Movement at the border intensified after the enemy joined forces; skirmishes happened almost every day, stretching his tribe thin across their newly expanded territory, which proved much harder to defend.
Earlier that day, Fenrir and his warpack arrived at the capital under orders to reinforce the garrison in case of a surprise attack.
“Argh!” The werewolf swung low at his legs.
He kicked skyward and knocked out the attacker cold with a knee to the face.
Another came from behind, growling as he aimed for his head. “Got you—”
His eyes widened as Fenrir ducked, grabbed his legs, and lifted the warrior into the air.
“Wait, wait, wait—” he said in vain.
Slam!
The werewolf drooled as his back met the ground.
More blades flew towards him when four short figures arrived at the training grounds.
“Wait.” Fenrir raised his hand, making his warriors hold their blows.
The newcomers were frost goblins—blue-skinned, with long, pointy ears, and dressed in fancy human fabric. Together, they carried a crate twice their size.
“Continue sparring on your own.” He sheathed his weapons and went to meet them. “I’ll be back.”
The goblins tapped their feet, arguing impatiently amongst themselves with strident voices Fenrir found most annoying.
One of them pointed a crooked finger at him. “We’re only delivering because this is a special order! Next time, you go fetch it yourselves, stinky dogs!”
Fenrir frowned. “What did you say?”
“Ah!” The creatures scurried back in fear. “G-get away! Shoo—”
“Wait!” A goblin halted and grabbed his buddies. “Is this already paid for?!”
They began to discuss compensation, forgetting about Fenrir entirely, for goblins loved gold more than they feared death—and they feared death very much.
He shook his head, disgusted.
At last, they concluded that the ‘big stinky dog with the scar’ had already paid and ran off screaming before Fenrir could utter another growl.
Unfortunately, even a powerful chieftain like Rurik had to put up with their antics; no one else in the North had iron mines, coal, and advanced metallurgy like the goblins.
“Rurik ordered more weapons?” Fenrir removed the crate’s lid.
Not metal claws, but connected plates of some kind lay at the bottom.
He pulled them outside for inspection, then his head tilted in confusion. “Armor?”
Werewolves didn’t wear armor like humans as it was loud and restricted movement, but this one seemed custom-made for their anatomy and specific needs.
“Beats me.” He put it back in the crate. “It must have been expensive.”
Maybe the clever chieftain was exploring new ways to deal with their enemies’ overwhelming numbers, he thought approvingly.
Satisfied with his discovery, Fenrir went to inform Rurik that his order had arrived, when a pair of white paws appeared at the corner of his sight.
The Witch.
He turned toward them. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
She rode past him on her talking bear and beat Fenrir to the longhouse.
Unlike the goblins, her arrival gladdened him; she was a powerful ally and a pleasant presence, as he'd learned from a distance during their campaigns. But he didn’t remember his tribe summoning her to war this time, since that required his vote.
What is she doing here?
Katarina wore a familiar look of defeat. She dismounted before he could offer his hand and entered the chieftain’s hall on her own.
Uneasy, Fenrir scratched the scar on his shoulder and followed her inside.
Rurik met her by the hearth, surrounded by his guards.
She spoke under her breath, her head hanging low. “You want me to double the tribute. Is that correct?”
Fenrir frowned.
Did they renegotiate the contract?
“I know you can do it.” The chieftain lifted his hands. “They say your little domain has been growing considerably.”
“That’s not our agreement, though...”
Rurik raised his voice. “Circumstances have changed!”
“I see…” she muttered. “Please give my people back. They have families to return to.”
What is she talking about? Her people back…?
“Not how this works,” Rurik said. “You pay, then you get your Snoutlings.”
“You’ll have thirty-thousand pelts by the end of the year; you have my word.”
“No—”
“Do you want me to beg?”
That’s absurd.
For a second he thought she was jesting, or maybe they both were, so he glanced at his chieftain for assurance.
Rurik didn’t flinch.
He wants it…?
Katarina held the edges of her gown and began to lower herself.
His stomach churned.
“Wait.” Fenrir stepped forward before she could reach the ground. “Great Rurik.”
His chieftain turned. “What is it, Fenrir?”
“I’m struggling to understand the subject of this discussion, I must admit… but if the Witch is giving her word, I’d trust it without question, for it has been true every time.”
Rurik stared at him. “You would vouch for her? With your life on the line?”
The fire cracked behind them.
What a wild question, he thought; If it wasn’t for her, his life would’ve already been forfeit.
“I would,” Fenrir said.
The hearth shed orange light across her cheeks as Katarina slowly lifted her head. They were tear-streaked, making him realize she had been crying quietly during the whole meeting. Her blue eyes glimmered at him.
Fenrir diverted his gaze, shifting uncomfortably. It felt impolite, almost intrusive, to see her like this. These creatures might’ve meant a good deal to her, more than he thought.
“I see.” Rurik laughed and turned to the witch. “It seems my pack leader has grown fond of you.”
Fenrir froze, but stopped himself from trying to justify his action; he knew his chieftain enjoyed needling people.
He was not going to give him this pleasure, at least.
The longhouse remained quiet until Rurik clicked his tongue and waved at his guards. “Go fetch the little shits.”
They set out at his command. Shivering Snoutlings poured into the training grounds, on the brink of tears at the sight of their witch-chieftain. It seemed Rurik had them locked in warehouses or something.
Fenrir stepped outside and leaned against a boulder, his head spinning as he tried to make sense of the whole mess.
What is he even thinking?
The caravan was ready to leave when the Witch approached him.
He straightened himself up quickly. “I’m—”
“Thank you so much.” She bowed deeply, catching Fenrir by surprise. “I’ll never forget what you did, Fenrir.”
What…?
His eyes darted as he had no idea what to do—It was wrong for a chieftain, even a foreign one, to bow to a lieutenant.
He grabbed her shoulders gently and lifted her upright again. “T-the Grayfang tribe appreciates your allegiance.”
That had sounded much better in his head.
She stared at him in silence, then chuckled.
He swallowed, embarrassed at himself.
Her semblance was brighter now, at least. Admittedly, she had a beautiful smile for a human-looking creature. Shaking her head, Katarina returned to her subjects and mounted to leave.
Fenrir leaned against the boulder again with a sigh. He was about to cross his arms when he caught Katarina side-glancing him.
Did she forget something?
Her cheeks flushed, eyes darting away as the bear pushed ahead of the Snoutling caravan. They descended toward the gates before Fenrir could figure out what she wanted.
Probably nothing.
He scratched his neck, replaying the meeting in his head.
I can’t believe Rurik would abuse the agreement he signed himself. Why would he sell our honor so cheaply…?
The expensive werewolf armor came to mind as he watched the Witch leave the city. Fenrir glanced back at the crate.
…thirty thousand pelts, huh?