while his body fell apart and rearranged itself.

There had to be a better way of doing this, Greg thought when he got back to his feet – four feet – and felt a sharp pain in one of his paws. But at least he was still thinking, that was a plus, even though the smell of blood, of food, made it really hard.

He started on the deer before he could stop himself. Only when half the buck was gone did he manage to get himself under control again.

Except that it wasn’t really his self. It was – he was – someone else right now, or maybe there was something else in his head with him, something powerful, and very, very strange. Right now, in broad daylight, it didn’t even feel malicious, or angry, just – different. There was the avalanche of smells, and again that need to run that he had felt before, only stronger. It was hard to remember to pick up the stuff he had packed, and the strings of his knapsack felt awkward in his mouth – muzzle.

Still, he moved a lot faster dragging the pack and the remaining half of his dead buck in this shape than he would have if he had tried that human.

When the moon came up – first night of full moon, though the sun was still in the sky – it got even harder to remember why he was bringing all this stuff, and why he couldn’t just eat the rest of the deer right now, why he couldn’t go hunting for more deer. He could smell them all around. Other animals, too. Small animals, helpless little things…

By the time the sun came up again, the deer was gone, eaten up sometime during the night. Once again, he had no memory of what had happened after sundown, but he did still have his knapsack. He had to count that as a win. If he lost his crossbow, and his other stuff, that would really suck.

He was starting to get tired now. Considering that he hadn’t slept for two nights in a row that was pretty amazing, that he was only now starting to feel the exhaustion. He pushed on, though, walking at a sedate pace. He didn’t even try to change his shape.

Just keep going. Away from the camp. Away from Isaac, and Thoko, and Eyal, and Smith, everyone. Keep going.

Eventually, the full moon rose, round and perfect, and everything after that was just a blur of fury and terror until the sun rose again.

At least it was pretty warm when he came to his senses stark naked. For a while he just lay there on the ground, too tired to move a single muscle.

When he woke again, it was past noon and his stomach was cramping with hunger. He sat up and looked around, and had no idea where he was or were his clothes might be. After a few seconds, he bit his tongue, hard, until he was balancing on the tightrope again.

The transformation made the hunger even worse, but he managed to find his own scent fairly quickly and followed that until he found his pack. Unfortunately, there was no food left at all, and now that he was a wolf becoming human again seemed nearly impossible. How had he managed that last month?

He tried to get his head together, relax as much as his is empty stomach would allow it, but there was a smell, a smell that made it impossible. Blood.

Eventually, Greg gave up and followed his nose. He was both shocked, and yet somehow not surprised when he found another dead deer at the end, red deer, if he wasn’t mistaken. It had been dead for some time. There was a Rot creature crouched over it, and Greg could see where its vines were burying into the flesh. The skin around that point had taken a greenish hue. He couldn’t see the injury, but there was blood on the ground around the deer.

Greg just stared for a few seconds. The other part of him knew exactly what it wanted, though, and he found himself moving forward. The rotten thing hissed at him, and without thinking about it, Greg bit it, closed his jaws around its twisted form. It felt like wood, and it tasted like dirt and something sour. It was soft as wax between his jaws, and damn, that felt good. The thing screamed, and Greg shook his head, threw the creature from left to right, until a big part of it came loose, and the rest of the thing went flying against a tree. With one jump Greg was on top of it and ripped it to pieces, like old paper.

When he was sure that this Rot monster would never move again, he walked over to the dead deer and started feeding.

Greg thought it was disgusting. He wasn’t a carrion eater, damn it. But there was no way he was stopping, either. So he allowed himself to take a back seat for the moment. The other in his head knew what it wanted and how to get it. When it had eaten its fill, Greg was about to curl up next to the remains of the deer. But then he realized that he might as well use the super nose he was now in command of to try and find some water. Preferably some that didn’t smell like a swamp.