Under my lead, the pack slowly descended into the Sea Wolfstags’ den. It was surprisingly dry, the ground was firm beneath our feet, and the air was clear of the omnipresent mists outside of the den. As we descended further, even with all our senses prepared, there was no sign of life.

The den was inherently different from a keelish den–the passageways wider and shorter, the ground more carefully smoothed, and the slopes gentler. Looking back on it, the Thunder Wolfstag den we had destroyed those months ago was similar in design to this one, only many times larger. I could only assume that it was due to the greater scarcity of prey that had led to a lower predatory population, and it lit a fire for physical progress toward a new, more plentiful area that could support the swarm’s massive demands for prey consumption.

Finally, we arrived at what was the deepest part of the den, and faint whimpers could be heard from the end of the tunnel, just ahead. I raised my hand and the pack slowed their advance and followed me.

With only violence as my intent, I whirled around the corner, and saw a litter of pups, eight little wolfstags. Looking at them, they were barely beginning the weaning process, maybe three weeks old. One stumbled towards me, its squat body uncoordinated but mobile. It plopped in front of me and whined. No fear colored its face, only hunger and confusion. Again, it whined, and I reached down and picked it up with my free right hand. It struggled initially and nipped at my fingers before I adjusted my positioning and held it more comfortably. Then, it settled down and snuggled into my arm, still occasionally crying piteously.

“Hush, I’ll feed you soon.” I tried to speak gently, but the hissing, shrieking keelish tongue startled the small cub and it curled into itself. I sighed and gently rocked it, and it calmed itself slightly as I did so. Eating the things wouldn’t be worth it, just a couple of bites without any real benefit, but they’d die if left alone. They couldn’t understand our language, but I knew from Soul Contracts I’d seen between wolfstags and people that the wolfstags were capable of understanding speech. An idea flashed.

“Whoever is the quickest among you, go fetch the Gamma and bring her here with small, easily digestible pieces of meat. I have something for her to try out.”

…

It was about half an hour before Sybil came down the den with an armload of strips of meat. By then, the pups had gotten used to my presence and were well and truly whining incessantly, begging for food. They meandered back and forth, but never left the small room where they had been left until they scented the meat Sybil had brought for them. At that point, they gathered under her, pawing at her legs and piteously begging to be fed.

“... Alpha… What is this?”

“Wolfstag babies.”

“And what do you want me to do with them?”

“Well, feed them for now.”

“Why? Supplies are low.”

“Long story short, I wonder if the continuous usage of your magic would allow them to communicate with us and serve as hunting hounds for us. Feeding them would be the first step in ensuring their loyalty.”

“... I can see how that would work. How are we to raise them when we are struggling to feed ourselves?”

“Press on. In one day’s hard journey we should come back into a jungle that will provide a greater bounty of prey, and we have enough stores to make it that far at least.”

“Very well. I will attempt to do as you ask.”

I grinned over at Sybil as she sighed and began speaking softly to the pups as she distributed the small strips of meat.

[Mualtir POV]

Mualtir had been stationed as the High Colonel of the Thnufir River’s barricade for nearly a decade now. She was respected by her soldiers, and had proven herself through her battles spent alongside them, the permanent limp in her left leg testified of that. As Mualtir slowly walked the length of her office’s balcony overlooking the Thnufir, the ache in her thigh intensified. It always did when a windword was nearing. Something to do with the air pressure, she was told, but as she looked on, waiting for the disembodied voice to approach her, the memory of the old wound struck.

A Sunkindred scout had snuck over the river and was attempting to make his way into the Veratocracy’s lush jungles from the frostbitten southern lands when she’d found him. He’d been quick to use their traditional weapon, the stone-headed hatchet, and had thrown it with such alacrity that it had buried itself deeply in her thigh before she’d been able to react. Even then she’d been an accomplished Windspeaker, and had sent a blast of wind into his chest, knocking him flat before she’d pressed the attack. He’d been small for a Sunkindred, only a bit taller than she was, but retained the bulk of his kind. Looking down, the scout realized he wasn’t about to get his weapon back, sighed, and had bolted away.

Looking into her office, Mualtir saw the hatchet set on her desk. She used it as a paperweight these days, but it was an impressive work, beautiful and functional. Sharpening it was a work so tedious even the Gran Verat’s Synod would rather engage in another one of their foolish debates on how best to whatever the whatever they cared about these days. Mualtir didn’t miss Viertaal and the politicking necessary to survive in the capital. Instead, she controlled this 58.3 mile stretch of river and protected those found on her side from the incursions of the Sunkindred barbarians.

“Maybe I’m getting old for this.” She mused aloud. “Getting lost in thought like this… Lieutenant me would be all over my ass about this.” Mualtir chuckled as the discomfort in her knee grew, and finally the windword began to sound in her ear.

“High Lieutenant, my name is Yoharr, an’ I’m leading a hunt of keelish but… I don’t think we’re good enough to deal with these…”

The man’s voice detailed the experience that he and his militia had experienced, and the more she heard, the more Mualtir stood straight.

“... so, we don’t think we’re ready for this kinda fight. We just wanted to pass this message to you and then, hopefully, go home.”

The whispering of the windword died down, and Mualtir immediately began composing her own.

“Thank you, Yoharr. This is High Colonel di’Thnufir speaking. Hold your position, as I and several other of my High Speakers will be joining you soon. Before long, we will be on the trail of these keelish and will wipe them out ourselves.”