Greg hurried down the corridors of the palace towards the little office where the telegraph operators sat. The news had spread through the palace like wildfire: David was messaging them.

Well, not them, really. When Greg got there, deVale was already there, bent over the operator’s shoulder to read along as the man translated the code. One slip of paper was already lying on the table behind them.

MAJ FELEKE REPORTING TO GEN DEVALE FROM ERKFORD

That had been the first message, the one that had had Greg run down here in the first place. And of course deVale, who was indeed a freshly minted general. David must have guessed so. Or did he have access to the papers?

Three more messages had arrived since, all neatly transcribed.

55000 VALOISE MOVING ON CITY

THREE DAYS AWAY

HAVE 177 WEREWOLVES

As Greg joined deVale at the table, the operator finished transcribing the next message:

2500 AT ERKFORD GARRISON

“Heard the news, didn’t you?” deVale asked, without looking at Greg. The telegraph was already ticking again.

“Finally,” he growled, when the door opened again and a young soldier arrived, carrying rolled up paper.

Maps, Greg realised.

“Put them on the table there,” deVale ordered. Impatiently, he jumped in to help unfurl the papers, weigh them down, muttering to himself. “Right at the Lessing, no Rot-issue, very good bridge…Bridge…”

He tapped the map a few times, staring at the wall. “Not something the werewolves can easily work with, is it? Moon Chart?” he added louder, looking at the soldier, who promptly handed over another piece of paper.

DeVale pushed out his chin as far as he could, rubbing it.

Lane ducked into the room. DeVale interrupted his musings to pull out a chair for her. She smiled rather tingly, but sat, straightening her skirts.

Greg handed her the missives that had arrived so far.

REQUESTING ORDERS was the next one that the operator read out loud. Greg expected it to be the final one, given the request, but after a few seconds, the ticking continued.

DeVale smiled at the new bit of text. “Requesting orders, what else.”

“You don’t think that’s what he’s doing?” Greg asked.

DeVale shook his head, bending over the papers again. “Quite the contrary, it’s rather stating the obvious, isn’t it? He wouldn’t have addressed this to “General deVale,” or phrased it as a report, if he weren’t after some form of official decision.”

He tapped the moon chart. “The Valoise will arrive at Erkford just before the full moon. That’s unfortunate. If there was a way to stall them…”

Greg felt rather useless while deVale muttered to himself, pushing the moon chart aside to read some annotations on the map underneath. “Really good bridge… but Erkford garrison has just 55 guns, total. The Valoise will have easily three times as much firepower…”

“Do you think the Valoise are aware of the werewolves’ weakness on full moon?” Lane asked.

“They made no attempt to exploit it during the last one,” deVale said. “But it’s quite possible they were just too busy getting everything unloaded. In any case, they may have figured it out since then.”

Lane nodded slowly.

HOW IS MOTHER?

That was apparently David’s final message for now. The telegraph stopped ticking. The operator leaned back with a sigh, closing his code book.

George Louis walked in just in time for the man to put down his pencil.

“Is it true,” he asked before anyone could greet him. “Is it David?”

Lane offered him her seat, and passed him the messages they had gotten. It put a smile onto the duke’s face, which quickly disappeared while he read the final one. Probably because David hadn’t asked about him.

Greg could only guess that David had already seen the news that the duke had survived. Or Erkford might have told him.

“He can’t take that fight, can he?” Stuard asked after a moment, putting down the slip asking after Imani. “He doesn’t have the troops…”

“He might be able to stall,” deVale said. “Hurt them and lower their numbers. We won’t get a more favourable fight than this until the enemy arrives at the walls of Deva. But no. I don’t think even Lord Relentless can hold Erkford if the Valoise really want to take it. I do wonder how good his intelligence on this is.”

“Assuming it is good,” George Louis pressed, “what orders will you give?”

“Tell him to expect an answer after lunch,” deVale said, turning to the operator. “I need to think about this. Talk it over with General Vermount.”

“You cannot seriously suggest—”

“Your Highness, you did leave command of the army to me,” deVale interrupted him. “That includes tactical decisions like this one. And I believe we owe Lord Felke a well thought-through answer. This may well be our one chance to deal a major blow to the enemy. And even if we do not take this fight, evacuating a city like Erkford will require careful planning. We may still need the werewolves to act as a rear guard.”

“And on full moon, no less,” Lane added. She sighed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to warn Commander Bacrot that we’ll have another influx of refugees.”

Greg watched her go. He didn’t envy her the task of finding places for all these people to go. How many citizens did Erkford have?

“Who is commanding on the Valoisian side?” George Louis asked as the door closed behind her. He frowned, and added: “I feel like I have asked this before.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Greg was fairly certain that the duke would have been briefed on this, too. Quite possibly by Lane herself.

“Marshalls Allard and Soto appear to each command a corps d’armée,” deVale replied promptly. “It’s unclear how much influence the Levant has.”

The duke shuddered. “I remember Allard from when he was a general. Vicious bastard, but careful. What do we know about this Soto?”

“He’s a cavalry officer,” deVale said. “Said to be both bold and brilliant in that role, though prone to excesses, both in the risks he takes on the field and his lifestyle.”

“Sounds like he’ll and Allard will get on like a house on fire, then,” the duke commented. “Probably not something we can exploit, though.”

He sighed, and with a soft groan, pushed out of his seat. “I will leave you to it,” he said. “I trust you’ll keep me informed, general.”

“Of course,” deVale confirmed.

That left Greg alone with the count. He might as well use the time while he was here. “May I answer David’s final question while you deliberate?”

He didn’t really have an excuse to hang around after telling David that Imani was on the mend. General Vermount frowned at him, when he finally showed up.

“One of the werewolves,” deVale said, before the older general could ask. “In case we need his special insight.”

Vermount shuddered and glared at him, until Greg went to stand at deVale’s side. The count pretended he hadn’t noticed, going over the information they had at hand. The older general interrupted him, though: “You’ve seen these—creatures—in action. What do you think, can they do any significant damage to the enemy? Without risking themselves too much?”

“It may be our best chance—” deVale started, then shook his head. “They’re good soldiers.”

“One hundred and seventy seven of them.”

“If it was open ground…” deVale went on. “Lord Relentless reckons each one of them is worth ten cavalry men. But on a narrow bridge…”

Vermount nodded. “I think you have your answers, General deVale.”

Greg pressed his lips together, to stop a sigh of relief when deVale nodded again.

“So we evacuate,” he said.

***

David was humming tunelessly to himself as he rejoined the werewolves waiting for him outside Erkford. He was in a good mood. He liked the orders deVale had given—saving him from having to give them himself—but mostly he was glad to have gotten confirmation that Imani was alive and on the mend.

And George Louis, too, though he had already known about that.

Rust was strangely quiet as David joined the group. He had expected at least some complaint about how long it had taken to sort out everything with the city garrison, and how the werewolves hadn’t gotten to enter the town for even an hour. But not a word. Noone was speaking at all when he told them to get going, back to where the rest of the army was waiting.

Not even a word of relief that they wouldn’t be risking their lives for a city that hadn’t allowed them to enter.

Maybe it was the summer heat, that laden pressure in the air that warned of the next thunderstorm.

But when they reached the small forest where everyone else was hidden, the camp was just as quiet. All the werewolves were focused on the same place, staring as if hypnotised at a stranger standing in their middle. Even Ragna, in her giant wolf form, was looking at the man like an attentive student did when the teacher was talking.

The stranger wore simple clothes—sturdy overalls and a grubby shirt underneath—and no shoes. He appeared about as old as Rust, with a mane of even brighter red hair and beard than Rust’s russet colour, both streaked with grey. His eyes were dark brown and piercing. Human eyes, with the white showing all around. Showing his nerves.

It couldn’t be who David thought it was, could it?

The stranger watched his every move, twitching nervously.

Right until Alvin’s shade shot past David, throwing himself at the stranger like an over-eager puppy welcoming its owner.

To David’s biggest surprise, they collided. In fact, the stranger rocked back, having to take a step to keep his balance, when Alvin smashed into him. Just like when the ghost had fought the Rot.

It seemed to shock the stranger, too. He grabbed the apparition by what had once been the scruffy fur around his neck, pulling his face up to his own, then scratching him underneath the ears. As if the shade were solid. He stared at the ghost’s face with rapt attention, and David wondered—were they communicating?

He halted his horse, standing in the saddle. Were the stranger’s lips moving? Was there a flicker of magic?

The stranger switched to scratching between the ears, and it was only when he flicked his other arm to let the long sleeves slide back, that David realised he was missing a hand. A front paw, in his other shape.

Slowly, he let himself slide out of the saddle, keeping his hands where the stranger could see them as he closed the distance.

“The Red, I presume,” he said.

The man—werewolf—froze, slowly turning to face him, teeth bared.

“The Relentless,” the stranger said. “Red. Yes. That’s what they call me.”

“Is there another name you would prefer?” David asked.

The Red wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. “Brought you a gift,” he said, and turned to look over his shoulder.

David felt magic flare. Nothing else happened, though.

The Red wouldn’t try to jump-scare him, would he?

He had barely thought that when a rustle went through the underbrush, and a werewolf stepped into the open. And then a second one, and a third—and then they appeared all around, alone and in groups—sometimes a dozen strong. And David felt it: these weren't newly bitten people. At least not all of them.

Where did they all come from? There were so many of them! How had he not seen them earlier?

“Cleared the Central Ranges,” the Red said, as if he had read the first thought in his mind. “Plains, too. All here to fight.”

“Thank you,” David said. “Will you help, too?”

“Just did, didn’t I?” the Red growled.

“Thank you,” David repeated. “I meant, will you fight, though?”

The elder shook his head. He raised the arm with the missing hand. “The Rot, sure. Can fight that. Won’t go to battle against guns.”

“Would you help keep the Rot from crossing the White Torrent, then?” David asked. “Or possibly clean the Savre?”

If they could create safe lands for people to flee to, that had to be worth something, right?

The Red shrugged. “Want to see my nieces and nephews, anyway.” He looked around at the troops he had brought and the werewolves already gathered, one hand still idly scritching Alvin’s ghost under the chin. “Your enemy. Going to split up after Erkford.”

“Split up,” David repeated. “Why?”

The Red shrugged again. “Cavalry to the west. Rest of the army to the east. I think.”

“How do you know?” David asked.

“The wind told me.”

“And do you trust the wind?”

“The wind knows every breath you take.”

That didn’t quite answer the question. Though David thought at least now he knew where Morgulon got it from.

“Don’t die before the war is over, Lord Relentless,” the Red said, raising the stump of his hand. Before David could figure out an answer, the Red bowed—mockingly, David thought—turning invisible as he did.

As soon as the elder disappeared from sight, the magic he had put on all the other werewolves broke. Some of them yelped, others transformed in a cloud of tearing fabric and ripping leather. One group broke into a chorus of howls, which didn’t end until Ragna barked sharply.

Silence fell then, and all the newcomers turned towards David, clearly expecting him to do something.

Great.

He was quite tempted to just dump the problem on Rust and Ragna. They had to have known this was coming, right? Or was the Red powerful enough to hide all these werewolves not just from sight, but from other werewolves’ magical perception, too?

On the other hand, Morgulon had been strong enough to save dozens of people from death cap poison. And the Red had to be close to twice her age.

Perhaps he could fly, like the rumour said about Morgulon. Everything seemed possible at this point.

And he still had to do a bloody speech, didn’t he?

“Welcome, everyone,” he called out into the silence. “I am Major David Feleke. You may know me as part of the Feleke Four, or the Relentless.”

If they didn’t know already, better to get that out of the way right away. He looked from one new face to the next, trying to gauge their reaction.

Nobody ran, which was probably all he could ask for.

“Welcome to the Loegrian army,” he went on. “I’m in charge here. My two captains are Ragna and Rust. I’ll expect you to do as they say even if you happen to be older than them.”

There was no protest. He wondered if any of the newcomers were older than his captains.

Would it be worth the trouble such an elder might cause? He couldn’t quite banish the idea of sending one of them invisible into a Valoisian camp, to bite as many of the pisscoats as possible.

But this wasn’t the moment to dream.

“The Valoise are marching on Erkford. Which we will not try to defend. Our job will be to protect the evacuation of the city instead.”

This, finally, got a cheer from his veterans.

“We will march towards Erkford first thing tomorrow morning, so I advise you all to get some rest.”

Should he ride ahead, inform deVale of the change in situation?

But no. First he needed to get to kno

w his new soldiers. Find out if they had any useful magical tricks, or experience as soldiers.

But first: dinner.