Fire.

A burning sensation that tore through his whole body, leaving no nerve untouched. A pain only the touch of silver could create, but unlike anything he'd ever endured before. Marcus clenched his teeth and tried hard not to scream. Penetrating deep into his torso, scalding waves of agony assaulted his senses; blocking out all thought but for a single, tortured cry: Luna! Make it stop.

Hands touched him. Every movement setting off new tendrils of torment across his skin. Fingers wrapped around his neck; a wet stickiness seeping down into his ear. He felt pressure above his liver, and in his chest; an agony that burrowed deep as though it had taken on a life of its own. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself confronted by a disembodied head hovering over his own; all wrinkles and weathered skin.

Heedless of the fight for survival raging around him, Samuel seemed to be concentrating on something below Marcus's neck; urgency in his every movement. He didn't notice the pain-filled eyes following his lips as he talked to someone out of sight. “Pack it tightly, use whatever you can find...”

“Like this?”

Issac's voice, Marcus thought blearily. He could just make out the young warrior's drawl over the ringing in his ears.

“That's right... nothing else we can do. Some are going to have to come out though...”

“How many are there?”

“At least two dozen. There's too much blood, I can't see...”

He couldn't focus on what they were doing. The fire in his veins numbed his ability to focus too closely on his surroundings. He sucked in a deep breath; the air burned in his throat like scalding tea, the effort of filling his lungs an act of pure determination. I'm injured. One hand made a valiant attempt to reach up and touch his stomach; it made it as far as his side before dropping back to the floor, slick with blood and exhausted from the effort.

Issac’s head swam into his field of vision and the warrior stared down at him with worried eyes.

Is it bad? Marcus wanted to ask him, but the flames kept him quiet.

“Oh, Goddess, he's awake!” Issac called to Samuel, the panic evident in his tense, cracked voice.

Okay, it’s bad.

Samuel’s head appeared beside Isaac’s, the lips moving frantically, but a tinnitus-like ringing blocked out half the words: “Damn it, get" – Marcus tried to lift his head – “would be better if he” – He couldn't. The arid reek of burnt fur stung his nostrils – “hold on Marcus, we need to extract” – He could taste rust on his tongue. Panic set in, stoking the flames further – “Hold him down...”

What's happening to me? What's happen –

Two strong hands pressed down on both his shoulders. Agony pierced his chest wall. A sharp, stabbing, probing pain that reached deep beyond the fire to a whole new level of torment. The scream that tore from his lips was primal. He arched his back in an instinctive attempt to get away, writhing against whatever pinned him to the cold, damp earth. But Issac held on with all his strength, his eyes apologetic but determined.

A second set of hands joined the first; stronger and emanating the power of an Alpha. The stabbing pain reached deeper, tearing through the tattered remains of his control, and started rooting around inside him.

He screamed again. And again. And again.

Just as his mind started to beg for the release of death, the pain retreated. Through eyes blurred by a film of water, he watched Samuel hold up a small silver pellet clutched tightly between two bloody fingers. Marcus closed his eyes and the water spilled, joining the rivulets of sweat running across his skin.

“Quick,” Samuel ordered the unseen pair of hands. “Hand me the Sulfadiazine!”

Marcus barely had time to register that he recognised the name before a new agony overcame his tortured body and his mind finally gave up the fight, leaving him floating in the blissful pain-free nothingness.

The black void of unconsciousness was cool and comforting. It enveloped his torn and pain-wracked body with a blissful cloak of forgetfulness. His mind floated. Without care, without fear, without pain.

Am I dead?

No, he answered his own question. Death would be more... final.

I should go back.

His mind shuddered at the thought of returning to that maelstrom of pain. I don't think so. Maybe I could just stay here?

“Don't you dare.” A voice cut clearly through the nothingness, carrying with it more authority than even his alpha could muster. “Don't you dare leave me.”

Ophelia. A sense of longing stretched into his void. Did she feel it? Did she know he floated somewhere between the living and the dead?

“Promise me, Marcus.”

He had never been able to deny her anything.

“You promise me, right now.”

I promise. And he fought to resist the urge to sink further into nothingness. I promise, my love. I promise...

When Marcus opened his eyes, the pain was still there. But the fire in his wounds had dampened to a steady smoulder and he found he could breathe easier. He tried moving his arm again. His hand fumbled up his side like a lead weight, every movement threatening to take the last of his strength. His fingers ran over cloth, then a button. He was wearing clothes? Confusion gave him the strength to raise his head. No, ragged strips torn from what appeared to be shirts were wrapped tight around his torso, each one a sticky reddish-brown.

He raised bleary eyes up to the sky. The sun was much higher, drifting in and out of the darkening clouds – it seemed he had missed a lot during his time in blissful slumber. He squinted upwards, trying to get his bearings... must be mid-morning, maybe a little earlier, but not by much.

The tinnitus had faded, leaving behind nothing but an ache deep in his ears; barely noticeable in the background of the pain the rest of his body endured. He could pick out muffled voices, the shuffling of feet in the fallen leaves. He wasn't alone.

Rogues? Had he been captured? A moment of panic brought the pain flaring back to life. But then the Alpha's conscious brushed against the edges of his mind; steady, reassuring, and very much alive. One by one he felt the presence of the others drifting across the link, just out of reach. They had escaped... somehow.

Where are we?

He rolled his head to one side and followed the rocky outcrops and boulders the littered the ground around him. He knew this place. The Tor. An ancient rock form half-buried by the forest, not far beyond the Blackridge borders. The scattered stones were not as random as they seemed; each one a marker of the dead from long ago.

Once, a group of archaeologists had petitioned to dig the Tor up. Convinced it had been used as an ancient burial ground, they'd marked several areas out as potential cairns built amongst the natural curvature of the Tor. Their presence was not welcomed by the Blackridge wolves.

The border lines of a pack were invisible to all but the werewolves. There were no fences or obvious markings to indicate the point of no return. A human might spot the worn-down trails criss-crossing the area. They might even follow one for a time - eager to spot the wildlife that created them.

Eventually, they would run across a ‘games-keeper' who would helpfully point out that they'd crossed over onto private land and guide them back the way they came. Sometimes, the games-keeper would have dogs with them, flashes of grey or brown fur running through the trees, just out of sight. The humans were usually very apologetic - only a rare few understanding the nature of the land they had stumbled upon. Those who chose to be obnoxious about it invariably found themselves face to face with one of the gamekeeper's 'dogs' and rarely ventured anywhere close to the area again.

Alpha Avery had worked hard to block the archaeological endeavours, earning himself and their pack a harsh reputation amongst the local humans in the process. As a child, Marcus had always assumed it was because the Alpha didn't want humans sniffing too close to his pack borders. Only as an adult had he learned that the wolves had not always burned their dead, and it had occurred to him that it was unlikely all the souls resting here were human...

His gaze followed the steep curve of the embankment. Partially concealed by diagonally growing trees, the jagged rocks seemed to burst out of the ground like living, granite organisms – or so it seemed through the fog of his pain-filled eyes anyway. Behind his head, the top of the Tor broke off, creating a sheer cliff straight down to the river.

Alpha Blake chose well. It was a clever place to flee to. Two sides inaccessible and one covered with so much debris that climbing up towards an enemy would be tantamount to suicide. The rogues would have to funnel up the clear embankment, reducing the numbers that could come at them in each attack.

Akoni? he called to his wolf inside his mind. For the first time in his life, there was no reply.

Akoni? he tried again, pushing against the barrier between them - a hint of panic in his voice. A whimper was his only reply. For a moment, in the depths of his subconscious, he caught a brief glimpse of the true level of the pain his wolf was carrying on his behalf.

It was enough to make his mind recoil in horror, and he suddenly understood what was happening to them - the pellets must have been poisoned. Clever. It's exactly what he would have done.

I’m dying then.

His eyes drifted back down to his makeshift bandages; each and every one stained red with blood that still seeped through from his wounds. His wolf was struggling. Strange though, he couldn't summon up the energy to feel afraid. I'm sorry, my love.

Rolling his head the other way, he found himself in close proximity with the massive frame of his Alpha's brother. Propped up against one of the trees, eyes closed with exhaustion, Asher's hands cradled a wound of his own.

Marcus watched as he attempted to bind the area tighter, hiding the still-seeping wound from sight under his shirt. Marcus frowned and closed his eyes again, trying to resist the urge to sink back into slumber just a little while longer. Shouldn’t that have healed by now?

Determined to stay awake, his attention was drawn to the voices on the edge of the embankment:

An urgent discussion between the other members of their group. It took every ounce of strength he had left to listen in on their conversation. A task he found easier if he kept his eyes closed, focusing on only one sense at a time.

“I don't understand. Why haven't they attacked yet?” Charlie's youthful voice drifted over. There was an unusual edge of tension in his normally cheerful tone. He’d shown such proficiency recently, it was easy to forget how inexperienced he really was.

“Our escape wasn't part of their original plan,” Blake replied.

Marcus felt an immediate relief hearing his Alpha's strong and steady voice – a wave of power emanated from Blake every time he spoke, it both calmed and fortified the wolves around him. Marcus felt the effects sweep over his ravaged body. His breathing coming a little easier.

“My guess is, there's no leader around to tell them what to do anymore.”

“You think we killed him?” Charlie asked in surprise.

“It's possible, I suppose... but I doubt it. Why risk exposing himself if things go wrong?” The Alpha's voice moved on the wind from one side of the embankment to the other.

He was pacing, Marcus realised. He always paced when he was feeling agitated.

“What do you think they'll do next?” Simon. Still in wolf-form and communicating through the pack-link. His voice held a distinct edge of anger, and Marcus could almost picture the fierce warrior in his mind; on high alert, his eyes scanning the forest below .

“Regroup. Argue about who's in charge," The Alpha's voice continued to flow across the Tor with the breeze, a superb level of control in each inflection - the calm before the storm. "Probably send some cannon fodder up first – test our strength, see if they can find a weakness.”

“How long’s that going to take?” Simon sniffed.

Not long, Marcus thought to himself. By some miracle, the rogues had learnt to cooperate over the last few months. Try as he might, he couldn't summon up the strength to coerce his lips into functioning properly and frustratingly, without his wolf, he couldn't utilise the pack-link either.

An audible sigh escaped Blake's lips as he ceased his pacing a moment. “Six months ago I'd have put money on not hearing from them again until dark. But recently...”

“I never pegged them as being that smart,” Charlie said doubtfully. “And I saw a lot of feral eyes out there...”

As the Rogue's wolves grew stronger, their grip on their humanity grew weaker. A feral wolf was still capable of being smart, but without a hierarchy to keep them in check they often leaned towards allowing their instincts to control their actions. The strongest had proved capable of utilising this freedom with deadly results, but more often than not, the more feral the wolf, the closer top insanity they became.

“It took some serious organisation to arrange that ambush, Charlie,” Blake reminded him. “Besides, I think we took out most of the feral ones already... they don't have the self-control to hold back for long.”

“He's right,” Asher interjected, his voice originating from close to Marcus's left ear. His light tone masked his pain well, but there was no hiding the exhaustion behind his words. “Whoever organised this was smart enough to send a mixed group. Someone down there will be thinking with more than two brain cells.”

“I estimate we've got no more than a couple of hours,” Blake agreed. “Any ideas?”

“Can you reach the pack through the link?” Issac suggested. Marcus could hear the scraping of metal on stone. The warrior must be sharpening one of his blades. His use of the ritual, a rare display of nerves from the usually confident warrior.

Not until we cross the border, Marcus told him silently.

“Not until we cross the border...” Blake confirmed.

“Might I suggest we make plans to reach it then?” Asher suggested dryly.

From below, a litany of fierce howls pierced the silence of the forest. He couldn't understand them but he recognised the agitation through the pitch of each individual cry. The rogues had begun fighting for control.

“That was fast...” Samuel murmured. The dry, rusty crackle of his aged voice was closer than Marcus had expected. He instinctively turned his head towards the sound - a streak of sharp pains reprimanding him for his decision - and a hand gently patted his leg. Marcus caught the faint whisper of Samuel’s masked scent. It must be wearing off. “Try not to move,” the voice advised.

“How is he?” Blake's asked, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps suggesting a quick approach. “Is he awake?”

“He’s holding on... barely. I think his wolf is keeping him alive.”

Marcus forced his heavy eyelids to open, seeking out the source of his Alpha's voice.

Blake stared down at him, his eyes full of concern. “He's not healing?”

“There are too many pellets, Alpha. If I try to remove all them here... he's too weak. I've bought them a few hours, that's all.”

“Can you seal the wounds?”

Goddess, no, not that again.

“Not with the pellets still inside. The poison will kill him.”

Marcus didn't know whether to weep with relief, or despair.

Blake gripped his Beta's arm. “Hold on,” he commanded Marcus, pouring all the Alpha he could into his voice.

Marcus nodded weakly, feeling his wolf strive to obey their Alpha’s command.

“We'd better get a move on,” Blake’s said grimly to his companions. “We need to get him to Doc, now.”

“And once again, the plan is?” Asher’s voice spoke up from right by his left ear, a casual drawl that this time couldn't quite hide the pain in his voice.

In spite of his own agony, Marcus was once again impressed by the sheer will power of the Alphas; a driving force that helped them withstand far more than any other wolf could manage.

“Distraction, deception, decampment, little brother.” The two Alphas looked at each other a moment and shared identical, savage grins.

As Marcus struggled not to drift back into the foggy soup of a pain-free slumber, he heard the fading voice of his Alpha ordering the others to start shifting some of the rocks and loose scree towards the edge of the embankment.

A landslide, he thought to himself, his mind already filling in the gaps. That would definitely make the rogues think twice before trying a second charge.

If they sent enough scree down, followed by some larger rocks, the Rogues would be forced to funnel closer together, hampering their approach and making them easy targets. He knew Charlie and Simon were more than equipped to add to the chaos with ranged attacks from the top of the Tor. Combined, it should be enough to force a temporary retreat.

If Alex were here, he'd be rigging up several complicated mechanisms to trigger further barrages when they tried again; creating the illusion of a continued coordinated defence. Marcus suspected Simon would be more inclined to loosen the soil strategic places, letting nature do the work for them. Either way, it would keep the rogues distracted.

He mulled it over. It might just buy enough time for the group to climb down the escarpment. Then, they could make a break for the border while the rogues were still trying to reach the now non-existent wolves.

Marcus thought about the sharp, almost vertical cliff face, the furrows in his brow deepening. Even at his fittest he'd still have faced the prospect of traversing it with the greatest reluctance. But now – the leaden weight on his chest intensified – would it even be possible to get him down? Could his body, as torn and broken as it was, survive the battering it would have to endure to reach the bottom? Did he have the strength to hold on?

“They're coming!” Simon yelled, just as his mind gave up on the idea of staying conscious.