He who defends everything, defends nothing.

Pre-Fall General

Arturus Windmiller, son of Verlaint Windmiller, spotted the two figures waiting next to his home as he finished his slow inspection of his home village. The sight of them made his skin crawl slightly, as his hand almost grasped for his weapon, but he restrained himself as he walked slowly without even missing a step or hinting at anything.

When the Great Council of the North, the grand gathering of all the tribes of the maple trees, had decided to seek an alliance, he, and a few other tribal leaders, had disagreed. Rather vehemently, in fact. But the majority had gone along with the proposal, and the tribal elders had made their pronouncement. Once the Great Council had spoken, it had spoken of one voice, and no other voice, even his, would rise in discord.

Thus, even if all of his upbringing told him to grab weapons and sound the alarm, he ignored the two waiting for him until he reached his house. Once he was but a few paces from them, he stopped and acknowledged them.

The Wendigos of the North were unnatural to look at. Slightly smaller than an average man, they went naked, only clad in the slightly off-white fur that covered their bodies and bandoliers or sashes to hang weapons and travel bags.

He normally would be unable to really distinguish between Wendigos, but one was particularly recognizable because he not only wore an elaborate bandolier holding three different axes but also a pair of glasses.

Few people wore glasses. Skilled crafters made them on order… in the far south, transported across distances, and used by elders and the deeply eye-cursed to ease their lot. In the Wendigo’s case, however, the glasses were far more. With these, he had been told by others, the furred warrior could see magic, spot the changed beasts, and even thread his way across the great mana pockets that dotted and split the land. He was rumored to be the best scout of the savage Wendigos, able to cross even the great mana barrier than ran across most of the continent. Despite the apparent fragility of the Ancient instrument, it exhibited the uncanny durability and preternatural cleanliness of its kind.

“Snowbound Glatteis, I welcome you,” Windmiller said.

He avoided trying to guess the name of the other Wendigo. At best, his correct assumption would be simply accepted, and at worst, allow the other to belittle him for failing to recognize whoever stood in front of him. The Wendigos had little difficulty recognizing themselves, of course, and no problem with the “skinned faces”, as they tended to call unchanged humans when they wanted to be particularly insulting.

He gestured at the front of his home, before sitting on a stone. The two Wendigos squatted. He had not invited them, as they disliked the confines of a proper home, and even more its warmth. The Wendigos much preferred the embrace of the cold, the winter snows, and the ice. They even preferred their meat cooled and seasoned rather than hot and grilled.

“Arturus Windmiller Blackfeet Trueman, I greet you.”

They both nodded, exchange of names concluded.

“I see your people have retreated already,” the Wendigo immediately started.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“The harvests cannot be delayed much. To let the fields much longer would be to court famine. The elders fear early snows this year.”

“And thus, you fail to break through the Kootenai Gap yet again.”

“For all of your vaunted prowess, you have not either, Glatteis. None of the last two winters were a great success.”

“We almost had them last winter.”

“As the wise man says, almost counts for nothing in manners of war.”

“And if you had exhausted them more before turning back, it would be a sure thing,” the Wendigo said with what Arturus was certain was a smirk under his furry face.

“We can do little else. Unlike you, our lives are tied to the land.”

“So are ours, even if the bonds aren’t your kind. Or we would have not accepted the offer.”

“Thus, the Great Council decreed.”

“Thus, we will finish breaking your enemies for you this winter, that you may turn your gaze finally to the south you covet so much.”

Arturus winced a bit.

“About that… it may turn out to be harder than expected.”

The tribesman could detect a surprised tone in the Wendigo’s answer.

“How so?”

“We have ears to the ground, and words coming from the southern winds. It appears the Warden Lord of the Montana has grown concerned with your presence on the Gap these last two years.”

The second Wendigo laughed lightly, without commenting further.

“Our… contacts south tell me that he has drawn plans to reinforce for the winter, in anticipation of your presence.”

“Their warriors are hamstrung by the ice. We will wait until those snows you fear so much come and their reinforcements will be for naught. And this time, we will be ready for their mist sorceress.”

“Do not underestimate the southrons, Glatteis. Their lands are much more prosperous than ours. They can last longer than us.”

“Weren’t you the one who told us that this Warden Lord had few allies to count on?”

“That was the Great Council, not me. But we’ve been waging war against the new Warden after his father died, and he still stands.”

“Bah,” the Wendigo said dismissively. “Your concern is noted. Our warriors will soon prepare the venison for the winter campaign, and we shall see if your ‘reinforcements’ will be worth the name. Until then, I hope you can keep them bottled just like they do you.”

“We have forces still in place, of course. As I said, we have waged this war for longer than you.”

“Then all will be well, and come spring, you will have your prize, and so we will claim ours.”

“May the thaw be that kind.”

The two Wendigos rose and clapped their hands slowly, signifying their departure. Arturus Windmiller watched them walk slowly toward the distant wood before letting his repressed sigh escape.

The southrons of the Montana may call us savages, but those are the true savages. Bloody carnivores.

I can’t even tell if the other was a male or female.

As the two made their way toward the forest, Snowbound Glatteis let a laugh escape his lips. Blackleaf Kaltwasser raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Credulous tribesmen. Where are they going to find soldiers, I ask you,” Snowbound growled in the deeper voice the Wendigos used normally when not among unchanged men.

“You ask me, but who do I ask?”

“One rumor and they’re convinced their enemies are conjuring people out of thin air.”

“We still didn’t break through last winter, though.”

“Live and learn, Blackleaf, live and learn.”

He watched briefly behind him, toward the tribal village, before turning again as they reached the wood’s edge.

“Still, those tribes made a good sell. More land for everyone.”

“You may not care, Snowbound, but I do. My family wouldn’t say no to more ranching space. Keeping reindeers out of the dangerous zones is a full-time job, but having more space would help tremendously.”

“Speaking of which…” Snowbound replied, tapping his glasses.

“What? You want a hunt? In the deeps there?”

“Why not? You ranchers are lazybones. My ancestors didn’t help all along with the exodus from Vancouver before the Changestorm hit so that their descendants could turn into reindeer cowboys. Next thing, you’ll want to live in houses again.”

“What’s wrong with houses, Snowbound? And you will want to track Canids again, I bet. They taste like shit walking on four legs.”

“It’s an acquired taste, Blackleaf. Think of the poor humans. They’d have the runs for two weeks if they tried. Come on. Live as our ancestors intended all along!”

Kaltwasser shook his head and started to follow his leader, muttering “bloody maniac.”