Wolf Age, The

by James Enge

  The red werewolf shrugged despairingly and said, “Yes, I have seen many decapitated werewolves. I have cut the heads off many myself. It is the best way to kill a citizen in the night shape. Before I was sent to the Vargulleion I was an assassin. They called me the Red Shadow.”

  “Oh.” Morlock was vaguely aware that werewolves distinguished sharply between assassination and other more open forms of murder. Morlock himself did not, though. “That may be a useful set of skills for us. Rokhlenu thinks this was a politically motivated killing.”

  The red werewolf was staring at him. “You are not…you still wish me to help you? You are still willing to teach me?”

  “Yes.”

  Hlupnafenglu closed his golden eyes, then opened them. “Thank you,” he said. “Hrutnefdhu was my friend, too. I would be sorry to miss the hunt.”

  The stairwell below them was suddenly flooded with females. Looking down, Morlock saw Wuinlendhono at their head.

  “All males not dead, get out!” she shouted.

  “We were just going, High Huntress,” said Hlupnafenglu humbly.

  “See that you do,” she said briskly, and swept past.

  Morlock and Hlupnafenglu edged past the river of female citizens rushing up the stairs. Soon they were standing outside on the stinking wine-stained street in the searing spring sunlight. Some citizens were still standing around, but when they saw Morlock they turned and fled.

  “You call it an odd murder, then,” Morlock said.

  “Yes, Chieftain,” said Hlupnafenglu. “It is one thing to sever the head. That makes sense, for a night murder. But why not hurl it out the nearest window? Why carry it dripping away with you?”

  “How do you know they did?”

  “I smelled it in the stairway.”

  Morlock nodded slowly. “Then we can trail them—” And then he broke off, staring distractedly at the wine staining the boards. “God Avenger. What have I done?”

  The red werewolf punched him gently in his good arm. “Don't gnaw on yourself, Chieftain. We'll walk on the streets nearby a bit, and I'm sure we'll pick up on their scent.”

  That was what they did, and soon the red werewolf said he had found it.

  “Are you sure that's the scent?” Morlock asked, feeling somewhat foolish.

  “Fairly sure,” Hlupnafenglu replied. “A citizen's blood is a distinctive smell, and Hrutnefdhu's has a tang to it I've never noticed in anyone else's. I'd be surer in my night shape. The wolf's nose is sharper. Hrutnefdhu taught me that when I—when we—when you made me whole. Sometimes I wish you hadn't done that, Chieftain.”

  “You did seem happier before.”

  “Maybe happiness is overrated.”

  Morlock had always hoped so, but said instead, “Should we wait for nightfall? There will be a moon aloft tonight.”

  “I think the scent might be gone then. Best while it's fresh.”

  The trail was clear enough. Even Morlock saw a few blood drippings at times. The scent led them to the northern gate, where a few irredeemables were standing guard. Two seemed to be coming on duty, two others going off, and they were standing around talking.

  “Khretvarrgliu!” called one of the off-duty guards, and Morlock saw that it was ape-fingered Runhuiulanhu. “What's this rotten froth I hear about you and the gnyrrand fighting?”

  Morlock opened his hands and said, “We had words. It's nothing serious.”

  “Politics?” Runhuiulanhu guessed.

  “Sort of.”

  “I don't know much about politics.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “But I know what side I'm on.”

  “Rokhlenu and I will always be on the same side.” Morlock lowered his voice. “But it may not look that way for a while.”

  “Oh. Oh! I get you! Some kind of strategy?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I know crap-all about strategy either,” said Runhuiulanhu, with a certain satisfaction.

  “Eh.”

  “Can I buy you guys breakfast? I just got paid, and my mate bought some sausages. They're guaranteed to contain a certain proportion of real meat. And if they don't, I'll rip the sausage off the walking mouth who sold them to her.”

  “Thanks, but we're going into town,” Morlock said. He didn't like to think of the meat that might be in a sausage made in the werewolf city. “Are you mated?” he asked. “Last time we met you were still…”

  “Paying for it? I guess so. I thought about what you said that night. Two ape-fingered werewolves ought to be able to get along, shouldn't they?”

  Marriage was not among the few topics where Morlock felt he could give useful advice. He hummed and shrugged as noncommittally as possible, and was horrified when Runhuiulanhu said, “Yes, yes, I know what you mean, there.”

  Hlupnafenglu intervened. “Runhuiulanhu, were you on duty all night?”

  “Just since midnight. Why?”

  “Did anyone pass by last night carrying a bloody bag or something like that?”

  “A bloody bag. What is that, some kind of joke?”

  “Can't you smell the blood? I can.”

  Runhuiulanhu sniffed the air tentatively and he said, “No, I—wait a lope. Wait a lope. Hey, Iuiolliniu,” he called to his watch-partner, who was turning away. “Did someone come through here last night with a bloody bag?”

  “No one came through all night. Nobody at all. Not that I remember.”

  “Of course they did. There were those whores walking home from Dogtown; and the guy who kept dropping his lamp and we thought he was trying to burn the plank road, only he was just smoke-drunk; and old Lekkativengu and his bookie friend.”

  “Oh. Right. But except for them, nobody.”

  “Yurr.” Runhuiulanhu turned back to Hlupnafenglu and Morlock. “Were they going in or out?”

  “Out,” Morlock said.

  “Bloody bag. Bloody bag. You'd think I'd remember that. And yes. Yes, I do remember it. Three of them, right?”

  “You tell us.”

  “Three of them. There was that fuzz-faced goldtooth guard of Her Supreme Wolfiness. Yaniunulu. Which I think she just keeps him around to make fun of him, and why not. And the guy with the bag. He looked kind of familiar to me, but I didn't know his name. All his fingers were the same length. His thumbs, too, I mean.”

  “Luyukioronu,” Morlock said. “They call him Longthumbs.”

  “Right. You're right! The watchers had us both in lockup before I got sent to the Vargulleion. I guess he got out. Forgery, that's what he was in for.”

  “Who was the third citizen?”

  “That fuzz-face guard. Yaniunulu. That's three.”

  “That's two.”

  “Yurr. This shouldn't be so hard. There was Luyukioronu. And fuzz-face, Yaniunulu. And the guy with the bag. That's three.”

  “I thought Luyukioronu had the bag.”

  “He did.”

  “Then that's two.”

  “All right. Let's see. There was the guy with the bag. And Fuzz-face. And Longthumbs.”

  “And he had the bag.”

  “Right.” Runhuiulanhu began to look frightened.

  “Can you describe him? The third one,” Morlock said.

  It turned out that he was neither tall nor short, nor of any clear coloration, nor was his scent distinctive, nor was he clearly in the day shape nor the night shape. In fact, Runhuiulanhu could not describe him, or even be sure that it was a male citizen rather than a female citizen. Runhuiulanhu's fear was then more open.

  “Don't worry yourself,” said Morlock. “I think you've met Ulugarriu.”

  The ape-fingered werewolf's fear vanished. “Really? You think so? I wish I could remember him!”

  “Maybe next time.”

  They said good-bye, and Morlock and Hlupnafenglu went through the gate out to the plank road.

  “The trail is clear,” Hlupnafenglu said after a while. “But we'll lose it if it goes into the city.”

  “Maybe,” Morlock said.
/>   “You're full of maybes today, Khretvarrgliu.”

  “Here's another. The maker who created the moon-clock in Mount Dhaarnaiarnon, and the funicular way, and the other miracles that are credited to Ulugarriu. That maker.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe he could make a bag that wouldn't leak.”

  “Oh, well…Well. Yurr. You think he wanted us to come this way? Maybe. Maybe you're right. Then why are we following this trail?”

  “The trail is what we have.”

  The sunlight dimmed as if a heavy curtain had been pulled across the sky. Looking up, Morlock saw this was true: a dense, turbulent, lightning-scarred layer of clouds was spreading over the world, cutting off the light of the sun.

  Together Morlock and Hlupnafenglu began to run. If it began to rain, the water would wash away the blood trail. And it was going to rain: the air to the east and south was already blurred with falling water, and the cruelly hot morning air was already retreating before the cool moist air of the storm.

  They reached the city's southern gate at the same time as the storm front. But at first it wasn't rain that fell, but hail: great chunks of it, some as large as a child's fist, drumming on the roads and the stone walls and the heads of the travelers, particularly Morlock and Hlupnafenglu. They fled into the open gate and stood there, with the guards and some other passersby taking refuge from the storm.

  For a long time, they gazed in unanimous silent wonder at the shallow drifts of melting ice forming in the streets. Eventually, Morlock caught Hlupnafenglu's eye, nodded toward one of the gate watchers, and glanced at his own right thumb. Hlupnafenglu looked baffled, then amused. He nodded.

  The big red werewolf sidled up to the gate watcher and said, “Seen Luyukioronu Longthumbs today? I heard he was through here.”

  The watcher looked sharply at him and said, “You a friend of his?”

  There was no mistaking the gate watcher's hostility. Morlock met the red werewolf's eye over the watcher's shoulder and reached out one hand insistently, as if demanding payment.

  “He owes me money,” Hlupnafenglu said, taking the hint. “The half-rat nipple-biter was running a game off of the outlier market, but he couldn't cover the bets. He said he'd pay me the next time he saw me, only he never sees me anymore.”

  Hlupnafenglu's newfound facility with lying impressed Morlock, not altogether favorably.

  “All right,” the watcher said. “I get you. Only it's not my problem, is it?”

  Morlock jingled the bag of money tied to his belt.

  The gate watcher turned around to look at him. The watcher was a semiwolf with white fur over a rather vulpine face, but his eyes were human, and they looked searchingly at Morlock. “It's like that? You're with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Three pads of copper, I tell you where he went. One more, I won't tell him you guys were asking about him.”

  Morlock reached into the wallet and extracted six copper coins. He dropped them in the watcher's outstretched and rather hairy palm.

  “For you and your partner,” Morlock said. “We don't care what you tell Longthumbs.”

  Soon they were out in the hail again, headed for a day-lair run by a night-walker called Iolildhio. Hlupnafenglu knew about it, from his extensive criminal career, but he would not be welcome there. They waited in the shelter of an overhanging wall opposite the dark open door of Iolildhio's joint.

  Morlock had decided to watch and wait. Assuming the guard was telling the truth and Luyukioronu, at least, had reached the day-lair and was within, he would not stay there all day. He would satisfy his needs (food, smoke, and sex were what the day-lairs normally provided) and leave. If he was not there, it was possible that Ulugarriu would try to contact them or attack them.

  He did not discuss this with Hlupnafenglu, who seemed content to follow his lead. The only thing the red werewolf said while they were waiting was, “I can smell the bloom from here.”

  Morlock could, too, and he didn't have a werewolf's nose. He nodded.

  They waited.

  The hail turned to sheets of rain. It filled the already swampy street and ran in through the door of the day-lair. Soon, smoke-choking, half-dressed citizens in varying degrees of wolfhood came stumbling out into the street. The day-lair was flooding. Hlupnafenglu met Morlock's eye and stretched his mouth in a long sinister smile. They would see something soon.

  Luyukioronu and Yaniunulu came together out of the dark door, peering up at the sky and holding their hands over their heads in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the savage downpour.

  Hlupnafenglu started forward, dashing across the muddy street toward their quarry.

  Morlock was taken off guard. He had planned to follow one or the other of the two murderers for a while and see what they were up to, who they contacted. This was especially important in the case of Yaniunulu, who had betrayed his trust: it was important to know who had corrupted him. But he had not discussed this with Hlupnafenglu, who obviously preferred a more direct approach. No longer a red shadow, he was a juggernaut charging through a crowd of citizens bemused by the heavy rain and slipping across shining beds of ice.

  Morlock dashed after him.

  Luyukioronu dropped his eyes from the sky and saw Hlupnafenglu charging toward him, with Morlock trailing behind. He gaped, screamed, and ran.

  Yaniunulu stared bemusedly after him, looked around, saw what Luyukioronu had seen, and ran the opposite way down the street.

  Morlock caught up with Hlupnafenglu, pounded on his shoulder to get his attention, shouted, “Get the goldtooth!” and turned, skittering on an ice-lined puddle, to follow Luyukioronu.

  The long-thumbed werewolf was already almost out of sight in the torrential rain. Had he plunged into the twisting paths of Dogtown he might easily have left Morlock bewildered, but instead he took a straight route parallel to the city wall, headed for Twinegate.

  The rain began to thin out. The clouds were breaking in the east, torn to bits by the winds. Shafts of sunlight illumined the last misty rain. It was already getting warmer again, but Morlock didn't find that unwelcome: he had been battered by the hail, soaked through by the rain. His cloak was heavy with water, but he didn't throw it off: he wanted it to cover the emptiness of his left arm. But the weight was slowing him down; Luyukioronu, though still in sight, was opening up a considerable lead.

  Entering the great plaza before Twinegate, Luyukioronu looked over his shoulder to see if he was still being followed. As he did so, his feet hit an icy patch and he rolled in the mud. Morlock drove himself forward; by the time the werewolf had scrambled back to his feet, Morlock was almost on top of him.

  He darted into the crowds around the base of the funicular tower. Morlock thought the werewolf was going to circle around it, but instead he charged up one of the stairways, pushing and shoving citizens out of his way.

  Morlock followed. He drew his sword as he ran. He disliked shoving people, and he'd found in the past that people were likelier to get out of his way if they saw him approaching with a longsword. So it proved on this occasion, and Morlock again began to gain on Luyukioronu. Eventually, the werewolf heard him approaching and turned, drawing a short sword and a dagger, his dark eyes blazing with panic.

  “What do you want from me now?” screamed the werewolf, slashing madly with both blades. “My honor-teeth? You took them before! My money? I spent it all. My female? I spent the money on females; you can hire any of them by the half hour. What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?”

  Morlock was at a severe disadvantage. Luyukioronu was no master of the sword, but he had two edged weapons and Morlock had to fight one-handed. He had two advantages: he knew how to use his weapon, and it was longer. He retreated a step or two to take advantage of this.

  Luyukioronu followed him down, still swinging knife and sword frantically. One of his feet hit an icy patch on the stairs, and he slipped. He reached out his right hand, the hand with the knife, to stead
y himself on the well of a deep unglazed window set into the wall.

  While Luyukioronu was still off balance, Morlock jumped forward and slashed with Tyrfing at the werewolf's right hand. Luyukioronu screamed and, recoiling, dropped the knife and several of his fingers as he retreated back up the stairway.

  “Stop!” Morlock said, following him. “Tell me who sent you to kill Hrutnefdhu. If you do, I may let you live.”

  “I never killed anyone!” Luyukioronu shrieked wildly. “People kill me, they killed me a thousand times, but I never killed. It was a lie what they said about me. An accident. I'm a skilled operator; you should see me.”

  “I have seen you,” Morlock said. “Remember? I gave you twenty copper pads. I sent them by my friend Hrutnefdhu. Remember?”

  Luyukioronu seemed to be calming a bit; he considered this question with an inward, remembering gaze. Then he looked up, saw that Morlock had edged closer, and he started away. His back hit the fragile handrail behind him; it gave way beneath his weight.

  “No!” shouted Morlock. He did not give a fragmented damn about Luyukioronu's life, but he wanted to know whatever the long-thumbed werewolf could tell him about the murder of Hrutnefdhu. Morlock dropped his sword and let it slither away down the stone stairs, rattling as it went. He leapt forward, reaching out with both hands.

  Luyukioronu felt himself beginning to fall, and he reached out with his right hand to grasp at Morlock's left.

  But Luyukioronu's mutilated right hand had no fingers, apart from one long thumb, and Morlock's left hand was a patch of mist, the ghostly idea of a hand. Luyukioronu's mutilated hand passed through it; his features convulsed with pain; he fell screaming all the way down the tower until the stones of the plaza ended his fall, his scream, and his life.

  “God Avenger!” muttered Morlock (causing Death, who was manifest nearby, to signify hastily against the name of this alien god). He hoped that Hlupnafenglu had caught the treacherous Yaniunulu, or this day was looking bleak indeed.

  “Hey!” someone shouted at him. “What are you? Crazy?”

  “Maybe,” Morlock admitted. He turned to see two armed watchers in city livery coming up the stairs. One had a mace in his hand, the other a drawn sword. The sword was Tyrfing. Morlock remembered he hadn't replenished the talic charge in the sword's crystalline lattice after he had summoned it this morning. If he had, he could have summoned it to himself now.