21

With the sun well on its rise they staggered into the camp. It had been difficult to count numbers with so many hidden behind trees, but as they stepped into the open, Redclaw saw that nearly half his pack had been crushed in battle. How many humans had they slain in return? Two hundred? Three? At least his arm had stopped bleeding. It seemed the very fire of his blood had sealed the wound.

Most of the pack collapsed at the edge of Cyric’s camp. For many, it seemed the run was all that had kept them alive. Redclaw knew the feeling, and with head low he slunk through his pack. All he felt was shame and confusion. Who did he serve? Had they attacked the followers of his own god? Or was he a god at all?

And then Cyric called his name. He looked up, met his eyes briefly, then once more cast them to the dirt.

“Warfang told me of the force you faced,” said Cyric. “Fifteen hundred strong, all sworn to Karak. Even more fearsome, you fought priests and paladins as well. Do not be ashamed of your loss. They are the greatest foe we will face in all the North, for they no longer follow the true god of their faith. I would not expect you to defeat them without my presence.”

The words helped, but only a little.

“Master,” said Silver-Ear, the shaman rushing up to them as fast as her old bones would allow. “I have gathered the wounded. Please, you are our god. I beg you to heal them.”

“Of course,” Cyric said, smiling at her. “The faithful must always be rewarded.”

At the far edge of the camp was where the shaman tended the wounded. Redclaw followed them there, and counted at least fifty that Silver-Ear deemed in mortal peril. Cyric walked among them, scanning their wounds and nodding his head as if privy to a conversation none of them could hear.

“Hold faith,” Cyric said at last. “It must be done.”

He lifted his arms, and from his hands shone a deep red light. It flared brighter, brighter than even the sun. Redclaw watched one of the wounded beside him, a wolf whose belly was sliced open. He must have run the whole distance while holding in his innards. His mouth was open, and he was gasping for air at a feverish pace. Then the red light shone upon him, and he breathed no more. A quiet sense of terror settled on Redclaw as he saw the wolf-man stand. Intestines roped out, hanging like decorations from a belt. All around stood the rest, their backs straight, their mouths and eyes perfectly still.

“You killed them,” Silver-Ear growled, and Redclaw could hear the shock in her voice.

“I saved them,” Cyric said. “Their bodies failed them, but now they will fight for me still. Their souls remain, and even now I can hear them praying to me in worship.”

Silver-Ear bared her fangs.

“You are not the moon,” she snarled. “You are not the giver of life. You bring only death, and then slavery after.”

“I am your god,” Cyric said, his expression still calm. “Do you dare question me, shaman?”

“Question?” Silver-Ear shook her head. “No. Not question.”

She lunged at him, snapping her yellow teeth. In a single smooth motion Cyric waved his arm, and from his palm a single orb of black shot forward. It struck Silver-Ear in the snout, sank into her skin, and then activated. Her body convulsed, twisting in ways painful to watch.

“I will not be doubted, nor questioned, nor betrayed,” Cyric said, and he looked straight at Redclaw when he did. “Today we will rest, and your pack will sleep. Come tomorrow you will be my vanguard as we crush those foolish enough to stand against us. The North will be ours, Redclaw. It’s only a matter of time. As for you, shaman…”

He knelt down before her. Silver-Ear had finally stilled, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth as she slowly breathed.

“You are important to me,” he whispered to her. “But even without you I can still rule these dogs. Know your place, unless you’d rather join the wounded you cared for.”

With a command, the fifty undead wolf-men followed, taking up ranks with the rest of the dead Cyric had marching with him. The sight of his brethren standing side by side with the human corpses was nearly enough to empty Redclaw’s stomach. Looking to Silver-Ear’s limp form helped matters none, either.

As his pack settled down to sleep, Warfang sought him out.

“When the moon rises, we will have a Gathering,” he told him.

“Who has called for one?” Redclaw asked, earning himself a massive grin.

“Why, you did,” said Warfang as he left. “At least, that is what I told them.”

Redclaw laid down for the day, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. His mind, however, refused to stop churning, and when it turned to the coming Gathering, he felt an idea take root. Its audacity frightened him, but he knew, for the safety of his pack, and the life of his pups, it must be done. Silver-Ear’s punishment had been a message, one delivered with both clarity and brutality. To ignore it now would mean to be a fool. Even if Warfang was right, even if he was a coward, Redclaw refused to be a fool. Not anymore.

Sleep did not come for him, so instead he watched his pups as the sun crawled along the sky.

Cyric had stayed up for much of the day, meditating with his body facing the south, so when Redclaw rose for the Gathering they were free of his presence. For this, Redclaw was thankful. They had no mound of bones, no sacred places to meet, but the nearby hill made do for their purpose. The five hundred gathered about it, and in their center burned a small fire, made at Redclaw’s demand. The hill, however, he had not chosen. The pack had gravitated toward it, and it was no surprise to him. They were on the side furthest away from the dead that marched in obedience to their god. None of them, whether they were aware of it or not, wanted to be anywhere near those mockeries of life. Their presence was like a thorn in the eye.

Think of your pups, thought Redclaw as his breath caught in his throat when he stepped into the center. Think of them, and act.

“Wolf-men of the Wedge!” he roared, the volume of his voice earning their attention. “I have called this Gathering, and would have you hear me now!”

“We have not come to listen!” Warfang roared back. Redclaw glared at him but was not surprised. Warfang would not risk losing control of the Gathering. He’d had a plan in mind from the start, and through the strength of his personality he would dominate proceedings as he desired. What he didn’t know, however, was that Redclaw desired the exact same set of events.

“You would deny my right to speak at my own Gathering?” asked Redclaw, playing along with the farce.

“No,” Warfang said, stepping out from the ring to stand beside the fire. “You may speak. I only tell you that none will listen, for that is not why we came. That is not why we gather. We gather so you may be judged.”

“Judged? Why am I to be judged?”

“Because you are not faithful! You are weak. You are cowardly. You dishonor our god, and dishonor the gift given to you. I call upon the pack to cast you out and let a new pack leader be chosen.”

Warfang was whipping the wolf-men into a frenzy, and never one to let a bleeding enemy recover, he continued.

“You are why we were defeated last day. You are why our strength failed against the armor and blades of the humans. All here with eyes can see it, and all with noses can smell it. Bow your head and run, Redclaw, run from this shame until the moon shines in the day.”

They were ashamed of their defeat and at a loss for how to mourn their dead. Warfang twisted the guilt his way, using the Gathering to pin all the blame on him. They howled it all out, demanding blood, demanding retribution. Redclaw let them howl. He wanted their emotions high. He wanted them to remember who they were, and to revel in the old traditions they now invoked. For Cyric would crush every single one of those traditions if he had his way.

“You would have me run in shame before being judged, before speaking my tongue, and before demanding a challenger?” Redclaw bared his teeth at Warfang. “You seem to forget our ways. You are all too eager for power. I demand a challenger to face me before I accept judgment from the pack.”

Every wolf there knew who the challenger would be, but they cried out the name anyway.

“Warfang! Warfang!”

The enormous wolf-man grinned.

“They have named him,” Warfang said. “I am the pack’s champion, and I call you coward. I will serve our god truer. I will serve him as he should be served.”

“And that is where you are wrong,” Redclaw said. “Cyric is not to be served at all. Wolf should never serve man!”

The last cry was like a thunderbolt, and the following silence was delicious to Redclaw’s ears. He’d startled them now, awoken them to the truth that had been naked before them all along.

“You would deny the moon made flesh?” asked Warfang. He didn’t have to roar. His voice carried with ease in the calm.

“I deny Cyric,” Redclaw said. “I deny the moon. I deny everything we bow to, for we should never bow. We are strong. We are proud. But that human would make us slaves. We follow orders. We slay armies for lands we will never have. We die for a god who is only a man. This ends tonight. I am your pack leader. I am your champion. Hear me now, and listen. Let us, this night, declare ourselves free.”

“And go where?” asked Warfang. There was no hiding his incredulousness. “Would you have us flee to the Wedge? Would you have us give up all we might have?”

“Our numbers are too few. I would have us live, even if it must be in the Wedge.”

The first of many growls and calls came from the wolf-men around him. Convincing them to obey Cyric in the first place had been a difficult task. To now revoke their fledgling faith? Dangerous. Unpredictable.

“You, his champion, the one blessed with his power, would deny him?” Warfang asked. “You would have us all die rather than serve. That is what you say. Your shame is great, Redclaw, greater than your pride. You do not deserve that power.”

“No,” Redclaw said. “And I do not desire it. If you would have it, Warfang, then take it. I give it to you. Step into the fire, and know Karak’s blessing.”

Warfang clearly sensed a trap, but the eyes of the pack were upon him. Could he act afraid, now that he had lorded over Redclaw so mightily?

“Promise me,” Redclaw whispered so he might calm his fears. “Promise you will let those who follow me escape without giving chase.”

The other wolf-man slowly nodded.

“Very well,” said Redclaw. “You heard my command. Step into the fire.”

As the five hundred howled and stomped the ground, Warfang put a foot into the fire that burned in the center. It was small, the flames no higher than Warfang’s knee. Still, it was enough to burn, and with considerable control the wolf-man ignored the pain. The other foot stepped inside. Flesh cracked, and with clenched teeth he looked to Redclaw and demanded the promised gift.

“I would say you would not enjoy it,” said Redclaw. “But that is a lie. Go to Cyric. He is the perfect mate to your bloodlust.”

His right arm lashed out, his claws digging into Warfang’s chest. The other wolf growled, believing betrayal, but then the power hit him. As Cyric had promised, Redclaw had gradually gained control of the gift he’d been given. And then, all throughout the night, instead of sleeping he’d been practicing the removal of it completely, of rejecting every bit of the gift that made his fur burn like embers and made his blood feel like flame. And now, with his claws embedded into flesh already blessed by Cyric, he banished the rest of it.

The exit was pain and torment, and it left a great feeling of emptiness in his chest, but overpowering it all was a sudden, intense sensation of freedom. Redclaw stepped back, gasping in air. Standing in the center of a fire that could no longer burn him was Warfang, even taller than Redclaw, his arms rippling with muscle.

“Let a judgment be made,” Redclaw cried out before Warfang might act. “Not by pack, but by every wolf here. Those who reject Cyric as god come with me. We will find ourselves a home. Beyond that, I make no promises but one, that we shall be free of all gods, and never again slaves to man.”

Redclaw held his breath and waited. This was it. Would he slink away without a pack at all?

The first were his two pups. They ran on all fours to join him, and he took them into his arms. For once, he could hold them without fear of burning. Next followed Silver-Ear, limping to his side with her head bowed in respect. More came, first a trickle, then a flood. Of the five hundred, a fifth stood with him in the center. When it was clear no more would join, Redclaw turned to Warfang, who had watched silently.

“Hold to your word,” Redclaw said.

“I will,” said Warfang. “And you are right. This power is of a god, Redclaw, and I will enjoy it greatly. You are a fool to have rejected it.”

“We shall see.”

“Run fast,” Warfang shouted to the small pack as they turned north. “If Cyric demands your heads, I will not deny him!”

Nor did Redclaw expect him to. But with his hundred, he would grow. He would build a pack to rival all packs. The shamans were right, he saw that now. The human lands would not be conquered, not by a mere tribe. Not with so few. And even at Cyric’s side, they could conquer the entire world yet never have lands of their own. Forever they would be slaves.

“No,” Warfang said when Redclaw turned to go. “Not you.”

“You promised…”

“I promised those who followed you would live. I never said you.”

Redclaw met his eyes, saw the mockery and death in them.

“Come to me, my pups,” he said. They did, and to Redclaw’s relief Warfang gave him that shred of honor. The first he licked across the forehead, then ran a claw along the back of his neck.

“Manfeaster, I name you,” he said. To the second he did the same. “Moonslayer, I name you. Now go. Go!”

They ran to Silver-Ear, who beckoned them.

“I will raise them,” she said, standing as tall as her old back allowed. “They will honor you in their time. Not Karak. Not the moon.”

The pack left, and so many cast frightened looks seeing their pack leader remaining behind. Warfang towered over him, a gleam in his eye.

“I will not fight,” Redclaw said. “I give you no sport.”

“I don’t want sport. I want blood.”

Warfang’s claws slashed out, ripping the flesh of his chest and slicing open his belly. To his stomach he collapsed, nose striking the dirt. Far ahead of him he saw his pack running. His pups did not look back, and for that, he was proud. As he felt chills spreading throughout his body, he arced his neck so he might stare up at the sky.

“Forgive us,” Redclaw whispered to the moon. “But even you will no longer have our worship. We are free. Free…”

And free they ran, to the prison made for them by man, as Redclaw bled until he died.