Maela left soon after the food was gone. Broke and Blackpatch both transformed back into wolves, and Nolwenn vanished into one of the caves. Theo, too, didn’t seem interested in hearing more, but Lenny hung around, asking Thoko about every small detail she remembered about what had occurred around Breachpoint in the past seven years. He clung to her every word as she listed all the names she remembered from the three Inquisitional mass trials, and finally let himself fall backwards with a sigh of relief when he didn’t recognize any of them.

When darkness fell and Greg built a fire against the cold mountain night, the pack came closer again. Nolwenn and Theo were more interested in Greg’s story and everything he would tell them about his family of werewolf hunters than the gossip.

Greg didn’t wake for Maela’s return sometime during the night, but he did wake up at the distant howling just after dawn. It wasn’t loud, but it was pervasive.

Powerful, about as powerful as Theo’s answer.

“Looks like you’ll be lucky,” Nolwenn said. “At least they want to hear your story.”

Three she-wolves came up the slope, all of them with the same reddish-brown fur and long, slender legs. Greg wondered if they had all been bitten by the same werewolf, or maybe were otherwise related. They didn’t turn human, and he wasn’t sure how to ask.

“Bridget, Irene, and Hilda,” Lenny supplied. “Bridget’s the oldest.”

Bridget wasn’t interested in waiting about, especially once she spotted Thoko, and Greg sputtered when she tried to make him explain. He barely managed to clamp his lips together, to at least gather his thoughts.

To his surprise, Theo came to his aid. “Pierre’s pack is on the way, too,” the elder said. “Should be here soon. I’m sure you can wait that long. The human is fine,” he added.

Bridget’s pack kept their distance, anyway.

Pierre’s pack turned out to be ten werewolves strong, and Lenny only pointed out the leader, a smaller, very lithe, mostly black werewolf with a lot of silver around his muzzle. Everyone else in his pack seemed to be carrying something on their backs.

“He’s been a werewolf for well over forty years,” Lenny added quietly. “Must be going on eighty, as a human.”

Greg thought he could feel what Theo had meant when he had said that someone had to be “significantly older” than the Morgulon. Pierre was powerful, for certain. But Greg wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was older than the Morgulon.

Pierre alone turned human and got dressed in what looked like a very simple woman's dress, or possibly a nightgown. It was too big for the old man he turned into and made him look even tinier than he already was.

When he moved, the werewolves of all three packs moved with him unconsciously.

Pierre was clearly Valoisian, not just by name. His hair was mostly all gray, but his skin still had the sun-bronzed tone many of them shared. His wolf-brown eyes fixed on Greg.

“Maela told us the Morgulon sent you.”

“She did,” Greg confirmed. Pierre didn’t need to tell him to start explaining. The elder just stared, and Greg started talking.

Bridget, Irene, and Hilda got up and left before he was even halfway through his report, and never turned back. Pierre, on the other hand, listened intently. When Greg finished, he walked over to the fire Greg had started up again, and sat down on the ground next to it, even though his joints creaked audibly as he did. His face was hard to read behind the grey beard, as he stared at the small flame. To Greg’s surprise, he reached for the small supply of wood, to add another branch, and then pushed it in deeper, using the same stick Greg had used to poke at the fire.

When the elder settled down, so did his pack, though they kept their distance from the fire. Theo’s pack did the same as if there had been a signal that Greg had missed.

Pierre tended the flames for what felt like a long time. He muttered softly to himself, and stared at Greg a few times, while completely ignoring Thoko.

Finally, he turned to his pack without getting up: “One of us, at the very least, needs to go with them despite the dangers, to see if this is all as he says. But I believe we might have more takers?”

Greg could have cried with relief when three of the wolves surrounding Theo nodded.

“Have you sent someone to inform other packs?” Pierre asked, looking at Theo.

“Larissa left yesterday to inform the Red,” Theo said. “I’m sure she’ll let everyone else that she comes across know.”

Pierre stroked his grey beard. “Let’s hope Bridget will tell anyone to the south she meets,” he said after a moment. “I’ll send someone to the north.”

“Thank you for believing us,” Thoko said. “We’re very glad you’re willing to help.”

Pierre looked at her directly for the first time. Greg was fairly sure that he would have winced under the weight of his regard, but Thoko of course hardly noticed.

“I have a different perspective than most other packs,” he said. “You see, I once was a priest of Mithras. I believe I have a much better idea of how the Empire will react, and how much danger every werewolf of Loegrion is in right now. Your young friend here forced our hands the moment he defended you and your fellow workers as you built the railway. If this rebellion of Loegrian nobles fails...” Pierre shook his head. “If this rebellion fails, we can only pray for the Sun’s mercy. And that rarely falls on Loegrion, and even more rarely on werewolves.”

“Will you come with us?” Thoko asked.

Pierre shook his head. “I’m too old to make such a journey before winter hits. I will make sure that word spreads, that’s the most help I can give you.”

He turned to his pack again, and the three werewolves who had shown interest in going with them got up. “These are Rust, Neville, and Ragna. They’ll go with you, to help on your railway. How many werewolves are you supposed to bring back?”

“As many as we can find,” Greg said. “There’s no – no quota we have to meet. It’s more – well, we need someone to replace the Morgulon, so they can continue building the railway, while she takes care of her young, and we need more werewolves to guard the coast. And if the company does manage to get started on the line to Silverford, they’ll need at least a couple of older werewolves there, too.”

“I see.” Pierre stoked the fire thoughtfully. “I admit,” he added, “I have not seen what the Rot is like at the banks of the Savre in the past forty years, but I expect Ragna alone will be able to keep your workers safe, especially if there are freshly-bitten werewolves to aid her. As for Silverford: Any one werewolf proven stable should be enough to protect your workmen up in the mountains. By the time they reach the river valley, I’m sure I’ll have found more werewolves willing to aide. So that leaves the coasts.”

The elder looked at the three who had volunteered to go. “Rust, this will no doubt be the point of first attack. Would you be willing to face the Valoise directly?”

There was a long, long pause, and Greg chewed on his lips nervously. But then the black and russet-coloured wolf nodded.

“I want to go to Breachpoint,” Lenny piped up. “To see my family.”

“Very good,” Pierre said. “Neville, I’ll expect you to return here, to report, by the winter solstice at the latest.”

To Greg’s surprise, the wolf did not look happy about that.

“You may, of course, go back again, after,” Pierre added.

Neville huffed but nodded, and Pierre smiled. “Very good. That seems to conclude this strategy meeting. Let’s have some food.”

Most wolves in his pack transformed at those words and began to distribute the burdens they had carried. Most of it was game, but also firewood.

Pierre looked over to Thoko. “I take it you started this fire?” he asked. “Would you help me make a second one?”

“Actually, Greg did,” Thoko said. “But sure, I’ll help.”

“You built this fire?” Pierre asked. He looked delighted at those news. “How rare to find a fellow werewolf who’s willing to handle flames. You didn’t happen to follow the path of Mithras, too?”

“No,” Greg said. “I’ve always preferred science over religion.”

“So you’re a man of science turned into a creature of magic, just like I was a man of religion, turned into a demon,” Pierre grinned.

“He was also a werewolf hunter,” Thoko added.

“Trying to become one, more like,” Greg sighed. “My family all used to hunt werewolves. But now they’re all helping us,” he hurried to add.

Pierre didn’t look bothered, though. “More than half the men on my pack used to be hunters,” he said. “Rust and Neville both became werewolves that way.”

Someone from Pierre’s pack, who hadn’t transformed, dug a shallow but wide hole for a second, bigger fire, using his paws like a dog. Another one, who had turned into a man, was bringing wood, then they both retreated a few yards away. Greg and Thoko helped stack the wood, but when Greg reached for his lighter, Pierre smiled.

“Allow me,” the elder said. He fixed his gaze on the wood and clapped his hands once. Fire blasted from the stack, and a whiff of brimstone bit Greg’s nose. Pierre waved one hand through the air, quite close to the fire as if he wanted to fan it more air, and the smell of sulphur dissipated as fast as it had appeared.

Pierre winked at Greg. “What wouldn’t the true priests of Mithras give, to be able to neutralize their own magical residues so easily.”

Greg couldn’t help but stare at Pierre. “Are there – are there more werewolves who can do magic?” he asked.

Pierre smiled. “It’s not so much a question of can, Greg,” he said. “It’s a matter of want. We can all do magic, we perform magic every full moon, at the very least. I was not jesting when I called you a creature of magic. Any werewolf can absolutely do magic,” he repeated. “To achieve a specific effect, that is another matter entirely.”

“Could you teach me?”

“In a few years,” Pierre said. “If I live that long. There’s not much power in you, yet,” he added. “But your potential will grow.”

“So the Morgulon can do magic.”

Pierre poked the fire with a stick and then held out a hand. One of his pack-mates handed him the first slices of meat to go onto the flame.

“I have never seen her do anything magical,” the elder said, while he carefully tended to their food. “Neither has any other werewolf I’ve ever met. Strangely enough, it’s hunters that get bitten who tell of her powers.”

“Oh. But those are just stories,” Greg said, a little disappointed.

“Are they, though,” Pierre said.

Greg frowned. “You’re saying she might really be able to become invisible or fly?”

Pierre paused in placing the next cut of deer. “I would not be surprised if it turned out that there’s some grain of truth to the rumours, is all I’m saying.” He considered, and added: “Flying seems unlikely, though.”

“We have to ask her,” Thoko said.

“Oh, good luck,” Pierre said, smiling. “She’s not speaking about it. At least not to me.” He placed the next piece of meat. “Maybe they really are just stories, and she prefers to keep people guessing, rather than admitting she has not learned to control her powers.”

“Does the Red have any magical abilities?” Thoko asked.

Pierre nodded slowly. “The only thing I know for sure is that he cannot just sense other werewolves, but also humans in his vicinity.”

“I bet the Morgulon can, too,” Thoko said. “That would explain how she escaped hunters for so long.”

Greg nodded slowly. It didn’t seem like much, compared to Pierre’s fire spell, but it would certainly be useful.

“I’m curious what else we’ll learn about werewolves,” Thoko said. “I wonder how Audenne is getting on with his studies.”

Of course, then they had to explain what Prof. Audenne was doing, and afterwards, just like Theo’s pack, Pierre’s pack wanted to know what other news they had from the heartlands. Greg felt a little hoarse when they had finally satisfied everyone’s curiosity.

Pierre’s pack spent the night at Theo’s campsite, and Pierre got invited to sleep inside one of the caves. Greg and Thoko tried to find out more about Ragna, Rust, and Neville. Rust was quite happy to talk about himself. He had been conscripted as a soldier when he’d been younger than Greg was now, and then became a hunter for a few years before he had been bitten, eighteen years ago. He was now a man in his early sixties, only a few years younger than Lenny. But unlike Lenny, who looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over, Rust still had a warrior’s physique – not heavy-set, but tough as leather. His human hair was grey and dwindling, but his beard still had the russet streaks of his wolf pelt.

Ragna was somewhere in her forties, Greg guessed, and had been a werewolf the longest, though only by a couple of years. Rust claimed that her story was the most interesting, and promptly began to tell it.

Ragna glared at him, wild and lean in her human form, and there was a surety to her movements, an energy that made her beautiful despite the scars she bore on all her limbs.

“She’s from Fylke, an independent country much further to the north. When she was barely more than a girl, the trading vessel she served on as a guard was seized by pirates,” Rust said.

“And then the pirate ship was in turn captured by a Valoisian warship, and I was sold with the other spoils in Valoir,” Ragna took over, still glaring at Rust, though they seemed quite fond of each other. “But the Gods hadn’t abandoned me completely, because just months later, the noble who bought me fell from grace with the crown and was exiled to Loegrion, with its free cities. I ran as soon as we got off the boat, kept myself hidden in a city for a year and a day, as the law demands it until I could call myself a free woman again.”

She rubbed the bite marks on her lower arms. “The first time I left the city, I was attacked and bitten by a werewolf. I thought the Gods had abandoned me entirely then, but once I made it out of the heartlands, I realized that instead, they had given me strength beyond my wildest dreams. And now the Gods arranged this meeting, and I’ll finally have my revenge on Valoir.”

Neville smiled wryly when Ragna fell silent, and Greg looked at him. “No great story here,” he said. “I just wanted to be a werewolf hunter for the riches it brought, and I want to go back now for a warm bed and hot food.” He grimaced. “I’ve only been a werewolf for a little over nine years, so I guess it makes sense that I’ll be the messenger boy. Not looking forward to running back and forth, though.”

“Perhaps Pierre would accept an even younger messenger?” Thoko suggested. “Someone who just proved themselves sane, I mean?”

“Nine years old makes you an elder by their standards,” Lenny piped in.

Neville stared at the old man, then grinned. “Oh, good joke,” he said.

“No, really,” Lenny said, grinning widely. “Cause until this summer solstice all werewolves got killed straight away, they only got a handful of us who can fight a proper Rot-monster on their own.”

Thoko and Greg nodded a little awkwardly when Rust, Ragna, and Neville stared at them.

“If Neville’s an elder,” Rust asked finally, “what am I?”

“Ancient,” Neville sniggered.

“Well,” Thoko said, and ran a hand through her braids. “You’ll be the third oldest werewolf within the heartlands. Ragna will be second-oldest, right after the Morgulon.”

“Damn,” Rust muttered. “Let’s hope Larissa finds the Red and that he’s willing to fight. Otherwise, I don’t see you guys winning against the Valoise.”

“They do have the Morgulon on their side,” Neville said. “Might not be too bad.”

“You’ve never seen a Valoisian suppression force,” Rust grumbled. “I have. They’ll sacrifice men by the score, if necessary. I don’t fancy going up against one human sacrifice all on my own, let alone against several. And you’d never make it.”

Greg shuddered. He had wondered since they had found Theo’s pack whether or not they should head back right away, or try to find more packs, but if Rust spoke the truth, they had to race home as fast as possible. If Rust was certain that Neville couldn’t defeat such a human sacrifice, then neither could Bernadette, who was supposed to fight that first suppression force they expected soonish.

“You wouldn’t be on your own,” Ragna said after a moment. “It’ll be the four of us. This company will just have to slow down that railway of theirs. And if they don’t want to do that, we return here straight away.”

Rust looked at Lenny, clearly still worried, but nodded. “Yeah, okay, with the four of us, and the Morgulon there, even if she doesn’t fight. That might be a winnable battle. If one of their hunters can shoot some of the Valoisian mage priests early on, I mean. Who’s in command of the Leogrian troops?”

“I don’t know if the Dukes George Louis and Desmarais picked a general yet,” Greg said. “Maybe George Louis wants to do it himself.”

“As longs as it’s not Desmarais,” Rust grumbled. “Fought under him down south, watched him literally wet his pants when the battle started.”

Rust paused, and added: “Mind you, that was before Neville here was even born, he might’ve grown some balls since.”

“Ancient,” Neville whispered again.

“In any case, we leave tomorrow and go straight for the heartlands?” Rust wanted to know. “Will you come with us, or are you looking for others?”

“We’ll come back with you,” Greg said.

“Do you know any packs who live on the Crucible Ridge?” Thoko asked. “Perhaps we can try to stop by with them?”

Rust combed his fingers through his beard. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “If you guys really consider Neville an elder, I might know others you want to talk to.”

“Anyone who has seen a hundred full moons,” Thoko said. “Though, honestly, we’re not going to turn down anyone who’s proven stable.”

“We can’t do any big detours, though,” Greg added.

“Figured,” Rust nodded. He frowned at Greg. “You’re not going to travel as a human, right?”

“No. And Thoko’ll ride on my back.”

“We should make good time then,” Rust said. “We’ll leave early tomorrow?”

He looked at Ragna, who nodded. “Let’s rest now,” she said.

When the other four werewolves transformed, Greg decided to follow their example. Thoko packed his clothes and their other stuff before she settled down on the ground right next to him. In the morning, she just needed to throw the pack onto his back and climb up herself, and then they were off.