Berch had been brought up on the usual grim childhood tales of starving wolves who overran campsites in the dark of night and tore apart human flesh. When he saw the first black sentries of that savage, bristling army snapping their jaws, he understood what he had failed to grasp from his anxiety among the bison--that the range of fear is limitless. There is no shame in being terrified. Only the ignorant think otherwise.

Dozens of these creatures, kin of the wolf in whose murder Berch had been an accomplice, encircled him. More of the curious crawled out of pits and caves dug into the hillsides. Their ribs pressed sharply against their thin coats.

Berch steeled himself for a violent death. He thought back to the high plain of the August Mountains, where a pack of dogs had torn apart one of their comrades, thanks to his ignorance. If they killed him now in a similar fashion, well, fair was fair. A death would be avenged and that would be the end of it. Go on, do your worst. I ain’t going to beg for my skin.

Whatever happened, he would at last be at rest and his conscience would be at peace. Maybe he would be back with Louise in the bargain.

Then came a voice. “Are you lost?”

The sound confused him. No matter that he had spoken with the bison only hours earlier. Every encounter with an animal voice seemed as impossible and as unreal as the first. In his present state of exhaustion, he could hardly tell where sounds were coming from. But since there were none around him besides wolves, he could only assume that one of them had spoken to him.

“I come here looking for the wolves,” he said, trying to clear his swimming head. Lord, what I wouldn’t give for a 10-minute nap!

Two wolves trotted forward, both mottled black and gray. Berch instinctively lowered his chin to protect his exposed throat.

“What do you want of the wolves?”

Berch wondered if repeated doses of the bizarre created immunities to these living fantasies. For here he stood alone in the dusk in a heathery barrow thick with pacing, half-starved wolves, and yet he thought he detected a note of kindness in this voice that crept into his brain. These beasts also displayed an orderliness and discipline that was absent among the bison.

“I need to speak to whoever’s in charge,” he said.

With no further word, they swung their heads around, indicating that Berch was to follow them. As they walked along the camp perimeter, he saw gaunt wolves pacing and watching, taking the measure of the assembled mass of the herd that choked the horizon wherever they looked. The hills reeked, like a barn that no one had cleaned out in weeks.

The escort brought him to the High Commander of the pack, a great, gray brute named Ubor.

“I apologize for offering nothing to a guest,” said Ubor. “And for the state of sanitation in which we live. Such is not the custom of the pack. But the fact is, we have no choice. Nearly two weeks have passed since our raiders last broke the bison ranks and brought back a few legs of sheep. Our pond has run dry. We have nothing left. So come. Tell us what you want. You are not a creature familiar to us.”

Unsure of Fourth Realm protocol, Berch could do no better than to stumble into his speech. “I got something I need to say to you. I haven’t hardly kept a thought in my head the past several months except this. I mean about standing before you. And now that I’m here, I don’t know, well, I don’t really know how to say it the way I mean to say it. Thought I did. Practiced it. But. . .”

He shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. He could usually lock eyes with the best of them. Two things Ron Berch took a back seat to no man on: a firm grip in the handshake, and a stare-down. But he could not hold the probing stare of this savage creature.

The wolf waited patiently, however. As Berch spoke, he began to feel as though he had somehow discarded his useless, spinning, bloated head and was speaking directly through his soul. With each word that came out, virtually on its own and without conscious thought, he felt as though a cancer was being purged from that soul.

“I’m a stranger in your realm. I don’t mean just your realm, I mean all the realms, so I didn’t really know nothing about anything. And I ain’t one for giving speeches. But here’s the thing. I was traveling with some others through the wilderness over in what you call the Third Realm with one of those Tishaarans. Well, one morning I saw this wolf coming at us and, where I come from a man don’t consider that a welcome sight. That’s just the way it is. Not saying it’s right; that’s just the way it is. And I’m not saying the wolf did anything to provoke it; in fact, as I remember it now, it was coming at us peaceful and calm. Again, in my experience that isn't considered normal.

“What I did was, I took and threw rocks at him. He kept coming--the Tishaaran who was traveling with us and would have known better was away from our camp at the time--but I didn’t know better and I kept chucking. I drove him off and wounded him so bad that a pack of dogs came along and--” He sighed heavily. “Fact of the matter is, they killed him. A lot of ‘em paid for it with their lives. He was a strong one. Brave as they come. But they killed him all the same.

“And that’s what I came to tell you. I’m here to own up. If you kill me, it’s all the same with me. At least I’d get some sleep. I’m just here to say I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. Which I imagine ain’t a hill o’ beans.”

Ubor circled him, licking his fangs. His eyes seemed a bit moister than before, but other than that Berch could read nothing from his behavior.

The great beast sat back on his haunches. “What is your name?”

The innocuous request took Berch by surprise but he stammered out his name.

“Thank you for coming to us, Ron Berch. Your story, while hard to bear, will provide more comfort than grief to Lufak’s family, for they have already made peace with the probability of his death. Your story comforts me, too, for we were grieved that our friends from Tishaara did not respond to our call for help. I see now that the summons never arrived.”

Berch could not believe what he had heard. While he had not known what sort of justice wolves might exact, and had conceded the possibility that he might not necessarily be torn apart on the spot, there had to be some consequence--some price to pay.

“We are glad, at last, to see a friend of Tishaara. Especially in this hour when the wolves make their last stand. You give us hope. In recent weeks, none of us has been able to breech the bison ring. May I ask how you did it? Perhaps you know of a means of escape.”

Berch shrugged sadly. “No, there wasn’t any trick to it. They let me come. I pretended I was going to talk you into surrendering some murderers.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“None exists,” said Ubor, in exasperation.

“Yeah, we figured that,” said Berch.

“Will the bison let you out of the snare if you return without obtaining what they wish?”

Berch thought a moment and then looked the wolf directly in the eyes. “I guess we’ll never know,” said Berch.

“Why not?”

“Because I ‘m not leaving. I’m not going to stand around and watch wolves get killed. Did that once. Not going to do it again. I’ll fight with you guys.”

Ubor stared at him curiously. “You know the danger we are in.”

Berch shrugged. “Yeah. What’s your point?”

Ubor padded closer. “Berch, friend of Tishaara, I declare you officially under wolf protection. Any wolf will consider it a privilege to brave any peril to come to your aid.” He nodded his silvery head toward the plain. “I admit that the honor of wolf protection may not seem all that valuable under the present conditions.”

Berch continued to stare at the swimming, double-image of the wolf. If only he could get a few moments rest! If only he could clear his head enough to be sure of what was going on! He felt bewildered. Never in his life had he felt such a strange combination of lightness and depth of spirit. No, he took that back. So long ago, he had experienced something like this, when his mother rocked him on a stormy night. Helpless, grateful, awestruck. Comforting as all getout, but somehow it seemed out of place. And kinda sissy-like when you get down to it.

“That’s it?” he croaked.

Ubor’s voice dimmed to almost a whisper. “Make no mistake, we mourn the loss of a hero and friend, all the more because of the tragic circumstances. The wolves do not hold life cheap. But we also regret that you carried such a burden on our accounts for so long.

“We have always admired the Tishaarans. Not all of their ideals are practical in our world. But one thing they have taught us is that the past cannot be altered. We must advance from where we are, not from where we might have been. You have made two mistakes with the wolves, both involving fear. You feared us in the August Hills and you fear us now. The second mistake is at least repairable. Carry that fear no more. Do us the honor of accepting wolf protection.”

Moved beyond words, Berch could only nod.

Ubor looked hopeful. “So the Tishaarans have come. You have brought us an apology. Do you bring any hope? Have our allies a plan?”

“The whole village would have come on the run if the message had gotten through,” said Berch, subjecting himself to another lash of guilt on that count. “They would have sent something more useful than an old man, a wet-behind-the-ears Tishaaran kid, and a scrawny, well, whatever he is.”

The flicker in Ubor’s eyes died. “That is all who have come?”

Berch nodded again.

Ubor turned to his lieutenants with a heavy sigh. “Then this is the end. The last light of hope has been extinguished. Our fate is sealed. The wolves shall be no more. But we shall finish this on our own terms. And let none pity us, but rather pity the bison. For I tell you this, there are no more perilous creatures on earth than those who have no nothing to lose. And we have nothing to lose, for we have made peace with our deaths. Yes, the wolves have died already. We are dead but not yet defeated. I, myself, would fear to take the field against an army of the dead. The bison do not yet realize that they are about to do so.

The wolf raised its head to the sky anf howled a long, eerie note that was answered by the entire pack. The noise sent chills up Berch's spine.

When at last it died away, Ubor called out, Wolves, begin forming ranks for the final assault. We attack at midnight.”

“No!” said Berch, remembering Digtry’s instructions. Feeling both woozy and a bit giddy at the remarkable grace shown him by the wolves, he plunged ahead. “You can’t do that. You have to hold up. You see, there’s Droom mixed up in this. Digtry needs a day to flush them out and prove to the bison that you’ve been framed.”

Ubor’s compassionate restraint had lulled Berch into thinking of him as a kindly old philosopher, sort of a Tishaaran in wolf’s clothing. He expected the wolf commander to soberly consider his instructions from Digtry. Instead, Ubor’s lip curled in a snarl

“Hold up?” said Ubor, pacing swiftly, relentlessly. Berch hated the way wolves paced when they communicated. They made it difficult for him to stand still or to keep from fidgeting. “The bison are preparing their attack, but it will take them awhile to do so. They are poorly trained, undisciplined. Our best chance is to strike them before they are ready.

“You ask us to sit meekly and wait for them, for the enemy who has sworn to trample us to the last cub? No, we shall not wait for death, cowering in fear. We shall go out to meet our destiny. We shall strike first under the cover of night and we shall deal such death to them as will make their descendants curse them for bringing such ruin upon them in their blind thirst for war.”

“Now wait a minute,” begged Berch. But exhaustion had so drained him that he could not marshal any arguments in support of Digtry’s plan. In the end, he could do no better than mumble, “Digtry says he can prove to the bison that you didn’t kill their calves. He just needs time.”

“I do not know this Digtry,” growled Ubor. "We would be fools to trust our lives to someone who is unknown to us."

‘B-but,” stammered Berch. “You trusted me just a minute ago. I'll vouch for him; he's walked every step of the way with us from the second realm. The Tishaarans trust him. I’ve seen him pull off tricks that would make your head spin. If you can’t trust him, you sure as blazes can’t trust me.”

Ubor stopped pacing and glared at Berch. “Your initial presentation appeared to come from the heart. It seemed too genuine to dismiss. I could imagine no motive for your long trip and your damning confession except honesty and a noble sense of duty. It is our fault, our great weakness, that we too often assume decent motives where there are none. That is how we allowed ourselves to be trapped in this situation in the first place. We never foresaw the bison’s deceit. Never imagined they would surround us with evil intent upon a plain where we cannot defend ourselves properly. We treated the bison as friends, and they played us false.

“And have I been duped again?" Ubor growled. "Do you also play upon my trusting nature? You step too far, my friend, for this insane request shines a light upon your hidden motives. Do you take us for fools--gullible to the last? Do you suppose we are blind to the fact that this war between the bison and wolves has been engineered? Do you think we cannot read the evidence that a clever sorcerer manipulates the witless bison as if he had them on a leash? Could not such cunning create a story as touching as yours to lure us into actions as rash and credulous as those of the bison?”

“Now hold on,” said Berch, ashen-faced.

“No,” cried Ubor. He lowered his ears and the hairs on the back of his head bristled with anger, “I will not `hold on.’ You are fortunate indeed that the wolves do not break their word, not even to the foulest villains. We have offered you wolf protection and that act is binding, should you be revealed as the offspring of the Nephilim. Should any of us survive the next hours, you had better hope that this decision is not one we regret.

“But do not dare presume to ask that we blindly follow strangers in our dying hour. The wolves of the Fourth Realm are to be no more. Our fate is to be nourishment for the earth and fodder for the sentimental songs of poets. So be it. But while the place of our death is not of our choosing, the time shall be. And when we die, we shall die with our jaws around the throats of the accursed bison!”

“No, wait!” shouted Berch. Digtry’s urgent last words rang in his ears. His head throbbed and his eyes burned. He was aware of nothing beyond a vague notion that everything depended on him getting the wolves to delay. “Please!”

“There is no more to say,” said Ubor, padding away behind a screen of his lieutenants. “Leave now. This is holy ground; the place where the wolves meet their destiny as beasts of character. We wish to be with none but our own in our final hour. No others are welcome here. You are ordered to leave. Now!”

Berch bowed his head and swore bitterly. He could think of nothing to say. Not that he was convinced a clear-headed and rested Berch could have saved the day. But he began to think that his half-baked notion to swipe the Droom elixir would prove as devastating to the wolves and the realms than his stoning of the wolf in the August Mountains.

He turned away in defeat, wondering where to go. Back to Digtry, he supposed. Maybe the bison would let him through, maybe not. Ah, what did it matter? As he wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt, he ran across a lump in his pocket. Something in his

subconscious nudged him to examine it.

The paper from Belfray. The message stamped in the code of the wolves.

Berch lurched over the trampled grass toward the wolf commander. “Ubor! Wait! I got something here! Come back!”

A company of black wolves cut him off, fangs bared.

Berch held his ground. “No, he has to see this!”

Ubor reappeared, flanked by his lieutenants, his face dark and deadly with anger.“There is much that needs my attention,” he growled. “Not only do you defile this holy ground, but now you intrude on our final precious hours. Your impertinence pushes my temper to the brink. If you waste one more second of it, one of my final acts as the last leader of the wolves will be to break all precedent and revoke the wolf protection order. In fact, I will rip out your throat myself!”

Berch held out the paper, which fluttered in his gnarled, trembling hand. He could think of nothing to add by way of introduction. Ubor studied it. In the distance, the bison rumbled like distant thunder as they tried to form ranks.

A layer of Ubor’s savagery melted away as he uttered a sigh. “So you do speak the truth. The Tishaarans have come at last. Too little, too late, but they have come. As the Tishaarans say, a thousand pardons, Mr. Berch. You do understand, however, why I acted as I did.”

Berch nodded eagerly, still unable to find words.

“Well,” said Ubor, pacing hesitantly. “If this Digtry has the confidence of Tishaara, we shall do what you ask. We shall not attack tonight. Bitterly do I concede this night, and to none but a Tishaaran.”

He looked out over the gathering herds to the red sun dipping low in the sky. “The wolves will see one more sunrise.” He shook his head and added, “If your friend can persuade those humped maniacs of our innocence, then you serve him poorly to call him a ‘scrawny whatever he is.’ He would truly be a wizard beyond all Fourth Realm wizards.”