Years later on a different world, a werewolf and a magician have a conversation about murder...

Chapter One: The First of Wolves

The First of Wolves stood at the forest edge, waiting for the moon. Behind him his soldiers, naked and hairy, crowded together in the darkness, hungry for blood. They had run all day but still weren’t tired. He could smell their eagerness, rising from them with the steam from their sweat, condensing in the winter air.

Ahead, the trees gave out to scrubland as the slope rose into the mountains. Snow covered the ground. Beneath that the hard earth turned to rock as the way steepened. Patches of ice and loose shale made each step treacherous. Huge boulders clustered on the high ground, tens and hundreds of feet high. Yet they were nothing compared to the sheer wall of rock that thrust out of the scree ahead of them, the heights invisible, dominating the land around it, threatening like the clenched fist of the earth.

Men called it the Anvil. It looked like one from a certain angle, a plateau narrowing to an overhanging point at one end. Men said that it was so-called because armies could hammer themselves against it and it would never break. A man at the top would never know that his enemies below cursed his name, for they would never reach him, and he would never hear them.

Two thirds of the way to the summit on the far side of the Anvil from where the First of Wolves stood, a clutch of buildings clung to the rock face. The First of Wolves had seen this. Dozens of buildings, constructed where the rock allowed. They snaked in a broken line across the south face of the escarpment. Bridges of rope and stone linked them, and steps cut into the rock, and tunnels cut through it. This was the Monastery. There were other places where monks dwelled but when men capitalized the word, this was where they meant.

The First of Wolves had heard men speak of the Monastery. All men agreed it was impregnable. Its ancient builders had climbed as high as they could, built into the living rock and pulled up the ladders behind them. The only way up was in a basket, a crude elevator which hung near the Anvil's point, lowered from there into the town at the base of the mountain.

Far beyond where the First of Wolves stood was a torch-lined road. It led from the lake villages far to the south to the small, fortified settlement at the foot of the Anvil's point. That guarded the Monastery's life-line to the outside world. The name of the town was Forge. Men had told the First of Wolves that this name was a joke.

Men had told him the way of things on the road. Ponderous yak-carts laden with tithed provisions creaked up to the town each day. They returned with prayer wheels, icons, blessings and banners made by the monks. Pilgrims walked the road, to pray at the shrines at the foot of the Anvil and convey their written supplication skyward. And every so often, so the men had told him, one who felt the call of faith came to the Anvil, climbed into a basket, and waited. They always had to wait; three days, to see if they were sure. Men called it ‘climbing the Anvil’ and that was a joke as well, because no one could climb the Anvil. And if they remained, then on the third day they ascended, never to return. As all men knew, no man who set foot in the Monastery was ever allowed to leave it, alive or dead - except just once, for one special task. There was one way up, and no way down.

The First of Wolves remembered the men who had told him these things, and what it had felt like when he'd killed them.

One way up, no way down. All men knew. But I am not a man. I know another way.

He stepped back into the trees. As he did so he brushed against a low branch, which snapped near the trunk. He knelt and examined the break. Reddish-brown flakes crusted the limb. As he touched them the wood beneath crumbled away.

It is here. Death precedes us, awaiting our arrival.

The First of Wolves wore a pouch around his neck. He kept small things in it which mattered to him. A stone from the first place of his pack. A tooth from his first kill. Hair from his dead mate. He often touched it when he felt unsure, or unhappy. He touched it now.

Wolves do not have keepsakes, he thought. Wolves do not feel uncertain. Why am I different?

‘A question many men ask themselves,’ said the man next to him. ‘I am not sure there is a satisfactory answer. I have yet to discover one, certainly.’

‘... I said that in my mind,’ the First of Wolves replied, confusion evident on his face. ‘How -’

‘Don’t give it a thought,’ said the man warmly, and the First of Wolves did not give it a thought.

'I must say this is all rather pleasing,' said the man next to him. 'Do you know, I had never seen the lupine transformation before our association began? Of a pure blood Were that is, I have observed transmitted lycanthropy many times. Your species is no longer native to where I'm from. It has been most interesting. I may publish.’

The First of Wolves ignored him, turning the broken limb in his paw-like hands.

The man continued. 'One understands these things from an academic perspective, yet it's much more visceral in the flesh. So to speak. One forgets that genuine werewolves are not wolves or men, but rather something far more ancient and primal.'

He clapped his hands together and blew on them against the cold, then smoothed his moustache with the end of a finger. He took a pair of grey gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. Then he peered over the First of Wolves’ shoulder at the broken branch.

'Have you an interest in matters arboreal, First of Wolves? I have seen some excellent specimens in my time. I lived in a kapok tree for a while, for research purposes you understand. The locals weren't happy about that for some reason, but I -'

'Save your words, magician,' growled the First of Wolves, irritated by the chatter. He discarded the branch and stood up. The man inclined his head in polite acquiescence.

The First of Wolves wasn't used to the company of humans who were not bleeding. Lately this had changed. He didn't like it. They talked without end, but only with their mouths. The wordless words of posture and scent that were the first language of werewolves meant nothing to them. They were unpredictable and bared their teeth when they were being pleasant in a way that made the First of Wolves want to attack them. And they smelled wrong. They smelled of the other animals they wore.

The man pulled his long black coat closer to him, and adjusted his tall hat into the wind. He smiled at the werewolf, who flexed his claws.

Behind him his soldiers grew restless. Or some of them did. The wolves of the Old Pack, the grey-pelt veterans who'd been born and grown with the First of Wolves, saved their energy. They knew what was coming. Wolves died, this was natural in life and in war and wolves did not mourn for long. But with each death the Old Pack diminished, and this was a sorrow beyond words.

Then there were the others. The New. Pelts as black as night without the moon. The coat of a cub, though most of them were not cubs. Some marked territory and squabbled among themselves like puppies. Some of them stared at the man at his side, hunger in their eyes. One or two made little surging half-steps toward him, working themselves up to attack. The First of Wolves snarled a warning, and they subsided.

They are an abomination. I am the only one who sees this. But they are necessary, thought the First of Wolves. We must survive. We must Be.

'Well, we must all do what we think we must, mustn't we?' said the man. 'Story of my life.'

'... what did you say?'

'Oh, I said nothing worth remembering,' said the man, and the First of Wolves did not remember it.

He found himself looking at the man, and considered him as he would any foe. The contrast between them was stark. The man was right. Werewolves of his kind were not one species which became another but a whole creature made in two halves. As men, their piercing amber eyes, muzzle-like jaws and pelt of hair were only the most visible aspects of their otherness. Humans found their man-shapes alien and terrifying to look at, even those they were not eviscerating at the time.

Most humans. This one viewed him with amiable curiosity, as though hell-born killing machines were a matter of no moment. His manner was that of a man with no cares, for whom everything came with ease, of a man used to being served by others. A soft man. The First of Wolves was not fooled by this pose. No one trifled with the magician and lived.

An arc of white light heralded moon-rise. The First of Wolves felt the beast stir within him and embraced it, let its power surge through him. He felt his bones pop and crack as they lengthened and deformed, the pain nothing compared to the fierce joy the change brought him. In moments, the mask of humanity sloughed off him, leaving the animal exposed. His pack howled as the change consumed them.

Their call echoed across the mountain. Villages barred their gates and men strapped on armour at the slightest wolf-sound, the First of Wolves knew. The town of Forge would summon all mendicants and traders within its great eye door, bar the way and imagine itself secure. But on the unscalable mountain, the monks would not even stir for something so far below. The First of Wolves joined the howling.

'Tremendous,' said the man, careless of the First of Wolves’ warning. 'If I only had my heliogravure. Alas, it does not travel well.'

Clouds scudded across the moon. As it did the First of Wolves felt the wolf begin to leave him, his howl turning into a strangled shout. He was almost a man again before it reappeared. He felt the familiar surge and was wolfish again in seconds.

'Remarkable,' said the man, staring at him with genuine interest. 'Responsive to effulgence to an extraordinary degree. I did not know that. A novel experience! I am grateful.' He leaned forward. 'What does it feel like?'

'Like breathing.'

'I see. An autonomic process, then. A natural function. Intriguing. And the cycle of the moon? It is full this night, is that required?'

'We are the sons of the moon,' said the First of Wolves. 'The wolf walks in his sight, no matter how bright his eye. I feel him beyond the horizon. He pulls the wolf free. We wax and wane with him.'

He wondered why he was talking so much. Something about the man's interest in him made him want to talk. It seemed unnatural, somehow.

'Don't worry about that,' said the man, and the First of Wolves did not worry about it. 'You describe it with poetry, my dear First! I translate that to mean you change during any phase of the moon save full dark. Change for as long as moonlight is upon you. But you are less wolfy, perhaps, under the crescent or gibbous moons. Fascinating. It is different with created werewolves. They change only at full moon, and they remain transformed from moonrise to moonset, you know.'

The First of Wolves remained silent. The man mused on the subject for a moment. 'I am impressed beyond words by your transformation. It is, though, a little less, ah, full-bodied, perhaps, than that of lycanthropes-by-infection. I suppose the step from man-wolf to wolf-man is less dramatic than that from man to werewolf. Tell me, do you feel they have an advantage over you?'

'They are mindless,' said the First of Wolves. Human words were harder to speak now; his elongated jaw strangled the sounds. 'They are beasts. They are a disease we carry. We are a people.'

'There is that. And in transmitted lycanthropy the change is a catastrophic physical insult. Many don't survive the first.’

'Our blessing is their curse,' said the First of Wolves.

'Indeed. But those who do are healed and reborn! It is a matter of great interest to me. There is much to study. I may publish. But listen to me prattle on! We must prosecute our affairs!'

He turned to look at the mountainside. It loomed.

'Men can't climb the Anvil.’

'No.'

'But you can. Powerful leaps and bounds. Claws gripping hidden crevices and disguised footholds. Crannies, and the like.'

The First of Wolves nodded. 'Where you said.’

‘Yes. Where I said. Where the moonflowers grow. There is a way.' The man sounded like he was saying another's words.

He pointed. The First of Wolves peered into the darkness. Here and there on the wall of rock he saw a twinkle of reflected light as the flowers unfurled to meet the moon. The twinkles were few and far apart.

‘Yes,’ the First of Wolves agreed. ‘There is a way.’

'Hmm.' The man cocked an eye skyward. 'Windy tonight.’

'Yes.'

'Lots of cloud in the sky.'

'Yes.'

'So, you'll be men as you climb, I think. Some of the time.'

'Yes.'

'But men can't climb the Anvil.'

The First of Wolves turned to look at his soldiers. 'Some will fall.'

'I suppose so. Still, who wants to live forever, eh?' The man laughed a little, as though he had made a witticism. The First of Wolves did not see the joke but considered the remark nonetheless.

'Not I,' he allowed. 'But for my natural years, yes.'

'You are wise, First of Wolves. Wiser than you know.'

'Am I?' He looked again at the werewolves behind him, now as transformed as he. 'How many of these will I lead to their deaths this night?' he said, almost to himself.

Then he shook his head. Why am I thinking like this?

'Again, do not let it concern you,' said the man, and the First of Wolves was not concerned by it. 'But is there something in particular which moves you to emotion? Perhaps an undisclosed connection?'

The First of Wolves extended a finger, pointing toward a clutch of werewolves some distance into the trees. ‘My cub is among these. My only seed. I would not see him die.'

'Ah!' The man clasped his hands together. 'The pathos! Who knew werewolves were capable of it?'

The First of Wolves looked the man squarely in the eye. 'We are not,' he said evenly. 'I am different.'

‘Indeed you are, my dear First of Wolves. Remarkable. I may get a book out of it. Just point him out for me, would you?'

Wordlessly, the First of Wolves singled out a particularly boisterous werewolf. Black haired and barely out of adolescence, it was mock-fighting with another. The man nodded. 'A fine specimen. You can be proud, I assume. You can always leave him behind, if you wish your line to continue.'

The First of Wolves snarled. 'And shame him? The pack would cast him out. Then he would turn on me and try to kill me for it. Then I would kill him. Better he dies a wolf, if he must die. He is no coward.'

'How could he be, with such a sire?' said the man. 'Thank you, my dear First of Wolves, for this diverting conversation. You have taught me things I did not know. I live for such moments. Now, forget about all that,' he continued, and the First of Wolves forgot. 'You know your business?'

Anger surged through the werewolf. 'You come late to this to ask such questions. We have fought this war since before I was whelped. This is the Wolf Age. Our hour is now.’

The man smiled, a broad open grin. 'I do so admire men of purpose, First of Wolves. It is often the way with military men, I find.'

The First of Wolves snarled and looked away.

‘But there is another matter?’ the man prompted.

‘Yes. You want the rock.’

’The bloodstone. You know what it looks like and where it is. You will not please me with some precious pebble you find on the mountain.'

'You will have it,' said the werewolf.

'Excellent. And you will remember to leave my little calling card?'

The First of Wolves nodded. 'The fire will go out. But we will take some bodies for our own purposes. Living ones.'

The man waved this away as though it were a trifle. 'Kill enough that the point is made. And the boy?’

‘No promises,’ said the First of Wolves. ‘There will be hell. If the boy finds the end of a sword, or some teeth -’

‘I understand. But you must understand the consequences if he does. It would be inconvenient. Vexing. I would be unhappy. You would share in my unhappiness.’

The First of Wolves snarled once more, contempt in his tone. ‘And what would you do, magician? Kill me? I do not die so easily.’

The man smiled again, but there was no humour in it.

‘I would exterminate your species,’ he said.

The icy conviction in the man's voice struck the First of Wolves like a blow in the guts and he took an involuntary step backwards. He saw the certainty in the man's eyes. He knew he was telling the absolute truth, though he did not know how he knew. Sudden terror gripped him.

'We won't harm the boy,' he said after a time.

The man smiled again. 'Good dog.’

The rage rose like burning bile in the First of Wolves' throat, curling around his fear like a vast serpent and crushing it. He howled, and the pack howled with him. An outburst of anger and resentment and wrath rang through the mountains like the clarion of Death itself. The man covered his ears until the last echo faded.

The First of Wolves step in close to the man, until they were almost nose to nose. 'To hell with you, conjurer. I'd decorate these branches with your entrails if I had my way.'

The First of Wolves' hot breath billowed in the man's face. He looked discomfited, but unafraid.

'But you will not,' he said, his voice mild.

'The Wolfmaker commands that I obey you. I obey you. But your time will come.'

The man burst out laughing at the threat and for a moment the First of Wolves thought he had gone too far. But the man seemed amused. 'I hope so, First of Wolves,' he said. 'I do. That is rather the point of all this, after all. But it will not be this night.'

'No,' said the First of Wolves, stepping away. 'Tonight, we climb. Stay out of our way, Dragonville.'

Belmont Dragonville smiled again, and bowed. 'By all means, proceed,' he said.

In the deep forest, unseen by wolves or man, another watched.

‘I can’t help you,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’