The Haunt

The forest favors my kind.

This has always been so, for we were born here—we are its children. The Tahtanah (Redwoods) have watched over us since before we were a people, when there was only our Lady. Long before the elders had names or the moons sang our song, when our Great Light had yet to find her dawn, it was then that the might of these great woods called to us. It nestled us away in its forgotten places among the mountains’ father and its great stones, the ones that stand even to this day. There we stayed. We were safe and forgotten as the world was swallowed in fire and storm in the Time Before. It was then that the Great Water brought Our Lady to this land. From those shores she sojourned with the wind, trotting the wilds’ expanse until her feet led her here. The Sun had set on her people. There was not left but sorrow and shadow in what came to follow. She was their last, but she would not be their end. She is to us Mëshuni (Mother), for once the last of her people, now she has borne a people—my people, the people of Elhuuntah (that is, the People of Wolfskin).

It is said that her kind were the fair ones of old. The elder ones spoken of in tales and tomes. They were a fair light among the land and such a thing is no truer than when it is spoken of her, for she is fair beyond all the golden glory of a rising sun. Tales of the Elder Ones are still whispered among my own, even to this day, for they were wiser than all races of men. They were older too. It was the Elder Ones that gave the stars their names. Their people spoke to the wind and calmed the seas and among all who dwelled upon the face of the earth there were none more true to the wood then they. It was their home, their sanctuary, and it was there that Mëshuni was born. She became a young woman under the silent eyes of the Uuntah (Pine) before she was taken by the Mähgdi (Great Water). Then the gods played their games and smote the world with ruin and fire. Their merciless war was the end to king and kingdom and when the gods had fallen and were no more it was their children, the Fell One, that sucked the world dry.

The whole world burned. The Kingdoms of Men were no more. Their heritage a tale of demise. The god's children became a plague and all that remained was bled dry by their hands. It was in this very dark hour that our Lady dawned a light. She left the Wood for the Ruined Places and stole from the hands of god, snatching children from the bowels of flame. Fate’s cruel hand left many crippled by flame or famine, diseased and broken. Those that lived became her children and our elders and this is how the remnants of men became something else. As we grew her own ways became ours. She taught us the way of the second birth and gave us our coats. Mëshuni taught us how walk among the great ones as friends, we took their silence as our own, and now in the quietest place we hear their wisdom. In the years that followed the Wood took us as its children and so we learned to walk among it as its shadows, as ghosts to the land, always haunting it but never seen.

Tonight was no different. I looked down upon the green world that lay below. My first haunt—it would be my people’s furthest. Lady chose me. Her word is law among us. So here I am on a haunt before my time. Holff isn’t pleased, but he obeys our lady without question. I followed near the back of his pack. We slipped stream and trail under a bleeding sky and walked with the mountains to their high places (among our land the heavens still give us rain). Crowns of white adorned their helms. We did not linger there, but crossed over and began the descent into the lowlands. A great space lay out before us, a vast wilderness, untamed and wild. Leagues of trees, pines and ash and the might of redwoods stood before us. Their great wealth filled a space greater than our eyes could see. Above, the heavens mourned, weeping weary tears for this forgotten land. Its trails were thin and over grown, large enough only for game. No man had set foot in these parts, not in many moons.

The fourth day down the eastern side saw us to the bottom of the mounts and to the edge of the wood. It was there we found our quarry; our hunt. The sun had begun its decent and the world beneath the wood turned to grey and shadows. Nestled in among the thinning trees of the forest at the very end of the East Road lay a quiet spruce of buildings. A small thing. There could be no more than thirty breeders, perhaps a single speaker. I watched as the sun rolled beyond the grey, inching its way to the horizon. The world turned to dusk and as it did a familiar scent filled my snout.

They had come.

They came at dusk. They always came at dusk. It was their time, their dawn. The rest of the world fell asleep and they arose from their slumber. The dying light was a strength to them, but it was in the darkness that they were truly immortal. Like shadows and nightmares the darkness was theirs, its abode their domain and with it stirred a foul hunger. In two’s and four’s their masters bid them do their labors, for no man would chance such odds, not if a thousand men at arm's were at his back, for these were not men, but gods among men and their wrath was swift and terrible. They were the the people Vêll.

From town they came collecting their tax. A terrible price, a bloody one, but the people paid it. Those who refused were bled, those who fled were flayed, and those resisted or fought were often torn limb from limb—a spectacle saved for town, many from our own pack had told us tales of watching the cruelty of their kind after they had returned from a haunt. The courage of men failed at such things and the very few that had it died with it. Their examples only served to inspire fear and so it was that courage was lost to them, but it was not so far gone that it could not be reclaimed, for this story is not mine own, but another's for he is the one who found the strength of courage and made something of it. He was the beginning of it all. It was he that started the fire and I watched him kindle the flame.

That evening the sun bled out across the horizon and a cold moon rose in its place. It's chilly light was the only light they would suffer. A strange fog crept in from the south into this low places and they came with it. The Vêll. Their stench went before them; the sweet rot of dead flesh, for they bled a cold red and were dead as the grave. They road upon the once mighty steeds of the Silverlands. Horses so fine they were bred for kings. I have heard it said that in the Time Before their silver hides had been treasured more than rubies or sapphires or even blue gold, but these were not their ancestors and their hides were far from treasure. Their tattered skin was a worn garment ruined by decay. Their flesh was a festering rot. These steeds shared in their master's disease, but unlike their owners blood was no sustenance to them and so they rot from the outside in. It was a slow death and terrible. Such were the steeds of the Vêll. Behind two of them rode a caged wagon made of worn iron.

The Vêll's evil is far more than a thirst; just their presence gnaws away at life. It is what causes their steeds to die a living death. I could feel that power at work in my bones as they drew nearer. It was a worn feeling. A kind of tiredness, but deeper. It pulled on me and I felt myself giving. My brethren had told me of this. I had seen it with mine own eyes as they returned from their hunt, a strange thing over them. Our great leader and warriors weak and weary, not even the great Hôlff (Alpha Male) was immune. Only when our lady lit the kindred flame did their strength return. Now I knew why. I could feel the Vêll's strange power at work in me, gnawing away at me. It only grew as they drew nearer.

We slipped in from the mountains and under the trees, down wind of our pale walking quarry, for Vêll’s noses were keen as ours. The village was just before us. It was the last along the eastern road. A tiny thing; perhaps thirty or thirty five breeders and one speaker. The furthest houses crept in close to the wilderness that lay beyond it. We arrived just as they were being culled. Like shadows we waited, every eye steady. Our breath tempered and ears poised. A silent breeze rolled through the meadow before us. The Hôlff's grunt was low, but we heard. We were whispers among the leaves. Silently, we moved with the breeze until it left us and there we stayed silent and still among the long grass until it joined us again. From where I lay I could see them. There were four. So many for such a small town? They were figures robbed in black and leather; hooded, but I could see their eyes. They looked like cold moons from beneath their hoods. The largest of them wore a crimson cape and it was he who spoke, "Döv Mehä."

"Speaker come," he said in the rude language of the old tongue and a man of all bone stumbled out of a hut and fell to his knees before the Vêll, "Yes, milords?"

"Bring what you owe," he said.

"Yes, milord," he said and up from the mud he rose and off to his hut. When he emerged again he had a dong in his right hand and rang it loudly with the iron wand in his other. Slowly, they emerged: the breeders. Each of them with their little ones in tow. The oldest of them could not have been more than two name days. Other breeders were swoll with their unborns. I watched as they kept coming from the huts and buildings. Thirty-seven. Thirty-nine. Forty-two. I kept counting as they came. Many came from the long building. My count ended at forty-nine. Then a straggler came out of the hut nearest the woods. She was neither swoll with child nor bearing a little one in tow. She was a painted lady. Her skin black ebony—I have known a night sky so dark as this one's skin. She hurried to her place in line among the streets. Before the Vėll, her people were slaves brought over from their western lands and bought like cattle among the wealthy, but no more. The Vėll made all stand as equals; they made all men slaves. It did not matter if they were painted or pale, only if they could breed. Each of the breeders lined up on either side of the street, everyone of their eyes cast to the ground.

The crimson cape dismounted his steed. I could see the lust in his eyes. Slowly, he walked through them prodding and poking at the little ones. When he came to a pale woman neither holding a child nor swoll with an unborn he looked to the speaker. He need not words, the speaker knew his master's question. His eyes fell to his feet and he shook his head knowing he had sealed the women's fate.

"How long?"

"She gave birth just this year," the speaker said, "but, the child was still born, milord."

"Is it her first?"

"No, milord."

"How many?"

The speaker's gaze again fell to the earth beneath his feet, "Her third, milord."

"Bring a barrel."

“Milord,” he said with a nod.

The skinny man jutted away and the woman broke. Her knees buckled and she fell into the mud. She cried and pleaded as best one might without a tongue, but the Crimson only growled. She threw her arms around his legs and sobbed mournful things. From her hair he lifted her to her feet, for a moment he only stared into her eyes. His blow was lightening. The woman's tiny frame rolled through the mud until it struck the side of the long building. When she arose she met his eyes. He pointed to where she had been standing and silently she returned, head bowed and shaking.

The Speaker returned to the street dragging a barrel as large as himself through the muddy street. He took it to the woman and placed it before her and removed its lid. The Crimson was not quick with her. He brought a wicked blade out from behind his cape. The woman pleaded and fought with her hands, but he was a Vêll and she had no power against such might. He grabbed her face until she shrieked. Slowly, he bent her head skyward. Then he put his blade in her. She wriggled and squirmed and fought--screeching--but it mattered not. The Crimson bent her over the barrel, "Drain her," he said to the speaker, "and, don't get any mud in it."

"Yes, my lord."

Fury bristled at my neck. My Hôlff still, poised. He made no stir to intervene. I sank back to the wet earth awaiting his command. My eyes returned to the Crimson as his minions came behind taking the children that could stand to their iron cage. The breeders that fought and held their little ones back were struck down, some them never moved again. The Crimson made his way to the end of the line where the painted one stood. He drew in her scent for a long moment and tasted her flesh, but did not soil it. For a moment his eyes only studied, then he spoke so the speaker could hear, "Fövn hurr?"

"Is she bred," again the Crimson spoke the old tongue.

"No, my lord, she is not," the speaker said.

"How long?"

"Two years. She will not take my lord," the speaker said.

"Has she bred before?"

"Yes, milord; but, they died sickly."

"A poor mother then," he said.

"Aye milord."

"Döv," the old language sounded like worn velvet on the Crimson's lips.

"Yes, milord."

“Bring me another barrel.”

I watched as the Speaker met the Painted One's eyes, "Yes, my lord."

The Crimson nodded his head with agreement. He touched her face, “I will not waste her blood by mixing it with the blood of a fair skin.” I watched as the Crimson studied her. She shook, but she did not cower. She was not as the other woman. She dared his eyes, "It is said among my own that your kind have a richer taste than your pale sisters."

She let silence fill the empty space between his words. When next he spoke, his voice was but a whisper, but even then my ears could hear his words, “We shall see then.”

The speaker left the woman he was holding bent over on the barrel and went to retrieve another. He was not long in retrieving it. He drug it through the mud and set it before the feet of the painted one. The Crimson wore a smirk, he bent her head skyward and drew his blade. Then something came crashing through the forest. It was wailing and screaming. I watched as another painted skin emerged from the woods. This one was not so dark as the first and he was a boy, no more than ten name days. His hide was the color of mud; a mixed child. The Vêll did not let them grow so old. They preferred younger blood. There was more life in it. The boy was running and fast and in his hand waved a burning torch. He sped through town where the painted woman stood and shoved her to the ground. The Crimson took a staggared step back from the burning torch, pain wincing in his eyes at the sudden heat. The boy stood between the woman and the Vêll lord swinging his blaze.

"No!" he said, "No!"

The boy still had his tongue!

"Döv?" The accusation rumbling from the Crimson's lips.

Now the Speaker began to shake. I could see his eyes wanting for an explanation. Who was this child? From where had he come? Why did he still have a tongue? He looked back at the Painted Woman with vehemence. He was either too dumb or too simple for a lie. His mouth moved, but no words came forth. The Crimson struck like lightening. He had the torch in his own hand, pain written in his face from the burning light—even more than sunlight the Vêll hate the lick of flames. "Dôv," he said commanding once again the Speaker's attention, he immediately took the torch from his master. The pain written in Crimson's face ebbed away as the torch left his hand. His eyes fell upon the boy. The child's knees began to knock, but he didn't move; he held his ground between the Crimson and what was obviously his mother. I could smell his fear from where I lay. The Crimson was drunk with it. The boy watched the menace become a monster. I looked to my Holf, but he did not move. He gave no command.

"Brüdahn mehä (Brothers come)," the Crimson said.

All three joined the Crimson. He pointed at the boy, "Esh undä (His tongue)."

The painted woman tried to protest. She shook her head and made noises, but one of them took her by the arms and forced her to her knees. His iron grip held her face so that she would watch. The other two held her boy while the Crimson pulled out his blade. He clasped the child's mouth. The boy grunted and whined as he struggled to pull his face free. His strength was nothing to them. The boy kicked and screamed as the Crimson took his tongue. He cried a child's cry when it was done, blood spilling from his lips. The Crimson waved the boy's tongue in his mother's face. He grinned and she spit, then he put the child’s tongue in his mouth and began to chew. The Painted Woman screeched and lunged forward at the Crimson, but he took her by the throat and raised her from the ground.

He spoke to the rest of the breeders now in the language they knew, "A bitch is meant to breed, nothing else. If she bites her master hand she is of no use to him. Do you understand?" The breeders nodded their reply. He set the Painted Woman back on her feet. She looked at him and he combed her hair with his hand and with his final stroke he pulled her head back, “I will not give you the blade, you deserve a worse fate,” he said as talons began to grow from his fingers, “Make the child watch.” With his talons he slit her throat. The woman's strength failed, but the Crimson held her where she was as she kicked and squirmed and pawed at his face. He set his lips to the bubbling brooke at her neck and drank deep. The boy's cries took on a shrill note as he watched as his mother was bled dry. When the Crimson was done with her, he let her body fall to the ground, "Finish the gathering my brothers."

They left the boy and went to collect the rest of the little ones and put them in the iron cage. The Painted Boy crawled over to his mother and took her head in his arms and spoke red words. When the Vûlk were finished they joined the Crimson. "What of this one?" The shortest of them said pointing at the Painted Boy.

"He is still young, there is life left in his blood," another said

"He is well past the sweet years," said driver of the iron cage.

"He is a lesson," said the Crimson, "Döv!"

"Yes, milord," he said as he approached.

"The torch."

"My lord?"

"Give me the torch!" the Crimson roared. The Speaker gave him the burning torch. I watched as pain returned to the his face, “Bring me nails and a mallet.” The Speaker bowed and went scuttling off to his hut and tripping up the steps. He returned with a handful of nails and a wooden mallet.

“Nail the boy to your dwelling,” said the Crimson.

“My lord?” questioned the Speaker, but the Crimson’s eyes spoke without words and the Speaker dipped his head, “Aye, my lord.”

The Speaker approached the child. He was still weeping. He had not stopped. Tears, blood, and snot dripped from his face onto his mother’s. His voice—a child’s voice–was raw and pleading. The Speaker took a handful of boy’s hair and hoisted him away from his mother. He clawed and fought in protest, clinging to his mother. Then mallet struck him sore; up and down it went until the fight left the child. The boy lay still in the mud, bleeding and weeping. Then Speaker drug him by his hair through the muddy street up the stairs to his hut. The Speaker took the boys hand and stretched it wide. Whether out of fear or exhaustion the boy did not struggle, but his tiny voice grew shrill once again as the speaker drove nails through his little hands.

I could bare it no longer. Fury kindled like a mad flame and I rose from where I lay. My feet drew me on. I would stop this. I longed for blood, to tear these fell ones limb from limb. Let my teeth grind their bones and rend their flesh. I crept through the long grass to the edge of the town. I felt the Hôlff. He spoke, but ours was a different language. It need not words, for it said what words could not. Then he was there, in front of me, teeth bared. I could feel the power of his command shutter through me. I dropped in sudden obedience. I could feel his anger; his wrath. A cold tendril of fear that slithered down my spine. Our lady had sent us, but we were not to be seen, never seen–not by them. We were ghosts and we were to remain that way. His eyes remained on me and I could sense their warning.

The child’s cries stole our gaze. The Speaker had nailed his other hand to the wall. He finished and returned to his master.

“Do you have more nails,” the Crimson said to the speaker without looking at him.

Yes, my lord,” he said pulling them from his pocket.

“Good,” the Crimson said as he grabbed the Speaker by the back of the neck. The force of his hand bent the Speaker over. He walked the Speaker over to his hut like that.

“Give me a nail.”

“My lord, but I–I…” his voice stammered and squirmed, “I have served you as long as I have lived… I have always… always… I…”

“You have failed.” The Crimson took his hand and placed it against the wall.

“Please! No, no, no, no, no…” the speaker squealed, his voice sounding surprisingly like a child’s, “Please not me, please not me… I have always served you… please, please, please!”

The Crimson stopped and looked at his Speaker, “It is your wish to serve me…”

“Yes, oh yes, master please, I live to serve. I only live to serve. Let me serve you… please.”

“I will let you serve me.”

His eyes grew wide, his words all fumbled out at once, “Thank you milord. Thank you gracious one. I will not fail you again.”

“You will serve me again. You're service will be a lesson to all of them. Give me a nail with your other hand, Dov.”

The Speaker’s face crumbled into tears.
 “PLEASE!” he kept saying shaking his head.

The Crimson ripped the Speaker’s pocket and took the nail himself. The Speaker soiled himself as Crimson placed the nail in his palm. Then with the might of his kind he drove the nail through the man’s hands and into the wood behind with no more than a finger. The Speaker wailed like a stuck pig. When he finished with the Speaker’s hand the Crimson put one in the man’s wrist and another in the meat of his arm. Then he did the other arm like the first. The Speaker squealed and cried more than the boy next to him.

“Bring me the flame,” said the Crimson. The driver brought him the torch. The Crimson turned to the boy, “You challenged me with fire and now it will be your own end.”

He tossed the flame at the boy’s feet. The child tried to stamp it out in fear, but the fire clung to him. Then it took him whole and for what seemed an eternity the child screamed. His wails a torment. Then the fire caught the Speaker. He cried out even more, pleading for mercies.

“I have none,” said the Crimson, “This should be the end of you all,” he said turning to address the rest of the women, “How long has this boy hid among you.” The Speaker’s voice raised to a fever’s pitch behind him. The little boy wailed in agony. “Know this, here is the price for hiding your children,” he said pointing at the ruined body of the painted lady, then to her son who was now engulfed in flame. His body no longer writhed, but hung still where it had been nailed, “I will draw from you until you are as dry as straw, I will burn the flesh from your little one's bones. Do not make this mistake again.”

He turned and walked to his steed, when he mounted it he spoke his final words, "I will return with a new Speaker... if there is any missing among you when return I will hunt them, I will find them, and I will return them… and, when I do I shall not spare a single one of you. I will drink from everyone of you until I am drunk with your blood. Do you understand?”

They all nodded in one accord. The Speaker's hut was engulfed with flame. His voice was heard high above the roaring blaze, it was shrill and pointed and filled with agony, but as I listened it was only his voice that I heard. The Painted Boy was silent; he made no sound as he died. Then as the hut burnt to the ground the rest of Vêll mounted their steeds and caged, iron wagon filled with crying babies and crawlers and faded back into the fog from which they had come.

Then rain came. This is as far south as it comes.

It poured a cold, hard thing that night. We lay there beneath the heaven's lament and still our Hôlff made no move. I let the water wash over me. Its cold fingers dripping through my coat, perhaps it would wash the anger from my soul. There had been four, no more. We a pack, our numbers plenty and yet we made no move. Women died. Their children were on their way to their own deaths... and still here we lay under the grey rain. Every drop that fell was a sorrow that burdened my soul. Thunder roared in judgement of us. We laid there all night, never a move, never a noise. It wasn't until the sun crept into a veiled sky and the Speaker's hut was nothing more than ash that our Hôlff gave us command.

We moved in from all sides, slipping into the town like morning shadows. It was Ådef and Mwearin that went into the buildings. Sheep flee the sight of wolves and these were no different. The breeders scattered as they poured from their building. Their cries were shrill and fear-filled as they ran into morning mist. Wherever they went our pack rounded them back, drawing them into the town center. There we hearded them as they bayed like yews in hysteria, each in fear of their lives. Fear is a poignant thing, a delicacy among my kind and here there was enough for us all to feast. Some of the breeders cried, other wailed, some fell to their knees, a few soiled themselves, but none knew why we were there.

Our Hôlff–the great, black wolf–crept out from the midst of us. He was as large as the one of the Silverlands, his coat another shade of obsidian. He emerged from our pack and the sheep fell silent. Their fear had found its precipice; a distinct smell, one that crowns all others, it is often mixed with the scent of empty bowls; it is the scent of those who fear death. Our Hôlff walked about them, circling them. Then he dropped his coat and walked as a man. Fear became wonder as he emerged from out of his black fur. His naked body wet and slick as a newborn's. A menacing figure in his coat, he was also fearsome without it. He stood a head taller than the tallest of men. He spoke as a man in the language the breeders knew.

"We have come to save you," he said, his voice harsh and broken. Their faces still watched him in unbelief, uncertain of his words and unsure of his intentions, "follow us and we will take you far from this land, to a place where you can keep your little ones and your little ones may keep their tongues and you can live without fear of the Vêll…” he looked around staring into fear and wonder, “but we must leave now to insure they do not follow us."

No one moved. They just stood there watching. Each of them silent.

"We are not going to hurt you," the Hôlff said.

Then one of them moved, she came forward, but did not face the Hôlff, but her own. Her hands moved and her fingers wrote in the air, but all the women watched with understanding. Many of the people we saved spoke with their fingers, many had their own signs and this was no different. Her fingers wrote things we did not know, but her last sign we all understood. She pointed at us and then turned her fingers into fangs and pulled them across her neck. She pointed to the pack again and shook her head.

The Holff let out a feral growl, he had their attention once again, "If we were going to harm you we'd kill you here and now, we need no reason to take you any further. Our Lady has sent us from the West to take you away from this place, to take you to a safe place. We are going to leave now. If you want to live, follow us. If not, stay and die and give your children to the beasts."

Our Hôlff picked up his coat from the ground, "Grab what you need, we will leave before the sun climbs to the sky."

For a moment no one moved, but it only took one of them shuffling off to a hut for the rest to follow. They were ready in minutes. None had too much to carry. Then they were there waiting on us. One of them turned round and ran to the smoking remains of the Speaker's hut. She stood at its edge, tears dripping from her cheeks. Her eyes wanting, then they steadied, she found him. The Speaker’s chard bones were spread wide where they had been nailed. There was little left other than ash and bone. For a breath the women just stood there. Staring. Then she wept. Others joined her and when her tears had finished she spat upon those ruined remains and turned round. She stopped where the painted woman lay in the mud. She kissed two fingers and set them on the dead woman’s brow. When she rose the others followed her lead, kissing their dead sister’s brows. When they had finished they joined the Hôlff.

My Hôlff sent me to gather those that lingered at the Speaker’s hut. His command raw and potent; his wrath had not left him and I could feel it burning in every emotion as our mind’s touched. I would be punished when I returned. I had failed my hunt. I followed his command and nudged the remaining women away from the ashes of the Speaker's home. I saw his chard bones spread wide where they had been nailed. Bone and ash, what little meat remained ruined by the flame. What remained of the boy was black as coal, burnt timber and eves covered most of his body. I made to join the pack, but a strange kindling awoke on my inside. It was a kind of drawing and it tugged at me. I pulled around. The feeling was wanting. Then as my eyes followed its path I saw what I could not believe: the painted boy.

He stood in the ruined wealth of the Speaker’s hut. His naked body smoked and his knees wobbled. From somewhere behind me a woman screeched as she beheld the same sight. The next moment my Hôlff was at my side. My other brothers joined me in my wonder. Not one of us moved. The boy’s trembling legs carried him to where his mother lay in the muddy street. We watched as he took her in his arms. His mouth moved but there were no words, there were no sounds, there was only a silent sorrow. He clutched her body to his own and bound her tightly. Then the tears came. They child wept for his mother. Silent words and the power of agony, all of it filled his every expression. His tears spilled like rain and as they fell from his face to his mother’s cheeks they caught light and a fire kindled. Smoke rose from the child’s hands where he clutched his mother to himself. Then in a breath the woman’s body burst into flame.

Our Hôlff watched on in wonder and the women in fear. When the boy opened his eyes and saw his mother writhed in the flame he screeched and fell backwards. I could see he didn’t understand. Could it be he was like our Lady? What power was at work in him? He sat back on his haunches and stared at his glowing palms and then to his mother. I could see fear and anger in equal measures written plain as they be upon the child’s face. For a long space the child only sat and watched as the fire ate away at his mother’s flesh and when it had finished and all that remained was charred and smoking the boy bowed his face low to the earth and let loose his agony. Then when he had finished he found his feet and raised his gaze and it was then that our eyes met. He had not the eyes of a man, for they burned with a living flame and they were a light. For a long moment he only held my gaze, then he turned round wearing defeat as his only garment and walked down the road the way the Vêll had come.

My Hôlff went after him. He rounded the boy and dropped his coat. He spoke his words to the child, but the child refused and pointed down the road. Then the Hôlff tried to pick the boy up, but the child set his hands upon the Hôlff’s face. The Hôlff yelped like a whelp and dropped the boy, smoke rising from had seared his face. My brothers and I joined our Hôlff. He took his coat from the earth and wore it again. We could sense his words within us. They were filled with anger and pain and he pressed them into the mind of the boy. The child turned back round, his eyes seething with liquid flame, and for a moment I thought he would kindle us all. We all took a dismissive step backwards in the face of such furious power, even our Hôlff, but then our eyes met once again; mine and his and for a moment there was peace between us. I knew at once his pain as mine own. I could feel its raw blade within me whittling away at my being. The child broke his gaze and stared down the road. He pointed down its length. I knew what he meant to do and I knew I was meant to do it with him.

My Hôlff commanded me to turn round, to join my pack, but I could not. My Hôlff’s words were war. I defied him. There is no going back. I am no longer one of them. He would have had my coat and slain me for my disobedience if it had not been for the boy—the child with fire in him. I am drawn to him. I understand now the moth. Whether it was chance or providence I cannot say. I only know that I must walk him wherever goes. I am his now and he is mine. A pack of two.