Wolf Age, The

by James Enge

  Hrutnefdhu was cowering in the shadows inside the gate. No doubt he had wanted to avoid being seen by Wurnafenglu. The guards were pointedly ignoring his presence, but Rokhlenu said to him, “We may have unwanted guests here soon, or there may be another attack on the western wall. Round up the fifth-floor gang and send them here. Send the fourth-floor crew to the western wall. Then find as many citizens as you can who are willing to stand watch all around the walls. Tell people you speak with my voice. Where's Morlock, by the way?”

  “Bending…. He said we needed more bows. So he said he was going to bend some wood. He took that crazy red werewolf with him.”

  “Good. Let him do as he wants—he will anyway. But send the rest of the fifth-floor crew here, to me. Understand? Go, then, my friend.”

  The pale werewolf smiled wanly at him and fled.

  He turned back to Wuinlendhono, who was looking rather pale herself, and said, “How are you, High Huntress? I won't lie: I feared for your life when I saw that wound.”

  “Liudhleeo gave me something for the poison,” the First Wolf replied. “She was going to smear me with some of that magic pond water she used on your old friend Nyorlock, but it smelled too bad and I wouldn't let her. The wound will heal with time and a little moonlight. Poor Olleiulu took the worst of the attack, I'm afraid. I liked him, Rokhlenu.”

  Rokhlenu nodded grimly. “So did I. He thought we should leave and recoup our fortunes among the barbarous packs. We could still do that.”

  Wuinlendhono took him by the arm and led him a little away from the guards, who were watching them with an open and natural interest.

  “I hate this place,” she whispered, when they were fairly out of earshot. “I hate the stinking dirty water and the bugs in summer and the rickety lairtowers and the mud and the wobbly boardwalks. But it is mine. It is mine. They gave it to me, after my last husband died; they made me First Wolf for life. I won't let anyone take it from me. You can go if you want.”

  “If you go, I go. If you stay, I stay.”

  “Good. I did say you could go, but I was going to kill you if you did.”

  “There is something wrong with you; that much is certain. But when you speak like that, low and sweet, I almost don't care what you say.”

  “That's why you need to get yourself a whore. I need a mate with a level head who can pay proper attention to my words.”

  “You're wrong.”

  “Don't ever tell me that. Particularly if it's true.”

  “You need someone as crazy as you are. That's me. Anyway, I'll be there soon if you keep breathing in my face.”

  Her black eyes glared at him; her bloodless lips grinned at him. She stepped back from him and he was crestfallen: he hadn't really wanted her to move away, and she knew it. He also saw for the first time that she was a little unsteady on her feet. He wanted to give her his arm to lean on, but he guessed she would brush it away now.

  After a moment she said, “Here's our real problem.”

  “We have a problem?”

  “Oh, for ghosts' sake. Shut your meat-hole for a moment.”

  Rokhlenu repressed several approximately witty replies that occurred to him then because she really did look sick and unhappy and he hated that. Because he could not restrain himself any longer, he reached out his hand to steady her. She drew herself up, raised her hand to knock his away…then, unexpectedly, leaned into him.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “It's nothing,” he said. “What's the problem?”

  “Are you crazy? We must have ten thousand problems. Oh—you mean the one I meant. It's this. Gravy-boat, you don't have any right to do what you're doing around here.”

  Rokhlenu looked sidelong at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Don't bite me. It's true. You're running this place as if you were my Second Wolf. Which you're not. Unless you want to be: the plepnup who had the job apparently ran off with the squeaking herds this morning.”

  “There's no chance he's among our honored dead, is there?”

  “Well, that's the story I've been giving out. I suppose if he ever has the stones to show his hairless face around here again we may have to kill him to make the story stick.”

  “A pleasure.”

  “We'll share it, if it comes to that. But I take it from your general lack of eager woofiness that you are not thrilled with the prospect of being my Second Wolf.”

  “Frankly, no. I'm sorry—”

  “No, don't be sorry. Always be frank with me. Always. Unless you're disagreeing with me. Then you can be diplomatic and sorry. But we don't disagree here. How can you keep the leadership of those crazy battle-scarred thugs if you're taking orders from a female? They'd be stupid to object, because I'm tougher than you are, or any of them, but that's not the point. They would object. We have to find a way around that.”

  “Hm.”

  “Well, yes, exactly. It's a problem. You're their leader, the only one they'll accept. Unless your old friend N—Ny—Khretvarrgliu wants the job.”

  “He doesn't.”

  “Then it's yours. But I have to have them in my corner if they're going to stay.”

  “I'll give it some thought.”

  “That's wonderful, beef dumpling, but I already have and I have a kind of solution. You know that fuzz-faced farting evil old grinning gray-muzzle we just bounced out of here?”

  “Wurnafenglu.”

  “Yes, that. He's not their Werowance. He's just on their pack council. And he's one of their candidates for election to the city's Innermost Pack.”

  “Huh. He'll have a tough election this year. We cost the Sardhluun a lot of bite with our escape.”

  “And we'll cost them more, but that's not the point right now. He carries authority in the pack because he was elected to represent them to the city.”

  “That's how it worked in the Aruukaiaduun, also.” Rokhlenu scowled involuntarily. That was the life he had aimed at, and would have achieved, but for that brach's bastard Rywudhaariu. “But the outliers have never had singers on the Innermost Pack of Wuruyaaria.”

  “But it's stupid that we don't. We're here. We're part of the life of the city. Many of the citizens who vote in Apetown or Dogtown actually live here. Why shouldn't we be part of the treaty?”

  “The thing is that we're not, though.”

  “The thing is, dear leg-of-lamb, that we need some sort of official status for you that doesn't threaten me. Candidate for the Innermost Pack is perfect for that. Your first task will be to obtain treaty rights for the outliers.”

  “Hm.” Rokhlenu grinned. “By crushing the Sardhluun sheepdogs.”

  “Right! People in the city hate their guts. Who wouldn't? Maybe we can cut them out of the treaty—side with their enemies in the treaty packs. Maybe we can pound them until the Sardhluun themselves help us get into the treaty. Maybe we'll never get into the treaty. But in the meantime it gives you status to do what we want you to be able to do here and now.”

  “All right. I accept the nomination, but we'll have to have an election—”

  “The election will be tonight after dark in the marketplace. Your irredeemables and as many of the outliers as I can trust will be there. Others will be unaccountably stationed on the walls for guard duty.”

  “I see. I see. You're pretty good at this.”

  “Somebody has to be. We can't all sidle through on good looks and charm and daring and good looks and a beautiful way with words and courageous feats and a beautiful singing voice and good looks and money. Actually, anyone could sidle through with all of that going for him, so don't think you're anything special.”

  “As long as you do, that's enough.”

  The outlier settlement had lost a lot of citizens on this difficult day. That night, after sunset, when the werewolves began to arrive for the election, the market at the center of the settlement was hardly crowded and the windows of the lair-towers all over town were dark and lifeless. In contrast, Wuruyaaria to the north was a misty w
aterfall of light rushing down the steps of the great mountain.

  The great moon-clock on the face of Dhaarnaiarnon showed that Horseman should be aloft, but no moon could be seen through the dense cloud cover. Few of the citizens were in the night shape, and those were werewolves of low bite—likely they never transformed into the day shape.

  It was a rather grim assembly that gathered in the torchlit market, but Wuinlendhono showed no awareness of this as she leapt up on a hastily made rostrum and addressed the crowd.

  She spoke at some length about the dangers and the choices in front of them. She relayed to them the Sardhluun's offer of amnesty if they surrendered the prisoners, and she let them know she had rejected it. She said that the most she would permit the outlier pack to do would be to cast out the escapees. But she said that, in that case, she would lay down the chieftainship and go with her intended into exile.

  That was the first matter she submitted to a vote: if they wished the escapees to leave the outlier settlement, they were to move to her left; if they were against ejecting the escapees, they should move to her right.

  More than half of those present were refugees from the Sardhluun, but (unlike Wuinlendhono) Rokhlenu did not consider their votes certain. He suspected many of them would rather flee to the obscurity and safety of the barbaric packs of the outlands. He was sure of this when he saw them milling about in the middle of the market.

  He stood up and walked through the milling assembly to stand prominently among the werewolves at Wuinlendhono's right hand.

  This persuaded many of the undecided voters to come stand by him. Many—but far from all. Rokhlenu guessed that a majority of citizens present were still in the middle of the market, dithering. Rokhlenu saw Hlupnafenglu standing there, turning round and round with an odd smile on his face. It was far from clear that he understood what was going on—but at least he was enjoying himself, Rokhlenu reflected. He did not see Liudhleeo or Hrutnefdhu. They were citizens of little or no bite, but it would have been something just to have their votes right now.

  Wuinlendhono could put the question again, phrasing it slightly differently. They could open the matter for debate. There were all sorts of things they might do, but it would be better if they didn't have to.

  There was a stir in the crowd on the eastern end of the market, directly opposite Wuinlendhono. The scandalized crowd parted, and Rokhlenu saw with dismay that the cause of the disturbance was Morlock. He was striding across the marketplace with his freakish sword in his hand.

  Wuinlendhono's gold-toothed bodyguards stood forth and snarled a warning. Morlock didn't even seem to notice them (in fact, their snarls had been a little tentative) but he halted ten or twelve paces in front of the rostrum and addressed Wuinlendhono in a voice that rode high above the muttering and growling of the crowd.

  “First Wolf, I claim no rights in the assembly,” the pale-eyed never-wolf said, “but I ask permission to address you.”

  “You are addressing me,” Wuinlendhono pointed out briskly. “Keep it brief; we have a long night of business before us. It's bad manners to bring a weapon to an election, by the way.”

  “It was necessary that I do so,” said Morlock. He strode forward. He did not quite kick the bodyguards out of his way, but they had to skip nimbly away to avoid being stepped on. He laid the sword at Wuinlendhono's feet.

  “I have no vote here,” he said, “but I say this. Your enemies are my enemies. I will fight for you in the teeth of the Sardhluun dogs. I do not know if this accords with your law; I don't know your law. I will do this for the healing and harbor you gave to me, a stranger and a never-wolf, when you could have turned me away. Today your blood was shed for me and for these others. I will pay for that blood with the blood of your enemies. Blood for blood: that is the only law I know.”

  “Khretvarrgliu!” the irredeemables began to roar. “Khretvarrgliu! Blood for blood! Blood for blood! Blood for blood!” It became a chant. Many of the original outliers began to join in. Hlupnafenglu hooted incoherently: apparently he had just recognized his friend Morlock; he stumped forward and pounded Morlock agreeably on his crooked shoulders.

  Smiling graciously, Wuinlendhono knelt down and gingerly picked up Morlock's sword, one hand beneath the hilt, one hand beneath the blade. She handed it back to him. She leaned forward to speak in his ear. Rokhlenu wasn't close enough to hear what she was saying—the crowd was growing very noisy indeed—but he could see her lips. He was much mistaken if she didn't say, Nicely timed. Take this back and go stand by my Rokhlenu.

  Morlock took the sword, at any rate, sheathed it on the shoulder hilt he was wearing, and strode over to stand at Rokhlenu's side. Hlupnafenglu capered like a puppy at his heels.

  Hlupnafenglu wasn't the only one. All the remaining irredeemables came over in a rush, shouting, “Blood for blood! Blood for blood!” Many of the original outliers followed. Soon the whole left side of the market was vacant and there were a few citizens in the center, and the whole right side of the market was crowded with citizens standing on each other's feet and shouting “Blood for blood!” in each other's faces.

  “Citizens,” Wuinlendhono said, coldly eyeing the few holdouts in the center. “May I call the vote unanimous?”

  They looked at her; they looked at the bristling mass of werewolves facing them; they turned back to her and nodded.

  “I declare the pack is of one mind: the escapees shall stay. We are one pack; we will stand together and make our enemies pay blood for blood. I have spoken; let it be remembered.”

  At the First Wolf's declaration, the crowd roared in agreement and began to spread out around the market again. The densest part of the crowd remained around Rokhlenu and Morlock, but in deference to their bite the citizens (except Hlupnafenglu, who barely counted) stood a slight distance away. Rokhlenu risked leaning toward Morlock and said, “Why'd you do it? I told you not to show up here.”

  “Hrutnefdhu's idea,” Morlock explained in a mutter. “We were watching from a tower, and it looked like you were going to lose.”

  “We were, too.”

  Wuinlendhono was speaking again. She pointed out the broader issue: that they were vulnerable to the Sardhluun attacks because they were not sworn to the treaty. She made her proposal that the outliers campaign for admission to the treaty packs.

  This question she opened up to discussion by the citizens. Many of them had things to say, arguments to make, questions to ask. Wuinlendhono ran the meeting with cool practiced authority, letting everyone have their say in turn and keeping the discussion from breaking up into fights, as debates in werewolf assemblies often did. When one speaker turned snarling on another, a cold word from the rostrum was enough to bring them to heel.

  Rokhlenu was proud of her—and worried for her. She looked relentless, yet strangely fragile in the flickering torchlight. He thought she was feeling the pain of her wound. And the wind had turned, also, making the night suddenly cold. He wanted to go stand beside her, support her, shield her from the wind—something to give her comfort, so that she would not have to stand alone.

  But if their plan was to work, she had to stand alone.

  In the end she declared the debate had gone on long enough. There was a rumble of general agreement: many of the same arguments were being repeated, over and over.

  “Those in favor of seeking treaty status in Wuruyaaria, stand to my left,” she directed. “Those against it, stand to my right.”

  The crowd had spread out during the debate, and it took a few moments before the voters sorted themselves out. Rokhlenu strode across the market to stand with those in favor of joining the treaty. He heard Hlupnafenglu tromping after him, but did not hear Morlock's rather irregular stride. Glancing about when he reached the left side of the rostrum, he noticed that Morlock had quietly sidled over to a corner of the market that was quietly noncommittal—neither left, right, nor center—and he stood there, leaning against the wall of a tower, watching the procedure with cool detachment.
<
br />   There were no voters in the middle. Some did indeed stand on the First Wolf's right: escapees or long-term outliers who had a rather hard-bitten look to them. They probably liked standing outside the scope of the city's laws, Rokhlenu thought. He could understand it, remembering the bitter parody of justice that had brought him to the Vargulleion.

  Wuinlendhono eyed the two groups. She said, “I declare that the greater number of the pack has resolved to seek treaty status. Does anyone seek an appeal?” She turned to the dissenters and asked, “Do you wish a tally?”

  “No, High Huntress,” said one. “The vote is clear.” The others nodded their agreement, shivering slightly in the suddenly stronger wind.

  “Then the pack will seek treaty status in this Year of Choosing,” Wuinlendhono said, with confident formality. “I have spoken; let it be remembered.”

  As she spoke, the sky opened and the silver eye of Horseman peered through the ragged edges of cloud. She impulsively raised her arms and summoned the change, assuming the shadow of her night shape, dismissing the shadow of her day shape. Before her transformation was half complete, the wave of moonlight swept over Rokhlenu, and he too summoned the change. All around him, werewolves were summoning their night shapes, screaming in ecstasy and pain at the transformation.

  Morlock stood aloof during the debate and subsequent vote. He had an idea for putting a better edge on glass weapons and an idea for a flying machine and an idea for a new card game, and he was aching to get back to his cave and work on one or more of these ideas. On the other hand, he felt it would look bad if he simply walked away. Long solitude had worn away most of Morlock's social instincts, but he was fairly sure it would damage his friend's status if he displayed his complete indifference to the political issues of the day. The glass project involved some complex multidimensional calculations, and Morlock occupied himself by folding various n-dimensional polytopes in his head.