The Relentless killed Marshall Soto. And then he—and the werewolves—spent the next couple of days hunting down the rest of the Valoisian cavalry. They killed them all. Took no prisoners. Not even the generals.

Marshall Allard had to admit he probably wouldn’t have acted any differently in the Feleke’s place—it wasn’t like the werewolves could keep prisoners during the full moon, so they might as well kill them right away.

He was wise enough to keep that opinion to himself though. Hearing about the massacre from the few survivors certainly inspired his soldiers.

They still had to kill the men. It wasn’t worth the risk of keeping them around.

“What do we do now?” the Levant asked after another execution. Since the news had reached them, he was pale and withdrawn. No longer trying to make all the decisions.

Allard quite liked that new side.

“Well,” he said, “my suggestion is the same as before: We lead the army back east, until we reach the coast, take Deggan. Resupply and reinforce there, then move up the White Torrent We destroy Deva and end this foolishness for good.”

“You think the werewolves will let us?” the prince asked.

“I don’t think they have the numbers yet to stop us. We can be nearly at the coast by the time of the next full moon. I believe the sea will protect us from more than just the Rot.”

The prince rubbed his hands together, then nodded. “See to it.”

Allard smiled as soon as his back was turned. The boy had never lost a battle.

***

Despite all of the duke’s concerns, to Greg, David’s imminent arrival might have been a reason for celebration. Might—if a Rot-queen didn’t level Bayburgh the same day. The news found Greg in the office, working on his forms. The runner smashed open the door, having run so hard he barely got the words out to tell Lane the news.

Greg and Lane hurried to Deva Central Station. They arrived there just in time to watch a single, terrifyingly over-boarded train crawl into the building. As it turned out, it was the only thing that had managed to escape Bayburgh, carrying the only survivors of a city that had once numbered tens of thousands of souls.

It arrived at Deva just before dusk, which made the attack even more scary—the Rot-queen had come in broad daylight.

Greg had never felt so useless as when he stood in that great hall that was filled with people yet deadly quiet, watching while Lane gave orders. All he could do was stare at the train, at the huge gashes something had left in the wood of the wagons, and wonder what a creature it must have been. It was a miracle that not one of them had been pushed out of the tracks.

Nobody even came within arm’s reach of him, even as the hall filled up further with helpers and the terrified refugees that kept spilling from the train like fruit from a cornucopia.

“Get me Morgulon,” Lane interrupted his thoughts.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Greg nodded numbly and turned on the spot, not bothering to undress first, barely even caring about the screams of terrors when he ripped his clothes to shreds. He just threw his head back and howled, like a toddler screaming for his mother. Unlike a toddler, he had some serious doubts Morgulon could deal with a Rot-queen and the army of bodies it would have raised after destroying a whole city.

Pierre wouldn’t help her, would he? After their fight? Would the other elders of his pack? Perhaps Monroe and his wife would be willing? Had they ever fought a Rot-queen? Was that just something older werewolves had to get used to?

He could just about picture tomorrow’s headline: “What are the werewolves even good for, if they can’t stop the Rot from sacking cities?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have ruined his clothes. Now he had to stay wolf and endure the refugees—and the helpers taking care of him—staring at him.

There were a surprising amount of helpers. Lane had a whole network of them, eateries offering up their kitchens, merchants providing the produce and meat, volunteers to hand out food and clothes to the dispossessed. To offer a shoulder to cry on, take in the children who had lost their parents, and eventually, bundle them all up and place them on a northbound train. It all worked like clockwork, which was amazing and scary, because it showed just how quickly Lane—and Deva—had gotten used to dealing with groups like this.

By the time Morgulon arrived, the first refugee train had left and the next one was smoothly taking its place. She was curiously calm, even when Lane told her what had happened.

“We—I need you to destroy that Rot-queen,” Lane finished. “Do you—can you even do that?”

Morgulon’s tail swished through the air. The Red is around, she said. We’ll manage.

Greg gaped at Morgulon, cursing himself again for destroying his clothes. Now he couldn’t even tell Lane—the Red? Finally?

He won’t fight the Valoise, Morgulon added. But the Rot, he will help against.

And then, for Lane, she nodded in that exaggerated fashion of a giant wolf using human gestures.

Greg shook himself and decided to find himself something to dress in. Surely, the volunteers had a pair of pants to spare.

Morgulon followed him. You’ll take care of the cubs, won’t you? She asked.

Of course, Greg said.

Good. Morgulon gently bumped her head into his shoulder. I’ll be back, she added. Probably.

Wasn’t that reassuring.

He stole a pair of pants from a rickety folding table and went to find a somewhat quiet corner to turn human and at least cover up a little bit, then went to find Lane again.

She took his report of what Morgulon had said with a perfect poker face, overseeing the efforts around her from atop a bench.

“Thank you,” was all she said. “If you would inform the palace of what is going on?”

Greg nodded. He let himself be sent away—there was nothing he could do here in any case. People were too scared of him. Especially the refugees.

Deva, on the other hand, was divided: scared of what David might do once he got there, and yet aware of what terrors the Rot would bring them if it weren’t for the werewolves. So he could jog through the city as a wolf without people doing more than screaming in shock when they saw him.

Not that that wasn’t bad enough.

He reported to the palace what had happened, but couldn’t bring himself to get back to the paperwork. There was no way he could focus on that, in any case. So he went home, filled in his family on what had happened, too. Dinner was almost ready, but he couldn’t make himself sit down.

“Want to go out?” he asked Thoko. “I want to go see if Gustave is in.”

He wanted to feel human. To dress up and disappear in a crowd and just—not be stared at.