The North was changing. Fenrir could feel it in his muzzle. A new force had inserted itself into their struggle uninvited, like a splinter, threatening to disrupt the region's delicate balance of power.
He heard rumors, but he had to see it for himself.
His warpack dashed with him across the plains, silent save for the clack of their new metal weapons and their growls, the wind flattening their fur. This freezing wind carried their scent, the Snoutlings’ stench, growing stronger by the second. Not ten or twenty like he was used to, but a whole sea of them in one place.
It made no sense to him. Would they rather starve together than face his tribe’s poaching?
Unless the rumors were true.
No. Fenrir shook his head, annoyed with himself for even considering it. That was ridiculous.
Witches were hedonistic immortal beings; not to mention their greed and hunger for power, it was well-known. They craved the luxurious lives one could only find in lands far richer than this, and thus carved out empires for themselves in the south at will.
One of them was born here once, or so the Time Keeper said. But that was a different Age.
This was the Age of the Wolf, and his tribe would howl at the summit.
The frozen river came into view on their right. Fenrir growled for his warpack to pick up their pace. They were close.
Soon, the land rose ahead, and he saw the Snoutling tribes. Or more accurately, even though he struggled to believe his eyes, the tribe.
“They merged,” he said, watching the strange settlement from a distance.
A multitude of white houses surrounded the hill, more being raised as he spoke. Around and between them, Snoutlings, who weren't considered much more than the animals they hunted, practiced agriculture like humans.
They weren't planning to starve at all.
His eyes followed the trail of workers climbing the hill, then stopped at the blue castle on the summit.
Thick walls of ice that never melted. A dozen sharp towers, one taller than the next, with a central spire threatening to gut the clouds above. No human, goblin, or werewolf could ever build something like this.
It was winter itself.
For a beat, his heart grew superstitious.
Fenrir stepped back. “Impossible—”
One of its windows flew open.
She saw them.
The witch.
A white circle pulsed from her castle, traveling over the Snoutlings and hitting his warpack like a raging snowstorm.
They clawed at the ground, but it was useless.
Fenrir sounded the retreat as he managed to stand again, many meters away, and they ran back to Werewolf Country.
Warriors stepped aside as Fenrir dashed across the training grounds, hunting for one of them in particular. This pack leader lay back against a boulder, worry-free, as he watched two of his men brawl.
“Vargan!” Fenrir lunged at him, grabbing the werewolf by the hide. “I warned you not to take their food!”
Vargan unsheathed his metal claws with a growl and tried to behead him on the spot, but Fenrir kicked him away.
“Shut your whining.” Vargan scoffed upon regaining his balance. “There are thousands of Snoutlings. Who cares if some of them starve?”
“You ignorant fool.” Fenrir unsheathed his own claws as they began to circle each other. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
Their warriors didn’t intervene, nor did the two pack leaders shy away, for a duel to the death was a perfect opportunity to replace their rival captain with another werewolf, hopefully more aligned with their methods.
They lowered themselves to four legs and charged.
But as his foe’s blades closed in on his face, the longhouse door on their right slammed open from within. His ear twitched.
Fenrir pulled back his swing and rolled, falling to his knees in reverence as Vargan clawed at the air behind him.
“What?” the chieftain said. “Who gave you permission to waste my fighters in a petty squabble?”
“It is my right, Great Rurik,” Vargan said, still on his feet and panting. “I’ll have this one killed.”
Despite his insolent manner, Vargan spoke true when he invoked ancestral law. Not even the chieftain could overrule it.
Rurik turned his head toward Fenrir. “What say you, pack leader?”
“I concur,” Fenrir said. “I’ll have this one killed.”
The training grounds fell quiet as they waited for the cornered chieftain’s response.
But the issue with ancestral law was that it wasn’t written down in detail anywhere.
“I see.” Rurik put his hands on his waist. “Another time, then. We have bigger problems at hand.”
Loopholes emerged.
Vargan grumbled but said nothing. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Fenrir nodded. The time would come. A savvy werewolf like Rurik knew how much stretching of their customs the tribe would tolerate.
Satisfied, the chieftain stepped under the sun. “It has come to my attention that our major source of hides dried out. What say you, Vargan?”
The pack leader wiped his mouth. “It’s temporary. The Snoutlings will go back to hunt as soon as their stomachs begin to growl.”
“Wrong.” Fenrir climbed back to his feet. “They will do no such thing. Not under the witch’s patronage.”
“It is true, then?” A blind werewolf limped slowly out of the crowd, assisted by a walking staff, his fur gray and missing in spots. “She has returned?”
Fenrir lowered his head, realizing fear had clouded his judgment. “I misspoke, venerable Time Keeper. I have not seen a face in the tower. But a powerful sorcerer lives there, power which I tasted myself.”
The Time Keeper pulled his staff closer, his dented ears slumping as if he received bad news. “I see…”
Rurik inspected Fenrir from muzzle to paw. “And yet, you live. Without a scratch.”
“But I speak the truth—”
“I think you just ran away out of cowardice.” Vargan chuckled. “What did this ‘powerful sorcerer’ do to you? Tickled your belly?”
The warriors laughed around him. But they were right; he returned unharmed.
Maybe he deserved the mockery, he thought.
“So, what are we going to do now?” Rurik raised his arms and addressed the crowd. “Our enemies have their own means of acquiring weapons, and they grow stronger by the day.”
The werewolves growled restlessly.
“Is this the end of the Grayfang tribe?!” Rurik asked.
“No.” Fenrir stepped forward.
Rurik turned with a grin. “How so? The Snotlings are untouchable under this… strange power.”
Fenrir rested his hands on his weapons, feeling the weight of the choice settle on his shoulders. “I will lead a raid myself.”
The ground trembled as werewolves stomped their feet. “ Hoo hoo hoo," they chanted in unison.
“It’s decided!” Rurik said, and the training grounds erupted in howls. “Fenrir shall reclaim his honor!”