Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15

Zaban watched impassively from the hillside above the road as more dense rings of his koiru formed into close-packed ranks around the spinning Alpha. He felt a twinge of regret as he followed the swift, deadly skill of the centrepiece, pierced by the knowledge that the slow grinding of implacable numbers would eventually still even those flashing limbs. The quiet flick of his fingers before he turned away back to direct the main battle was respectful: honour to the formidable warrior that was the Mackeld.

*

Beyond the short line of hills hiding the road was a second, deep valley cut through by a steep, narrow stream. On the opposite flank of the second valley, Chris O'Connell faltered suddenly, his heart thudding in sudden recognition and eyes flashing as he leaped backwards, giving ground to the damned unending swathe of deadly invaders they were fighting. His ears echoed with the distant howl: the simplest, ancient form of communication. He recognised that voice, even though he had never heard that level of pure fury.

What the hell was Mac doing here?

Heart flooding with a sudden renewal of hope, Chris drew his small group of remaining warriors closer about him as he leapt into a small corner of space among the trees, flung his head back and howled an answer: a full, anguished howl for succour.

Then he dove back into the fray, limbs sweeping with replenished fervour as he began to urge his friends and kin to break a halting path through the enemy across toward the valley of the road. Eve called a howling question from further beyond the hills, and Chris simultaneously conveyed and yowled a general call to regroup to all the surviving O'Connells within range, his packmates battling in scattered little bands around their central valleys and hills. Fighting without an Alpha - none of them had the skill to meld, the damn enemy were separating them and picking them off in small batches.

But there was an Alpha here. Colouring his howl, Chris directed them all to try to get to Mac, meld. He had only seen Ulf a handful of times since they had both left the academy, but now the Alpha was here, far to the south of his own range, just when he was desperately needed. Miraculously. If they could just hold on long enough to reach him.

*

Twenty minutes later, Zaban's head snapped round where he fought to hold the hillside between the two valleys, a harsh sound chopping through the air penetrating his absorption despite the furious battle-meld he was holding. Luckily only one of the O'Connell wolves seemed to know the Mackeld, and the Tzo general was concentrating on deploying his well-trained troops to keep any of the O'Connell from breaking through. He was wary of letting them anywhere near the valley where the Mackeld was still fighting; although the Alpha had no pack within range to bolster his shiele, the Tzo general had heard stories about his personal strength, and was not sure at what range Mac would be able to form a meld with unfamiliar wolves. He wasn't going to risk underestimating him.

Incredulous, he watched a lurching helicopter appear above the road and advance hazardously to where he had left almost half of his warriors surrounding the Mackeld. The chopper was swaying dangerously through the air, too close to the dense trees, a long winch cable extending as the craft advanced unsteadily above the mass of wolves still fighting to overwhelm the Alpha.

The Tzo general was already spinning, howling a challenge and a warning, but even as he yelled he saw the red-matted, tawny figure at the centre of the fight in the valley below leap. Then the tiny figure was clinging to the trailing cable while Zaban was calling furiously to his wolves to pull them down.

A swathe of his warriors leapt to snag the end of the line, but with one flash of the Mackeld's hind claw the metal sheared, and the group of Tzo still clinging on to the end plummeted to the earth while the chopper bounced on a mad rush into the air, swirling out of control. The flashing blades sheared through the branches of a tree as it teetered out of control.

But the black speck clinging onto the trailing fragment of cable was already almost at the cabin. Zaban's heart shrank, and yet also pulsed in a strange, sad pride as he saw the helicopter suddenly stabilise, straighten and then streak past at full speed straight above him, aiming for the densely wooded hilltop where Sha-li's warriors were holding the majority of the O'Connell trapped in the opposite valley. Two dark specks dropped from the cabin moments before the craft exploded into the Tzo ranks packed on the hillside, the blazing flames of the wreckage hiding what happened to the pair of evacuees, but Zaban knew. There was no way the Mackeld couldn't fight his way through those last few yards.

There was a wolf! his heart exulted silently, while he held his stoic demeanour.

The Tzo Alpha spun back to his own warriors, mind whirling, calling in the final reserve, conveying orders urgently, consolidating his fighters. They still had the advantage of numbers, and a meld kinohth, especially with wolves the Alpha had never even met, was very difficult to sustain. The O'Connell would not meld with the unfamiliar Mackeld seamlessly, if at all.

Zaban's heart was hollow, aching and electrified. He had always thought that the tales of the Mackeld were exaggerated. Until now. Now he had seen him fight. Silently he acknowledged the fierce, steady pride within him - joy that the Mackeld had escaped the death-pit in the valley. He had hated that order. Now they would now fight as equals.

He was proud to face such a wolf. Win or lose, this was how a wolf should be.

***

Light rain was drifting down through the darkness the following night, hissing where it hit a double line of large bonfires flaring in the darkness. The fires lined a smooth, grass airstrip centred in a wide break between the dense fir trees, and many fur-edged figures were visible moving tiredly around the edges of the flames, some murmuring to each other, sharing food and touch, others standing quietly or swaying in a dazed fashion, talking to the shadows huddled within a long line of tall, wide canvas shelters beside the fires. On the hillside beyond, the frame of a large, many-gabled wooden house was visible, glowing eerily as dying flames flickered along the blackened skeleton of the demolished O'Connell grange.

Fealden Wolflord was standing beside the last bonfire, leaning heavily on his cane, his breath harsh as he held back his internal anger and steadily, calmly countered the snapped grievances of the Southern Warlord. The fierce 'discussion' that they were holding over the torn, unconscious heap of blood-matted fur, all that was left of the Mackeld, had been going on for over two hours. It was growing increasingly tedious. And ungrateful.

The tall, heavy silhouette of the Warlord Gardner was quivering, he was sweeping one arm through the air in a gesture eloquent of anger and frustration while he snapped a repeated accusation, then he nudged a foot disparagingly towards the warrior lying at their feet.

Fealden's French accent was stronger than usual when he replied. The irony of having to defend the damn insubordinate Mackeld to the southern Warlord was infuriating.

"So what would you have had him do once he heard the howl?" growled the aged wolf pointedly.

"Aster do not lead Southern," repeated the Gardner. It was infuriating - the Wolflord was not taking this matter seriously enough. But if Aster started trying to take over down here, then - there would be more than one war on this continent. The Southern would answer to the Wolflord, but no-one else. These were their lands.

"He called you instantly," countered Fealden austerely. "Alerted the Marsh pack through me, so that Karim has been able to defend against a similar stealth attack at Marshmont. The Marsh are under siege, but safe within their fortress."

"But what on earth was the Mackeld doing down here? How did he get here? Alpha to three packs, now? - the Aster Warlord cannot lead a Southern pack," iterated Gardner, his voice harsh with hostility.

Fealden Wolflord decided that he was tired of this repetitive argument. Moreover, he definitely did not want to have to explain how the Mackeld had gotten here. He wasn't about to divulge publically that the damn Alpha had hijacked Amy's helicopter. And then crashed it.

"Enough!" The Wolflord's shiele flashed as he growled challengingly at the Gardner, and the looming Warlord abruptly fell silent, reeling backward slightly in the burn of that glare. "Listen."

The aged wolf pointed down at the barely-breathing, shredded Alpha lying comatose at their feet.

"The Mackeld has not yet been elected as Aster Warlord," Fealden stated succinctly.

The Southern Warlord snorted quietly, and the Wolflord decided to let that pass. All wolves knew who would take over from Jon Marsh leading the Aster, the other Aster Alphas were practically queuing up to beg him to now that he was no longer deadwolf. Official acceptance would only be a formality.

"And the O'Connell haven't cloven to him: a meld kinohth for a single battle is not expansionism," the slight, aged wolf continued on a stronger note.

The Gardner opened his mouth to argue - yes OK, none of the O'Connell had cloven to the Aster Alpha before the battle, but -. He snapped his jaw shut again without a sound, shuddering, when the Wolflord's glare scorched a warning into him through the damp night air.

"Between them, the O'Connells, led by the Mackeld, managed to survive the Tzo surprise attack until you got here, and they captured one of the enemy's light aircraft intact," continued the Fealden. Which went partially toward mitigating stealing and crashing the damn helicopter.

"He let Zaban go!" Gardner snarled the complaint, nudging his foot again at the unconscious heap of fur at their feet. "We could have obliterated these damn Tzo once I got here!"

The Wolflord's reply was soft, yet steely: "Zaban gave safe passage to the O'Connell cubs and asage cornered in Ridal gap, before your wolves reached the battleground." He shut his mouth with a snap and glared probingly at the tall Warlord.

Fealden was pleased to see a slight flicker in the burning eye of the Southern, and the faint nod to his head. Wolf principles - Tzo displayed few of them, and Grey none; they seemed to be dying out. Yet this Tzo general had given safe passage to the cubs and their mothers. And so the Mackeld had treated him with equal honour: if an invading wolf will admit defeat, and yield, withdraw - even an Alpha leading a whole pack - then it is dishonour to the victor to kill him. They were too small, fragile a race to risk escalation of inter-pack hatred by wanton killing.

Moreover, all wolves understood the reason for this war. They all understood the need for a pack range; it was the principle reason why wolves fought, and had continued fighting, throughout the centuries as the humans had expanded. The need to find space enough for all.

Yet Gardner still growled, "It was not the Mackeld's call - it was the O'Connell who were attacked."

"They agreed," countered Fealden softly.

"Of course they agreed! He's a fucking Alpha!" exclaimed Gardner. "And they don't have one of their own to argue with him - half of them want to cleave to him!"

The Wolflord's voice was a growl as he answered, "But they cannot. The Mackeld will return North in the plane you sent for me. I will stay, briefly, to hold them together while the candidates are gathered and the succession fought. Who you choose as challengers is up to you. Up to them."

Both sets of eyes flickered toward the shadows of the surviving wolves who were moving slowly and carefully around the other camp-fires, keeping at least three fires apart from the Fealden and the angry Gardner. Gleaming, worried eyes kept catching in the firelight whenever the O'Connells glanced over toward the huddled shape of the Mackeld Alpha on the turf. The worry then increased as the watchers shifted their gaze to the two powerful figures fuming on either side of him. Even over the distance, through the drizzle, the strength of the anger was colouring the air.

"That decision should be your primary concern," the Fealden dismissed his companion softly, straightening to stand erect and stare hard into the Warlord's eyes. Gardner shivered at the gentle rebuke from the aged wolf half his size, and stepped backward slightly, blinking and dropping his gaze. He flicked his fingers in jerky respect before swiftly turning to stride over toward the firelight, back still stiff with outrage.

Damn the Mackeld for putting him in this position, thought the Wolflord furiously to himself.

But Fealden's anger began to sink under pity as he looked down again at the comatose Alpha at his feet. He watched while slowly, very slowly, one of the deep wounds on the blood-soaked back began to sluggishly stop seeping; the mutilated wolf was healing at human speed, even in his natural form. Mac was completely drained, and would be in shiatz for several days at this rate.

Fealden glanced up at the scent of the young, tired physician who was approaching hesitantly with a small pot of charcoal grease, eyes wide from the shock of what he had seen today. As a result of this onslaught, there were only two physes remaining in the whole O'Connell pack; the new Alpha would have to send some more for training. If anyone survived this war. Fealden shook himself irritably, dismissing the pessimistic thought, and sighed as the youngster froze just outside of his reach.

"I am not angry with you," the Wolflord told the young wolf dryly.

His eyes gleamed with fire as he dropped his gaze back again to the barely breathing semi-carcass at his feet. The anger surged. Just because the Mackeld had stumbled inadvertently into being a damn hero, saving this pack and crippling the Tzo's stealth advance, such actions didn't absolve him from his mutinous theft and helicopter destruction.

And now what was he going to do? Gardner was right, the Mackeld couldn't hold three packs. Two were already tearing him apart. So this damn insubordinate Alpha would have to be removed from the area before the O'Connells started to cleave to him. Yes, he, Fealden had shut the Gardner up for now, but both leaders were able to scent which way the O'Connells' allegiance was blowing.

No Alpha could hold three packs.

Unless -.

A flicker of pain crossed the Wolflord's face, and the fire in eyes sank slowly. Poor Mac.

He remembered. Oh yes, he remembered the belief he had had in his own mate. The belief that had slowly, reluctantly melted into hope after their one, beautiful year of perfection. And then the painful, relentless fragmentation of that hope. Yearning, stubbornly clinging to wisps of it, unable to accept that something so perfect could be ... so fragile.

And he remembered welcoming the heavy, tearing pain of the multiple melds, the sharp pinions of the overwhelming thoughts scarring through his screaming mind being the only thing that had offered faint distraction from the smothering, leaching agony of her slow, bitter loss. The only breath of worth that had remained within him had seeped in from ruthlessly protecting his people.

His Rosie had fought as hard as she could; she had experienced flickers of sanity even in those later years, briefly, and his primary drive had been just to keep her safe for those moments. The second invasion had just been a distraction. However, by the time she had died, just before the start of the third, there had been so, so many wolves depending desperately on him. Abandoning them to serve his own release would have just been a second, bitter betrayal of those who trusted him.

Condemned to survive.

Fealden's eyes were dry, burning with the ancient, stabbing ache as he watched the young physician at his feet carefully cleaning and coating each of the chaos of seeping wounds hacked through every limb of the stubborn Alpha. The phys was relaxed now that the acrid anger in the air had dissipated, and Fealden sighed as he squatted beside the desperately wounded Mackeld and reached out a finger to bolster the Alpha's shiele with his own. By rights he should kill the mutineer. But the Wolflord sadly suspected that the wolf at his feet would suffer beyond anything even he could inflict anyway.

And they would need this warrior in this escalating war.

There was a sombre shadow in the depths of the bleak old eyes while he watched the raw wounds begin to close and knit.

*

MAC!

The desperate call burst into his head, slamming a rush of unstoppable feeling to swell through him while his mind pulsed instantly awake, hurtling back along the thread of the call, locking to her, barely conscious of the incredible force of shiele he was able to draw on.

Fealden Wolflord flinched, his finger almost lifting from the Mackeld's shoulder when he was hit by the painful drain. Then he realised just whose call would pull the Alpha from shiatz, even as shattered as Mac was. Fealden's eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth as he settled in to hold the link for the Mackeld, trembling lightly. He should not be partisan among the Alphas, but this was a personal matter. He, the Wolflord, would donate his strength to bolster a wolf he was proud of. For this.

Gemma: Mac was melded with her. Revulsion was fighting through the shame in her head, and deep, deep sane anger as she snapped from the rage into a bewildering pummelling of sensations. There was a sickening taste on her tongue, from a thick, solid object clenched between her teeth, forcing her jaws wide, and they realised together that her teeth had been filed as she swam further into reason.

Simultaneously, instantaneously, Mac and Gemma recognised the repulsive scent of many aroused male wolves surrounding her: smothering, a stifling wall of bludgeoning lust. But it was the deepest musk, the reek of the closest, too-close, too-vile male pressed against her head, in her mouth, swamping her senses, which had her keening internally with a single, repulsed desire: the cool, collected, razor-sharp desire to kill.

Nicholas Grey.

Gemma, bewildered, found that she was human, naked, on all fours on a smooth, black-lacquered platform surrounded by cameras. In the distance, invisible beyond the bright lights searing her sight, was the oppressive, humid taint of human desire, male and female, blending with pain and sex and more wolves.

Pain: there were searing stripes of fire crossing her naked back and thighs, burning under the fierce lights. Her buttocks were blazing pain, but she couldn't remember what had happened, how she had got here, where here was: anything. The blankness of the rage cut short her memory.

Always, before, she had broken out of it to Mac; now her first thought seemed to have been seeking him.

Move! Driven by her mate, Gemma twitched around on her hands and knees, jaw still clenched, dodging and partially blocking a half-sensed blow from above her. From Nick. Dizzily, she reached to shift and found that she couldn't.

Lingering in her head was the burst of rational anger which had thrown her to the surface: anger at the aroused scent of him, Nicholas, on her skin, the vileness of his rampant, eager cock brushing moistness over her welted buttocks while he had pulled them apart with his hands, revealing the small, puckered entrance within. The disgusting intrusion of that reek had pierced her with a truth, even deep within the rage: there was only one wolf allowed to mark her with his musk. Gemma had spent every last ounce of her strength calling to Mac while she had surfaced, even as she had spun and lunged with her teeth at the intruder.