James Enge - The Wolf Age

The mist-fingers moving through his brain were searing agony. But eventually he felt them close on something, an alien presence, like a splinter of glass or metal lodged in his mind. The fingers drew it forth. This, too, was agony, but also a relief, like a weapon being drawn from a wound. At last, healing could begin.

He briefly saw the dark splinter in the mirror-Morlock's misty hand before he passed out.

When he awoke, it was still night. Or perhaps, it was night again. His head was pounding like a drum; his throat was as an old shoe buried in the desert; he was hungry enough to eat a live stoat and too weak to chase one even if it were right in front of him.

But he didn't care about any of that. Because the wound in his spirit was gone; his arm and hand were whole again, and even without summoning the rapture of vision, he knew his Sight had been healed as well.

The red mirror lay shattered in his hand. He thought about what the mirror-Morlock had said. He wondered if this flaw, this division of himself into drunk and sober Morlocks, had been the entering point for Ulugarriu's hostile magic. It was worth considering.

He found some flatbread and a bottle of water in a breadlocker and ate and drank, exulting in the freedom to use his left hand. When his thirst was finally satiated, he grabbed the fragments of the red mirror and started to juggle them. When that no longer amused him, he threw glass daggers, lefthanded only, at marks on the cave wall. He spent an hour or two writing in the palindromic script of ancient Ontil, which requires the left hand and the right hand to write simultaneously. In short, he engaged in a bacchanalia of sinister chirality.

He was still exulting in his regained hand and the hope for life that had returned with it when he looked up and saw that the sun had risen. He felt briefly ashamed that he had been wasting time so childishly.

"No, to hell with that," he said aloud, changing his mind. If self-hatred was the secret door by which this illness had entered him, he was going to lock that door-mortar it shut, if possible. "Look," he said, addressing his despised drunken self. "I'm not going to buy you a drink. But there must be something else I can do to amuse you. Let me know."

There was no response, but Morlock didn't really expect one; he was aware he was talking to himself, that there had never been more than one Morlock.

He packed a knapsack with flatbread, cheese, and bottles of water; he took a few glass knives and a glass sword from the weapon rack. He noticed someone had taken two of the silver-core glass spears. He wondered what they had been used for: Rokhlenu had been so set against them. Perhaps someone else had been less squeamish.

Everything else in the cave he left for Lakkasulakku. The young citizen was not much of a maker yet, but he was intelligent and quick-fingered and he knew some useful skills. Morlock thought he would do well.

Morlock had decided to leave Wuruyaaria. It was no place for him, if gods were clashing with immortal werewolves there and both had plans for him. It was no place for his friends, either: he was going to recommend to Rokhlenu and Wuinlendhono that they flee to the shores of the Bitter Water and wait for the Strange Gods' vendetta against the city to play out. That would be their choice; he had made his, and it was a great weight off his crooked shoulders.

He ran down the wooden steps to the wicker boat and poled himself across to the eastern gate of the outlier settlement. The gate was unguarded, which struck him as odd at first, but then he realized that the election must have passed and with it the time for open warfare between the packs.

He had not gone far into the settlement before he realized that something was wrong, though. There were no sounds of city life at all in the hot still air: not a single voice, or any footfall beyond his own. The settlement had been abandoned.

It was the same through the market and all the way to the First Wolf's lairtower. Not only was the tower empty, it had been cleared of its contents. There was no destruction; it had not been looted. The tenant had decided to vacate.

As he was looking about the second floor, he did notice some citizens around the old headquarters of the irredeemables. He descended to the street and went over to investigate.

That, too, was almost empty. But Wuinlendhono was there, wearing dark clothes that must have been uncomfortable in the hot heavy air. There were a half dozen irredeemables present also; Wuinlendhono seemed to be giving them some sort of instructions when Morlock entered, and she, seeing him, broke off.

She was looking oddly at him. They all were, except Lekkativengu, who had turned his eyes away, his face dark with shame.

"Khretvarrgliu," Wuinlendhono said, "have you come for the funeral? It is over, I'm afraid."

Morlock assessed the mourning quality of her face and clothes, the sullen anger in Yaarirruuiu's face, the shame in Lekkativengu's. He knew then that his friend Rokhlenu was dead.

"I didn't know," he said. "I've been-" to the underworld and back; baiting unicorns; talking to myself "-away."

The anger in Yaarirruuiu's face faded. "Your hand is better, Khretvarrgliu."

"Yes."

"I'm so glad," said Wuinlendhono's voice. Her face said, What do I care? And Morlock completely understood this.

"How did he die?" he asked. Wuinlendhono winced, and he added hastily, "I'm sorry. I will ask someone else."

"Lekkativengu can tell you," Wuinlendhono said, in tones that were almost too even. "He was there."

Now it was Lekkativengu's turn to wince. But under the First Wolf's cold dark eye and with a minimum of prompting, he told the story of Rokhlenu's last fight and death.

Morlock listened with bowed head. He was thinking of those images he had briefly seen in Ulugarriu's bowl of dreams before turning his face away. The images of Rokhlenu fighting desperately, the images of his friend dying alone. He wished, now, that he had taken the time to look at them. But that was done, and he wrapped Lekkativengu's words around what he had seen, and he thought he had learned something important.

Lekkativengu had finished speaking, and an embarrassed silence reigned. Morlock looked up to see that the citizens were all eyeing him, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm glad you, at least, returned, my friend," he said to Lekkativengu.

He could tell the werewolves thought this was in very poor taste. Even Lekkativengu seemed to be offended.

"Should have died with his chieftain," Yaarirruuiu muttered.

"His chieftain didn't think so," Morlock replied. "And neither do I. It was a tale worth hearing."

They all bowed their heads as if he had said some sacred word. "Yes," said Wuinlendhono eventually. "And it will be a song worth singing, in time."

She shook her head and lifted it. She calmly wiped away the tears that were leaking from her eyes and said, "Khretvarrgliu, we are leaving for our colony on the Bitter Water. We would welcome you, if you wish to join us. In my stalwart's name, for my stalwart's sake, you will always be welcome in any dwelling of mine."

"No, thank you," Morlock said, thinking that the coils of the gods were difficult to escape. "I am glad you are going, and taking the outliers with you. I will go and see if I can kill the beast that killed Rokhlenu. Blood for blood."

"Blood for blood!" the werewolves cried.

"Let us help you, Khretvarrgliu," Yaarirruuiu said eagerly. "We'll fight alongside you to avenge our chief."

"The First Wolf needs you," Morlock pointed out. "Besides, my weapon will be made of silver, like Rokhlenu's. Only a never-wolf could wield it."

"Of course! Of course!" cried a new voice from the doorway. "They had to have some way to slay the beast themselves. But they didn't want us to be able to do the same. Brilliant, really. I wonder who thought of it: most of those gods don't strike me as being terribly bright."