FSE

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Sorry for such a bloody long chapter. I promise to work on making them a bit more concise in the future. Given the nature of this chapter though, it was hard to do.

How does the action read? Is it exciting? Interesting? Believable?

How is the pacing?

Comments, positive or negative, are welcome.

Chapter XVII - Conflagration

Sir Sorrel had been raised to the idea of chivalry from his very birth. He'd eaten his first bit of solid food off the tip of a sword, to give him a taste for steel. At the age of eight, he had become page to a knight who taught him the value of his sworn word. At the age of thirteen, he had become a squire to another knight, who taught him the value of decency, honesty, valor, loyalty, and fealty.

At the age of seventeen, he was knighted by his lord, Duke Casso, and swore to serve him with unending faith and chivalry. A year later, he had killed three other furs at the battle of Cel's Charge in defense of his Duke's person, and been promoted to his personal guard. Shortly thereafter he had learned to his horror the terrible character of his liege lord, watching him hang fur after fur for supposed sedition. Quickly, Casso had lost patience with trying the accused, and simply executed them by fiat.

It was not until an armless, legless corpse gnashing and groaning and reaching with its toothless maw towards all nearby flesh had been brought to them a few days later that Sir Sorrel had begun to doubt Casso's sanity. The king had ordered the thing hung 'for sedition'.

Still, he had sworn oaths of fealty and never-ending loyalty to his lord. Despite his reservations, a knight was worth nothing without his honor.

Sir Sorrel had always been wiry, less muscular than other knights but quicker and more resilient against pain. As the others were drawing their swords or yelling in outrage, the quiet fox threw himself in front of their newly-crowned king. The ceremonial shield was fully steel, not the laminated wood and steel-fronted item he was used to, and it came up a fraction too slow.

He saw the forest warden's eyes, as the expertly-hurled cleaver skimmed the top of his shield and slammed into his lightly-armored throat. The forest warden's face showed hate, horror, and the furious rage of the faithful man betrayed. As Sir Sorrel sank to his knees, gushing blood from the wound in his throat and struggling for breath, the calmest part of his mind remembered seeing two that looked nearly just like him in face, gear, and bearing, and how Casso had flown into a rage and had them hung when they reported some thing or another he could suddenly not recall.

As his face landed on the finely-sewn rug and blackness swirled into his vision, Sir Sorrel whispered words of apology with rapidly-paling lips, for standing by and letting others die simply for doing their duty.

Tomasj gave a barking laugh at the irony of it all, as he drew Nastasia from his waist holster and pointed the blood-stained pistol up towards the vaulted ceiling and the grand iron chandelier there. For once, he was the rational one, and the usually-calm Van had lost his bloody mind.

The witch hunter squeezed the trigger, the report of his weapon sending a flare of hot tingling agony through his body that always got his crotch to tingling, and sent a tiny lead ball flying up over the heads of scrambling knights struggling to draw blades and charge their attackers.

The king launched to his feet as the knight in front of him took Van's blade to the throat, and roared out in rage, pointing their direction and shouting commands suddenly lost in the flash and thunder of his weapon's witch fire as its report seemed to shatter the very air, sending courtiers screaming for cover as masonry showered down atop them moments before a chandelier some thirty feet across slammed to the ground with bone-juicing force, filling much of the room's center with bent and smoking iron.

Van flashed across Tomasj's front, slamming his hatchet into their other escort's gut with a brutal upward swipe, punching right through his chain mail and sending the tiger spinning aside, holding its spilling guts and coughing blood as it hit the wall and slid to a sit.

Tomasj's paw flashed out, grabbing the enraged fox's shoulder hard, as the wolf yelled with vicious laughter in his voice.

"We escape or we die, Van! Choose!"

Behind them in the hall, mail-armored soldiers yelled, their voices and the thunder of their running boots echoing up the stone halls as they came rushing towards the noise that could only have come from the throne room. Behind the chandelier's smoldering wreckage, Tomasj could already see knights shaking off the shock of his shot, and trying to find ways around the hot metal that blocked their way to the two companions.

Under his clamped paw, Tomasj could feel the tension in Vanyal's frame, the shaking, tearing wrath that wanted to fly through that iron barricade and throw his life away to avenge his family. The wolf blamed him not in the least, and the thought of dying in such a silly, useless, fantastic blaze of glory made him grin bloodily as the hellfire shot's effects were starting to be felt in the burn of his lungs.

"Shoot out the wall. Your Nastasia should be able, yes?"

The words were pinched, rough, from a clenched throat, as Van came to himself enough to look around and calculate.

"We are six floors up. Never survive such a fall."

"I don't mean to fall, and we can't fight his whole garrison."

Tomasj laughed, slapped Van on the back, and offpawedly flicked his left arm towards the wall twenty paces down the hall. The report of his pistol and the thud of its explosion was enough to hurl masonry dust into the air, as Tomasj's laugh broke into a wracking cough, leaving him spitting rich dark scarlet blood from his lungs, doubled over as Van grabbed him and made for the glowing, molten hole in the wall.

With silent haste, Van opened a small leather pouch at his waist, and drew out a single green acorn. Tomasj's brows raised, and he started to laugh again, spitting blood as he did and drawing his paw and a half sword, readying himself for the soldiery they could hear coming up the circular stair.

"What in the hell are you going to do? Grow a tree to get us down?"

Van frowned. He knew the witch hunter was mad, and might turn on him for such sorcery later, nevermind the sorcery wasn't his own but his wife's. Still, he figured, it was better than being skewered by Casso's guards.

He raised the acorn to his lips and kissed it, feeling the energy of the living spell grabbing at his insides and linking to him. Van whispered words, his lips touching the seed as Tomasj shouted out a roaring battle cry.

The crazed wolf hurled himself into the guards as they emerged from the stairs, his sword falling from a high guard to cut one of them down before it even realized he was there. He whirled with the momentum of the swing, and slashed hard into a second soldier, smashing him into the wall with the force of the blow on his bad footing. The third was swift enough to react, and jabbed awkwardly at Tomasj with a spear, only to have it blocked high by the sweeping, gleaming grey blade, followed by the wolf lashing out with a hobnailed boot. The soldier caromed down the stairs, taking the fourth guard with him, his helmet dented by the hit.

A fifth guard, young and green, had managed to push himself up against the wall as the two in front of him had rolled on by, and was now shaking behind his heavy shield, holding it as he'd been drilled with the steel plate raised up to ward high blows, and his footpaws planted on different stairs to help prevent being bowled over.

Tomasj laughed, and swiped his sword in the air, cutting the wind with a whistle of steel and causing the final guard to flinch.

"Five? Five?! You insult me with your five! Bring me a hundred! Hahahaaa!"

Over the shield-brandishing youngster, Tomasj could see down the stairs. Even in his battle-maddened rush, dripping blood from his snout and lips, he could see as a veritable column of soldiery were making their way up, and he backed away with his blade in a guard position.

"Hurry, fox, or we are dead!"

Van cursed under his breath, and hoped the incantation had worked. He knew if he'd gotten the strange words wrong, the magic would fail to understand, and likely do nothing. The fox sliced the ball of his thumb with the blade of his axe and anointed the acorn, then hurled it out the blasted hole and downward.

Too far down to be heard impacting, the acorn landed in mud, and for a moment Van's heart wriggled and he thought the magic had failed. Then, with a startling abruptness, green and growing roots exploded from the tiny seed, wrenching up cobbles and burrowing through the soil with the speed of a hundred summers' growth. In a moment, the seed had become a sapling, then a fast-growing giant of an oak, its trunk groaning so quickly with growth that it sounded like roaring water.

"Come on, Tomasj, climb down the tree!"

Van was out the breach in the wall before he was even done speaking, and leapt into the oak's expanding foliage, arms spread wide to catch branches and spread his impact. Leaves and twigs cut at his face, leaving scratches and marks but no serious injury, and he was soon shimmying down branches, climbing swiftly down the trembling giant as it finally stabilized, seventy feet high and towering-strong.

From his vantage, climbing down the great tree, Van could see the courtyard they descended into was little better than where they had left; fewer soldiers present, but still surrounded by the keep. He cursed, and kept climbing, praying they would find some way through it before the guards were organized enough to stop their escape.

Behind him, he heard an elated shout, and a crash, and hoped the crazy wolf had some clue how to climb.

The wolf had forgotten his own name, and the fact had taken him from laughing so hard he thought he would burst to crying so hard his body cramped solid. The tiger had been back to fuck him over and over again, and brought friends beside, and despite hours of fitful rest in the dark cell, he still tasted salty musky cum on his crusted lips and felt like his stomach would empty itself out of the stuff at any time.

Curled up in the dark, crusty and matted with days of spunk and no chance to wash, Cum-Slut, as he remembered he was often called, could tell two things about himself at that moment. His cock was hard, and his body itched.

The noise of a lock turning made him lift his head, though he didn't bother looking that way. His damaged mind knew that if he wasn't immediately prepared to suck the tiger's cock, he'd likely be beaten until he bled, then fucked half-conscious yet again. When the door cracked open, he cringed, and swallowed repeatedly trying to wet his dry throat so it wouldn't get scratched up by the tiger's prick again.

When the door opened, he hunched his shoulders, fully expecting the berating he often received from the tiger he'd begun to think of as his master. Instead, a softer voice spoke in a hushed tone of revulsion and sympathy.

"My gods...Sir Ranos?"

The cumslut wolf curled up on the floor, hiding his head behind his paws. A new person meant new torments, and he was suddenly weeping and pleading wordlessly with whining pathetic sounds to be left alone, or just fucked and abandoned to the dark again. He squealed in terror when paws touched back, sobbing and begging.

From the door, a hard, emotionless voice spoke, as the priest was trying to roll him onto his back to check him for injuries.

"Tanner, we've no time. Leave him. We'll help him once this is over, but we've no time for stragglers."

The priest shook his head hard, knowing the captain was right.

"Leave the door open for him, at least he might make his own way out."

Cumslut sobbed, broken and confused, terrified and lost, failing to notice when something hard and metal was put into his paw. He heard the words, though they would not register for some time.

"Ranos, please, fight your way free. We'll need you later, alright?"

Followed by a dozen prisoners armed with weapons taken off the fallen guards, Summer opened the unlocked tower door and rushed into the hallway beyond, relying on speed to be his greatest defense. The two armored guardfurs beyond were smart enough to have their backs to the wall even in times where they had no idea anything was amiss. Still, they weren't expecting trouble, with the knowledge that several knights and guards should have bee inside the tower keeping security.

Summer ran the first of them through with a powerful charge, holding his pilfered sword in both paws and slamming his full weight into the strike. With a look of shock, the breastplate-armored guard stared at Summer, then down at the sword punched straight through his armor and out his back, gurgling up bubbles of blood as he toppled like a felled tree.

As the captain planted his boot to yank the sword free, two other prisoners, a rat and a weasel, leapt on the other guard, wrestling him down as he struggled to draw his dagger to fight back. In moments, they had yanked his helmet free and slit his throat, spraying the walls with his blood.

The other end of the hall had a pair of guards as well, these armed with crossbows and spears, and the two shouted in alarm as the prisoners came rushing towards them. Summer hung back, pulling the shield off his dying foe's arm, grumbling at the need for it. Tanner stayed crouched behind him, wincing as one of the two guards fired his crossbow, splattering the skull of an onrushing bull across the faces of his companions before being born down by the tide of furious prisoners. The other guard pounded on the hall's door twice, yelling, before knives plunged into his back and he was dragged down as well, rifled quickly for keys.

"What's your plan, captain?" The black-robed priest had taken a wicked-looking belt knife from the two felled guards and shoved it in his belt, then cut his robe at the knees to make running easier.

"If you were asked to move, that means Lieutenant Kass will have someone in the river looking for us. We work our way to the river side of the castle wall, kill the archers there as best we can, then dive and hope for the best."

The wolf stared at him, then cocked his head, one ear flopping to the side in dismay.

"That's...Your genius plan? Jump off the wall and hope for a boat?"

Summer gave him a grim smile, and a shrug, as he stood with the shield on his arm and moved to follow their escaping allies-of-the-moment.

"It's about the best option we've got."

Cel lay with her burning cheek against a cold stone floor, half-conscious and floating in a sea of nausea and dizziness. She felt as if days had passed in moments, yet could do nothing to lift herself or even think. Then, her bladder began to tickle, then tingle, then ache, and she sat up in the swirling pitch blackness of her cell, only to find herself curling forward to vomit harshly on the floor.

From the darkness, a hoarse and grumbly male voice sounded out. She wasn't sure, for a moment, if it were real or imagined, the cell so black she was half sure she yet slept, as she emptied her stomach on the floor in uncontrollable heaves.

"Heh. 'Blarghk' must mean 'hello' where you're from."

She tried to respond, only to find her stomach wasn't done, and heaved again, spitting up watery-thin, her paws on the floor. Meanwhile, un-deterred, her bladder screamed for her to find a chamber pot, and her knee roared at her in pain for daring to set it on cold stone. The clammy chill of the chamber made her hackles rise, and she realized the armor was off of her.

At least, she mused, they'd been nice enough to leave her with the smallclothes she wore beneath her armor padding.

A second male voice, harsher than the first and spoken with a purr she liked not at all, spoke.

"Welcome to the Temple of Many's pretty little dungeon for ne'er-do-well's. I'm called Brick, and that's Caul. What's yer name, stranger?"

"P...Pot...Please..." Cel struggled out, between bitterly sour coughs.

"Potplease? Now that's a strange one."

Something scraped across the floor, and clattered nearby. Scrambling, she found the filth-crusted metal thing, and barely managed to have her breeches down before her body could take no more and she let loose a rush of strong-scented urine.

As the one introduced the both of them, Cel couldn't help but let out a groan of relief, the painful fire and pressure in her groin rapidly disappearing and with it the sense of nausea seemed to be quickly fading, though her muzzle was still full of the bitter sourness. A shuffling in the dark and a loud slow sniffing of the air told her the two were moving about, and she grimaced, knowing how defenseless she was here, in a closed-in space, weaponless, wounded, with only her strength and a pot of dubious solidness to defend her.

Worse, she realized, as a hot breath puffed across her ear, they knew the room and she had no idea where they were.

Cel yelled, as powerful arms grabbed her around the middle, sudden and strong, and she slammed an elbow back towards the fur's head only to find it hitting ineffectually against the side of a brawny chest. The chamber pot spilled, as she kicked, and burning pain shot up her left leg from its sudden jerking as a paw grabbed her by the ankle and wrenched it sideways, drawing a shriek of agony and fury from her throat.

The arms around her middle had wrapped around her own now, pinning them to her sides as teeth found the side of her neck, and with a snarl of protest, she went still, knowing that to further resist might mean her death.

Down in front of her, presumably knelt right in the puddle of piss and shit from the chamber pot, that heavy sniffing came again, and she jerked in outrage as a cold hard nosepad bumped right into her still-wet crotch.

"Heh...They never sent a girl down here before. Pre'nant at that."

The words smashed into her like a physical blow and, stunned, she simply stared into the swirling black of the pitch dark, struggling to comprehend what he'd said. The heavy, rumbly voice continued, blowing cold air across her nethers in a way that made her gut twitch, and brought the nausea back as she fought down the urge to scream in terror and flashback.

"Pull her up higher, wolf. I want to taste her w'out breaking my neck."

The one holding her arms laughed, unwashed breath sliding across her face as she fought down tears of impotent rage and terror, and tried to kick with her good leg only to find that a large, powerfully muscled body had interposed itself between her knees, making the angle impossible for getting any real force behind it. Just as its companion had commanded, the wolf pulled her up higher, and she felt the stub of her tail drag painfully across his filthy rough-spun clothes.

The creature crouched between her thighs chuckled, sniffed with his snout mashed against her mound, then drew back for a moment. Her hopes that he'd somehow lost interest were dashed a second later when, drawing a growl of anger from her throat, a broad flat tongue slurped across her from asshole to clit, slobbering wetness into her fur as the creature savored her taste. In petty revenge, Cel squeezed down on her bladder, and splashed it's face with the last dribbles of hot piss.

It slowed him not at all, drawing a grunt of what she thought might be sick satisfaction from the creature, as he lapped at her again, leaving her feeling as if she'd peed herself like a little kit. She wriggled again, trying to find some way to get leverage to use against her two attackers, only to come up short with a wince as the teeth in her neck tightened.

After what seemed an interminable time, his tongue working over her nether lips and trailing on the little button at their peak that she now knew made her feel the tingling he was forcing upon her, he pulled back enough to speak.

"I'm a bear, darlin'. I c'n smell yer arousal an' yer kit. Yer anger too."

He chuckled roughly and leaned in again, slurping his tongue in a way that made her toes twitch and her hips try to wriggle away. She didn't want to feel those sensations again, however good, and the beast between her legs was all too good at this torment. His paws had stayed on her thighs, keeping her from closing her legs around his head, and she laid her own back with a thump against the big wolf's chest, closing her eyes and holding back tears as she tried to discern why the strange strength had left her.

Back in the tower, after she had first met the furs she was starting to think of as friends, she had developed a terrifying strength. When they had pushed the doors to the tower open and fought their way free, she'd struck with such power she was afraid her sword might shatter. Far greater might than she had before, she knew.

Now, that strength seemed utterly gone. Her wounded, exhausted body could give no more, despite being less of both than she was during that first battle. Perhaps, she thought, it was something to do with Timid's magic. Or perhaps it was her ancestors reaction to the profane closeness of the undead menace. The bear's tongue focused on the swollen red nub then, and thoughts became harder, as her fingers dug into the wolf's hard gut, and she growled out words between panted breaths.

"Stop. I'll fucking...Fucking kill you if you don't...Stop..."

The bear chuckled against her crotch, slurping as her body began to betray her will, wetting quickly inside to protect her body from injury in the rough fucking it was instinctually expecting. The bear's fingertips traced against her inner thigh, and one paw moved up to toy with her entrance, flicking her nub to make her gasp and jerk at the sudden contact.

"You're in th'Temple undercroft...'Snot supposed t'be a prison. Guards won' 'ear us...No one'll 'ear us. You're all ours, missy."

"Then stop diddling her and fuck the bitch so I can get seconds, damnit," the wolf growled, muffled against her neck. She could feel his cock, massively aroused, pressing against her back through both their clothes, and squirmed, filled with loathing and the desire to strike back somehow. Tears were the only thing she could successfully fight, she found, though they burned her eyes in their desire to flow. To be raped again, defenseless again, was a shame too great to countenance. Atop that, the revelation that this bear thought her with child confirmed what she already had tried not to think about. She'd missed her moon's blood, though she'd hoped it was just from injury. Her mind sought escape, any escape, only to find itself drawn back again and again to the lewd slurping and radiating warmth from her quivering sex.

"Fuck you wolf...Mm...I'm takin' m'time. Tastes better'n...shlrp...prison gruel..."

She felt a growl building in the wolf's chest, where her back and skull rested against it, and though it made her once-again injured head swim, it gave her an idea as well. An idea she quickly discarded; to promise the wolf she'd fuck him for killing the bear would be a lie, and honor would not allow it. She cursed, silently, at her own inability to break her code, even to evade such shame.

Then, a blunt finger parted her sopping entrance. Cel bit her lip, hard, enough to make it bleed even with the bandages in the way, trying not to enjoy the sensation of glorious fullness as the thick digit hooked in and invaded her, spreading her twitching pink hole wide around its girth as the bear's tongue slavered and relished her every drip. She felt her nipples, hard as pebbles, rubbing the rough inside of her shirt, felt the hard cock pressed to her bare ass, and its heat made her tremble despite the rough breeches in the way.

The wolf behind her snarled and bit into her neck, just enough to break the skin, and she was undone. To her horror, she squalled out in passion and violation, as her flat stomach clenched, shivers of pleasure exploding outward from her core and releasing her juices to the bear's slopping tongue. At her back, she could hear the wolf laughing, whispering teasing words against her throat, words she could not remember but swore to pay him back for. The pleasure was paralytic, and she hated herself for helplessness, and prayed, with self-loathing for her womanly weakness, that Timid would come and help her.

She was unsure how long it took, as the bear coaxed her quivering passage, lapped at her twitching flesh, before she began to calm. When she did, it felt like a great languor was being pulled over her head, a blanket of loathing and strange calmness through which she only vaguely heard the bear speaking in self-satisfied tones to the annoyed, horny wolf.

What she felt most notably, though, was that the wolf pulled away from her throat. Above even that, a hardness clenched in her chest, and after a moment she recognized it. It wasn't fear. It was the feel she always had before a great battle. A sense of readiness to die, a sense of readiness to win, the soothing knowledge that live or not, she would show her might to her foes. It was the sense that her enemy was near.

Cel slammed her head backwards, and impacted the restraining wolf hard enough that he choked in surprise and pain as her head cracked his breastbone and robbed his arms of strength for the single moment she needed. Her body jerked upright, ignoring the explosion of agony from her knee as she grabbed the chamber pot, discarded and forgotten on the floor, and slammed it into the bear's head so hard he never even made a surprised noise, merely striking the ground with his face and a dull crunch of breaking bone.

The wolf cursed, and she whirled on him, slamming into him with force enough to break the copper pot to bits and hurl the wolf to the floor with a resounding crash.

In the darkness, she looked down at her unseeable paws, and whispered words to herself, for the other two were beyond hearing her.

"What am I becoming?"

With no further time to waste, she turned toward a spot she thought might be a door by the muffled sounds passing through it. Strange shuffling, and what she thought might be distant, heady laughter. She limped towards it, and put her ear to the door, the damp rotten wood a slimy consistency that reminded her with a flush to pull up her britches.

Somewhere outside the room she'd been locked in, she could hear the muffled noises of a sobbing fur, or so she thought. The broken sounds a creature made when it was on the verge of giving in, diving into the soundless sea of despair to drown beneath its shadowy waves. She scowled, and grit her teeth, knowing that either Timid or the undead were near, as her strength had so suddenly returned.

The Slaughtered Knight gathered herself, and backed off a few limping paces. She prayed, for a moment, that her strength wasn't just illusion, and that it wouldn't fail her. Timid needed her, as did the kingdom, if anyone was to live through this. She hurled herself forward at the door with every ounce of weight and strength, and found herself stumbling in surprise as she plowed straight through the rotten door and into the back of a tall, skinny creature whose back had been to her.

In a jumble of limbs, she and the other both went to the mildewed stone floor, hitting with jarring impact. Cel rolled quickly away, pulling her legs underneath her body and forcing herself upright despite the disconcerting crackles from her knee. The other creature turned towards her, raising its head to open a maw filled with shark-like teeth. Its face was all black, as if a living shadow, and if it once was any identifiable fur species, its features had since melted away.

Behind the door it had been facing, she heard the sobbing voice, and could now hear words, as the huge-mawed creature opened its mouth to what she'd thought was its full extent, then unhinged its jaws like a snake, yawning wide as it came stalking slowly towards her.

"K-keening! Sharks!"

She ignored the nonsensical rambling, backing away from the yawning hole full of teeth as it came ambling towards her, shifting left then right as if it were rocking on mismatched legs. Cel looked around quickly for weapons and, seeing nothing but a torch in a sconce, grabbed it as she backed past towards a small, rusty iron door that ended the hall.

A quick pump of her arm sent the torch spinning through the air, expertly aimed thanks to hours upon hours of throwing knives for sport with other knights. Her aim was true, straight into its maw, and she nearly stopped moving in shock when the torch vanished into the darkness without so much as a sound, as if it had been thrown into a bottomless cave rather than the finite maw of an oncoming undead.

Grabbing the next torch from its sconce, Cel brandished the flame, hoping that she could see some weakness in the light, some way to get around its open and clearly dangerous mouth, snaggled with shark-like fangs as it was.

The thing was laughing, she realized. Taunting and stalking her. Its legs looked strong enough to launch it across the intervening space in a moment, yet it was walking like a crippled elder, shifting back and forth, ambling slowly forward. Despite her great strength, Cel had never been much for fighting unarmed, relying on the grace and technique of swords to counterbalance the disparity in size between her and other warriors.

Finally, her footpaw struck the rusty iron door, so solidly corroded it didn't budge. Sensing her vulnerability, the creature lunged with sudden speed, and only a decade of training saved her as she instinctually threw herself forward and to the side, rolling painfully away as the monster smashed into the iron door with a terrible roar of hunger and hate.

She lashed out with the only weapon to paw, striking the back of the monster's leg with the burning torch as she wriggled past it and struggled to stand. It bellowed in fury, the stink of burning rotten flesh filling the air with a sick-sour odor. As Cel managed to pull herself upright using the wall, she saw behind the thing, where its teeth had somehow torn a chunk of iron straight out of the door, perhaps eight inches across.

In the room beyond, an eerie blue-white light shimmered, and in moments billows of white frosty fog were pouring from the opening. Silvery lines, not there a moment ago, flared to life in a thousand spidery symbols and concentric rings on the door, then flickered away like dying fires, the bite having removed their center entirely.

Cel had no time to ponder, but in the back of her mind recalled that the Temple of Many kept an undercroft, and rumor had long stated they kept ancient, dangerous things down below. Most had assumed this to mean heretical texts, apostates, false idols, and the like. Nothing, however, that could turn already cold, damp air into such thick mist in an instant. She felt a chill so cold it burned, the air from her panting nostrils feeling near-frozen and blowing columns of steam.

The monster had no curiosity, or perhaps no mind, despite the leering smile its gaping maw somehow conveyed. Ignoring utterly the strange door behind it with its dying glyphs and sputtering sparks, the black-faced thing came towards her again, this time spreading its arms wide to prevent her rolling past again.

Cel continued to back away, waving her torch back and forth as she passed by the cell she'd nearly broken down the door to moments ago. From inside, the babbling, sobbing, terrified voice screeched out again.

"Keening! Loud noise! Make loud noise!"

"Keening? I don't think grieving is going to help!"

"No! Screeches! Loud! High pitch!"

The thing lunged, and Cel dodged to the side, grabbing at the iron torch sconce she'd emptied earlier for her first firebrand. She bunched powerful, lean muscles, and yanked, as the thing swatted at her and missed high, smashing powdery crumbling rock off the wall as she flopped forward, wrenching the iron spikes from the wall with a bending creak-ping of metal.

Frantic, hoping the babbler behind the door was right but out of other options, Cel turned the sconce upside-down and jabbed its pronged metal end against the floor, then dragged it with all her might, flinching as the horrid shriek of metal on stone sent sparks flying and made her feel as if her ears were bleeding.

To her astonishment, the black-fleshed thing squealed and clapped its claw-tipped paws to its head, falling back like a stunned drunk. She stared a moment, watching it begin to cover, shaking its head and snarling, then scraped the sconce across the floor again, gritting her teeth as the sound made her fur puff and her teeth clench.

The monster howled, throwing back its head, spittle flying from its cavernous maw. Then it simply turned and ran, at a strange and ungainly lope, away into the darkness. Cel wasted not a moment, scrambling to her feet again, wincing as her knee cried out in protest.

"I-is it gone?" The voice was small, like a terrified child, but Cel had no hesitancy in pushing up the door's suddenly-heavy bar, and letting it drift open.

On the floor, amidst the filth of a dank, moldy cell, crouched a monk in a filthy cassock, spattered with blood, his fingertips bloody and ragged as if he'd tried to claw his way through the door. When the priest wouldn't meet her eyes, Cel bent down despite the protests of her injuries, and grabbed him by the throat of his robe, dragging the feebly struggling male into the torchlight.

"You saved my life, so I will save yours. But do not get in my way. I am unarmed, for now, and escape will be hard enough without having to protect you from the enemy while fighting."

The monk bobbed his head, and sniffled, rubbing greasy, bloody fingers into the tear tracks that matted down his face.

Cel turned then, and limped over to the broken door to peer inside, hoping that whatever was inside wasn't another foe. What she saw made her pause, tilt her head, and stare, a feeling of confusion and dread paralyzing her emotions a moment.

The room beyond wasn't dark, as the others had been, but no torches graced its walls. The room was large, perhaps thirty feet long by twenty wide and tall, cut straight from the rock just as her own cell had been. This cell, however, chilled her straight through the stripped fur of her face, the dry, prickling frozen cold of a January storm.

At the far end of the strange chamber, something was frozen in a block of ice, a shape she could see as a dim shadow within it, and from the block rose four sets of ancient black chain, thick like ship anchor line, anchored to the four walls of the prison.

Behind her, the monk squeaked and cowered.

A voice, crackly and inhuman like calving glaciers, whispered past her, and for a moment she thought it just her imagination. Then it spoke again, slower, and she realized with a start that the voice was coming from the frozen block itself, or perhaps somewhere within it.

I wake...

Cel was shocked to silence for only a moment longer, before a pressure began in her chest. It was the same pressure that had once driven her to hold her head high, a force of dignity that was a happy compulsion, and she straightened her shoulders despite the sudden pains doing so brought on.

"I am Sir Cel, servant of my late liege King Callian Golden-paw. Who do I address?"

Within the bluish cube, something shifted, hazy shadows wriggling in the mostly opaque fog.

The Frozen One...Narisha is my name...

"Narisha then. There is a plague of the undead above us. Are you one of them?"

Cel hoped her apprehension wasn't obvious. The thing in the hall, she had discovered a weapon against with the monk's help. This thing...She doubted the tiny torch she still held could do much to such a creature of deathly cold, and is if to confirm it, her torch was starting to gutter out from sheer chill.

I am no longer alive...But I am not a Namer in Shadow...

"I...Do not know of what you speak. You say you are not our enemy, but I am afraid I do not have the luxury of letting you prove it."

I suspect not. You will need my help to escape. If the dead have risen, as you say, then I render my assistance freely.

The cold gathered then, frost floating up off the floor as gusts of otherworldly wind whipped around her, forcing its way through her scant remaining clothing and her filthy fur to raise chills up her spine. The torch held to flame with painful tenacity, and Cel shrunk back, unwilling to risk frostbite, as ice began to rime her bandaged face.

Suddenly near-blinded by the cold, she backed away, rubbing at her watering eyes, and stumbled into the monk, nearly falling until his paws shot up, steadying her by grabbing at a hip while stammering apologies.

A creaking, squealing sound came from the great prison chamber, and through it she could hear yet not make out strange words of power. She imagined them to be the whispered words of the blizzard gods, old kings of the dead in her born peoples' myths, and the thrill of meeting such a thing gave her a terrible sense of dread and yet purpose. For the blizzard gods never lied, when they deigned to speak directly.

A clatter sounded, and she shook her head, brushing frost away from the bandages. Her eyes finally clear, she gazed into the chamber, and tilted her head. Lying upon the floor, some dozen paces in front of the frosty blob, was a long and slender two-handed sword not in style much unlike the one she had wielded until her capture. It was not, however, made of any steel she had ever seen.

It wisped with rimes of frosty mist, rising like cream in warm whiskey, and was the color of hard-frozen ice caps, the blue of frozen corpses and angry storm sky. The sword was made entirely of ice, crafted by strange sorceries to what looked a wicked sharpness.

It will not melt, in even the hottest sun. Take it. If you survive, return for me when you can. It is a part of me. It holds one of my Names. It is called the Nametaker.

Steeling herself in case this were some sort of trap, Cel handed off the torch to her monk companion, and strode into the frosty chamber. It seemed less chill, though not a place she would stay long given any choice, and the cold seemed more and more intense the closer she approached to the strange ice block.

Crouching, Cel was unable to restrain a grunt of pain as her knee gave a disconcerting popping sound and sent hot streamers of agony across her eyes. The leopard knight staggered, then slid slightly on the frosty floor, only to catch herself down on her good knee, her paws touching the pommel of the strange sword.

Unwilling to risk the terrible creature's potentially capricious nature, she wasted no time in seizing the sword, bracing herself with a clenched jaw for a shock of cold, only to find the weapon felt strangely welcome in her paws. Not warm, but not nearly so cold as dry-surfaced ice ought to.

Now go. Let the blade be my proof. If it serves you well, trust me. If it serves you poorly...

"If it betrays me, I will come back here with all the fires in the Nameless Hells and burn you until you were never born."

Good. It is proper, then.

Cel turned and strode from the chamber, holding the great blade in such a way that its pommel stone rested just in front of her crotch, the tip pointed towards where any other fur's eye would be if he were five paces away.

"Come, monk. You'll need to lead me to my friend. His name is Timid, and we will rescue him or die trying."

"Y-yes, m'lady!"

Royval turned the last corner before his brother's manor came into view panting, followed closely by his brother and the hulking bodyguard lion Jaux. Behind them, perhaps two blocks behind, a roaring mob followed with the ebbing, flowing speed of a rolling tide.

"Gods damnit!"

The tiger's voice broke with a breathless squeak as their hopes for safe haven were dashed. The manor's front gates were a twisted heap of iron lying on the cobbled street, still attached by a rusty chain to the horse team that had pulled it clear off the stone walls. Inside, he could hear the cacophonic yells of looters tearing the place apart in a rampage of destruction.

"My things!" yelled Toryen, eyes wide with wonderment more than anger, his voice carrying a lilt of confusion that turned the exclamation to a question. Behind him, carrying a loping pace both brothers knew he could use for hours on end, Jaux wordlessly glanced back, then put a paw on Toryen's shoulder and without hesitation steered him to the left.

Royval growled, annoyed at being directed by the bodyguard who, to his knowledge, wasn't even nobility. Still, he knew better than to question the undeniably lethal warrior's instincts or loyalty to Toryen.

Or, for that matter, the brutality of angry peasants. If he'd come out in his armor, he would have put down serious gold on himself to win fights with any dozen of these common slime. Unarmored, armed only with the longsword he'd brought with him to the mayor's office, Royval felt for the first time in his life the fear and humiliation of being the hunted prey of a greater foe.

No, he corrected himself, the second time. He'd felt it for a moment, on that day when Sir Cel had made her charge. For the smallest second, he'd thought himself a dead fur. Her eyes had stared at them all, as if into each of their eyes, and every male there had felt the promise of their deaths.

Instead, she had ended up biting off part of the tip of his cock, and it still bloody itched even near a month later. Royval kept his growl, and it carried him down several side streets, following after Jaux, as the noise of angry crowds seemed to come from all around, rebounding and echoing off the city's many stone buildings.

"Where are we...Hrf...Going?"

Before Toryen could answer, he was knocked flat by a potent shove from his bodyguard, rolling nimbly on the cobbles by reflex as an arrow fired from the rooftop above them glanced off the bodyguard's shoulder guard. Jaux grabbed the prone tiger and shoved him again, his hulking body shielding by looming over Toryen's back. Royval's eyes shot up, spotting the tufted ears of a lynx as it leaned, bow out front, and took aim at Jaux's back.

As if sensing the threat, Jaux's steely-muscled body slid around a corner into the alley, dragging Toryen with him. The arrow was never released, and Royval realized then he was too close to that same building for the archer to see him, as he hadn't yet leaned forward all the way.

Above, he heard the padding of footpaws on tile roofing, and quick quiet whispers he couldn't quite make out. Silently cursing, lips contorted, Royval lost sight of his brother and the bodyguard, knowing that to follow them, or indeed to make any movement at all, might mean getting feathered by whoever else was up there now in addition to the lynx.

Behind, he could hear the roaring approach of the mob, and knew he couldn't keep to this spot long. Rushing across the wide thoroughfare to follow his brother would be suicide, as there were now at least three furs he could hear whispering just above his head, and no way to know their number of bows.

For a moment, he considered just turning about and facing the mob. His pride prickled at him, demanding he take action, not run away like a frightened child. For a few seconds he simply stood, paw gripping his yet un-drawn sword and glaring back the way he had come. Sense won out quickly, though, and he took stock of his surroundings, hoping for some other route of escape.

From the south, a trumpet blew, and his head whipped that way. Distress, the trumpet called, with its three short blasts. With distress, he thought, there would be soldiers. However embattled they might be, his chances of getting through this little uprising were better if he was with them. Besides that, his blood boiled to fight, in rage at being chased about so.

Royval doubled back and slipped into an alley, headed south towards the main city gate, just moments before the rampaging mob rounded a bend and stormed by without noticing the quick-moving, silent warrior.

"Go back Jaux! Go back for brother!"

Nearly carrying Toryen, so that his footpaws were only really scraping the ground as they ran, Jaux's face was like a craggy mountain; utterly unyielding, pitiless, heedless of the words of little men.

Toryen screamed at him, and tried to elbow the moving mountain, and had more luck bruising himself than changing the single-minded bodyguard's mind. Inside, the voices swirled, and they were laughing at him, cackling at his powerlessness.

He blinked, and looked around in surprise, as the whisperings in his head for the first time offered him something. They'd never done that before. They'd cajoled him, threatened him, pushed him to do things that turned out to his benefit, insulted him, praised him, but never offered something before.

The tiger beetled his brows at the nature of the request, his confused thoughts warping around it like water on rocks. His fevered mind was overwhelmed, unable to process, the world rushing past too fast, and he curled his legs up as the burly lion hurried them along, paws wrapping into the fur at his temples, squeezing his head in the hopes it would make the pain go away until the world stopped whipping by him so chaotically.

Toryen looked back down the alley, whimpering, hoping brother was close behind. His eyes burned, and as Jaux shifted his grip to a more comfortable carry, the tiger put his face to his guardian's chest to blot out the terrible noise and confusion.

Open the gate and you will be free!

He squeezed his eyes shut harder, and ground his face into the lion's iron muscles, seeking pain to focus him.

Then, abruptly, he jostled as the lion slid to a stop. Toryen opened his eyes again, vision liquid and swirling with tears of frustrated helplessness against his own mind.

Jaux had charged headlong down a half-dozen alleys to get ahead of the mob, the bodyguard's intimate knowledge of Amarthane's streets serving them well. Now, however, Toryen knew something of what level the conspiracy had taken. Arrayed in front of Jaux were a dozen of the City Wardens, in their light leather armor, with their swords drawn and bows to their backs.

Toryen scrambled to his feet and looked behind them for escape back the way they'd come, just in time for another Warden on the building top to upend a cart full of bricks into the alley with a shattering clatter. It made no wall he couldn't get past, but it would slow him far too much to escape the Wardens' legendary bowmanship.

The tiger grabbed his temples again and whined, loudly, the sound echoing off buildings as he stamped his footpaws in angry tantrum.

"No no no!"

The voices were abruptly gone, in a silence so profound Toryen was stunned by it, simply staring at the sky as a few motes of snow drifted down from the darkened sky.

"N...No?"

From the pack of Wardens, a tall lanky wolf in the black and grey armor of the city watch's heavy guards walked forward, chain mail making slithery steel-on-steel sounds as he raised a scroll in paw and spoke in a booming voice that seemed to drill into Toryen's skull like a knife.

"Toryen Casso! I am Sergeant Royce Kerrin! By order of Captain Summer of the City Watch you are to be arrested this day for the crimes of murder, rape, and usurpation of the law! Come peacefully and you will not be harmed!"

Toryen whipped about to face the wolf, staring with his wide green eyes into the tall wolf's own grey-browns. To his consternation, the wolf didn't flick his away, lower his head, or show any sign of submission. Somewhere inside, Tory felt the first twinge of an idea that they might lose.

"By orders of Captain Summer? Last I heard, Sergeant Royce Kerrin," his voice purred through the name, as if tasting it and finding it delicious, "your captain of the watch is imprisoned! And thus can give no orders!"

Sergeant Kerrin unfurled the scroll completely, and turned it to face Toryen. In the wind and increasing snow, he could see the bright red wax seals and ribbons of an official, documented writ, and he goggled at them in incomprehension. By law, the Captain was to carry that signet at all times. He wondered if his brother had bothered to search the tiger in question, or if they had somehow taken the wrong fur.

Or, Toryen realized, if the Captain had seen this coming and, against royal writ, left the signet with someone else. In which case, he knew, arguing the point would do no good.

From somewhere, an arrow was loosed, and struck Jaux on the pauldron, caroming away harmlessly. In an instant, the Wardens rushed toward him, against the yells of their comrade in the Guards to stop. Toryen wasted not a moment trying to find the archer, instead drawing his knives, and charged to support his favorite servant.

Jaux eviscerated the first of the Wardens with a brutal crossing strike while drawing his paired short swords, then spun past as the wolf gurgled and grabbed at his falling inards. A second Warden swung his sword low, trying to slow the massive lion with a blow to the legs, only to find his swing a fraction short and a short blade being jabbed into his skull as the too-nimble creature danced in to strike. Jaux then whirled, parrying a third attack with his left-paw blade, and kicked the ocelot swinging it in the crotch hard enough to send him to the ground with a yell.

Toryen leaped at a canine as it tried to flank the murderously skilled bodyguard. The dog turned, floppy ears pinning back as he took a swing, only to have the smaller, lighter tiger throw himself into a roll under the attack and come up too close, stabbing him twice in the gut and chest with lightning-quick prods of razor-bladed knives that punctured his hardened leather armor and punched into a lung.

The guards wolf was still yelling, though now his tone had changed. Lost in a sudden giggling glee at the violence, Toryen spun and dodged back as a pair of Wardens came at him thrusting spears. To their left and behind, he saw Jaux moving through the fight like a mountainous dancer, parrying strikes and slicing back with a terrible grace and economy of motion Toryen knew he'd never be able to match.

On the other paw, while they'd surprised the Wardens with their sudden skill and ferocity, their momentum wouldn't last. These weren't gormless peasant brawlers or levied part-time soldiery. These were trained, street-hardened warriors, and Toryen observed that he ought not to have been surprised when the dog came at him again, blood streaming from his muzzle and chest as he body-slammed the lighter tiger and delivered him a stinging if glancing hit to the shoulder as the spearfurs closed in.

Toryen ducked as a spear came in high, and threw himself into a sidelong roll as the second spear went for his legs, laughing as he danced back and forth, trying to find a way to get past those long-reaching weapons before they could corner and skewer him. The dog came at him again, slowing with each movement, and the nimble noble tiger sidestepped the hound's overhead slice before hopping back in and stabbing for the chest again.

This time, the dog was ready for him. Toryen's first knife skipped off his steel crown-helm as the hound lowered its shoulders and slammed metal head-gear into his face, sending Tory reeling back with stars in his eyes. The second knife never even connected, and he lost his grip as the dog's steel-gauntleted paw wrapped around his wrist and twisted, hard, until the tiger yowled out at and had no choice but to follow the sideways yank that brought his gut straight into the dog's knee.

The younger Casso boy managed to raise his head with a bit-cheeked smile in time for his vision to be filled with a descending sword pommel. His vision burst into stars and he felt his head snap to the side. After that, the world went dark, and he was falling.

The last thing he heard for a long time was a roar, and the last thought wondering if that's what the ever-silent Jaux sounded like.

Summer parried another heavy-pawed sword swing, panting, dripping sweat as his pilfered sword guided the other's into the wall, spraying sparks with the force of the blow. His tried and true kick to the groin did nothing to the armored knight but make him grunt and back off a step, but it was all Summer needed. He bulled forward, grabbing his sword with both paws for extra strength, and slammed the knight with his body's full strength across the hardest front plate of his helmet.

The move left Summer crouched low facing to his opponent's side, as the knight tumbled headlong down the stairs he'd been maneuvered to in their minute-long clash of steel. Summer and his escapees had, miraculously, made their way through the castle at break-neck pace, outrunning guards when they could and overwhelming them when they could not.

Somewhere along the way, four of the dozen or so had been killed, but Summer hadn't had the time to stop and take stock. Their best defense was speed and he knew it. Still, the resistance was far, far lighter than he'd expected, and he now wondered just what in the hells had happened.

In the courtyard below the parapet they'd fought their way onto, a massive oak tree had sprouted from nowhere, and was now a towering column of flame that had thrown the castle into chaos by belching black, wet smoke through a hole in the keep wall and likely filling it with choking fumes.

Looking the other direction, he saw the river rushing past, and the falling snow, and down far, far below them a pair of boats that had managed to anchor themselves a hundred or so paces from where he'd hit if he leaped. It was a long fall, and he wasn't sure his aching bones could handle it.

Beyond the river, he saw columns of smoke and hints of fire in the city, and over the clashing of swords and yelling from inside the nearby towers as his escapees fought, he thought he could make out the roaring susurrus of riots, like tides of violence and bloodshed, echoing from all over his beloved Amarthane.

From behind him, Tanner spoke up in nervous, adrenaline-shaken tones.

"Summer, we've got to go quick! I see crossbowmen on the roof!"

Sure enough, when he glanced back that way, Casso's red and black armored crossbow troops were climbing from the keep and manning their stations in the taller towers, winching their weapons and making ready to rain death down on their heads.

"All of you ignorant sots! Get over the wall or die! Now!"

Tomasj grunted as a spear took him in the hip. He grabbed the haft, and swung over its top, crushing the skull of the fur on the other end as he limped backward, blood flowing from the fresh wound as the spear fell away. Behind him, Vanyal was firing his bow at nearly arrow-tip range, shot after shot into oncoming half-armored foes, picking out weak spots on guards rushing to the fight from their barracks as fast as they could grab weapons.

The press was too much, and he didn't bother putting the bow up as the next one came on, pulling his axe off his belt again and hacking the blade aside, though it clipped his forehead in passing.

"Gods damnit!"

Tomasj laughed, a mad cackle, and kicked through the door they'd been forced towards by the thickening press of enemies. Wind buffeted him, and he howled in glee, rushing through the door and onto the castle parapet as his vulpine comrade desperately warded off attacks that would surely have overwhelmed them both long ago if not for the advantage of numbers being cancelled by close quarters in the halls.

Ahead of him, up against a crenellation, Tomasj saw a bloody, nicked, dirty shirtless tiger, silvering fur at his temples, with a priest leaning up against his back and whispering in his ear. The black wolf laughed and pointed his heavy, scarred old blade at the fur, and called out in challenge.

"Come then, lowland scum! Send your old men after me if you must! I will pull them ALL into the inferno with me!"

The older fur just stared at him with a sardonic twist of lips for a second, as if this somehow fit the situation with perfect irony. His voice was drier than the desert.

"Point that thing someplace else, boy, before I shove it up your arse."

Vanyal rushed through the door behind him, and Tomasj heard the roars of oncoming soldiers, as the fox slammed the door shut and jammed a metal climbing spike into the hinge to hold it shut at least a few moments.

"Come on, Tomasj, we've no time!"

The tiger gave them both wan looks, then gestured down to the courtyard without drawing his eyes away. Tomasj could see his relaxed pose, and how one might mistake it for a lack of readiness. He could also see that the tiger wasn't advancing or seeming ready to block their way, merely had his sword ready to defend himself.

Van shouldered past the taller wolf, and cut a curt, quick bow.

"Captain Summer, sir. You likely don't remember me."

"Vanyal. Forest Warden. I remember you just fine, boy. You going to stop me getting out of this hell-hole?"

"Not for a second, sir. Might we join you?"

Summer glanced down past the parapet, shook his head slowly, then turned his gaze back to the two bloodied companions.

"It's a jump. That's all we can do. If you're brave enough, wait till the one before you is clear, then make the leap yourself. Best hurry though."

With that, Captain Summer tossed his sword aside, as he had no way to properly lash it down, and leapt straight off the wall. The black-robed cleric behind them shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. A splash heralded Summer hitting the water, some way below them.

"I suppose this means we're friends. Heh."

He put both paws on the wall and leaned over, with a grimace of trepidation. Tomasj sheathed his sword, and strode to his spot, holding a paw to the wound in his hip. Behind him, Vanyal followed, steadfastly ignoring the pounding coming from the door they'd just left. Either the spike would hold, or they would die waiting their turn.

The black-robed priest stripped off his habit and wasted no time leaping, naked except for his gloves and boots. Tomasj peered over the edge and down, while sliding his grey sword back into its sheathe and tying it firmly with leather cord. Below them, the river eddied around the castle's base, flowing from their left to the right, and he could see boats lashed and anchored, pulling sopping furs from the water.

Captain Summer swam poorly, more a tiger-paddle than a real swimming stroke, and Tomasj grimaced.

Van leapt past him, folding his body as he fell into a graceful dive, and hit the water with far less splash than Tomasj had known to be possible. Frowning at the probability of witchcraft, he nonetheless brushed it aside, then stood about, woolgathering as archers fought to aim through the smoke billowing out of keep windows.

Tomasj smirked at them, and raised his paw in a rude gesture. The tree had been sorcery, and while he'd use it to escape, he couldn't let it stand. So he'd doused it with the special oil he kept about in case of witch burnings, then fired his pistol into the thing. A crossbow bolt, fired by a teary-eyed archer, glanced off the crenellations near him.

At times, the needs of the moment and the hunting of witches could, in fact, coincide.

He ignored the insistent sense of someone rolling their eyes, and an accusation of hypocrisy. More crossbow bolts were beginning to come down, and Tomasj couldn't waste further time. He turned, put a booted footpaw up on the wall, and forced himself to leap with every fiber of will he could gather.

The wind blew past him hard, blasting his precious hat away, and his arms wind-milled as if he were trying to run in midair as his stomach attempted an exit through the top of his head. Grey, brackish water rushed towards him at a speed so swift he could do nothing but yell out the beginnings of a laugh in the face of his imminent death before it slammed him.

Everything rolled, jarring with the sheer force of his impact, and the wind blasted out of his lungs in a great bubble and streamers of pink. He flailed, desperation filling his universe as he struggled to grab, to pull on anything that could get him towards air. The grey light of day above his head quickly receded, as he strove against the sucking power of the deadly dark, and he was blinded by bubbles and the sudden onrushing darkness.

Tomasj's ears filled with the strange, hectic rushing of water, the noises of the deep, the sounds of the great force pulling him, twisting him about as he sank. His lungs burning worse than they ever had, his limbs began to go limp, his struggles weakening as the last few bubbles of breath fled his lips, cavorting their way skyward.

Darkness filled his eyes, as something hit him from behind, but the wolf couldn't muster the will to fight any longer. Something was burning him, in his leg and crotch, and something else squeezing his middle and back. Water was rushing past again...

He surrendered to sleep.

Van gasped as they broke surface, and managed to wrangle the limp, water-weighted wolf on board only with the assistance of the half-dozen convicts who'd survived the fight, leap, and fall. Then Captain Summer grabbed him by the scruff and yanked him aboard, ripping a yell of pain from the drowned-rat vulpine as he flopped on the deck of their little rescue craft, spitting water.

"Gods-damned fine work. Now let's go see if there's a city left for saving."