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Dawn of the Hellwolves

by earbender

Commissioned by Doc Flareon

Chapter 1

Clatter-slap!

Molly Lynn O'Dowd slammed her shopping basket on the kitchen table and fixed a blazing hazel eye on the old man who sat there, grinding herbs by dim firelight and the glow of a single tallow candle by his left elbow. She tossed back dark hair, almost black, and grated "Wesley called me a witch! And a whore."

Mage Shamus pushed his work aside and eyed his young assistant serenely. He rose to tend the kitchen fire and push a copper kettle closer to the coals, then sat back and resumed grinding his herbs. Eventually he inquired "Are you?"

Molly had been sorting angrily through her market basket, pulling things out with jerking, hasty movements certain to break an egg or bruise the new-harvest pears. Now she took a deep breath and centered herself, or tried to. Failed. Some words cut too deep to simply wish away.

"Of course I am," she replied. "You know that. And a whore too, or used to be. And a bitch when it suits your whim. I didn't like his tone, though, and you detest him too! Can't you give him a case of sore boils, or leprosy, or impotence or something? Just this once?"

Shamus sighed and shrugged, ruefully. "Yes I could," he replied, "but what benefit would come of it? There will always be men like him and curses cut the wielder too, in subtle ways. Patience is the counter for his kind. Patience and guile."

"Yes, master. I understand. I'm to turn the other cheek and all that, just like the priest tells me."

"Yes you are, Molly. At least for today." The mage's eyes hardened, and took on a dangerous light. "But not always. Patience has its place, and the place of honor at that, but when patience fails--truly fails--then violence may in fact be the better course. Or the only one." Shamus' expression grew haunted and his jaw clenched, as if in bitter memory. "Do not wish for such a time," he said.

"Yes, master," Molly replied. Both were silent awhile then Molly added "No word yet regarding your son but the dockmaster says there's little cause for concern. Boats come when they come and the river has been quiet these days; that protection contract with the penzeloots has really paid off. With otter privateers busy hunting down our human pirates it's been clear sailing for the rest of us. Wish I could say the same about hill bandits."

"Oh?" The kettle was boiling now, and Shamus took it off the fire.

"Word has it they burned Blackbluff to the ground."

"Blackbluff? But they have a full guardhouse and militia! How many bandits were there?"

"No one knows. Maybe fifty, maybe more. Enough to force a retreat then pile dry brush around the guardhouse and burn it to the ground with all inside. At least twenty killed, they say, but likely a lot more."

"That's not banditry, that's war! King Maurice won't stand for it."

"Yea, fer sure. He'll ship us another troop o' too-little-too-late soldiers, raise the taxes again, then tell us to quit complaining or he'll raise 'em more. Honestly, we wouldn't even have this problem if our fearless liege had the balls to send his men back across the border to strike the bandits where they live! But never mind, what do I know about banditry and war? I'm just a foolish shrew-tongued witch woman too poor for a lady and too uppity for a wife. But I don't care 'bout that, not no more. It's just..." Molly hesitated, and fell silent, realizing all at once how rash and wrongheaded her talk must sound. Really now, what did she know about death and fighting? Dying, yes, she had that part pretty much figured out, but actually defending herself? Nah, that's just not a woman's place.

"Please excuse my hasty words," she sighed. "I spoke without thought."

Mage Shamus met her eyes and smiled for her a mocking half-smile, inspected his herbs, prodded them a few more times then tossed them in a cup and poured on water from the kettle. "You spoke without thought, you say? Molly I've heard a careless word or two in my time, and have yet to die from it. Pray share your thoughtless thoughts with me now, if you will. I promise I'll treat them with respect."

"Er... very well. It's just... I know you're a mage and all, and you can take care of yourself, but... this house is kind of... secluded... if you catch my meaning. It's a ripe target for bandits and the path up from town is even worse. I'm no coward but I do feel kind of vulnerable each time I cross that way running my errands for you. And you're at risk too! You told me yourself, a mage can be killed just like any other man if he's betrayed or caught by surprise. You've tried to teach me good sense and what sense I have tells me we should pack up your things and move to a safer place until it calms down here!"

Shamus smiled, sadly, and nodded in agreement. "Well said! And alas quite true, but I'm constrained in this matter I fear. I've made my home in these lawless cold lands by the Metagonian border precisely because they're lawless. You've kept my secret well but my researches are already known to the Mage Guild and they do not approve. My actions are tolerated here, for the nonce, but a move to more settled habitat would surely trigger repercussions I am loathe to face." He took up his potion cup and Molly busied herself with her market basket, watching him sidelong as she sorted out two sausages and a dozen small potatoes, laying them neatly on the table with hands grown steady now, and in control. Her master had more to tell her but no satisfaction would come of asking him straight out.

"That said," Mage Shamus continued when he was quite thoroughly ready, "I have no wish for you to walk these troubled lands without the capacity to protect yourself!" He swirled the decoction one more time then strained the contents into a fresh cup. He handed the cup to Molly and she took it, looking quizzical. "Drink," he bade.

Molly drank, gagging only a little bit. The potion was vile but she had tasted worse at his command. Much worse. When her cup was empty Molly asked, "What does this one do?"

"It's a mild psychogenic stimulant, nothing more. It will help you focus on the real challenge I have for you tonight. Let me show you something while we wait for the drugs to take effect."

Shamus went to the kitchen hearth and heaved up a heavy flagstone, showing astonishing strength for his scrawny white-haired form. From a chamber beneath he withdrew a copper-clad wooden box, and from that a messily scrawled vellum document, in his own hand, that appeared to be a letter of some sort. "You'll find this communication most interesting," he told her, and began at once to read:

To Mage Shamus, my Esteemed Colleague and Friend:

I am saddened to learn of your continued difficulties with certain Mage Guild leaders of our mutual acquaintance. Opinions vary, of course, but in my new capacity as Alpha-Elect of the Valinonian Hellhounds' Liberation Society I wish to express, on behalf of my constituents, our enthusiastic but necessarily secret support for your bid to legalize hand-paws in future variants of our kind. With all due respect to our makers we hellhounds have always felt the absence of gripping paws to be an unnecessary restriction designed entirely to aid in, and make permanent, our current subjugation to humankind. Many non-human sapients, such as the penzeloots and steppendrakes, deal with humans as independent species and even negotiate treaties to protect their interests, while exile-populated hellhound communities already exist in unsettled lands beyond the borders of Valinoin. We hellhounds feel these communities will inevitably grow over time--and more so if some members, at least, have the gift of working hands!--and are destined one day to gain sovereign status of their own. You have always been a trusted friend to the hellhounds and by supporting our cause now, in our weakness, you have even more earned our affection, our respect, and insofar as those under my leadership have the capacity to act, our support.

The escalating bandit situation in Valinoin's far northern provinces is well known to our king's advisors, and only the dangerously fragile relations with Metagonia and her equally unsavory neighbors has prevented our liege from authorizing cross-border retaliation raids as he would long ago have done in other circumstances. Nevertheless your situation has received more attention than you may suspect and, with the tacit but necessarily anonymous support from certain individuals in the very highest levels of Valinonian government, your province of Pettypuddle on the Mireflood will be receiving extra hellhound rangers soon. These rangers will be directed to award you the greatest of courtesy and, under conditions of extraordinary danger, may be persuaded to support you in ways beyond the strict definition of their commissions. You may use the code phrase 'I have a dream' to request such support, but please do so only in case of dire need.

Yours in inter-sapient trust and good fellowship,

Cynsanguin.

(Transcribed and set in cypher at Nouveau Rochelle in the Sovereign Kingdom of Valinoin, Ynys Afallon, this fourth day of July in the Year of Our Deliverance 1304, by Dances-With-Dogs)

Shamus rolled the vellum in a tube and tied it, then returned it to the box and slipped that back into hiding. He speared sausages on a wooden skewer and set them near the fire to roast, then took a bronze-bladed knife from the wall and began to peel a potato. Molly drew her sash knife--also bronze--and began to peel too, and when all were pared and rinsed and put in a crock to boil her master remarked "Cynsanguin's message is highly confidential, of course, as you can clearly discern from the tone and content. Please recite to me his code phrase."

"I have a dream," Molly replied, then hesitated and added "I don't think I know what it means, though. And how did you come to know this Cynsanguin dog-person, anyway?"

"The words don't have to mean anything," Shamus murmured. "They're a code phrase. Perhaps some other day I'll tell you about Cynsanguin." He took up the candle and held it close to Molly's eyes so she straightened herself and held still for him, waiting while he looked for whatever it was he sought to see. The candlelight seemed brighter than it had been and she blinked, wanting to turn away from the glare but not permitting herself to do so.

"Looks like you're about ready," her master remarked. He pulled a silk lanyard and pouch from around his neck and laid them on the table, untied the pouch and poured out an ice-blue rough sapphire the size of her thumb. He held it to the candle and golden flame-light was drawn inside to swirl back subtly enhanced; scintillating strangely in purple-pale ever-changing splendor. Molly stared entranced, blinking in the near-painful brightness, moving closer and--

"This is a mage-gem!" she whispered. "I can feel the power in it."

"As well you ought!" Shamus laughed. "Feel closer now, does the resonance not seem... familiar to you?"

Molly gazed deeper into the jewel's fiery depths and-- "It's the transformation spell!" she cried. "Have you really locked it in already? That means--"

"That means the metamorphic specifications we've been working on are complete to my satisfaction. This version of them, at least. One can always improve upon one's work with a little unhurried thought but... never mind about that. This matrix is locked now, immutable except by deliberate magical erasure or physical disruption of the stone; ready for future generations to examine or use and--"

"And?"

"And ready for you to use. The drugs have had time enough to reach effect, I believe. Perhaps they were not even necessary in a person with your strength of will. You may proceed forthwith."

"Me? Surely you jest, master. I'm your assistant and test subject, and deeply grateful for the honor... but you know I lack the power to become a mage and no amount of effort or practice can make up for that."

"Molly, my child, don't belittle yourself. You've more grace and natural creative talent than many a mage on the council, and over time those gifts are worth more than any amount of raw magical force. Such force can be channeled and stored in any case, for those who lack it. Clasp the gem now and tell me what you feel."

Molly clenched the gem in her fist and blue light burst out from it, shining through her flesh. "I feel... you!" she whispered.

"Indeed," Shamus purred, "You feel me, or a part of me, giving life to the the change-web we've spun together so many times before. Prithee reach out and draw it in, as you would if my own hand were in yours. Yes, yes... like that... let it flow, follow the pattern, be the pattern..."

Molly's fist grew larger, darker, furred and gnarled, strong claws and rough pads sprouting out from fingers paw-twisted yet still clenched tight upon the blazing jewel. Ash-black fur crept shyly across her wrist, settling in, then flashed up her arm and over all her body swift as flint-spark on willow-fluff tinder. Her neck stretched longer, stronger, bulging thick with corded flesh and--

"Shamus! Get me blouse off me afore it's ruined! I never thought to prepare for-- arrgghh!" Molly's pale woolen blouse split wide over shoulders far broader than they had been and her sash and kirtle joined it in tatters quicker than it takes to tell of it. She hissed and arched her back, falling helpless to the floor stones as neck fur flourished thick and her ears grew large and cupped, shifting proud to the top of a massive dusky-muzzled head. A plume-fluffed black tail flailed behind her now, throwing off rags of her ruined clothes, and her feet grew pad-pawed, spike-clawed, ankles stretching out into strap-sinewed tough hocks. Her master was muttering, his voice displeased. But what had she done? The transformation was going well, wasn't it? "Shamus what's wrong?" Molly growled, pinching shut her eyes as the changes wound down smooth and pain-free as any of the best of their trials. She had failed him but how? Her wolf body felt strong, perfect--

"Too large."

"What?"

"Molly look at yourself! You must weigh four hundred pounds if you're an ounce! Do you know how much meat it takes to feed a four hundred pound wolf?"

Molly snapped her eyes open and--

"And your eyes! They're glowing red like forge-fire coals! They are actually glowing, Molly. Not simply reflecting the firelight like normal wolf eyes. Surely you'll agree that's a new thing too."

"Master I'm so sorry!" she whimpered "I tried but I'm just not good enough to--"

"Molly hush," her master soothed. "This is not your fault at all. Clearly I cast my spell badly or there's a flaw in the stone. Give it to me please."

Molly sighed, her new lupine heart leaping in sudden relief. Shamus was annoyed with the spell itself, not her part in it. She unclenched her paw-fist and the stone was still there inside it, still glowing but less brightly now, and looking considerably smaller than it had been. Her master took the jewel and Molly rolled easily to her feet, her four pawed feet, strong and springy and yearning to run just like the other times except...

...except the room and furnishings around her seemed much smaller now, and her master seemed smaller too. He was ignoring her, for the moment, cupping the mage gem to his neck and breathing out slowly, deliberately, clearly preparing to focus the full power of his mage skills on the puzzle at hand. Shamus craved quiet when he did that so she crept out quietly through the kitchen yard-door, raising the copper latch bar easily with one paw-hand and clicking it quietly closed behind her. Full darkness had fallen but such darkness is never dark for a wolf, and her new red eyes seemed just as night-ready as the golden ones her master had intended for her.

Idly she sniffed about the house and yard, and herself, delighting in the rich complex scents her new nose gave to her. Scents like...

...like what?

Molly flopped to the ground and nosed her underside in disbelief. Was that... a cock sheath stuck tight to her belly there? Yes of course it was, no amount of fur can hide a thing like that from close scrutiny but... really now! She had never dreamed her master's arcane experiments might strip her very gender from her! Molly laughed--a rough demented lupine laugh--and sniffed back between her hind legs to where her bold new wolf testicles no doubt lurked and found...

...nothing.

No testicles, anyway. She did find the well-formed wedge-shaped wolf-vulva that should have been there in the first place. Lordy-be, she was both sexes now! Male and female! Except for the missing dangle-bits, of course. She laughed again, marveling at the silly-mad incongruity of it. Her master would correct the oversight soon enough, of course, but what a story she'd have to tell her children if such were ever to be! Still laughing she bounded to the wood shed and pounced a big bale of floor rushes lurking there, humping the poor thing gleefully until she poked herself on a cut rush end and had to stop. Ouch! Thats why men pay good money for a safe soft slippery place to slide their man-parts! She'd known that all along, of course, but so different to get the lesson by sharp personal experience. She raised a leg and attempted to piss-mark the offending bundle, doing rather well for a beginner, then scraped her feet scornfully and wandered house-ward, circling idly round to the front, where she smelled a new strange thing.

She smelled a stranger's scent.

There it was, bold as brass, blazed right along their front path and to the front door, clearly invited in, then back again the way it had come. A peddler, no doubt, or farmhand seeking fresh employment. Didn't get so many this far out but times were hard with bandits lurking back of every bush and town folk told her work was grown scarce, as a result. Nothing to fret about except... the smell of burning lingered where the man's boots had been. Not the clean-smoke smell of clean wood fire but smoke shot through with... other things. A trash fire, perhaps. Still no real cause for alarm. Nasty things are thrown on trash fires with no one to blame at all. That's what trash fires are for.

Molly followed the scent a ways, not wanting to go far, then wandered back to the house and idled near until her master called.

"I found another change in me," she reported and, "The stone was flawed," she learned in return.

"Flawed?"

"Yes, flawed. But we'll talk more about that in a bit. What's this about an extra change? You should have told me right away!"

"Master I'm sorry but I didn't notice at first and then... well... you were busy and I didn't want to bother you and... it seemed like something that could wait."

"And what, pray tell, is this unnoticed, unforeseen, and potentially lethal transformative aberration you decided was too trivial to bother me about?"

"Well I... well... maybe I should just show you." Molly flopped down on the floor rushes and rolled onto her back, thighs splayed wide to draw the fur away and reveal her new belly and 'tween-legs equipment in all it's bounteously blatant glory.

"Oh. I see." Shamus knelt down and inspected her closely, poking this and pulling that, then placed a palm to her groin and pressed it firmly there, invoking his magic to feel deeper within. "Hmm... this... this is fascinating! It appears you have... yes! I'm quite certain of it now. Molly dear, this is most irregular... I never would have guessed..."

"Guessed what? Shamus tell me! What do you feel in me?"

"Well... your left side's normal, more or less; left ovary and left uterine horn inactive..." Shamus pressed his palm harder against her, and frowned in concentration. "...or maybe not. Kind of hazy there but you're not in heat--not right now--though competent enough, most likely, when the proper season comes. My intent was to follow the wild pattern in that respect so your season would be late winter or early next spring, most likely, in synchrony with the foxes and true wolves and hellhounds and such. You'd best be careful if you wear this form at that time of year! It incorporates the robust and time-tested hellhound fertility matrix, which has proven itself compatible with just about every--"

"Yes, master, you've told me all that before. And the right side?"

"You have no right uterine horn at all, and there's a testicle tucked below the kidney where your right ovary ought to be. A fully functional testicle! It's in quiet phase too, or mostly quiet, but even now I can detect traces of viable seed. This is astonishing! Numerous mammalian transformative studies have shown the fervent heat of such a location to generate choleric humors highly disruptive to male fertility but this one feels entirely... ah! Yes, yes... that would explain it... and the red-glowing eyes... and even your unexpected size anomaly..."

"Explain what?"

"In a minute, in a minute... I think you'll understand better if I tell you what I learned from close scrutiny of the stone."

Shamus rocked back on his heels then sat cross-legged on the floor beside her while Molly remained playfully down-side-up, hoping for a belly rub. Her new prepuce was in the way but that was ok. Shamus could rub that too if he felt so inclined.

"Master," she teased, "are you telling me this new part of me is not just for show? Will I get myself pregnant if I'm not careful?"

"Well... er... yes. Or rather no. You'd have to be in heat, for one thing, and the male part is kind of... er... pointed the wrong way. You'd need to catch your seed in a cup and then..."

Shamus realized she was teasing him and stopped, half angry. "But never mind about that, just pay attention! This gem was sold to me as a re-worked stone: previously used but scoured clean of magical residue so it can be utilized again. This grade of stone is cheaper but just as good, in my opinion, except..."

"Except for this time, of course..." Molly prompted, endeavoring to wiggle onto his lap but succeeding only in smothering the mage in a mountain of grizzled black wolf fur.

"Stop that!" Shamus commanded, pushing her away and struggling to his feet. "I know perfectly well you're not in heat so don't pretend. And you're not in rut either! You're a fluffy four hundred pound defective experiment who doesn't know how to take setbacks seriously." He turned away to tend the kitchen hearth and fuss over the pot of potatoes there. "Fire's cold and they've gone off the boil now," he muttered. "Should have been paying better attention. There... that ought to do it." On the kitchen table lay the mage gem and her master returned it to its silk lanyard-pouch and slipped that around his neck. He glared down at her and ordered "Get up, lummox! I don't pay you to lie around sleeping on the job! Honestly, what's the matter with this lazy younger generation, anyways? Just can't get good biddable minions at any price. Now... what were we talking about?"

Molly grinned, toothily, abandoning her belly rub bid and rising up to caress his cheek with a slimy size-plus tongue. "Flawed transmogrifications and hidden stones," she replied between licks. "Or was that flawed _gem_stones?" She was eye to eye with him now, even standing as he was. Didn't have to lift her head at all.

"Well... yes," her master mumbled, twisting back a bit from her tongue strokes but not really moving away. "Stop it with the licking, will you please? It's quite distracting. Thank you.

"Now, as I was saying, this gem was sold to me as a reconditioned stone but fully certified; capable of holding any enchantment a virgin stone is capable of holding. I was deceived, however. Not only does it contain a flaw--a small existential recursive inclusion fracture, I believe--but the flaw was deliberately masked, so as to be nearly undetectable except by rigorous probing which I did not do until now. It was a certified stone! I shouldn't have had to do that!"

"No, master," Molly soothed, gently snuffle-nibbling the nape of his neck. His skin smelled of exotic herbs and healthy food and hard work and she had always loved that scent, whatever her form. "of course you didn't. I assume this hidden flaw is the source of the anomaly, yes?"

"Molly stop that. I mean it this time. So yes, the stone flaw is the cause of today's transmogrification irregularities. Residue from previous patterns has been caught inside and can never be fully erased, so that each time a fresh set is attempted the new pattern is corrupted by traces of what has gone before. The stone should have been destroyed, or sectioned through the flaw and sold to the non-magical gem trade. Re-using and re-selling it in such a way was criminally unethical! Or..."

"Or?"

"Or it was done deliberately, as an attack on me and my work."

"Master that's terrible! What are you going to do now?"

"I'll find a proper stone but it's going to take a while. My funds are growing low, for one thing, and I can no longer trust my suppliers so I'll have to secure and prepare a raw stone for myself. I'll need to travel for that, to the gem markets in New Antwerp..."

"We're going to leave this place? But that's wonderful! That man who visited smells dangerous to me."

"Man? Dangerous? Oh! You mean the peddler! Don't worry, he was just a poor laborer offering sundries for sale while trying to find work. I gave him some coins and sent him on his way."

"Master you didn't! If he's a bandit scout that'll draw them right this way!"

"Molly don't be so paranoid. Not every vagrant you meet is a bandit, for pity's sake!"

"Yes, master," Molly sighed, sniffing the air doubtfully and scratching a silver-black cupped ear with a massive-rugged-fluffy rear leg. Perhaps she was being paranoid. "But do be careful, will you please? You know... we still have a few weeks good travel weather before the autumn storms get too bad. If we left right now we could book passage south and winter in New Antwerp! I've never been there, of course, but I've heard so many stories and--but never mind my blathering, you're the mage and you know what's best for us. Do you mind if I play with this form a bit before you change me back? I've never been a four hundred pound wolf before!"

"Certainly, certainly!" Mage Shamus laughed. "I try to avoid disappointing monstrous dragon-eyed nightmare-wolves unless it is absolutely necessary. If you go wandering tonight you'll miss your dinner though."

Molly laughed an evil lupine laugh. "I'll miss that dinner, maybe..."

"Molly don't you dare! If you devour the neighbors' livestock we'll be paying for them first, and that's an order!"

Molly sighed. "Yes, master," she promised him, and meant it. "But I'd still like to go play, dinner or no dinner, if that's alright with you."

"Very well," her master said, lifting the pouch and lanyard from his neck and placing it around hers, "but take the gem. I was intending to lend it to you in any case, for protection, and it's still usable for that. I would never have dreamed of attempting such an odd juxtaposition of magical elements but yet it works, and the melded pattern is stable in its current strange manifestation. I've re-energized the background matrix to make it ready for use if you have need to change back in a hurry. Simply hold it close against you and pretend it's my hand. You know what to do after that."

Molly grin-parted her jaws and panted happily, fanning rush-chaff from the floor stones and fire-smoke from the hearth stones with wide strong sweeps of her too-enthusiastic tail. "Master I don't know what to say! Would you really entrust me with something so valuable?"

Her master smiled, benignly, and rubbed sudden smoke-tears from his eyes. "Valuable to you," he said, "and an irreplaceable curiosity to me, yet I fear our world has small use for glowing-eyed hermaphroditic monster wolves. But never mind what the world might or might not think. Enjoy your night out! May it be pleasant, and uneventful, and safe."

"Uneventful!" she growled. "Surely you don't mean that! Won't you wish me something adventurous and exciting?"

"No, I won't. Trust me when I say in your current form you don't want exciting."

"Spoilsport!" Molly laughed, sharing a savage sharp-toothed smile with her master then silently turning, unlatching the kitchen door, and melting into the darkness beyond.

Chapter 2

Molly followed the stranger's footsteps first thing, tracing them clear for a time but losing her track in the thick tangled road-stench close by Puddleford Town. The man had continued into town, no doubt--why should he not?--but Molly could not do that. Hellhounds might walk the streets in confidence but only in the worst possible light might she pass herself off as one of them. Better to not be seen at all but no matter, it was not the company of humans she sought in any case. She left the road then, happy for the excuse, seeking out the the brush-dense darker darkness of River Pettypuddle's soggy banks. She stood there nose high, scent-drunk, breathing in the rich perfumes of swamp slime and fish gut rot and willow-bark-musk on the waterside. A warm soft wind from the west had blown the bugs away and thrown up gentle wavelet ripples to tickle her paws and above her head the moon bridge burned blue-teal-vermillion with fading evening-glow and thick-swarming summer stars blazed bright as fireflies on a breeding bush.

Unused scraps of her master's magic still tickled through her and Molly gleaned them gently, reverently, weaving from them shining glamour-flames to dance upon the ripple-crests and crown each soggy drift-twig in burning gold. So beautiful... and so easy with a mage's forgotten power-dregs and Momma Skivens' subtle witch lore to draw upon!

Molly breathed her pretty flames to blazing scarlet, bright green, then brilliant cold-shimmering blue... but their eldritch brilliance at last faded, her borrowed power spent, while to the east the sky grew brighter and then ragged moon Madra Mire was rising upward in her stately tumbling dance across the heavens and Molly was singing to her a snatch of the chilling little moon-song prayer she'd been taught as a child:

Madra, lost dog, come what may,

Please, I beg, in sky you'll stay...

Old-Earth's moon was smaller, she'd been told, but just as bright; perfectly round when full and perfectly dark when dark and always showing the same face and Lordy-be wouldn't that be a thing to see! She never would see that moon, of course. Such travels were not for one of her class. None but mages and kings might journey back to visit Old Earth... or now and then, perhaps, a foxy-sly-furry crown prince.

Molly pinched her eyes shut against the moon glare and sighed, drinking in the scents again, and the sounds. Sea-breeze-tickle caressed her face and nearby a big fish jumped, sturgeon by the heavy slow gurgle-roll of it, and to the south a twin-oar river barge was rowing quick-time-creaking upstream with tide and breeze fair from astern, must be in one hell of a hurry!

"Aire now," she muttered half aloud, "Pettypuddle's dredged deep enou' but she's not nigh straight! Carry on like that an' ye'll find yerselves sleeping the night on a buggy dank mud bank!" She stood waiting as the misguided craft churned closer, ready to jump in and give aid if such be needed, but as the boat drew closer she saw it confidently navigating every curve. And it carried no light! A pirate craft, was it? Molly was forbidden to reveal herself in wolf form, no doubt doubly so in the monstrous wolf form she now wore, but the town needed to be warned! Shamus would surely forgive her if lives were saved by her actions. She remained motionless, waiting for a clear view of the men aboard, and... was that a hellhound on the starboard oar? Yes, it was!--sharp fangs shining white in the moonlight and pitch-black fur blending seamlessly with the stygian-black moon-shadows of the vessel's starboard gunwale. Molly had never seen a hellhound rowing but this one seemed quite good at it. It was slouched lanky-backside-down on the rowing bench, hind paws braced tight to the bilge strakes and thumbless forepaws wrist-hooked firmly on the pull-stroke then lightly toe-touching on the push. The wiry dog was stroking casually, hardly working but still cutting more water than the two straining humans on the opposite oar. And there was a penzeloot too! Molly saw the otter-creature surging up hungrily for air then dipping down beneath the surface again, pulling valiantly on the straw-thin hempen tow cord trailing back from a streamlined leather shoulder harness. So that was their secret for navigating so well in the darkness! And part of their speed secret too. The old barge was making remarkably good time and Molly stared fascinated, not so worried now. The vessel's lights were out but she was making no other attempts at concealment, and she was ludicrously undermanned for a raiding ship.

The barge was pulling closer, almost abreast, and Molly thought suddenly of her exposed position. She should not be here! She should remain in concealment whether the strangers be friend or foe. The hellhound would see her clearly if it bothered to look around and... and it was looking! She turned to go but even now the dog's massive head was swinging her way and--

"Halt in the name of King Maurice!" it cried, releasing its oar and leaping instantly into the wake-rippled dark water. Molly halted and in seconds it had reached the bank and clawed its way up to confront her hind legs leap-braced, mud-smeared and dripping, clearly ready for a fight.

Molly lowered herself down, chin to the ground, and waited for the agitated hellhound to relax. She was twice its mass but still a loyal Valinonian citizen, and would never dream of attacking a king's officer. She might neglect to diligently follow one's orders, perhaps, if she thought she could get away with it, but never attack.

"Identify yourself!" the hellhound commanded, stepping forth to clamp jaws across her neck and press a bit, then release. Through the swamp mud she could smell he was a male.

"I am Molly, sir; servant to Shamus on the hill."

"Be specific, creature! Shamus is a common enough name. And pray tell me just what are you?"

Hellhound rangers were on the way, her master had said. Rangers ordered to give them special treatment. Molly took a chance and clenched a paw-fist where the hellhound would be sure to see it. Clenched and released twice then whispered "My master is Shamus Mactire, sir. He has been very good to me and I have a dream that one day I may return the favor."

The hellhound was silent for a long moment then "Get up!" he commanded. "Stay with me until I order you to go. Your town is in danger and we have no time to waste gabbing. How close are we now? Is the land route from here clear and quick?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "For a hellhound much quicker than the river, which has one more big bend before you reach the Puddleford docks. They'll hear your voice from where we stand if you wish to sound an alarm."

The hellhound nodded and filled his lungs, lifted his muzzle to the moonlit sky and let forth an eerie, undulating howl that hurt Molly's ears and made the fur stand tingling all along her back. He paused for breath and howled again, and then the howl was returned, from Puddleford and from the gullied sharp crest of Axlebane Hill just east of town. "Excellent!" he barked. "John Smallberries and Crazytail are on duty and have been warned."

To the otter he commanded "Take her on to the docks and we'll travel overland to meet you there." Molly he ordered to wake up and shake a leg and Molly led him, not daring to disobey, running her fastest but failing entirely to leave the hellhound behind. Puddleford town was in an uproar when they got there, church bells clanging and armed townsfolk forming themselves into ragged squads and Wesley cringing mortified before the curt-voiced criticism of a tail-lashing hellhound bitch with three golden rings pierced through her left ear. The sight sent a jolt of irritation down Molly's spine. Wesley deserved the criticism, most likely, but he would never have cringed before a tongue lashing from her. As a human, that is. She grinned grimly at the thought of how easy it would be to make him cringe now! Beneath her grin Molly was panting heavily from the heat of their run, couldn't help herself, not tired but the evening air was still thick with the day's heat and her fur thick with... itself. Her body was built for glacier-cold, not summer-heat; that had always been her master's intent. She'd cool down soon enough with a little discreet panting time. Her barge-rowing hellhound was addressing the bitch now, naming her Crazytail, telling of a foiled raid attempt on Firstbridge Fork just hours ago, with the main bandit force breaking off without engagement and taking the fen-road northward, toward Puddleford, no doubt in hopes of gaining one more attack opportunity before dawn. Wesley was forgotten and slunk off, melting into the bustling confusion of humans behind him and "Yes, sir! Lieutenant Gorepaw, sir," the bitch replied when his message was complete, saluting him with a quick twisting dip of her neck.

A hail from the docks as Gorepaw's barge hove into view and "Let them land!" he commanded. Space was cleared and the boat made fast and the penzeloot and one human remained aboard. The other human hopped off and set towards them right away. Gorepaw and the bitch were still talking so he edged up close by Molly's side and murmured "Say now would you be a furry sort o' Molly O'Dowd I'm seeing here?" Molly twitched in alarm but then she nodded, ungraciously, head and ears lowered in suspicion. Was this some new-unfolding annoyance come to plague her master Shamus? "Aye," she growled, "Molly I am. And pray tell what would you have me callin' ye?"

The stranger laughed and raised himself himself tall beside her. He was light-boned but wiry and appeared rather young. No older than she was, most likely. His flat cap was royal-guard-green and he doffed it to reveal pale blond hair cropped short in the military style. "My name is Garth Mactire," he said. "Perhaps ye've heard of me. Is my father well?"

Molly's ears perked high and her daunted tail uncurled itself to wag in astonished pleasure. "Is that... Garth ye say? Garth Mactire? Saints be praised 'tis a pleasure to meet ye at last! We been worried sore these last weeks but 'tis clear for no cause. Ye be looking fine to me an' yer athair could not be in better health. We'll be seeing 'im soon an' this bandit alarm come to naught." Molly looked to the darkness northward, where Shamus' hill was to be found, and her tail sagged down again; tail and ears both. The bandit warning had come from the south, from Firstbridge Fork, and any bandits would have to pass Puddleford before they could threaten her master but still... the clangor of Puddleford's church bells would be faint from such a distance, easy for an old man to miss, and Shamus seemed so childlike at times! He'd give the benefit of the doubt to anyone, no matter how rough-looking, and rarely used the magical defenses he was capable of. He said a Mage's power was a precious gift, to be cherished for creation not squandered on self-serving machinations to vanquish Death. He'd met Death a thousand times, he said, and Death would take him when he was ready. No sense wasting time and vital energies fighting him over it. Molly growled softly and ground her jagged teeth in frustration. Such noble thoughts were all to the good 'til a bandit put a knife to your throat or an arrow through your back! She'd met Death a time or too herself, if truth be told, and did not hold nearly so fond an opinion of him.

The townsfolk were gawking at her, as much as they dared, marveling at the monstrous shaggy colleague the hellhounds had invited to town with them. A pitchfork-toting granny glared and Molly muttered "What's your trouble, Mildred? Worried I've come here to steal your chickens?" Maybe she should just ask to be excused. Garth was here to vouch for her and--

"Bandit scouts sighted!" came the cry. Another hellhound was loping into sight, this one called John Smallberries, no doubt. What a name to foist upon an innocent small puppy! Hellhounds had such a strange sense of humor sometimes.

When he saw her the new hellhound stopped short, staring, and his whip-tail shyly began to wag. Gorepaw commanded her "Stay here!" not giving Molly a chance to speak, and the new hellhound snapped instantly back to duty: the three hellhounds now swirling together through the moon-silvered torchlight shadows, shiver-black and shifty, and together swirling away into the swamp-scented summer night. Out for another scouting run, no doubt. She deeply appreciated their skills and energy but she did not appreciate Gorepaw's order for her to stay. He didn't understand, of course. There had been no time to tell him. Molly sighed and braced herself to disobey. The hellhound would give her a chance to explain, she hoped, but her master had to be warned...

Garth moved closer and laid a friendly arm across her shoulders. "Molly girl what's troubling you?" he asked. "Is it the bandit threat or something more? You're upset about something and that's a fact!"

"Your father doesn't know! He has to be warned but Gorepaw's been spooked and won't let me go. I can't flout the orders of a king's officer in time of peril! Men have been hanged for less. But if I stand here and wait I'll be--"

"I'll go."

"What?"

"I'll go. I know the way well enough, and no one has given me any orders to stay!"

"Garth that won't work at all. Moonlight's bright enough here but you'll need a torch or lantern for the hazel glen and no one's going to part with one in the current mood. And wandering alone you're like to get your throat hellhound-ripped as a bandit yourself! I'll just have to leave you here and take my chances with Gorepaw when I meet him. Please do your best to explain--"

Garth's arm had snaked down and his fingers were in her throat ruff now, cupping the gem pouch. "Take you hand from that!" she growled. "It is precious, and under my protection."

"More precious than the safety of your master and my father?"

Molly held herself still, lips tense, resisting the urge to let them curl. "No."

"I know what's in the pouch, Molly. I can feel it. I'm not a mage but I have some skills, and my father taught me what he could. Let me use the stone to change and I'll run ahead, then you can follow me as soon as you have leave."

Molly hesitated but a moment before answering in the only way that made sense. "Do it," she growled, and bowed her head low so he could take the stone.

Feather touch on her fur and the lanyard was gone, and then Garth was gone too, seeking a secluded place to attempt his transformation. He would do it well, she knew. Her master had several times admitted to Molly how proud he was of his youngest son's magical capabilities. They were mage-level, in a modest way, if he could have been content with a life playing second best. His son had decided he could not, in fact, be content with such a life, and he had chosen the Royal Guard over the Mage Academy. Shamus was proud of that too. Shamus even said he was proud of how his son had stood up to that vicious tyrant of a superior officer at the expense of his until-that-moment promising military career. Perhaps the Mage Guild would have been a better choice after all, Molly mused. Certainly Garth must be thinking that now! He was a bit old for entry level classes but older students were often let in; there was no shame in--

Molly heard a shout, and the skitter-quick-click of claws on cobblestones. The hellhounds were back! She rushed up to beg Gorepaw for permission to go but he was already parting his jaws to make an announcement to the street at large. "The bandits heard our alarm and have passed us by--" he began but then his voice, powerful as it was, was drowned out by a ragged cheer which broke out unbidden then quickly swelled, unstoppable, into a deafening roar of triumph and relief. Gorepaw's timely warning had saved their village from a nasty battle at the very least, and perhaps from a devastating blow of the sort that had struck Blackbluff Town.

When the cheering faded Gorepaw continued, "--passed us headed north, toward the highlands from whence they came--"

And directly past Molly's home! "I have to go now!" she yelped "My master is in danger!" She fled instantly then, not waiting for answer or permission, and in instants the summer night had swallowed her too.

At first she thought Gorepaw was chasing her but she was mistaken. No doubt he had more important things to do. Molly was halfway home and still running free when the sky before her flashed purple-red and the shock of her master's death seared through her--a dagger stab to the heart--ki-yied and crumpled helpless at his surge of astonished pain, and anger, and savage foul-tempered annoyance at being taken at so inconvenient a time and in so cavalier a way. She lay stunned and disbelieving as the anger swiftly faded, the the foul mood calmed, and a rueful faint thought at last drifted... Molly-dear so sorry... careless-didn't-think... seems I left... a mess...

Molly lay dazed a moment longer--then her breath caught short as the truth at last sank in. Her master was dead. Dead! Her worst nightmare made real, and she...

...she was to blame for it. If only she had heeded her misgivings and stayed home on guard! She would have heard the bandits, could have warned him, could have guided him into the shadows or bought him time to prepare a proper magical defense! Molly whimper-sobbed and howled, unconsolable, her guilt-wracked heart spitting fire and ice. "Master I'm so sorry," she whispered, then fed her tears to the fury building within her and rose up raging, implacable, eyes blazing forge-flame-red with the bitter need for revenge.

Firelight flared ahead and she ran faster, almost home, the bandits' battle-shouts coming clear and hateful now to her ears. She heard a human scream, and another, then more shouts and an agonized yelp-yowl and she burst battle-mad among them to find a white wolf arrow-struck but still fighting, pressed in close among his enemies so they could no longer use their bows. She saw red flames devouring the roof she had re-thatched with her own hands scant months ago and on the blackened threshold, twisted and still, two flame-blasted bandit corpses and the lifeless body of her master, Shamus Mactire.

All seemed strangely slow as Molly sprang full-force upon the back of the human closest to her, knocking him rag-doll flat then taking his throat, and his life, before he knew it was gone. She kicked up from the thrashing body and slashed savagely sideways, to the right, taking another throat before the bandits realized she was there. She felt a blow to her shoulder but the sword stroke was hasty and angled badly, and failed to penetrate her dense fur. She spun round to bite the arm on its follow-through and felt bones shatter between her jaws, whipped back snarling but no one was facing her; saw a leg receding and bit that too, felt hot-blood-spray drench her face as bone cracked and soft flesh tore free. The bandits fled terror-stinking and she raged after them, Garth-wolf beside her now, two more down and--

Thfwiick!

--three left standing and--

Thfwaak!

--was that--

Thunk!

The man she was chasing screamed and fell down arrow-pierced, and--

"Molly take cover!" Garth barked as an arrow brushed her ear and another struck quivering in the earth before her nose. She leapt sidewise and two more hissed through the place where she had been, sprang zig-zag for the undergrowth and Garth sprang with her, not so fast but fast enough to serve. He staggered to a halt when they were safe and gritted "Pull the arrow, Molly. Do it now."

Arrow? Yes, of course, Garth had an arrow in him! How could she have forgotten? She sniffed the bloody shaft and hesitated, not sure how to proceed. She was a healer, most witches were, but she was no mage to put things right by power of magic alone... and this one looked deep! Angled backward through the shoulder flesh and head lodged hard in the scapular ridge, most likely. And most likely barbed; most bandit arrows were. She'd need her sleep herbs and a long bone chisel and two long pulling tongs, one to grip and shield each barb point... and cattail fluff to staunch the bleeding and boiled linen bandage cloth and some sort of poultice to keep it all from going septic, and...

"Molly don't stand there just pull it! Grab it with your teeth and yank the blessed thing while I'm still part-numb!"

"Garth you can't simply pluck out a barbed arrow! It'll tear the wound bigger and slice open whatever veins it missed on the way in! And this one's stuck in the bone so the head may break off and--"

Garth snarled "Shut up and pull the sarding arrow, woman! Don't warn me just yank it out before--"

Molly yanked and Garth howled--a nerve-shredding agony-howl like no sound she had ever heard--and from the fen road downslope came an answering howl. A hellhound howl, then two more, followed by horse screams and humans screams and the ragged thudding rumble of stampeding hooves. By Molly's burning home a confusion of voices swelled, dozens of them, as outlaws gathered there in the fire-lit open yard where tight-clenched bows and ready-nocked arrows kept hellhound and monster wolf at bay. The moonlight served them too, and to rush them now would be suicide, but no pack horses arrived to gather there with them. Gorepaw and his comrades had seen to that.

The arrow was still clenched in her teeth and Molly dropped it, sniffed it over, and found the head still attached, saints be praised. She sniffed Garth's wound and it was bleeding heavily, of course... and he had another wound too! Sword-slice to the neck that ran long and low but spared his jugular. Barely. The arrow-strike had been near fatal too. A few inches further back and it would have missed the shoulder blade and pierced straight to his heart.

Molly inspected the arrow wound again and found the bleeding not quite so bad as it had been. Still heavy but Garth was big and had a lot of blood to spare. Looked like his quick-pull trick had been the right choice after all.

"Your arrow's out," she informed him.

"Yea, I noticed," he whimpered, nosing the vile thing and seeing for himself that the head was still on. He tried to check his shoulder wound but hissed and stopped, shuddering, before his muzzle was halfway there. Arrow wound was on the right but his neck gash was on the left and he couldn't make the stretch without pulling it wide.

"Garth don't do that!" Molly yelped. "That neck wound of yours is more dangerous than you think!"

"Aye, I ken that now." He drooped his head and sighed, twisting his neck leftward to take the pressure off it. "I do not believe I am capable of more fighting tonight," he sighed.

"Damn straight yer not! Naught but fool's luck and cussedness has ye still breathing air!"

"Ye've the right of it, o'course, but--"

"Wolves! Attend me!" A bandit was was addressing them now; shouting out to the darkness where he thought they lurked. Molly snarl-growled at the man's effrontery, human words failing her, while Garth tensed then yelped, choke-voiced, at the sudden painful pull on his stiffening wounds.

"Wolves have you lost something? Something valuable? Something like... this?" The man's tone was gloating, like he really did have something they might have--

"Garth! Where's the mage stone? You did stow it someplace safe, didn't you?

"Didn't you?" Garth's thunderstruck expression made clear to her the bitter truth. In his haste he had worn the lanyard to battle, dangling unprotected from his neck, and the sword stroke that almost took his life had taken the mage gem instead. Now the bandits had found it and wanted to bargain with it.

"Talk to him!" Molly snarled. "Distract him but promise nothing. I have work to do." She jumped up and slipped away silently through hazel scrub she knew so well, hugging cover and snaking belly-down along the subtle drainage swale you hardly knew was there, seeking out--

"And what is this thing you think we've lost?" That was Garth's voice, moving leftward, away from her own path.

"Tis a stone I have here; a pretty little stone in a fine pale silk pouch. A mite blood-soiled 'tis true, but unmarred apart from that. Should fetch me a nice price back home, I reckon, less'n you've an offer of your own in mind..."

--the drinking spring with its clean stone catch basin and marshy wide overflow pond. She waded out and pushed herself downward beneath the scummy water, dipped and rolled until her fur could hold no more, then crawled out and crept downslope further, toward the outbuildings and unguarded back side of her house. The bandits had chosen the open flat front yard for their defense circle; men set to guard back here would be easy prey and there were none, only a muddy wet monster wolf concealed from view by her burning house. The roof thatch was all ablaze now, fire eating downward through the rafter-beams and wall posts of the upper floor, while the ground floor boiled thick with hot brown smoke no living thing could breathe, and from the ceiling small flame tendrils had crept through and begun to feed. The back door was open, a testament to looting efforts from before the smoke grew thick, and Molly had counted on that. No bandit living would leave a burning house un-looted while air yet remained to breathe! She filled her lungs and ran inside, ears down and eyes squinched tightly shut, by memory guided unerring and unharmed to the threshold of her open front door. She felt cool air there and breathed it in, unsquinched her eyes and saw the bandits gathered before her, very close, all facing tensely outward to the shadows where they thought she still hid.

Beyond them Garth's voice was whining on, deliberately weak-sounding: "How can we possibly trust your word on it? Toss the stone to us and we'll verify the truth of your claims, then we can..."

Her master's body lay plain before her now, face up on the flagstones, unmarked but for blood pooled wide around him from a back-stab wound she could not see. One blasted bandit corpse gripped a dagger and the steel blade of it was half melted, like hot wax. Hard to tell through the charring but the corpse's face seemed to bear an expression of shocked surprise. Molly snarled and shrank back from view behind the door jamb, heart's rage granting her no room yet for grief. Behind her the fire was growing hotter, nearing flashover, and she hunkered down to shield her tender ears behind the bulk of her tail-tucked body. She smelled fur burning and knew she'd have to move soon for better or for worse.

"...can see this talk is getting us nowhere! Are you just toying with me while you wait for aid?" The bandit spokesman was clearly their leader, thick-draped in costly chain mail and wearing a gilded steel half-helm shaped like the head of a snarling wolf. His right hand was tight-clenched, as if holding something, and angrily he began to turn. "Form up and prepare to march!" he commanded, as the dense smoke behind Molly rumbled strangely then flashed red, bursting all at once to hell-hot whole-house conflagration. "Swords out and shoulders in! Teeth are sharp but cold steel is sharper, and any beast daft enough to test us will find--"

The bandit chief failed to complete his sentence because Molly was on him then, fur aflame and sharp teeth slashing snake-strike-swift, could have had the throat exposed by his turning head but her master had told her to keep the stone safe so she took his clenched fist instead. Crunched down full force and twisted yank-shake-twice till the hand tore free then she sprang for the forest helter-skelter-scat with the chief's hand still clenched tight in her jaws. She zigged and zagged in clear bow range now, hoping for speed and shock and luck to guard her from harm... and it was working! Arrows flew but not many, and not close. Just a little further now and--

Thwaack!

Molly crumpled as her left hind failed her, rolled and staggered frantically to her three good legs. More arrows flew but they missed her and she wobble-loped on, another minute and she would be out of their reach. The arrows were coming from above her now, arced high for longer range and difficult to aim, but still deadly enough if her luck should fail... and then they were behind her, all of them, no longer a threat. Her blazing pelt sputtered and went out, still too wet at skin level to burn on its own, and before her crowded Garth-wolf, ears down and tail shimmy-wagging in joy to see her still alive.

"Frife froff sthe sonnn," Molly mumbled then dropped the twitching bandit hand and panted "I got the stone!"

"And got yourself arrow-bit too!" Garth scolded, ignoring the grisly prize to nose at her throbbing haunch, pulling the mud and ash and blood caked tail aside with a paw-hand so he could get a better view. She put weight on the injured leg and it held for her, a very good sign, and--

"The arrow passed clean through you, Molly... slipped in crooked back here, aside yer bum, kissed the bone and skipped right out the thigh up forward. Shot in the ass while making good your escape, you'll be telling it. Tu cou'not ha' got a kiner flesh wound 'a the fates be yer dotin' aintin!"

"Garth I think I'd like a word with those doting fates of yours," Molly growled.

"And so would I!" came Gorepaw's voice from tooth-slash-close beside.

Garth and Molly jumped both, in helpless shock, both yelping sharp at the sudden painful pull to new-made wounds. "Gorepaw don't do that!" Garth snarled. "You're like to get yourself throat-ripped sneaking up on a body like that!"

"Not from the likes of you!" the hellhound chuckled. "Garth did she say your name was? Perchance that same Garth who helped me row the Annie-Jean up Pettypuddle not three fraught hours ago? In sooth ye've changed, my dear... and had a rough night ashore 'tis plain to see! I've not smelled such a beat-up brace o' bitch-curs in many a sunny day! That's the trouble with mage-minions, you know. You think yourself deathless with your mage-lord always nigh to heal you up..." He sniffed at Molly's charred pelt and sneezed, ostentatiously, "... and believe yourself fireproof too, it now appears!" Gorepaw's muzzle dropped to sniff over the severed bandit hand, motionless and unclenched now, with her master's silk pouch clearly visible between the lax fingers. "And what's this? You're doing it all for trophy hands? Surely you're aware his Majesty no longer offers a bounty for hands and ears! The trade in them was prone to abuse so only a full head will now do."

"Gorepaw..." Garth's voice was soft, trying gently to break the news.

"Or was it this wee fine pouch you were wanting? Couldn't hold much gold but perchance a gem, or suchlike..." Gorepaw took the bloody pouch in his teeth and gently tugged it free, then hooked in a fang tip and one front-paw-claw to draw it open and spill out the single small stone it contained. He sniffed it over and remarked "Huh. This is odd. I was expecting something of value but it's just a stone; a worthless pebble like any other you'd find lying on the ground. Gathered up from your own front yard by the fresh-dirt smell of it." He eyed Molly shrewdly and inquired "Were you hoping for something more? Don't you fret now, you'll have plenty of time to sniff over the corpses when your mage is done with them. Perhaps then you'll discover what you seek. And where is Mage Shamus, if I may be so bold? We saw his force-flash so we left the bandits to his tender mercies while we secured..."

"Mage Shamus is dead," Molly whispered.

"... the pack train." Gorepaw paused, green eyes snapping wide in shock then right away relaxing, once more banter-bright. He shook himself and chuckled "Odd how words can come to you so strangely, at times. It sounded almost like you were saying he's dead."

"He is dead," said Garth. "Lured unsuspecting from his home then stabbed in the back. He killed his attackers but could not save himself."

"Mage Shamus? Dead? Your game does not amuse me, if game it is. Please tell me you're joking and don't do it again."

"We're not joking," Garth said. "Would he let his house burn if he were capable of stopping it? His body is on the threshold even now. I doubt the bandits will be disturbing it after all that's happened."

"Excuse me, comrade," mumbled Gorepaw. "I don't mistrust you but I need to see this for myself." Gorepaw ran off toward the bandit circle, showing himself and skulking close enough to draw arrows, then crept back devastated, ears down and tail dragging the dirt. He drew breath and from his throat poured out a sound like Molly in her waking life had never heard. Gorepaw's warning howl had been loud, and eerie, and frightening. His horse-hunt howl had been wild and triumphant and bold. This new strange howl crept down her neck tingling, impossible to ignore, unlocking her rage-choked heart and setting free tears, and chest-wrenching sobs, and a wailing tortured grief-howl of her own. Garth-wolf joined with them, his own despair-howl weaving in and out, dismal harsh high and mournful soft doleful low, while in the pauses faintly, across the soggy fen, came two heartbroken hellhound voices singing in response. The five of them sang on, trance-locked in their shared loss, but all things end in time and in time their grief-song ended too.

They shared silence, for a time. At last Gorepaw spoke and said "Mage Shamus was a legend, among the hellhounds. He created us."

"He was the greatest flesh-artist alive," said Garth. "He was my father."

"He was my father too," said Molly. "Not by birth but by deeds. He changed my life."

In Molly's yard the crippled bandit leader was calling to his men; his voice strained-to-breaking with pain. "The sarding mage is dead!" he said, "His power's spent an' there'll be no more flamin' blood-mad 'ellwolf demons hatchin' out from his flamin' 'ouse now, a'right? It is time for us to be leaving this dog-piss-stinking hellhole. Close ranks! All together now! Move!"

Chapter 3

"Molly do you smell blood?" Garth had paused from his rolling three-legged wobble-walk and was standing on four legs now, nose-high, testing the air. Scattered scrub pines cloaked the slopes around them and up ahead two vultures circled low, watching something. A stiff hot land breeze stirred his dusty fur and he was panting from it between scent-sniffs; they'd both been panting off and on since mid-day. Molly raised her muzzle and scent-sniffed too, eying Garth sidelong and marveling at the free and easy stretching of his ragged throat wound. Half-healed in two nights and two days, more or less, and his arrow-bit shoulder doing fully as well! She'd love to take healer's credit for the wonder but in honesty she couldn't do that. Molly's skills were subtle, more deep knowledge and diligent tending than true magic, and the only healing tool she now possessed was a broad wet tongue. She had used it, of course, as had Garth for her, but...

"Yes!" she yelped, "I smell it too. It's not human though. Not another bandit corpse. I'd say a cow, perhaps...or a bull. A whole dead animal, not just the blood. And fresh! Not rotten at all." Molly's stomach clenched painfully at the thought of a whole bull's worth of fresh meat waiting close by. Their injuries were healing at miracle speed but no divine providence had done aught for their poor starveling inner parts.

"Do you suppose it's a trap?" Garth mused, his own stomach growling audibly at the prospect of food. "If the bandits had a hand in this there'll be something wrong about it, you can count on that! Poison, if they have any, or a stake pit beneath or--"

"Or maybe the hellhounds killed it and they'll invite us to share!"

"Well yes there's that," Garth admitted. "If we're going to make up a story we might as well make up one that's good to hear. So come along, sweet soot-fur. We'll not be learning aught here drooling on the dust."

Half a league and hellhound-trace came clearly to their noses, mingled coyly with the delicious aroma of bloody flesh. A quarter league more and three hellhounds were in view, square in view upon the road, lanky black shadow-forms lounging lion-like by the side their massive part-eaten prey.

Waiting.

Garth and Molly crept forth meekly belly-down, silently wheedling, not sure how they would be met. For two days the hellhounds had been avoiding them as they harried the retreating bandit troop, in sight from time to time but never approaching; clearly waiting for the wolves to grow discouraged and head back home. As if Puddleford could be a home to them now!

Gorepaw held silent until they were lying prone on the dust before him, waiting to be addressed. "You should not be here," he growled at last.

Molly's voice spoke up soft, but unshakable, "We have to be."

The hellhound rose to his feet, looming over her. "You will die," he replied. "What vengeance is there in that? You've come to Valinoin's border. The milepost beside me marks the limit of our king's domain, and beyond it lies Metagonia where I am forbidden to go. Valinonian civilians are also barred from traveling there without proper papers and a legitimate business mission. Suicidal vengeance schemes are not among the list of currently accepted business missions. Eat your fill then go home and find a mage to change you back, if you can manage it. Learn to live as you are if you can't. I'll see to it you're offered jobs."

"Gorepaw I have to do this," Molly replied, rising carefully to her three good legs and edging past the hellhound, or trying to. Gorepaw was on her throat in an instant--clamping down but not breaking the skin--half her mass but nigh as powerful of jaw, and nigh as tall. Quite capable of killing her with a bite like that. Molly stood still and waited; not attacking, not defending... nor hinting by any shift of posture she intended to back away. Gorepaw clamped his jaws tighter and she could no longer breathe but still she stood her ground, until at last she grew dizzy and feigned collapse before she should do so for fair.

Gorepaw released her and Molly coughed, sucked in sweet air through an aching windpipe and struggled clumsily to her feet again. Gorepaw's back was to her now and he heard her scrabbling claws--how could he fail to hear them?--but he did not turn around. "And now what are your plans, Ma'am?" he was asking of Garth.

Molly tottered onward, past the marker stone Gorepaw had said was the limit of his jurisdiction, and still he failed to respond. Garth caught her eye then yelped and stared skyward at the soaring vultures shouting "Look! A manifest diversion!" The three hellhounds moved as one to follow his gaze and Garth stepped calmly forward, joining Molly on the Metagonian side of the marker stone.

"They're just birds, Garth!" Gorepaw laughed. "Did you think them wayward steppendrakes?" He shook his head and lowered it then yipped "Garth? Where did she go? Cee-Tee! You're on guard duty; how could you let her get away like that?"

"Mr Gorepaw, sir... no disrespect intended sir but I believe you are on guard duty."

"Eh? Oh, drat. You're right. Don't just stand there track her down! Track them both down! Molly has vanished too, it appears."

"Yes, sir!" Crazytail put her nose down and snuffled straight to the place where Garth and Molly had crossed over, stopping sharp at the border stone and looking hard right, along the pine-thick ridge crest, but not the six feet straight ahead to where the pair of wounded monster wolves still stood. "They've crossed the border but I don't see them, sir," she said.

"John Smallberries report!" Gorepaw barked.

The third hellhound snuffled up to the border and peered left, toward lower country with a preponderance of twisted junipers and tanglethorn. "I don't see 'em neither, sir," he declared.

"Well that settles it," Gorepaw pronounced. "They've given us the slip and naught to be done about it. We can't be expected to cross the border running 'em down, nor guard them for life from making another attempt... but it's bitter pity to lose them so; Mage Shamus' last creation, and them so handsome and full of fire and all."

"That's Saint Shamus to me," murmured Crazytail. "I care not what the fancy humans may decide."

"Aye," her comrades replied. "Saint Shamus."

The hellhounds shook and stretched themselves, wiry black fur taking subtle highlights from the setting sun, then sat themselves tail-tucked on the dusty roadbed, backsides to the border, and spoke of home and family and Crazytail's newest litter of extraordinarily adorable grandpuppies.

And hellwolves.

Bandits had used the word first but the hellhounds liked it and had taken it for their own. "They're pretty big," John Smallberries remarked, "and tough enough in their way. You really think they got no chance at all?"

"No chance if they keep losing control!" Gorepaw growled. "We've trained hard to keep our tempers in check but those two are still puppies when it comes to that. Garth has the schooling--Royal Academy no less!--but it'll do him small good if he fails to heed it. A Fabian strategy is the way to go, I'd say. Seek out their weaknesses and wear 'em down for a year then trot home unharmed with a load of tall tales and salted bandit heads to pass around. The strategy's simple, effective, and has stood the test of time, but it takes more patience than I've seen from the two of 'em so far. There's glory in it but not enough, and they'll not get their little trinket back nor the leader's head for their collection. What matters if in the process they go where no king's soldier is allowed, and by their troublemaking likely shield their homeland from a year's worth of hill bandit raids?"

"Gorepaw don't be hard on them," Crazytail soothed, "They've lost so much!"

Gorepaw paused thoughtfully then flicked his ears and nodded in agreement. "Perhaps you're right, CeeTee. They're good bitches at heart but that's why I worry. Our world's a harsh place don'tcha know..."

"I know that all too well, Gorepaw. And why do you persist in calling them bitches? Fur's too thick to show it but any pooch can smell they have male parts too."

"Well yes they're both, I suppose. I want to be polite and I can't think what else to say, so I call 'em bitches."

"And I call 'em smoking hot!" laughed John Smallberries, whose berries were not small at all. "Sir you have powerful friends... could you somehow induce one to grant me a leave of absence so I can trot along and guide them through this difficult time? My dad'll post the whelping bond sure-thing if I get one pregnant..."

"No."

"Aw come on, boss! Sure they're big but I reckon I'm dog enough for the job, if it comes to that, and..."

"No."

"How 'bout I tell my friends when we get back home? I'm sure one of them would be..."

"No. If anyone gets them pregnant it'll be each other, and I reckon we've done enough gossiping for one idle afternoon. The pair of them is no doubt watching us right now, waiting for us to leave so they can have a bite to eat. I would be, certainly, if I were in their place!"

"Yes it's time to go," Crazytail agreed, sniffing the air and rising to her feet. "A shame it is they know naught o' that sweet-water spring and bathing pool a half league down-road and hard upslope! The poor dears ha' been so busy they've not had time to clean themselves properly since the fight." She sniffed the air again and sneezed twice, in quick succession. "And yes, 'tis certain they're not far off. By the reek o' burnt fur and rotten blood it's as if they were standing hard behind us!"

"Yes," agreed Gorepaw, rising up to join her, "a meal and bath and proper sleep would do them a world of good. It's not like the bandits have any hope of leaving them behind! Now they've crossed the border they'll be resting too, no doubt, and no doubt stuffing their empty bellies with cached supplies."

John Smallberries rose and sensuously stretched himself, showing off a handsome long back and two elegant well-muscled hind legs, then languidly lifted one to piss-mark the Metagonian border stone. "Goodbye my beauteous wolves," he murmured to the warm wind,

Tho our sweet love were ne'r meant to be--

Forever in mine heart shall I hold thy memory!

Then the hellhounds left them, not looking back, and when a road curve hid them from view Garth and Molly rushed pellmell to the carcass and tore into it ravenously, gulping down great wet chunks of luscious bloody flesh.