But the Mudfoot held on to the old ways. That was how they survived, and how they would continue to survive, even to the Last Winter.
Wex was stuck somewhere in the middle. He could not resist painting his face and fur with splashes of white, yellow, and red, the way some of the rival clans did. He wore a necklace made of broken deer antlers. He gave orders in the human language, even when forbidding the others from doing so. And he took wolves as slaves. Including Mercy.
When he spotted her, Wex sauntered over, patting one of his lieutenants on the head as he passed. The young wolf wagged his tail in response. Wex could offer affection, but only on a whim. Only for show. Moments like this revealed the poor health of the pack. Mercy noticed the protruding hip bones, the sores that would not heal, the severed ears, the missing teeth, the broken legs that never properly mended. And in the midst of this, Wex the proud warrior strutted about, fat and painted like a female bird.
“You wish to see the humans?” Wex asked her.
She barked yes.
“My mate,” he said. He motioned to her belly. “You bring the future. And so do I.”
Urna exhaled loudly through her nose. She did not like it when Wex touched her sister.
“We caught them near the Whiskers,” he said. It was his name for the bend in the river. “They tried to cross. We surrounded them.”
Though the pack needed food, they could not eat this prey. Not yet. They needed to show off their prize.
“We give them to the Mournfuls tomorrow,” he said. The neighboring pack. It would curry favor, maybe stop the Mournfuls from taking more territory. A generous wolf was a strong wolf. For the right price, the Mudfoot could regain access to the reservoir. They wouldn’t have to survive on the polluted river anymore.
“We will keep their leader,” Wex added, pointing toward the den where she saw the first man, the beautiful one. “We feast on him. He talks too much.”
Yes, Mercy thought. He talks too much.
A distant howl made dozens of ears perk up. From their seated positions, the wolves craned their necks and bellowed in response. Despite his annoyance with the interruption, Wex joined in. His enormous chest expanded, and his necklace jingled.
The howl was an alarm. Scouts approached, bringing more news. The den responded with a soothing song. We are here, it said. We are with you.
And then, the humans let out a howl of their own. As if they could not help themselves. They tipped their heads to the sky and wailed.
“Stop!” Wex said. He howled again. “Stop it!”
He picked out one of the humans and backhanded him. The man fell to his side. Even with his mouth bleeding, he continued to howl.
Mercy nudged Urna. Do they always do this?
Urna continued to shout with the others. It was her way of saying that she did not know.
The wolves greeted the scouts at the mouth of the cave. Upon seeing Wex, the scouts raced around in circles. They barked; they snapped at tails. Even the old one named Mockler, who walked with a limp, worked himself into a fury. Soon the other wolves joined, forming a whirlpool of fur and fangs. This movement was a warning, meant to show that invaders had encroached into Mudfoot territory. The snapping meant one thing: food. Deer. Maybe an entire herd.
One by one, the scouts faced northwest, where the sun began its descent in the bleak gray sky. Mockler was the last to face the right direction, and that was only after one of his cousins elbowed him. Soon they all barked at the horizon, not merely in excitement, but anger as well. Even the other wolf clans had left them to their fate in this poisoned earth. For deer to cross the border was the greatest insult. Wex barked louder than the others. Rip them all open! he shouted. Rip them apart!
“You’re making a mistake!” a voice said.
The howling died out. It was the human who spoke.
“Death awaits you over that hill,” the man said. No smile, no hesitation. Just a statement of fact.
Wex marched over to the man. Instinctively, the others crouched lower—except for Mercy. Urna whimpered beside her. Get down!
“Death, you say?” Wex asked.
“I see red fangs dripping with blood,” the man said.
“Those are our fangs you’re seeing.”
“. . . and antlers, piled to the sky.”
“Yes! We bring them here for you.”
A few of the wolves laughed. They stopped suddenly when the man howled, the kind that wolves let out when they passed the spot where their loved ones were killed. The sound of it tore at Mercy’s heart. She had howled in the same way for far too many of her people in the last year. Even tied to a pole, beaten and starving, this human could reach inside of them all. He could sing their language.
Wex gripped the man’s jaw in his enormous hand. He turned the man’s head to one side and then the other, as if examining some prize. “Where do you come from?”
“The forest,” the man said. “Like you.”
“Like us. You wear wolf skin. Like a human trophy hunter.”
The human flicked his chin toward Mercy. “She’s wearing a wolf tooth.”
Everyone turned to Mercy. She tried to crouch so low that she would sink under the ground.
Still holding the man’s face, Wex raked his claws along the cheek. The human did not flinch. Four red lines extended from his ear to his lips, slicing through the tattoo. Blood spilled onto his chest and disappeared into the collar of his tunic. One of the skinnier wolves made a move for it, his nostrils flaring. Then he thought better of it.
Wex licked the blood from his claws. “Do not be fooled by this one,” he said to the pack. “Talks like a wolf. Tastes like a man.”
“Dregger helped us once,” the human said. “We came to help him.”
“Dregger is dead,” Wex said. “I’m in charge now.” With that, he dropped to all four paws. He could shift quickly from one role to the other, and he needed the others to know that.
Wex bucked and yipped and wagged his tail. All of it together meant that they would hunt. They would kill. There would be blood. Food. Life. The future. The others joined in again. Together they became a rolling wave of fur. One of the weaker ones fell. He squealed as the others trampled him. He got to his feet again, dazed but still hypnotized by the war chant.
Mercy felt Urna leave her side. The others let the omega dance with them despite her low status. In the melee, she could snap her jaws and bat the others with her tail all she wanted.
In the breeze, Mercy detected the scent of blood. She locked eyes with the human. His tongue slid from his cracked lips to lick the wound on his cheek. And for a moment, it appeared that he wanted to tear himself from his bonds so that he could sing and dance with the wolves. So he could howl with them. So he could kill with them.
As the pack prepared for the hunt, Mercy tried to drag Urna along. Urna whimpered at first, knowing full well that she risked a beating. Mercy yipped at her again, slapping her paws on the dirt. Come on!
Wex interrupted by biting Urna’s tail until she rolled over in submission. Jape followed by clawing at Urna’s leg. She screamed and ran off. That settled it—Mercy’s sister would stay behind, as she always did. If she behaved, they would bring her some antlers to chew on. Mercy could hardly blame Wex for not letting her sister join them. In the last big hunt, Urna had given away their position, letting a fawn escape. Later, she got lost, and Mercy spent the night searching for her. If Urna spoiled this hunt, the other wolves would almost certainly kill her.
The pack set out in an unusual predawn search. Mercy took her place at the front alongside Wex. Whereas Urna always ate last, Mercy would eat first. She needed it, as she was too thin for a mother expecting pups. Sometimes, the others would insist that she take their share. Eat! they would bark at her. Get strong and fat! She insisted that she was fine. But then, unable to resist any longer, she would bury
her face in the warm, steaming flesh and rip it free of the bone. Once she became stuffed with meat, she would lie in the grass and wait for her pups to kick and dance inside of her. New life. The future, ready to burst forth.
In the darkness, Mercy glanced behind her to the glowing pairs of eyes that floated above the ground. The vapor puffing from the wolves’ breath blurred her vision. The fastest way to the north took the pack across the old train tracks and through the valley where Mercy had formed her first memories. She and Urna would race along the riverbank while the older wolves kept watch. In those days, all the wolves, even the meanest hunters with broken limbs and scars on their bellies, played with them as if they were pups themselves.
These days, the depths of the valley were unrecognizable, ever since the flood had brought its dark water to poison everything. The grass had died out, leaving only frozen earth. A stench rose from the river. At night, the scant moonlight reflected off the surface. Some of the wolves wheezed at the scent. Wex barked for them to stop.
They came across the musk of deer in a grove of dead trees. The bucks had passed through here, scratched themselves against the rotting bark. Tufts of fur clung to the broken branches. An act of defiance against a weakened pack. No one respected the Mudfoot anymore, not even their food supply.
One of Wex’s soldiers—a young biter named Toth—grabbed the tuft of fur and tried to nibble on it. Another wolf named Perl deftly snatched it away. The two tussled for it. When Wex came close, they dropped the fur, tails on the ground. An offering to the leader. Wex ignored it and walked away. Toth grumbled at Perl. See what you did!
The first snowflakes fell shortly after. Mercy caught a few on her tongue. Snow could mask the scent they were tracking. It would also force their prey to leave tracks. Wex urged the pack to move faster. He snorted, a signal that he detected something close. Mercy smelled nothing. Most likely, Wex was faking it to get the wolves running, to keep them warm. For all his faults, this was what he was good at.
And yet. That human with the black eyes. The strange, hairless face, like the skin of a ripened fruit. He warned them to go no farther. After nearly a year of uncertainty, he seemed more certain than anyone.
Mercy raced to the front again. She would not bark—it would give away their position. Instead, she nipped at Wex’s hipbone. He flinched, but kept moving. She did it again. Stop! each bite said. We must stop!
Wex lunged at her, gripping her rear leg in his jaw. When she tried to break free, he bit harder without breaking the skin. Enough to remind her that he enjoyed the advantage. That he could kill her on a whim.
The other wolves surrounded them. None of them bared their teeth. They didn’t have to.
Whimpering, she pawed at the earth, in the direction of the den. We must go back!
A quick snort from Wex. It meant no.
But the . . . human! He said . . .
She pulled her leg free, only to find herself pinned in the cold snow. Wex’s hot breath made her ear twitch.
“Humans lie,” he said. “We speak the truth.”
He pressed his paw to her fang necklace. The point of it broke her skin. A bead of blood welled from the puncture wound, going cold as soon as the wind hit it.
“Here is truth,” Wex said. “Remember who you are. Or your sister will feed us. As will your pups, if they prove too weak. Like your last mate.”
He let go. She rolled quickly to all fours. The surrounding pack created a circle of warmth. Snowflakes melted as soon as they touched her hot fur.
Wex had nothing else to say. He continued walking. The others waited for Mercy to follow alongside him. Even Jape gave her an extra moment to gather herself. And so she went.
To keep her mind off the cold, Mercy held the fang on her necklace in her mouth. Her tongue slithered around its shape. Wex spoke only of the days to come, yet he forced her wear this symbol of the past. She was a mercy dog, after all.
Ever since the flood, Wex had kept the pack alive.
Most days, Mercy hated him for it.
Wex was among the first wolves to migrate here after the Change. With the humans gone and the forest overtaking their cities and towns, wolf clans from the north seized the open territory. The ant overlords welcomed them. The other animals knew to stay out of their way.
Dregger was the leader in those days. He made the decision to come here when so many of the clans panicked. Some of the wolves were so terrified of the Change that they gnawed their own hands off. Like a good wolf, Dregger could imagine the future. He worshipped it, as a leader should. He understood that the future was the only thing that was real, and thus saw opportunity in a land that cried out for new predators. The deer and the elk were migrating too. Like the wolves, they wanted no part of the war, no matter what they may have owed the Queen for the gifts she gave them. Unwilling to trust the humans who once hunted them, they would take the risk of living in the wild. Which meant they would contend with hungry packs, eager to conquer.
Mercy and her sister were born shortly after. They grew quickly. In those days, Mercy went by the name Roka. A hunter’s name. Though she had parents, the entire pack raised her, as they did for all the young ones. The elders admired her instincts, her ruthlessness in singling out the smallest and weakest prey to pounce on. One day, the matriarch of the clan died when a deer hoof smashed her skull. Dregger needed a new mate. He chose Roka without hesitation. She was ten—old enough to take her place among the great mothers of the Mudfoot. Later that year, she bore him two strong pups.
The pack grew. Its newfound territory expanded. Other wolves feared them. Especially the clans that adopted the humans’ ways, the ones who made peace, signed treaties, built new towns. The Mudfoot refused to join their Lupine Confederacy. The pack elders regarded it as a foolish human invention, a sad imitation of the Sanctuary Union government in Hosanna. Sitting in committees, bickering over votes, forming cheap, temporary alliances. Politics was beneath their species. Only the gonneys—the fake wolves who had lost their way—would participate in such a thing. No rule of law, no sense of fairness or justice, could sway the Mudfoot from keeping to their traditions. New lines on a map could not hem them in, nor could threats from Hosanna, nor the other wolves, nor the bears. Their reputation as outlaws spread so far that the dogs in Hosanna crafted legends about them.
Then the flood came. Roka was on a hilltop when it arrived, wrestling with her pups, Rove and Herc, both names chosen by Dregger. Roka stopped when she sensed the earth rumbling, while the young ones nipped at her paws. Play with us, Mama! A strange breeze brushed against her face, carrying the scent of death. And then the black waters coursed through the valley, overtaking the river, scorching everything like liquid fire. The grass withered. Leaves fluttered from the trees. Fish bobbed to the surface of the water and gathered in scaly clusters on the edges of the river.
Unaware of the danger, her pups barked at the deluge. They tried to outdo each other.
Look at me, Mama!
No, Mama, look at me!
They thought it was a game. Rove got so excited that he pissed freely as he hopped around. Watching these oblivious children, Roka knew that a terrible reckoning had come.
Much like the pups, the older wolves could do nothing but pin their ears and bark at it all. As if they could tell the deluge to reverse course and go back to the human city.
It did not take long to figure out what had happened. Word got around—even among enemies. Far to the north, the humans spent years blocking the river to harness its power. The dam burst, thanks to some pointless conflict between the city and a race of aquatic creatures. Hybrid beasts from the war. Hunters. Like wolves with gills, some said. The conflict was the humans’ fault. Them and their animal pets, who could never survive a day without their former masters telling them what to do. In the midst of it all, the humans destroyed their own dam. Always destroying, these humans. Never building anyth
ing that would last. The resulting flood engulfed an ancient chemical plant, a place the humans had abandoned. The waste and debris traveled south into Mudfoot territory and poisoned everything.
The elders called it the Damnable. A judgment from someone else’s god.
No one from the human city—not the leaders, not their animal friends, no one—ever bothered to check on what had happened. The wolves became casualties in someone’s dirty war.
Some of the wolves wanted to flee the valley. But rival clans surrounded them on all sides, enforcing the same border the Mudfoot established themselves. For years, intruders caught in the valley would never see their home again. Thus it was easy for the other wolves to hold a grudge. Who knew what kind of disease the Mudfoot carried in their blood, they asked. What if it was contagious? What if it was EMSAH or some other human invention? And so, when the Mudfoot went begging for safe passage through their neighbors’ territory, the answer was no.
With the entire river polluted, the animals needed to rely on rainwater. And yet even this could prove lethal if the puddle formed on contaminated ground, or if the water trickled from the leaves of a poisoned tree. Within a month, the pups died, followed by the older wolves. Some fell asleep and never woke again. Many others convulsed and gagged while their families circled them, whining and helpless.
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