“It’s a logbook,” D’Arc said. She saw no point in hiding it. These people knew her. Grieve must have remembered their meeting the previous summer. She tried to recall what he said when he saw her with Mort(e). This warms my heart, or something like that. A smug warlord, riding the backs of his slaves.
“Let me see it,” the rider said.
D’Arc handed it over. Writing while walking made the penmanship wobbly, and she suddenly felt a twinge of embarrassment. This faded when the rider flipped through the book upside down, shaking his head in disappointment like a schoolteacher. He tossed the book to her.
“A logbook,” he repeated. He had no idea what that meant.
She continued writing. One of the marauders peeked over her shoulder as she scribbled. She let him do it, knowing full well that he couldn’t read it, either.
Weather: Dry and cold.
Personal Health: Tired. Pulled out the last stitch from wound. Some blood, not much.
Approaching Mournful camp.
D’Arc nearly dropped the book when she saw it: a row of horses lying side by side in the grass, a fresh bullet hole in each of their heads. The Mournful did not wait for them to rebel. They executed the horses without a care about what would happen to all the meat.
As the mounted wolf passed the corpses, the horse kept his eyes straight ahead. The bodies of his people might as well have been random mounds of dirt. It was either a smart move, or a reflex beaten into him over many years.
In a nearby glen, the wolves gathered in front of a row of tents fashioned from animal skin. There, they stood on their hind legs in total silence, all facing the same direction. D’Arc could hear a single voice shouting. At first, she thought it was one of their officers delivering orders. But the voice grunted and shrieked, each sentence punctuated with the sound of something breaking. When one of the tents suddenly collapsed in a heap, the crowd split to give space to the wolf who did it. And there, in front of the very soldiers who would die for him, Grieve the All-Powerful stomped and cursed as he tore apart another tent in a blind rage.
“Traitors!” he shouted. “Every last one of them, a fucking traitor!” With his scimitar, he beat the leather hide of the tent into tatters. Two of his concubines burst out, bedecked in necklaces and jangling bracelets. They ran into the arms of his other mates, consoling one another in a way that suggested they were bonded in their hatred for him.
More wolves arrived from different directions. Among them, a wounded marauder groaned while his comrades carried him on a stretcher. Another group hung their heads in shame—whether real or fake, it got the point across.
Grieve turned to a pair of wolves—higher ranking marauders, judging from their war paint. “Find who’s left. Bring only those who can still walk. Leave the others.”
The wolves ran off. If there was anyone left to question Grieve’s orders, they chose to remain silent.
When Grieve spotted D’Arc, he planted his sword into the dirt and tried to catch his breath. With his chest heaving, he seemed older and more worn out than she remembered. He pointed to the horse and snapped his fingers. The rider dug his heels into the horse’s side and rode off into a nearby thatch of trees. D’Arc suddenly felt isolated without his massive presence beside her.
Grieve stomped toward D’Arc, his skull necklace swaying with each step. The crowd parted to let him through.
“You again,” he said. “I told you to stay out of wolf country.”
Dozens of eyes turned to her.
“I’m looking for my son,” D’Arc said. “The Mudfoot have him.”
“The Mudfoot have a lot of things now.”
Grieve got right in her face. She held her ground, only because she thought that any hint that she would run would get her killed.
“Did you know?” he asked.
“Know what?”
Grieve laughed. “Of course you knew nothing. You’re a mercy girl. Like my mates.” He gestured to the concubines, who held one another and wept.
“The Mudfoot baited us,” Grieve said. “As soon as we attacked their camp, our horses revolted. Two of the packs sided against us. They attacked from behind. This is all enemy territory now.”
Grieve told her this with a wistful smile. This chaos may have finally allowed him to shed the civilized mask he had worn for years so that he could become a true wolf again. That was all the wolves could ever talk about—who was a real hunter and who was not and who would never be.
“Is there anyone left?” D’Arc asked. “Is there anyone left who can stop them?”
A gunshot startled her. It came from the trees. Something large and heavy fell over, thudding against the earth. The Mournful had executed their last horse.
Grieve did not even flinch. “No one’s left,” he said. “But, on the bright side, I managed to keep a promise to an old friend. For all the good it’ll do.”
“Promise?”
Grieve pointed at something behind her. She turned to find more wolves arriving from the skirmish. Six of them, with charcoal fur. And a seventh, trailing behind, with a white patch covering his face and neck. He slowed once he spotted her.
“Falkirk!” she said, and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be real.
The husky embraced her, digging his nails into her skin hard enough to hurt. And she did the same as she hugged him, to prove he was there. He was thinner than she remembered and smelled of mud and sap, like a real wolf.
“I saw him,” she said. “I saw our son. He’s alive.”
“A son,” Falkirk repeated.
“All right, you’re welcome,” Grieve said. “We’re moving now. Stragglers will catch up with us.”
He ordered his underlings to take the tents they could carry and to burn the ones they could not. They would head for a region he called the Blue Hills. Falkirk and D’Arc stayed in place while the wolves scurried around them.
“I want to hear all about him,” Falkirk said.
“I know,” she said. “But we have to get moving.”
“Yes. All three of us.”
D’Arc pulled away.
“Mort(e)’s here,” Falkirk said.
She felt neither relief nor surprise at this. The Old Man followed her in her dreams, so why not here?
“Let’s get him—”
“Wait,” Falkirk said. “He doesn’t know.”
“We’ll tell him,” she said.
“We can’t. Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
Falkirk let her go. “Because he’s dying.”
Chapter 15
Tekni
Mort(e) slid along the ocean floor, leaving a cloud of mud in his wake. With the light barely penetrating the deep, all the colors drained away, leaving a blue haze in every direction. He sucked in a mouthful of salt water that vented through the gills in his neck. He placed his hands there to feel the force of it, the slightly elevated temperature. But his hands had calcified into bony claws, with three ghastly prongs each. The breaths came slowly as he pushed the water in and out, the sound of it whooshing in his ear canals. The fish creatures closed in around him, speaking in their language of clicks and squeaks and whistles. He realized then that someone dragged him through the dirt. His scaly tail swayed behind him in the current, skimming along the rocks and coral. Smaller fish darted away in fear.
One of the Sarcops drew closer. The enormous eyes somehow glowed at this depth, resembling massive glass lanterns. A tentacle probed his armor, while another reached out with a smooth object. A rock, perhaps? No, this thing had no earthly business here. It was a mug, fashioned from clay. With a clicking noise, the Sarcops placed it right at Mort(e)’s lips. The clay felt oddly warm. Wait, he thought. Wait, why have a mug at the bottom of the sea floor? He wanted to giggle at the absurdity of it. But then it made him angry,
and a tightness seized his heart.
With that, the murky surface evaporated to reveal a blue sky, lined on either side with pine trees. He was on a path, somewhere in the forest. Cold Trench fell away as it always did, leaving him weightless for a few seconds. But this time, the people around him remained as Sarcops. Giant monstrosities, dripping with seawater, leaving a trail of it in the dirt. Mort(e) lay on a sledge of some kind, with two of the creatures pulling it. His head rolled from side to side with each bump in the trail. The closest one walked beside him, extending the cup with a tentacle that glistened in the sunlight.
The clicking sound changed into a word. “Tekni,” the Sarcops said. “Tekni!”
Mort(e) rolled off the sledge and landed face down. As he got to his feet, the creatures surrounded him, their tentacles uncoiled. He crouched into a fighting stance. “Leave me alone,” he said.
One of the Sarcops raced to the circle and pushed its way through, this one shorter than the others. The creature held out its claws in a gesture that Mort(e) could not translate.
“Mort(e), it’s me,” the creature said. He knew the voice.
“Go away.”
Two of the Sarcops whispered to one another. He heard the word Tekni again.
“Mort(e), you’re safe,” the short one said.
He blinked a few times, and the creatures became blurry, like thick storm clouds. His legs gave out and he landed on one knee, still holding his hands in a weak fighting position. The short one knelt beside him, extending its tentacles. Only this time, he felt fur instead of scales and bone. He blinked again, and a dog appeared before him, nuzzling her nose against his like a beaver.
“Sheba?” he said. “D’Arc?”
“You’re okay, Mort(e),” she said. “I’m here.” Her tone was flat, exhausted.
As he rested his chin on her shoulder, he saw that a pack of wolves surrounded them. The Sarcops were gone for now.
“Go ahead,” D’Arc sighed. “It’s over. He can walk. We’ll catch up.”
The wolves started to move, but slowly. D’Arc growled at them. “I said we’ll catch up!”
The wolves mumbled to each other. Mort(e) noticed their freshly bandaged wounds. Some hobbled on canes. One of them wore a sling on a broken arm, where a patch of dried blood indicated that the bone must have poked through the skin.
Mort(e) leaned away from her so he could take a good look. She was leaner than he remembered. Her palms were rough with calluses. The scent of mud clung to her skin. She smelled like a soldier. After a minute, she helped him to his feet. He put his arm on her shoulder to stay steady. He licked his lips a few times as the taste of salt began to fade.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re running away.”
Mort(e) recognized the defeat in the way the wolves moved—the hunched shoulders, the glassy eyes. He’d fought alongside these people, years ago. Or he fought with their fathers.
“Of course we are,” he said.
She let him lean on her. Before long, he could walk on his own. But he continued with his arm on her shoulder, in much the same position in which they often used to fall asleep. It was only a matter of time before the taste of salt returned and the Sarcops summoned him once again to the deep. He needed to enjoy this while he could. Whatever scraps of pleasure he could find in this mess, he would pluck them out of the dirt and hold them in his shaking hands.
My name is Mort(e), he thought. Mort(e). Mort(e). His own name resembled a nonsense word, a sound that a drunk would make while trying to fight off a bout of nausea.
Without warning, he made a clicking noise in the deep well of his throat, mimicking the cry of a Sarcops. Or did he merely hear the sound in his mind? A brief glance at D’Arc beside him confirmed the worst. She stared at him as she would a stranger.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
Dr. Marquez had told Mort(e) to repeat a series of phrases to himself every time he emerged from one of his episodes. He started with his name, then moved on to the motto of the Red Sphinx that Culdesac had taught him: Aim true, stay on the hunt. Then he recited the names of the cats in his unit in the order in which they had died. D’Arc’s name came last. He managed to keep all of this silent, though D’Arc noticed him struggling and grimacing when the words piled on top of one another. Slowly, his memories crashed in around him again. But like the tide reclaiming a stretch of beach, they came and went, came and went. At least he could breathe again.
Like a good soldier, he took stock of the situation.
Mort(e) and D’Arc joined the stragglers in the rear of the pack. Most of the wolves at this part of the caravan wore a single blue stripe on their tails, a sign of their low rank. The older wolves, who wore more garish paint, had ordered them to watch for any attacks from behind. These marauders-in-training would either fight off any enemies or provide a distraction as the rest of the wolves made their escape.
Not far ahead, two wolves pushed a motorcycle with polished chrome fenders. Its mint condition seemed so out of place in this caravan. Wolves always bragged about keeping their old ways until one of the leaders spotted something shiny. This bike must have run out of gas, and now two lowly soldiers had to push it. One of them kept turning to D’Arc, staring for a few moments. The third or fourth time he did it, Mort(e) realized that he was the husky, Falkirk, who’d talked him into coming here. And now the dog gave him some time alone with D’Arc. How nice of him. It was the least he could do after they had parachuted into wolf territory.
The Mournfuls had found them immediately after that. As expected, the older wolves explained to the younger ones that this was Mort(e) of the Red Sphinx, who fought alongside the pack during the war. At that point, Mort(e) could have easily told them to take Falkirk prisoner. The dog knew that and decided to take the risk anyway, which Mort(e) could not help but admire.
The caravan reached the remnants of a highway, where some of the wounded needed help getting over the crumbling concrete barrier. Mort(e) assisted an old, impossibly skinny wolf, who wore a hook for a hand. He must have been a great warrior a long time ago.
Once on the road, the caravan gained speed, though Mort(e) could not tell where they would go. The highway skimmed along the territory claimed by the Bounty pack, one of several who’d sided with the Mudfoot at the last minute. Grieve may have hoped to reach Earthblood territory this way, though many would not survive the trip.
And who was left from the Earthblood now that their cavalry had revolted? Mort(e) overheard the others talking about how the horses trampled their riders in a spasm of violence and savagery. With no blades or guns, the horses relied on the blunt force of their hooves, powered by years of resentment and despair. It must have been glorious for them, an experience they’d missed out on during the early days of the Change.
Beside him, D’Arc walked with her shoulders hunched, her tail lowered. Back on the ranch, she would act this way after they euthanized one of their Alphas. Sometimes, she would go a day or two without speaking. Mort(e) wondered if his presence here made her sad. If it didn’t already, it would at some point. He was a burden to her, a chain around her ankle. He had already made the mistake of asking her what happened, how she got here. She told him that the Mudfoot held her captive, nothing more. You would know, she seemed to say. You’ve seen war. You talk about it enough.
“I jumped from the airship,” he blurted out.
A tiny smile curled her lip. “I know. What was it like?”
“I don’t need to do it again.”
“The Chief told me about the time she did it. I was jealous.”
Mort(e) laughed. “Of course you were.”
She nodded. This was better. If he could get through to her, if he could make her remember the way things were, maybe he could get her out of here. Hosanna was lost. They had no choice but to run. They could leave in
the dead of night, head west, far from all of this.
“Why do they call you Tekni?” she asked.
One of the wolves turned and looked at her when she said it.
“It’s some legend they believe in,” Mort(e) said. “Tekni is a spirit that lurks in the woods. He watches over the good wolves. Rewards them with a good hunt.”
“And the bad wolves . . .”
“He punishes them. They get lost on the hunt, disoriented. Or he leads them off a cliff, or into some trap.”
He realized what she was doing. She was trying to ease him back into the real world by getting him to tell one of his classic Old Man stories from the war. They had not seen each other in months. She’d left him behind and would not apologize for it. And yet she performed this act of mercy, a kindness he did not deserve.
“The Mournful had a young leader in those days, cocky as hell,” he told her. “Grieve’s older brother. He wanted to prove something. One day, he attacked a human outpost. The humans retaliated. Decimated the pack.”
After that, Grieve begged the Red Sphinx for help. Grieve wanted to attack the humans again, but first he needed to take control of the pack himself. Culdesac told him that his cats did not get involved in internal squabbles. But Mort(e) saw an opportunity. The wolves had been unreliable allies until then. They killed their share of humans but could not follow orders, and often ruined entire campaigns with their guerrilla tactics. Bringing them on board full-time would make a difference. And so the Red Sphinx agreed to help in exchange for a pledge of loyalty and a troupe of marauders who would answer to Culdesac for a season. “My toy dogs,” he called them.
“So Grieve’s brother went for a stroll in the forest one day,” Mort(e) continued. “And he ran into Tekni.”
“Wait,” D’Arc said. “You didn’t . . .”
“We didn’t lay a finger on him. But we did tell him to keep walking toward the sunset till he couldn’t walk anymore.”
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