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Darwin's Legacy

Chapter 9 -The End of Summer

The last weeks of Dylan and Roark's summer were spent travelling, but not in the way that they had intended. The detour began when a fight in a village pub was interrupted by a drunken beagle.

"What did you just say?" The beagle demanded as he held the hunchbacked Dylan in a death grip and breathed a toxic mixture of old beer and fresh vomit into the wolf's face.

Dylan had to stop and think back over the conversation that led up to the challenge from the big doberman that was standing behind him. The canine had been talking about how the beer hound had seduced a feline princess of some sort but she had become pregnant and that was proof of her infidelity. He had retorted that she had not necessarily been unfaithful, as he and his companions, the big grey wolf Roark and the one-eyed fox Dead Eye, had witnessed the birth of a half-feline half fox child just a few weeks before. And the last thing I said before the beagle grabbed me from behind was ...

"You could be the father." He completed the thought out loud.

To his surprise the dog released him and collapsed to his knees weeping.

"I knew it. I knew it." He cried between sobs. "Oh, why didn't I have more faith in you Snowdrop?"

"Could someone explain what is going on?" Dead-Eye asked, confused.

"Yes, someone better explain what is going on." A new voice demanded. Dylan looked over his massive shoulder and saw a large canine standing in the doorway. From his age and size Dylan supposed that he was one of the chief guard's deputies. He entered the pub, followed by two other dogs with clubs. The doberman who had been telling the story of the love-struck beagle stepped over to where they stood and began talking fast.

"Shut your gob, Crusher." The guard ordered as he glared at his subordinate. "You were supposed to on duty in the square not drinking in the pub ... again. Maybe it's time we reassigned the street sweeping duties, eh?"

Crusher cringed in the face of his superior's anger, but he glowered at the wolves, as if to let them know that he blamed them for his situation.

Roark assumed a respectful stance and explained to the deputy that he and his friends had come in for a meal and a drink.

"This fellow, Crusher, came in to check on us and was just relating a story when this other chap," he indicated the beagle, who had gotten off his knees but was still sobbing softly into his paws, "began crying. Apparently the story reminded him of some depressing episode. I'm sure that he will be fine once we get him out into the fresh air. Other than that, nothing unusual has happened."

The deputy gave Roark a long hard look but did not challenge his version of events.

"Yes. Take young Darwin out for a stroll to the end of town and see if the cold night air can sober him up; and when you are done you can continue walking. I don't want to find you three here in the village come dawn. Do you understand?"

Roark's anger boiled up, but years of acting as his pack's Ro-Ack allowed him to suppress it enough that it did not show on his face. Behind him he could sense Dylan and Dead Eye shifting their feet and tensing to leap, but they were waiting for his lead. He was as large and as heavy as the deputy, but with his recent combat experience he knew that he could easily rip the snout off the big dog before the small town guardian could react. His hunchbacked companion and the old fox would take the two with the clubs just as easily. The problem was the twenty or so other canines ranged behind them, some of which were already hostile towards the two wolves and their fox companion. Roark dipped his head in submission and answered the deputy in an even tone.

"I understand. We just need to pay up before we go. We owe the pub keeper for three meals and two jugs of beer."

"You promised a round for the house too!" The big doberman who had caused the ruckus injected from behind the deputy."

"Shut up, Crusher." The deputy said impatiently. "I will deal with you back at the guardhouse."

Most of the crowd wandered off after the prospect of a brawl had dissipated, but the deputy and his two assistants stayed to make sure there no more trouble until the three travellers and the inebriated beagle made it out of the tavern. Dylan asked the small hound where he lived and they headed off in the direction that he indicated, the beagle in the lead, weaving from one side of the road to the other.

They had not gone a hundred feet when a whistle from a nearby alley brought them up short. Suspecting a group of angry canines Roark, Dylan and Dead Eye immediately took fighting stances with their paws on the hilts of their daggers. The dog that the deputy had called Darwin spun around also, but kept spinning until he fell over on his back. He emitted a loud belch and lay still.

"Psst. Over here." A voice called from the mouth of the alley. When the three strangers did not move the owner of the voice stepped out into the light cast by the full moon. Roark saw an older beagle, and noted that there was some resemblance between it and the younger one laying in a stupor behind him.

"I'm the boy's uncle." The older dog declared. "I'm alone."

"You're welcome to him." Roark indicated the nephew with a sweep of his paw." The sooner we ware rid of the little sot and away from this village the better, he thought. But the dog's uncle did not move to take possession of his kin.

"I heard about what happened in the pub." He said from the alley. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is it true that you saw the offspring of a fox and a feline?"

"Yes." Dylan answered from behind Roark. "It's true. We all saw it."

"Then I can't let you leave, not before Darwin is awake and has his wits about him. Come with me. I'll take you somewhere safe where the guard won't find you. You can rest while Darwin sleeps it off and have a proper breakfast, better than the cheapskate publican would serve you, if you had been allowed to stay."

The prospect of a night indoors and a home cooked meal was enough to overcome any lingering doubts, so they picked up the floppy pup, one to a limb, and with his long ears dragging in the dirt behind them they trotted off to a farmhouse outside of the village limits.

The older beagle introduced himself as Mordicai, the head tracker for the village. The house belonged to a female shepherd friend of his.

"My Mary has been gone neigh on five years now." He explained as they approached the farm. "Taken by the mange, just as Darwin's father and mother were. That was a bad year for the canines of the valley. Queenie's mate was taken too, and we have kind of just kept each other company since then." He tilted his snout to the farmhouse. "The more pious among the village frown on interbreed relations, and our questionable mating status, but I'm too old to care what they think." He mumbled. "One day I'll hang up my tracking boots and the two of us will move into a cabin in the south-western hills, where there is no one to bother us."

"Do not count on it." Dead Eye said under his breath. Dylan gave him a questioning glance but their arrival at the door of the farmhouse prevented him from inquiring further.

The shepherd was happy to see Mordicai when she answered his knock, but less than thrilled to see that he was accompanied by his drunken nephew, a fox and two wolves, one of which was bent and misshapen. Before she could object Mordicai hustled them into the kitchen and took her to the next room to explain. Roark and Dylan sat the younger beagle in one of the chairs and he immediately slumped across the table top. The three travellers stood around as Mordicai's and Queenie's voices rose and fell in the other room.

"Leave him here and follow me." Mordicai said when he came back into the kitchen alone. He lit a candle from the one already burning in the kitchen and led them down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. He opened a door at the top of the landing and showed them a room with a large bed and some other pieces of furniture.

"This was Queenie and her mate's room when he was alive." He commented. "She uses a room on the ground floor now. Bad hips." He explained. "Sorry, but there is only room for two in the bed, but there is a spare down quilt under the bed that will make a comfortable enough nest for the third I'll wager. With that he left them to take care of his nephew.

Dead Eye conceded the bed to the two wolves, who had never slept in anything so fine in their lives. After a few whispered exchanges about the risk they were taking by staying so close to the village and the strange case of the young beagle they fell into a deep and restful sleep.

The next morning they awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon, two luxuries they seldom saw back in the den. The smell overcame any shyness on their part and they trampled down the stairs to the kitchen as soon as they pulled on their trousers. They were met by a stern-faced Queenie who was dressed in a housecoat and apron and was brandishing a long-handled cooking fork in one paw.

"Outside with you three." She exclaimed. "After a night in the pub your bladders will be full to bursting. The privy is on the right and the washbasin is on the left. Wash your paws AFTER you are done, and your faces too. You don't eat until you are clean. Now get!" Dylan received a poke in the left buttock for moving too slowly.

They were back in the kitchen five minutes later with paws and jaws dripping water because they were not sure if the towels beside the basin were meant for them; they looked too fancy for actual use. Queenie sighed in exasperation and threw them some dish rags to use. Then she ordered them to sit at a table that was laden with bowls of scrambled eggs, platters of crisp bacon, plates of baked beans and buckets of biscuits. The three just sat there, staring at the food and drooling. Their hostess added a fresh pot of coffee to the mix and demanded: "Eat!" They needed no further incentive.

Roark and Dylan had not eaten like this since Ang-Ro's feast marking the creation of the wolf alliance early in the year. Their hardy appetites seemed to please the lady shepherd. Dead Eye was eating like he never see a hot meal again too, although he was also stealing glances at the farm's owner when he thought she wasn't looking.

"I have always had a soft spot for shepherds." He confided when she left the room to fetch more biscuits from the pantry. "With their narrow snouts and dark markings, they are almost like vixens." He fell silent as she reappeared, t tray of food held up above her considerable bosom. "But bigger." Dead Eye added under his breath.

Just then they were joined by Mordicai and Darwin. Mordicai looked tired, probably from spending the night watching over his nephew, Roark supposed. The younger beagle looked like he had been fighting a bear, but he was clean, and despite the redness of his eyes his gaze was steady as he apologized for getting them into trouble the night before.

"It was not your fault." Dylan told him as the two beagles joined them at the table. "It was that thug Crusher. We were all fine until he decided to make sport of your predicament. If the deputy had not showed up I would have fed him his tail, if he had one that is." The doberman had the cropped ears and tail of a brawler, he recalled.

"Your uncle wanted us to talk to you before we left." Roark continued. "If half of what Crusher was saying was true then you will want to hear about the child of our caravan leader, the fox Silver Tip, and his mate the feline Aster." Trying not to dwell on the details of the majestic Aster, who he was stricken with, he told the canines about the trials of the fox and his pregnant mate.

"Everyone doubted that he was the father, right up until the end, when he showed the baby to his clan." He concluded.

"He risked his position, his friends and even the lives of his sons, but he stuck by her." Darwin said, anguish evident in his voice. "And what have I done for my Snowdrop? Tried to drink myself to death." The comparison brought tears to his big brown eyes.

"He was a respected leader and fighter with many years of experience in trying times." Dylan consoled him. "Not a pup freshly weaned and new to love." Like us, he added to himself. "I'm sure he made a mistake or two when he was our age." That brought a guffaw from Dead Eye, but the fox quickly composed himself and Dylan continued. "Tell us your story, Darwin. I want to hear it."

Darwin related the story of how he had met and fallen in love with Snowdrop. The three travelers and even Mordicai and Queenie listened in wrapt silence. It was the first time that Darwin had recounted the full tale to anyone, and his mixed emotions showed clearly in his voice. He did not eat much, his stomach was still tender from weeks of heavy drinking, but he downed cup after cup of coffee in the pauses where he stopped to gather his thoughts. He stopped at the point where he had been dragged away from the grove where they had consummated their love that last fateful day.

"You heard the rest from Crusher." Darwin said sadly. "Snowdrop was sold to a fox named Patch, who has been travelling the valley putting her on display."

"Patch? Did you say Patch?" Dead Eye spoke for the first time that morning.

"Yes." Darwin answered, looking suspiciously at the older fox's eye patch. "I don't believe that we have been introduced."

"Dead Eye." He extended a paw, which was ignored at first. "Patch got his name from the bald patch on his forehead where a young warrior nicked him with an axe. A stupid and greedy trader Patch is, but sly all the same. This show he has been putting on sounds like something he would come up with. Do not worry lad, as long as he is making money off of her he will protect her as if she was made of gold. But, Crusher said that she was some months pregnant? How long can he go on displaying her in that condition?"

"That is the problem." Mordicai answered for his nephew, who had started sobbing quietly into his paws again. "He is playing the pregnancy up as some kind of miracle between the species, but everyone, including this Patch fellow, believes that the real father must be one of her warrior compatriots. A fox that passed through here last week had worked for Patch until they had a falling out. He said that Patch intended to sell her to the ruler of some southern kingdom who has been looking for a fertile bride. Before the birth of course. No one has ever heard of such a kingdom, and he never did say what species this king was. Probably just another tale to draw the rubes into his show.

Roark had never heard of a southern kingdom either, even though Dead Eye and Silver tip had described much of the known world for them. But based on Dead Eye's reaction to the older beagles comments he did not doubt its existence.

The old fox was visibly upset. He was toying with one of the pouches that held his prize possessions, the testicles and other body parts of his enemies, and frowning as he sat on the edge of his seat. He was eager to speak.

"Did the fox say 'a king' or 'The King'?" He asked Mordicai.

"Now that you mention it, it was 'The King', like a name not just a position."

The fox's frown deepened.

"This is bad news." He pronounced. "Darwin, now that you know about Silver Tip and Aster, what do you intend to do?"

"I ... I have to go after her." The beagle raised his head and wiped his teary eyes. "But ... but how?"

"You are a tracker, are you not?" Dead Eye said, giving the dog a look that summed up his opinion of the younger generation; it was a poor one. "Head south and follow the rumours until you catch her scent, or his more likely. You need to find her before he gets to the King."

"By himself?" Mordicai asked incredulously.

"No." Dylan interrupted. "We'll go with him. Won't we?" He said looking at Roark and the fox. Roark nodded in agreement, it sounded like a fine adventure, and if he could not have the feline he had fallen in love with he could at least reunite this pathetic beagle with his. But Dead Eye was shaking his head sadly.

"I would love to go with you and pull a fast one on Patch." He said rubbing his empty eye socket. "The fight where I lost this was the result of one of his hair-brained schemes. We parted ways after that. He took over the family caravan and I went to work for Silver Tip. But I can still help you track him, with this." Dead Eye took the pouch he had been toying with off his belt and opened it. He drew forth a chunk of fur with the skin still attached. "Voila, Patch's patch. I bought it off a warrior named White Owl to remind me of trouble Patch has caused me through the years."

"It is probably too old to be any use." Mordicai said, eyeing the scalp with some disgust.

"Not if he is still using the same greasy styling gel in his fur, which I am sure the vain bastard still does." Dead Eye said with a toothy grin. "Check the leaves on the trees near the campsites you find, he likes to wipe his paws on them after applying the gel."

"You seem to know this Patch very well." Roark noted.

"I should, he is my brother." The fox snickered. "Say hello to our mama for me when you catch up to them."

* * * * * * * * *

With provisions that uncle Mordicai had secured on their behalf and another of Queenie's excellent breakfasts warming their bellies four travelers set off from Darwin's village the morning after hearing his tale. Three of them, the young beagle and the two wolves, went south, while Dead Eye turned north and west, on a mission he refused to discuss with the others. But he wished them well, and re-emphasized that they should make all efforts to intercept Patch before he crossed the pass in the southern mountains.

Despite losing their fox companion and his knowledge of the route, the three made good time. They used a variation on the story that they had prepared when they were traveling with Dead Eye. Darwin's story was that he was the only nephew of a rich but childless uncle who doted on him. The uncle had sent him out to learn something of the world before bringing him into the family business. Roark and Dylan were pretending to be two wolves that the uncle hired away from a fox caravan to protect his precious nephew. His fellow canines welcomed the traveling beagle into their homes, although they were less than enthusiastic about including the wolves. Even the ones that tried to act like it didn't bother them said things like: "Will your wolves be sleeping on the floor of your room or out in the yard?"

They sweetened the story to play on the canine xenophobia by adding that, as a rite of passage, Darwin was supposed to track down a certain fox, a caravan leader named Patch who owed his uncle a considerable debt. The canine citizens were more than willing to help him on his quest, especially since many of them had similar experiences, mostly with the same fox. Although the elusive Patch had not been seen in most of the towns and villages they visited they knew that he was headed south, and the locals were usually able to set them on the proper route after a good rest and a hearty meal. But there were many days where they had to hunt for their supper and sleep out under the stars.

Inevitably, they were sidetracked by rumours or old news, and they criss-crossed the river valley several times in pursuit of false sightings. Although Darwin was anxious to catch up the delay did not bother Roark so much. He had noted how little the average dog knew about warfare or field craft and he was determined to educate the small beagle in the time they had available. He solicited Dylan's assistance.

Roark concentrated on field craft and communication skills. Darwin had a good basis in the first, having been trained as a tracker, but the wolf's knowledge of living outdoors was far beyond his because trackers rarely stayed out more than one night. As for the second, the beagle was particularly lacking in body language skills, reading others or controlling his own. Roark suspected that once they found the right caravan that they might have to talk their way inside and he did not want Darwin to give away the game prematurely.

Dylan took over the dog's weapon training and also taught him how to fight without any. Darwin was already a fair shoot with a crossbow, he discovered, but had no real training or experience in fighting. Having survived being set upon by larger wolves when he was still small, weak and unable to run away Dylan knew a trick or two for close-in combat. Most dogs, Darwin included, would consider his tactics "dirty fighting", and he had to remind the unworldly canine that they were not preparing for the weekly pub brawl but for a life-or-death battle for the freedom of his love, Snowdrop.

At night Dylan entertained them with stories he translated on the fly from wolf lore. He stuck to the comical tales that he preferred, and they helped to lift the spirits of the weary travellers. Roark told the more somber tales when the occasion required, his deep voice was better suited for them. But the more he told the more involved he became with the telling, and before long he was putting as much animation into them as Dylan. Darwin enjoyed both styles, and he was delighted by the wolfs' performances, often telling Roark that he could be a storyteller if the caravans did not need him as a guard.

"I wish that I could be a storyteller." Darwin sighed one night. "But we don't have them in our villages."

"You don't?" Dylan asked, surprised. "The felines do, or at least, they have something similar."

"Yes. Their priestesses hold the lore and recount it. Snowdrop used to tell me stories of ancient times from the feline perspective." The beagle sighed again and looked down, remembering why they were here had brought back his depression. "Canines have teachers and historians. But they never tell the stories in a humorous way. That is left to the tavern singers and common folk, when the elders are not around."

"Maybe if you became a historian you could tell the stories that you like, the way you like." Roark suggested.

"Not in my village, or any other I'll wager. Especially not with a feline sharing my house. I would be shunned, lucky to get work as a street sweeper."

"Have you given any thought to how you two will live once we find her?" Dylan asked, trying to remain positive about the chances of a successful rescue.

"Some." Darwin admitted. "We can't go to my home and her folk are sure to reject us too. The only alternative is for us to move into the mountains and start a farm, although neither one of us are farmers. Snowdrop can weave and I can carve a bit but neither of us is good enough to make things that would be of any value." His brow furrowed as he contemplated the harsh realities of life without his family or friends or any viable skills.

"I'm sure something will come up." Dylan put a friendly paw on the dog's shoulder but Darwin shrugged it off and got up to head for his bedroll.

"If you think of anything I would appreciate if you let me know." He said as he lay down and turned his back to the dying fire.

* * * * * * * *

The further south they went the warmer it became, even though autumn was coming on. The ground began to rise and it became drier. Eventually they left the big river and the canine villages behind. Roark could see mountains to the east and the west, and the two were gradually closing in on them. There was just the occasional homestead, and the locals were highly suspicious of the three strangers, but Darwin had some success questioning them. They directed them to a spot where the fox caravans always set up and waited for the folk to come to them at the time of the autumn equinox, a date that had passed less than a week earlier.

The campsite was a green oasis in the middle of an arid plain, in sight of the gap that stood where the eastern and western arms of the mountain range met. There was a spring that fed a small creek, the source of the big river that flowed north to join the other big river before they escaped together to the sea, or so the locals claimed. Around the spring there were a fair number of shade trees, and a flat open area where the caravans always parked. Roark and Dylan searched the ground for any sign of Snowdrop while Darwin went about examining the tracks and sniffing at the trees that surrounded the clearing.

Roark saw the beagle pause near one tree at the southern end of the clearing and then gather the leaves that hung from the lowest branches. The young dog buried his snout in the foliage and gave them a good whiff. Then he pulled the scrap of fur that Dead Eye claimed was from his brother's scalp out of its pouch. He sniffed at the fur and then at the leaves, back and forth several times. When he was done he stepped back, and Roark could tell what he had found just from the way he stood and the way he gripped the patch of skin and fur. After several weeks of false trails, detours and dead ends, Darwin had finally found some sign of Patch.

Roark whistled for Dylan and the two walked over to join Darwin by the tree.

"They were here." Darwin said tonelessly. "Until about three days ago. All of the wagon tracks head south from here."

"Are you certain that it was him?" Roark asked absently as he gazed southward. He had noticed the tracks too.

"Yes." Darwin answered. "Just as Dead Eye said, the same gel as on the patch is on the leaves where the largest wagon was parked.

"And they headed that way three days ago?" Roark pointed to a trail that wound uphill between crags of rock until it disappeared in a notch between two peaks some miles away.

"Yes."

"So he must have left the valley and be well on his way to meet 'The King', whoever he is, by now."

"Yes." Darwin sighed. "They have left the valley; we were too late to catch them on this side as Dead Eye advised. But I intend to go on. You two have brought me this far, and taught me a lot of the world and how to survive in it, and for that I thank you. But I can't stop now, even if it is hopeless. So," he said, turning to his two companions, "I guess this is goodbye."

Roark looked at the beagle. Months of inactivity and heavy drinking had taken its toll on the destitute dog and he still needed to build up some muscle, but days spent walking and Dylan's training sessions had brought him most of the way back. Fresh air and plenty of protein provided by hunting for their meat had filled him out and put new colour to his coat. He looked like he could handle himself, almost, but they had not had much time to teach him how to fight, or how to read faces, or how to talk your way out of a tricky situation. If the dog went on alone he was surely doomed. Roark opened his maw to tell the young tracker that they would continue this quest with him, but before he could speak Dylan did it for him.

"Goodbye? Are you kidding Darwin? This little journey is just getting interesting."

* * * * * * * * *

The Wolf alliance campaign against the coyotes went well and lasted only several weeks. This was due to the ease of movement over the plains and the large amount of intelligence they already had on the semi-nomadic hunters. The larger packs in particular had had many run-ins with their marauding cousins and knew their habits well. It was a simple matter for their scouts to locate the current campsites and lead the main force to them. The overwhelming force that Ang-Ro had assembled ensured that surrender and assimilation was the only viable option. Lack of cooperation and communication between the groups helped to preserve the element of surprise as they moved onto the next encampment.

By the time of the autumn equinox, when the days were still hot at the lower elevations but the nights were becoming cool, the alliance forces had swept up al of the larger coyote tribes, which were mainly concentrated in the north. The next phase of the campaign called for the forces to move into the river valley forest and move south, subduing the feline tribes and capturing the canine towns as they went. But here the wolf's intelligence fell short, because none of their scouts had ever ventured further than the plains and no one had ever thought to compile the information from the occasional lone wolf that returned to the den after traveling the area.

But that did not bother Ro-Da, the vicious mate of the alliance leader; she had other ways of obtaining the information.

Along with several thousand coyotes and their goods and chattels, the alliance army had also killed or captured a number of dogs, cats and foxes that they encountered on the plains. Most they killed outright, to prevent then from returning to their species and spreading word of the advancing army, but a few they allowed to live in order to exploit their expertise in such matters as the handling of horses or to extract what knowledge they may have of the world.

Although the caravans were rare this time of year they were fortunate to come upon one that had returned to the plains for some late season trading. Its leader, a younger and relatively inexperienced fox with notably large ears, had tried to outrun the wolves, but they were much faster on foot than the heavily laden wagons. The battle had been short and bloody, with few survivors. Ro-Da had commandeered one of the wagons for her use and set to interrogating the foxes with a view to determining which of the survivors was the most senior. Once she had identified a wizened old individual with frostbite-damaged paws as the dead leader's assistant she set to work on him exclusively.

She ordered her wagon to be parked a mile away from the main camp because the screams of her subjects, not all of which were there for interrogation, tended to spook the horses. When she was doing it for recreation she took her time and handled the entire process from start to finish herself. But she had found two particularly sadistic little wolves that were willing to do anything for a meal ticket and had taught them how to soften her subjects up so that she did not have to waste valuable time getting information when she needed it.

She entered the wagon one night when the moon was full and fat in the sky, to find that her assistants had done well. That is to say, that the subject was conscious but half mad from pain; well enough to talk and still fit enough for her to have some fun if he refused to. She nodded in approval at the array of pokers, pincers, pliers and knives that were laid out for her. Where to begin? She mused as she fondled the handles of several. Oh, well. I suppose I should give him a chance to talk first.

"What do they call you?" She asked softly as she bent over the restrained fox. She brought her face close to his, but not too close, it would not do to lose a nose.

"Huh?" The fox grunted, surprised at the ordinariness of the question.

"What do they call you?" She crooned. Ro-Da had learned long ago that a little intimacy helps to break down the barriers, even when you guest knew you about to stick a red-hot poker into one of their orifices.

"Stu ... Stubby." The old fox answered, flexing his damaged paws. "They call me Stubby."

"How appropriate." She responded dryly. "I hear that you were a very important fox in your clan. Second in command of a caravan, is that not so?"

"More ... more of an assistant really."

"But I'm sure that you knew everything that your caravan leader did. Every little secret, no?"

The fox became agitated. He rocked back and forth, as if the bonds that had held him thought the warm up session may have suddenly decided to loosen. When they proved to be just as tight as before he strained against them to get closer to her and spit in the big black she-wolf's face.

"I will never tell you where our camps are. I would rather die first." Then he lay back and winced, preparing for the angry blow that was sure to follow.

But Ro-Da surprised him by throwing her head back and laughing out loud. She casually wiped the fox's salvia from her snout as her chuckles subsided. The act of defiance did not bother her; she had been sprayed with worse fluids.

"Silly fox. I don't care where you hide your pathetic little wagon trains during the winter. We can deal with you wandering thieves and tinkers later, when we control every town and road in the known world. No, I want something that will not test your loyalty, something about someone else."

"Some ... someone else?" Stubby asked, confused.

"You foxes trade with every sentient species. You follow routes laid down by your ancestors. Routes that connect all the inhabitations of any significant size, is that not true?" Ro-Da ran a sharpened claw along his bare thigh as she spoke, relishing in the way the flesh below it trembled, half in fear, half in excitement.

"That is true." The fox admitted. "But what good does that do you? You have nothing to trade."

"I want you to draw me a map." She crooned, caressing his belly with her large paws. "A map with every canine town and feline camp marked on it, along with the approximate population and any defences they have that you know of."

The fox, whose expression had gone somewhat dreamy under her ministrations, frowned and shook his head.

"No." He avowed. "I will not help you. I will not do it."

"Good." She said as she straightened up and reached for the tray where her tools lay. "I love a male with conviction."

Ten minutes later Stubby changed his mind about the map, while he still had one good eye to see to draw with. Ro-Da sent one of her assistants for parchment and quills while the other bound the fox's wounds and fed him stew to build up his strength.

Drawing the map took hours, hours in which Ro-Da was challenged to keep the old fox conscious, alert and motivated. She had to resort to techniques that combined sexual pleasure with excruciating pain, but eventually she was satisfied that she had drawn everything out of him.

She studied the map intently after the fox passed out from the exertion. It depicted an oval valley, surrounded by mountains and with two rivers that met in the centre before flowing out into the unknown. The only other break in the chain of peaks was near the southern end of the valley, where there was a narrow gap. The fox had begun to draw roads and hills on the other side, but later had claimed that he did not know anything about the region south of the mountains. Ro-Da had let it pass for now. She counted the symbols indicating the canine towns along the river and the feline settlements deep in the forest. There were dozens of each. She whistled for her assistants.

"Take this to Ang-Ro in the war council tent." She said to one as she passed the rolled map over. "And you fetch a bucket of cold water, some subtle leather straps and a wooden rod about two feet long." She instructed the other.

Half of the bucket went onto the head of the unconscious fox, waking him up instantly. The other half was used to soak the leather, which Ro-Da then wrapped around the fox's neck, tightening it with the rod until Stubby could barely breathe. She finished by securing the rod to the table that he was strapped to.

"Now." She said in a very businesslike voice. "The heat in the wagon from the coals the pokers are warming on will soon start to dry out that leather collar you are wearing. When that happens it will shrink, slowly but surely, until blood can no longer flow to your brain and you can no longer breathe, and then you head will pop off. If you are lucky you will be dead by then. Do you understand?"

Stubby nodded his head weakly, afraid to speak least it affect the tightness of the strap.

"Good." She said, picking up a knife with a long, thin and very sharp blade. "If you tell me what I want to know I'll slice the collar a little bit at a time, just enough to allow the air in so you can keep talking. But if you run out of things to say before it is cut all the way though .... well, that will be too bad. Still with me?"

Stubby nodded more vigorously this time. It may have been his imagination but the strap seemed tighter already.

"Alright then." Ro-Da sat back in a comfortable position and began sharpening her already razor-like claws with the knife. "Tell me everything you know about the King."

* * * * * * * *

It took Annie and Tig a considerable amount of time to cross the plains and the forests. First of all they had to avoid the wolf scouts, who seemed to be everywhere, then they had to evade the wandering bands of coyotes. A small female wolf and a smaller fox would have made easy pickings and they did not want to come up on anyone unexpectedly. Fortunately Tig proved to be a master at eluding detection, and he soon had Annie educated in the ways of camouflage and concealment. He even made her a cloak similar to his with fabric he had stashed in his pack.

"Whatever you do when you are being stalked," he explained after showing her how the dappled material had to be oriented to match the direction of the shadows in the vegetation, "never move, even if they step on you. Movement catches the eye better than anything else. Artificial shapes, silhouettes, shadows and such can give you away if they are close enough but movement can be spotted at an incredible distance."

He made her practice hiding and then looked for her himself. Each time he found her, within seconds the first time, he corrected her mistakes and they tried again. Gradual the length of time it took him to locate her stretched to ten minutes, and then to half an hour. When he could not locate her in three quarters of an hour he declared himself satisfied.

"If they take that long to look for you they will wander far enough away for you to sneak off," he assured her, "if you know the proper technique. You claim to be a good thief, let us see how you move." He watched her creep about the underbrush for a few moments. "Agh! Your tail sticks up like a flag and you make as much noise as a moose! That kind of skulking may work to filch bones from a pack of drunken boisterous wolves but you will never be able to sneak past a coyote or a feline sentry like that. Here, watch how I do it."

Tig moved like a snake, low to the ground and never in a straight line. He took advantage of the wind when it rustled the dry leaves or swayed the grasses to cover his movement. In a moment he had disappeared from sight, despite Annie watching him carefully, and then he reappeared on the far side of her, holding her crossbow.

"You are good." She admitted. "What other tricks do you know?"

"I should not say, madam," the little fox said seriously, "because I have pledged not to allow you to succumb to my wiles while assisting you on your quest to find your lost lover. But," he added with a grin, "if he has found another since then I would be happy to demonstrate."

Annie chucked a rock at Tig, which he avoided adroitly.

With the lessons out of the way they made slow but steady progress across the plains. Once they were in the forest proper Annie thought that they would have relaxed a little, but Tig insisted on proceeding just as cautiously and keeping off the main roads.

"A number of caravans will be heading toward the winter campgrounds," he explained, "and I would rather not meet up with some of them. The work I did for my father is now public knowledge and they would like to know just which of their secrets have passed through me. The same goes for the feline tribes. Although they would likely not be as rough on me as my own species the delay could be unfortunate."

They also avoided the occasional canine town as they moved north and west because a lone she-wolf traveling with what looked like a fox kit would likely not be welcomed there either. Tig also wanted to keep the news of their travels secret if possible.

"I would like our arrival at the campgrounds to be a surprise." He told her as they roasted a hare she had shoot over a small fire one night. "Folks react more slowly when they are shocked, as our appearance is sure to do, and that gives us the initiative. By the time the guards gather their wits about them we should be where we want to be, under the authority of a senior member of the Board, where none dare interfere with us."

It was the time of the autumn equinox when they arrived on a hill top in the foothills of the western mountain range that overlooked a village located on a crossroads west of a great river. They were downwind and Annie could smell the scent of several species as well as that of their feces, rotting garbage and a variety of fermented beverages. Her snout wrinkled unconsciously in distaste. The place looked as bad as it smelled.

"This is where the other species guards that wish to continue working for the caravans next spring live during the fall and winter months. As you can see and smell, drinking, gambling and fighting are the major pastimes." Tig told her. "It is not the kind of place I would recommend for a visit for a lady such as yourself, despite your demonstrated fighting skills. Certain female employees of some caravans join them when their masters are not on the road and they tend to treat any females that wander in as such."

"You have no need to defend my virtue." Annie said sharply and frowned, remembering her recently abandoned profession. "I'm not as innocent as you may think." Tig stared at her with such a piecing, almost disturbing, intensity that Annie had to look away. "You don't know anything about what I was, or what I did to survive." She added softly.

"Whoever you were or whatever you have done in the past is not my concern. It is who you are now that matters. I see a lady of conviction and virtue in search of her lost love, and I am not easily fooled. Tell me, Annie of the mountain wolves, have I erred in my judgement? Should I take you down there and let you wallow with the drunkards?"

His offense was so obviously faked that Annie was forced to smile.

"No, my brave and resourceful protector, you have not erred. I much prefer your friendship to their company."

"Ahh! See? You said you think of me as a friend, not a lover. That is how I know that you are virtuous and convicted. Anyone else who has spent so much time in my presence would have long since thrown themselves at my feet."

"You wouldn't believe how hard it has been to resist." Annie said, tongue-in-cheek. "But it has been a while since we ate more than small game and berries. Surely they have a store or an inn where one can purchase a decent meal?"

"There are. Run by a couple of the more, uhm, down to earth foxes, who live here permanently. But they have a means of communicating with the winter campgrounds, and as I said, I want our arrival to be a surprise."

Annie did not ask how they would communicate, but she suspected that it would be homing pigeons. She had heard that the caravans used them to send news to their relatives back in the campgrounds, and only now realized that meant that there must be some sort of permanent facilities there. She, like most wolves, had always imagined that the entire fox nation travelled about for nine months of the year and only gathered together at the winter solstice for a few months before heading back out on the road again. She wondered what the campgrounds would look like.

Would there be separate camps for each clan or one big open area where they all gathered, like some huge fairground? Would the permanent residences be wooden shacks or colourful tents? She did not know, but discovered that she was eager to find out. They set out without further ado.

Annie had expected them to arrive at the winter campgrounds shortly after leaving the cross-roads village, but they continued to climb higher into the foothills of the western mountain range for three more days. They kept to the high ground overlooking the well-marked road. The going was slower but they could see anyone moving below them without being seen themselves. As they progressed she noted a number of rock formations and hedges at suspiciously regular intervals. Their placement would give anyone hiding behind them excellent cover as well as a good field of fire over the road itself. Outflanking them would require a high ratio of attackers to defenders and still the casualties would be high. Only a few were occupied, but then again there was no threat that the foxes knew of, was there?

It showed a degree of organization that she had not anticipated from a race she had always considered nomadic. If they kept this level of defence on a constant basis what force could they muster when alerted? She pitied anyone that would be tasked to lead an assault on the fox campgrounds, but she also wondered how much further they had to go.

After several more hours of slow, uphill progress they crested the first line of small mountains and Annie saw an amazing sight. So amazing that she stopped dead in her tracks,

"Oh my!" She exclaimed as Tig came up beside her. She was only aware of his presence because she could see the feather on his hat waving in the corner of her eye. Her gaze never wavered from the objects directly ahead of them.

Strung along the slopes of the next line of hills were hundreds of towers. Most were lying broken on the ground, but several dozen were still standing in various states of decay. They were taller than the tallest trees she had ever seen, over two hundred feet high, she guessed. They were made of a grey material, and a few of those that remained upright had long radial arms attached to a box at the apex. There were as many as three arms on some, evenly distributed around the axis. Their shape reminded Annie of sword blades. She wondered if all the towers had once had three each, because there was no evidence of fallen blades around them.

"What are they?" She asked.

"They were towers for catching the wind." Tig said. "They are a human artefact, from before the change."

"What did they do with it after they caught it?"

"Who knows?" The fox answered after a moment's hesitation. Annie caught a note of falsehood in his answer. "They have always been as you see them now, except that we have carried off the blades for the material they are made of. It is a woven fabric that is very strong and very light. It is very stiff when we collect it but soaking it in solvents makes it pliable again. The frames are made of valuable metals also."

"The towers are made of the same artificial rock as the bridges we passed earlier." He continued. "They are too much trouble to break up for the amount of steel inside, so we just strip them of the motors, transformers, copper wire and gears and leave the rest be." Tig's mouth suddenly snapped shut, leaving Annie to believe that he had said something that he should not have. But she could not figure out exactly what that was.

"How much further are the winter campgrounds Tig?" Annie asked, obvious to the fact that there was no sign of them between them and the field of towers.

"Only another day and a half." Tig assured her. "At the base of the tall mountains beyond the next peaks."

They descended the eastern side of the small valley, passing through orderly rows of yellow-toped plants. At the bottom of the valley the streams were dammed to form breeding pools for fish. Annie commented on how she never expected the fox clans to be so organized. Tig explained that the foxes cultivated many useful plants and wildlife that could be left on their own for most of the year.

"These plants and those dull green trees on the slopes provide oil that can be used for cooking, eating and ... other things." Tig explained, hurrying on to other topics. "The leftovers make good fodder for our horses. Other than for food there are many uses for the fish. We make glue from their skin and bones, and extract oil from their glands that has medicinal uses."

Tig continued to detail the sources of many of the products that the foxes traded to the canines and felines in exchange for bits of metal and plastic, local produce and crafts. Many of them were not valuable in and of themselves, but served to enhance other products, like the springs that powered their crossbows, the oils that preserved wooden items, or the glue that enabled them to do fine inlay work. These enhancements made the fox's versions of those goods more efficient, more durable or simply more desirable. Their monopoly on the techniques ensured their place in the market, and Annie could understand why they kept both the source and techniques secret.

She supposed that by knowing the source and the fact that something was possible one could eventually figure out how to make the same products, but there was no danger of her running back to the wolves with the fox's secrets. Still, she reminded herself to keep her eyes and ears open. If she could pick up one or two techniques she could produce a competitive product, and after she found Heg they would need some sort of income to support the family she hoped to start. Going back to her former profession was out of the question and she did not think that storytelling would be valued as much here in the more advanced west as it was back in the dens of her homeland.

They camped near the crest of the hills, among the ruined wind catchers, when it became too dark to proceed. Tig would not allow a fire that night as they were so close now that the light and smoke would be seen from the sentries around the winter campgrounds.

The next day they rose before dawn, to mount the hills before the sun came up and silhouetted them on the crest. Afterwards, anyone looking east would be blinded by the rising orb and would not see two small creatures moving carefully in the shadow of the slope. Tig and Annie's eyes, however, would have adjusted to the shadows and they would be able to make out everything on their approach to the campground. As it was, all that Annie could see was a barren alpine valley, much like the ones in the foothills of her own mountains, with a gentle slope on the eastern side, which they were descending, and steep cliffs on the western side, some miles away. There was no sign of foxes, wagons tents or shacks between the two.

"Where is everyone?" She whispered to Tig.

"Who?"

"The foxes and their caravans. You said that many of the wagon trains would be here getting ready for the harvest circuit, and that there were some that lived her year-round. Where are they all?"

"In the winter campgrounds of course." Tig said, confused at first. "Oh, wait, I never told you about them, did I?" He stood on a rock behind her and stretched his arm over her shoulder and pointed to a long black line at the base of the cliffs. "Look, there is a lone wagon just emerging. Probably going to the fish ponds to check on the stock and throw some feed in. Do you see it?"

Annie did not see the wagon at first, but as the sun rose above the hill behind them and its rays touched the base of the cliffs the image snapped into focus.

The black line remained, shadowy despite the sun, because there was no rock where the line was. Having grown up in a den that consisted of caves she recognized the line as the entrance to a wide cavern. Just as that fact registered she saw the colourful wagon appearing from within it, a wagon that at first looked to be impossibly small. He mind struggled to adjust the scale, and when it did she gasped. The entrance was at least thirty feet high and more than two hundred wide. One of the fallen towers could have easily been rolled inside.

"It is higher and wider inside." Tig commented behind her. "We have room to park all of the wagons of all of the caravans and stable all of the horses there, with room to spare. And that is just the foyer. There are hundreds of caverns and tunnels connecting them ranging up and down the mountain. Now, we have to move fast, before the whole valley is lit up and we are exposed." He jumped down off his rock and ran down the slope, zigzagging back and forth to take advantage of the natural cover.

"Wait." Annie called as she hurried to catch up with the swift little fox. "Your entire species lives in a series of caves bigger than all the dens in the wolf alliance together?"

"Sure. You didn't think that we made all those advanced products in the back of those little wagons did you?"

Annie did not reply because a truthful answer would have been embarrassing, and their approach to the cavern precluded any further questioning. So she kept her mouth shut and followed Tig's lead.

As they neared the opening Annie could see that the mouth of the giant cavern was not unobstructed. Large stone blocks were arrayed along the entrance. They had wide gaps in the front that narrowed at the rear. Some of the dens had similar arrangements, it allowed the defenders a wide field of fire while making them difficult to hit. The gaps were also too narrow for a full-sixed warrior to squeeze through. The fact that it was patrolled by armed guards even with no apparent threat in sight was revealed by flickering movement in the gaps and the occasional glint of the sun on metal.

Annie noted that there were several gates in the line, one of which was just closing behind the departing wagon. They seemed to be made of the material from the blades of the wind catchers stretched over a sturdy framework, and she wondered why the foxes would opt for cloth when wood or even hardened leather would provide better protection. She made a mental note to ask Tig if and when they were safe inside. She also wondered how he intended to get them in, since he was not making for any of the gates, but rather was headed for the south end of the entrance, where the roof was much lower and the last dozen yards were blocked entirely by mortared stone.

Tig darted from bush to bush as the shadows retreated and stopped at the base of a large shrub near the wall where their dappled cloaks allowed them to blend in.

"The defence force is supposed to keep this area clear of weeds and bushes." He whispered. "Fortunately for us they have grown lazy. Our appearance will discredit the defence committee, and that will be to father's advantage, I think."

"What is there to stop the defence force from killing us before you get a chance to speak with your father?"

"Nothing, so this is what we are going to do."

* * * * * * * *

Ro-Da closed the fox's eyes after he choked to death, a mere digit's width of leather remaining intact around his throat. Too bad, she thought. Of course, I would have killed him anyways after what he had told me, just to make sure that he did not tell it to anyone else. But he came so close to having a more pleasant death.

She calculated how the news would affect the campaign as she returned to the command tent to inform Ang-Ro of what she had discovered. In order to ensure surprise they would have to move south immediately after subduing the rest of the valley's inhabitants. That meant a winter campaign, but according to the recently deceased Stubby winter never really came to the region they were headed for. Those they had left behind in the dens would suffer, although there was enough food in the dens for them to survive until the snow cleared next spring, but no longer than that.

But by then we will be back with the spoils of war, she vowed_, and the wolves will never go hungry again._