The Wolf Age

by James Enge

  "I still thank you," he said. "My name is Morlock Ambrosius, and my blood is yours."

  "Well," she said, laughing, "I sopped up enough of it! I don't think I want any more. Oh, I'm sure that's the wrong thing to say. I don't know your customs. I should-it was for my Hrutnefdhu, you know. He calls you his old friend; I couldn't do less."

  "Hrutnefdhu." Morlock closed his eyes, trying to separate memory from dream and from delusions of madness. "Yes: it was him, and Rokhlenu, and me. Us against them."

  "It still is, Hrutnefdhu says. Only there are more of us. And more of them, too, I'm afraid. I am Liudhleeo, Hrutnefdhu's mate." She looked narrowly at him as if expecting him to recognize the name.

  He had heard it, but didn't at first remember where. Then he did. He considered what to say. He neither wished to avoid the issue of the rape, nor make it the most important thing about her. To him, she was still the healer who had saved him from death and madness. But she was also his fellow prisoner-or fellow ex-prisoner, now. "How did you escape?" he asked.

  It was not what she had been expecting him to say, clearly. Her eager-tobe-angered expression twisted into simple surprise, and then a kind of relief. "Oh? Oh, that. They-they let me go. Threw me out, really. I think they thought I was dying. I was-well, the next day, I was in pretty bad shape."

  "I hated them for what they did to you."

  She was embarrassed again, on the verge of anger. "I don't hate them. I don't hate them. But I didn't shed any tears when I heard what happened to them; you can bet on that."

  "Eh."

  She put her long clever hands over her mottled face and laughed. "They said you'd say that. They said you'd say that, but I didn't believe them."

  "Eh."

  "Oh, don't overdo it. It will take the magic away. You'll need something to eat, I expect."

  "Yes." Morlock thought about the last time he hadn't been hungry, and he couldn't remember it. "Yes. I could eat anything in the world. Except meat," he added hastily, remembering a gray ear afloat in soupy porridge.

  "Oh, yes: Hrutnefdhu mentioned your aversion. Don't worry. It's almost impossible to acquire anything as exotic and expensive as human flesh in the outlier pack."

  "All the same. If you don't mind."

  "I don't mind. Let me get you settled with breakfast, and I'll go off to find my Hrutnefdhu."

  Breakfast was flatbread, cheese, and a warm murky sort of tea. Morlock found it wonderful, not least because nothing in it seemed to be a by-product of a human slaughterhouse.

  Afterward, putting on the loose but well-made gray clothes that had been left for him, he stood at each one of the little den's many windows and stared out at the world.

  To the north, Wuruyaaria towered over: mesa rising over mesa like great steps up the side of a mountain. He watched the tiny silhouettes of the baskets run up and down the funicular and tried to reason how they might work. He looked at the moon-clock set into the dark volcano, its metal gleaming gold in the sun. If Ulugarriu had made these things, he must meet Ulugarriu.

  Hrutnefdhu showed up shortly thereafter.

  "Good to see you better," the pale werewolf said, shamefaced for some reason.

  Morlock thanked him. "And you are well?" he asked.

  "Oh, the moon took care of that. As much as it could," he added rather mysteriously. "Let's go," he added hastily. "Rokhlenu wants to see you."

  Morlock nodded and they left together. Hrutnefdhu set a very elaborate lock on the door, and they made their way down the narrow stairs. In the light from the street door, Morlock saw notices on the wall in two languages. One was a few starlike images that might have been ideograms; the other was longer and looked like it might be a phonetic script. Moonspeech and Sunspeech, or so he guessed.

  "What do they say?" he asked Hrutnefdhu.

  The pale mottled werewolf blushed and said, "`Tenants must bury their own dead. No smoking bloom on the stairways."`

  "Bloom is the smoke the guards were drunk on the other night?" Morlock asked.

  "Yes," Hrutnefdhu said. "Many smoke it to forget their troubles, and some seem to have more trouble than others. Look, there are no good neighborhoods in the outlier pack, but this is the very worst. You need to know that."

  Morlock looked up and down the narrow boarded way that served as a street. It stopped not too far east of the towering lair; beyond it was a murky stretch of swamp water and beyond that a rising slope choked with thickets and the suggestion of a cave entrance or two.

  "It seems ideal to me," said Morlock, as he followed Hrutnefdhu to the other side of the little settlement.

  Rokhlenu was deep in conference with Olleiulu when he looked up and saw Morlock standing nearby, clear-eyed and relatively sane-looking. He jumped up and they grabbed each other's shoulders.

  "How's freedom?" Rokhlenu asked.

  "Good," Morlock said. "You're back in politics, I hear."

  "I may be," Rokhlenu said, the anxieties of his position pressing down on him. "Have they fed you? Are you hungry?"

  "They have fed me," Morlock said, "but I'm still hungry. I take it rations are scarce, though."

  "Not for Khretvarrgliu they krecking are not!" barked Olleiulu, and the werewolves nearby all started shouting about Khretvarrgliu and food and how maybe things would be better now.

  "Let's go eat, then," said Rokhlenu. "We can talk over breakfast."

  Rokhlenu and Olleiulu walked on either side of Morlock to the other side of the great ramshackle building. Hrutnefdhu insisted on walking behind, and no one but Morlock seemed to think that odd. Half of the building served as a dormitory without beds; the other half served as a refectory without benches or tables. Morlock got a bowl of, unfortunately, porridge. At least it seemed to have no animal products in it other than butter and a little honey.

  The big red werewolf with the golden hair had preceded them into the refectory, and when he saw Morlock he shouted incoherently and gestured and in general made a fuss until Morlock sat down by him. There was no one else sitting there, so Morlock dropped down and sat on the empty floor. The other werewolves did the same, although at a greater distance from the red werewolf.

  The conveniences of the refectory didn't run to spoons, so Morlock ate with his fingers like the others.

  "We are short of money, I take it," he said, between slurps.

  In a confusing amount of detail, Rokhlenu, supplemented by Olleiulu and Hrutnefdhu, explained to Morlock just how short of money they were. The outlier pack in general was not wealthy, barely having enough food to sustain themselves, and the addition of nearly the entire prison population had made matters worse. Money was scarce; food was expensive; lodging was almost impossible.

  The building they were sitting in and the food they were eating were gifts from someone named Wuinlendhono. Olleiulu kept referring to them as "love-gifts" and looking slyly at Rokhlenu. Rokhlenu would blush and talk about something else in a blustering voice. Morlock didn't want to embarrass his friend, but it seemed to be the central issue, so he finally asked.

  "Wuinlendhono is the First Wolf of the outlier pack," Rokhlenu explained. "For the time being, at any rate."

  "Oh," said Morlock. He thought for a moment or two. "What's stopping her from keeping the job?" he asked. "If she wants it."

  "Well, she's a female."

  "Yes?" -o was the feminine ending for names in Moonspeech and Sunspeech.

  "We don't generally have females running our packs," Hrutnefdhu explained to him, when the other males did not seem to realize that more explanation was needed.

  "Oh. Then we're talking an ... an arranged mating, if that's the right term," Morlock said.

  "Yes, exactly," Rokhlenu said hastily. "That's what it is. A political arrangement, that's all. It will give us a place in the outlier pack. But I have to do my own arranging, my family still being on Aruukaiaduun. And I have no portion."

  Morlock mulled this over as he went to get a fingerful of porridge. To his surprise, he found his bowl was empty. He
looked up at the werewolves. Most were expressionless. The red werewolf was shamefaced and his right hand was full of porridge. His terrified eyes dropped rather than meet Morlock's.

  Theft was a serious crime where Morlock was raised, in some cases more serious than murder, but the red werewolf was obviously not juggling with both hands. Morlock shrugged and turned back to the others.

  "He must have grabbed it straight out of my bowl," Morlock said. "Remarkable."

  "The skill of long practice," Hrutnefdhu remarked. "Several of his cellmates died of hunger. I don't think he can help it. That's why we call him Hlupnafenglu." The name meant Steals-your-food.

  "Eh." Morlock didn't want to talk about it, but instead listened as Rokhlenu explained the local mating customs. Courting gifts were common from females to males, but males were supposed to bring a certain amount of property to a marriage. If Rokhlenu and Wuinlendhono married, her position would be secure and Rokhlenu's followers (most of the irredeemables and thugs who had fought their way out of prison with them) would have a place in the outliers.

  "So we need money," Morlock said. "What kind of money? Cash? Things? Land?"

  "Whatever we can get," Rokhlenu said. Olleiulu proposed a plan to work as robbers on the roads around the never-wolf cities in the south. In a year or two, they could return with a portion for Rokhlenu and enough coin to support the irredeemables for a while-if that was what they all wanted, to join the outliers.

  As the three werewolves discussed this plan's merits and defects, Morlock thought about one thing and another. Presently he felt the weight of the bowl on his knee grow greater. He looked down to see most of his porridge had been returned. He looked up to see Hlupnafenglu looking at him shamefacedly.

  "Take it," Morlock said, holding out the bowl. "No, take it," he added, when the red werewolf tried to push it away. "You're bigger than I am. You need the food more than I do. I've already eaten today. Take the food."

  He persisted until the red werewolf grabbed the bowl and glumly started scooping up the contents.

  The other werewolves displayed varying degrees of bemusement. "It's a new age of miracles," Hrutnefdhu muttered. "Hlupnafenglu giving back food...."

  Rokhlenu was talking about joining some council of advisors with his intended bride, but Morlock declined to join him. "I'll go round up some money," he said. The other werewolves looked at him skeptically, and Rokhlenu asked if there was anything he needed.

  "Two things," Morlock said. "First, a guide who can take me to the nearest market or markets."

  "That's me," said Hrutnefdhu eagerly.

  "Second, if it's not too much trouble, my sword."

  "Your sword," Rokhlenu said blankly. "The one with the black-andwhite blade? The one you called to you in the New Year's fight? The one you slew the blue dragon with in the mountains?"

  "Yes, it was not with me when I woke up."

  "Those worthless barking ball-less brachs," whispered Olleiulu. "Those ape-toed, bald-faced, quivering slugs. They have stolen the sword of Khretvarrgliu."

  "Well, many of them were in prison for theft, you know," Hrutnefdhu said, almost apologetically.

  "I will roast them alive on silver spikes over a fire of wolfbane," Olleiulu said. "I will make them beg for the mercy of death and I will deny it them. I will kick their sorry ugly up-for-sale asses. I will get your sword back, Khretvarrgliu." He leapt to his feet and set off at a furious run.

  "Thank you," Morlock said mildly to his back. He pounded Rokhlenu on the shoulder and went off to the marketplace with Hrutnefdhu. Hlupnafenglu followed them, a vague look on his face, the bowl still in his hand.

  Business was slow in the marketplace; Morlock saw many vacant spaces among the vendors. The busiest corner stood between two whorehouses. A sausage seller and portrait maker had commandeered the space and were doing a fair business with those passing by toward one or the other door.

  "Stay here," Morlock said to Hrutnefdhu and Hlupnafenglu.

  Morlock walked up to the sausage seller and said, "Have you got live coals there?"

  "I've got fresh sausages," the seller said, ready to be offended. "Each one contains a certain proportion of real meat!"

  "I don't care about that," Morlock said. "But you've got them on a warming grill, and there's fire under the grill."

  "Are you hinting that something might happen to my sausage cart?" the seller said suspiciously. "I pay protection to First Wolf of the outliers himself! You'll answer to him if you bother me! And you're bothering me!"

  "The First Wolf of the outliers is a female," Morlock pointed out.

  "He's right," said an amused spectator. "Better pay up, Chunky."

  "Moonless nights," muttered the seller. "All right, what do you and your boys want?"

  Morlock looked around and saw that Hrutnefdhu and Hlupnafenglu were at his elbows. The big red werewolf was staring with naked greed at the sausages on the grill.

  "I told you to stay over there," Morlock said.

  "Couldn't make him," the pale werewolf admitted.

  Morlock took the bowl from Hlupnafenglu's hand and tapped him gently on the nose with it. There was a gasp from bystanders, and a crowd began to gather, expecting a fight.

  Morlock had only done it to get Hlupnafenglu's attention, and this it had just barely done. The red werewolf looked vaguely in his direction, and Morlock said, "Over there. Wait over there. There is where you wait. Over there. Not here. There." He pointed. He stared at the red werewolf. He pointed. Eventually Hlupnafenglu got a troubled look on his face. He looked at the far side of the market where Morlock was pointing. He looked back at Morlock. He looked back and forth several times. Eventually he gave a last longing glance at the sausages and shambled sadly away. Hrutnefdhu followed at his heels.

  "If you give me some coals of fire," said Morlock, turning back to the seller, "I'll give you a copper coin when I get one."

  "That means you haven't got one."

  "But I'll get one."

  "If I don't give you the coals, what will you do?"

  "I'll get them from someone else."

  "Are you crazy?"

  "I don't see why that matters."

  The seller threw up his hands and opened the firebox on his cart. He picked up a pair of tongs to pull out some coals.

  "Never mind that," said Morlock, and reached in with his right hand to grab a fistful of coals. There were even more gasps in the rapidly accumulating crowd, and someone actually screamed. This was all to Morlock's liking. He dropped the bowl at his feet and started juggling the live coals.

  The audience was impressed. Not as impressed as an audience would have been in Narkunden or Ontil: werewolves did not fear fire any more than the children of Ambrose. But then, werewolves in their night shape do not have fingers and do not juggle. The audience speculated that Morlock was a werewolf who did not change fully to human: he might have wolvish paws, immune to fire. On request, Morlock showed them his hairless palms.

  "He probably shaves them," shouted a heckler.

  "Like you?" someone else retorted, to much abusive laughter.

  Coins started appearing in Morlock's bowl. He threw hooks and doublehooks; he threw double-sidehooks where his hands moved so fast it looked as if he was throwing infinity rings. He kept juggling the coals until the fire was gone. By then the bowl was nearly full of red coins, shining copper and rusting iron.

  He took a single copper coin and handed it to the sausage seller.

  "Keep it," said the seller, who had sold his entire stock to the crowd that had gathered to watch Morlock's juggling.

  "This was our deal," said Morlock, and pressed the coin on him.

  "I'm out of sausages and I'm going back to my shop in Apetown," the seller said. "Will you be here this afternoon?"

  "I don't know."

  "Will you be here tomorrow?"

  "Probably not."

  "Look, I'll pay you to be here. We're a team, Chiefl"

  "I'm not your chief," said Morlock. He p
icked up his bowl and turned to the portrait maker, who was telling two uninterested passersby that he was Luyukioronu Longthumbs and they were missing the chance of a lifetime to have their portrait inked by him.

  "How much for a drawing in ink?" Morlock asked Luyukioronu, after the passersby had passed by.

  "Two pads of copper," said Luyukioronu eagerly. He hadn't done as well with the crowd as the sausage seller.

  "I'll give you three pads for the paper, the ink, and the loan of a brush."

  "What?" said the would-be artist suspiciously.

  Morlock repeated himself.

  "I'll do the drawing. Just give me the money," Luyukioronu insisted.

  "You want the money, you give me what I asked for."

  The crowd, which had shown signs of dispersing, began to thicken again.

  Reluctantly, Luyukioronu surrendered the materials.

  Morlock made a few trial strokes with the brush and the ink on the boards of the market floor. Then he spun the brush in his hands and thought for a moment. He dipped the brush in the ink and applied the brush to the page in swift decisive strokes. Soon it was a picture of a volcano with a moon-clock in its side, with mists hovering about that half obscured the symbols.

  "That's Mount Dhaarnaiarnon," whispered a member of the crowd.

  "Is it?" Morlock said. "Would anyone like this drawing? I will give it to them for free."

  This sounded too good to be true. But the drawing was a marvel in black-and-white. Slowly, suspiciously, a middle-aged citizen edged forward and silently held out his hand. Morlock gave him the drawing and handed the ink and brush back to the artist.

  He waited.

  "Ink my portrait," someone said tentatively.

  "Paint my mate's portrait," said another.

  "Paint Ullywuino!" shouted someone else. "She's my favorite whore!"

  "There's too much paint on her already," someone else said.

  Morlock held up his hands. "I have nothing to paint with, citizens. Unless you buy materials from this reliable craftsman."

  "Hey!" shouted Luyukioronu. "I'm not your stationer! Buy your own stuffl"