Werewolf Country, disputed lands
Eight months later
Fenrir’s pulse drummed, his vision sharply attuned to any sudden movements on the horizon. Using the broken terrain as cover, his four-hundred-strong warpack scouted for weak spots in the enemy formation, though they could only smell its general position across the ravine. Their lurking foes, the Ironjaw tribe, however, did the same.
No horn blew out loud, nor did banners flutter above. Werewolf warfare was a treacherous game of speed and timing.
To break the impasse, Vargan had set out earlier with his own warpack, as the two rival captains had agreed upon a pincer movement. This left Fenrir with only half of their total forces.
But it had been a long time since that happened, and the signal never came.
He scanned his surroundings impatiently.
A distant ridge loomed to his left, and a dense patchwork of withered spruces—where Vargan had disappeared—stood on his right.
Only one sane conclusion remained:
Vargan had left him to die, even at the expense of victory.
Annoyed with his own naivety, Fenrir growled low. But he wouldn’t see his men killed for this mistake. He shook his head at the werewolves around him.
Silent coordination was slow, however. One by one, the warriors in the center crawled back. The rest of the formation drifted afterward, delayed, forming a retreating dark V across the snow.
Delays cost lives in Werewolf Country.
The enemy’s panting breaths sounded behind them, easy to mistake for the rustle of wind.
Fenrir turned, their scent growing ever stronger, until it merged with that of his warriors. Sharp growls of pain erupted on his left as the Ironjaws lunged against the wings of his formation like shadows.
“To arms!” He unsheathed his steel claws, urging his warpack to reform. “On me!”
He beelined toward the foe, his warpack folding behind him in a mass charge, all secrecy gone as growls and hissing steel shattered the silence.
His weapons bit into the first distracted Ironjaw, ripping fur and flesh apart. The second fought back and was left lying face-first in the snow. Fenrir flashed through the chaos in a mad attempt to relieve his men, then swiveled after the next target with a grunt—
Snap!
Someone parried his claws—one of his own warriors. The clatter of their blades reverberated across the silent battlefield.
“Relax, pack leader,” he said. “We won.”
“What?” Fenrir panted.
It was too fast.
He scanned the bodies scattered around him, but between friend and foe, there couldn’t have been more than two hundred.
“They were just the vanguard…” he muttered.
His warrior pointed toward the spruces that now stood ahead of them. “But it pinned us in place like they wanted.”
Werewolves emerged from the woodland on all fours, a group much bigger than Vargan’s warpack.
The Ironjaw’s main force, eight hundred fighters at least.
“Should we retreat?” the warrior asked.
“There’s no time.” Fenrir swung the blood out of his weapons. “Brace for impact.”
His formation closed ranks, drifting backward until the ridge behind cast its shadow over their heads.
The dark cloud of foes grew in his sight, spreading its steel-fanged maw to swallow them whole.
Nothing remained to do, but honor demanded they fight to the last.
Fenrir growled and spread his own weapons in response. “Fight—”
Whispers froze him in place. They traveled through the mist like hisses, commanding the weather itself to fight. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Then came a familiar voice.
“Jötunn—”
The ground in front of the enemy quaked, ripples forming across the snow…
“Surge!!!”
The dark cloud came apart, Ironjaw werewolves launching skyward as a hill of ice erupted from the cracks beneath them. Fenrir’s own men stepped back in fear.
He glanced over his shoulder.
A lonely silhouette stood atop the ridge, long silver hair swimming in the breeze.
The Witch answered his tribe’s call to arms.
War cries boomed behind them as Snoutlings barreled downhill with spears.
“I see.” Fenrir turned back to the enemy and charged with a smile, urging his men onwards before their allies claimed all the glory for themselves.
Skirmishes between the two werewolf tribes continued for another month, yet the Ironjaws never recovered from their crushing defeat in the field.
As their term of service ended, the Witch and her Snoutlings packed up camp and left with their honor intact.
Despite consecutive victories, her semblance was of defeat. They suffered losses. Casualties were expected in war, but she struggled to accept it, or so it seemed.
Fenrir felt an urge to approach her, perhaps out of gratitude, but held himself back.
What could he possibly say? ‘Don’t mind the bodies’ was not something one said after victory. He let them march home in silence and carried on with his own duties.
Rurik’s werewolves surrounded the Ironjaw capital. Most of the city lay hidden behind a single layer of spiked palisades, not boasting of the natural defenses of the Grayfang’s Pass, save for a single hill on the side. They had been besieging it while he and the Witch wrestled for control of the countryside. Vargan was nowhere in sight.
Hands on his waist, the chieftain watched the enemy city without blinking.
Fenrir approached him as his warpack joined the siege. “Great Rurik.”
“What?” Rurik turned to him as if waking from a dream. “Fenrir. Good job out there.”
“The honor is mine.” He held his fist and bowed slightly. “I have yet to see Vargan’s warpack. Any news on his whereabouts?”
Rurik returned his attention to the city. “He was here two days ago.”
“...”
Vargan had committed treason, without a doubt, but Fenrir bringing it up himself would’ve sounded petty given their public rivalry.
He would have to take the matter into his own hands, the werewolf way.
“I sent him south to scout the Red-Ear tribe,” Rurik said.
“Our next target?”
“Precisely—”
Fenrir turned as the gates flew open in the distance.
Alone, the Ironjaw’s Time Keeper limped into view. No one would dare harm a Time Keeper, so they doubled as peace negotiators between the tribes.
Fenrir’s eyes widened. “Could it be…”
Rurik set out to meet the elderly werewolf with a wide grin.
They were too far for him to hear, but after a while, Rurik shot his fist into the air. The Grayfang forces erupted in howls.
For the first time in recorded history, a werewolf tribe capitulated.
The Ironjaws were no more! This chapter is updated first at g.com.
The city surrendered peacefully, and therefore there was no bloodshed that day. Rurik marched through the streets like a glorious conqueror, showered with honors and even grudging admiration from the defeated residents. But Fenrir knew who they owed the victory to.
Annexing another tribe proved to be a battle in itself. The Grayfangs spent a week in the occupied city: taking oaths of allegiance, suppressing dissent, and recruiting former Ironjaw fighters to bolster their ranks.
Since he’d never been in another werewolf city before, Fenrir never realized how similar their tribes were—same houses, same food, same brawls.
In fact, werewolves seemed to differ only in warpaint, he concluded.
He left the local Time Keeper’s sanctuary, whom he also grew fond of, and went to stretch his claws over the hill overseeing the city.
His nose twitched as he observed the landscape.
“Same tundra.”
He lowered his gaze as strange, nearly treacherous thoughts crossed his mind.
Indeed, no honorable werewolf should’ve ever considered this.
However…
Why were they fighting for more of the same?
This was the thought.
Fenrir shook his head and growled to clear his mind.
One place stood out in his memory, a city like nothing else in the North, almost as if it shouldn’t exist. He failed to forget its towers.
Perhaps his duties would bring him there again one day.
His eyes narrowed as shadows shifted in the distance.
A warpack emerged from behind a snowy bank.
He was about to howl the alarm when he recognized Vargan sprinting ahead of the group. Fenrir gritted his fangs as he swept back into the city to confront the pack leader.
Rurik was already at the gates to greet him when Vargan entered. A commotion formed around them.
Spectators or not, Fenrir drew his weapons, his warpack joining him, too, as they were wronged. He let out a mighty growl and lunged. “Vargan—”
His rival’s state made him pause.
Vargan was already half-dead, bleeding and covered in lacerations. His fighters were no better themselves, their numbers cut in half.
There was no honor in mutilating a corpse.
Fenrir stayed his blow and rolled, landing beside the two werewolves. “What is the meaning of this?!”
Rurik held his jaw pensively. “Fear is a powerful thing indeed. I underestimated its power.”
Fenrir frowned. “What?”
Avoiding his eyes, Vargan muttered, “They caught us in a pincer movement.”
“Who? The Red-Ears?”
“No. The Red-Ears and the Stormhides...”
Fenrir lowered his weapons as he listened to Vargan’s full report.
Enemies survived after their big victory. Survivors carried stories back home.
“...I knew we shouldn’t have associated ourselves with that Witch…”
Yet another historical feat was achieved in a single week—
“The tribes have united against us.”
A werewolf coalition!