Pawn Among Wolves-Finale

"But true wolves will fight, to the last breath, to defend their very right to fight."

The air was still, waiting.

Then a heavy wolf snarl rolled from the Aster Warlord's throat: Mortefio, the challenge for single combat, to the death.

Eyelids flickered among the Alphas flanking the Chinese Warlord. Tzo responded with a swift, angry stride forward.

"Do not so honour yourself, whelp," he barked harshly. "You fight merely to protect the wereem pet with whom you're besotted, and her people." Mac's fighters drew a hissing breath, although the Alpha remained impassive.

"You, defend wolves?" Tzo said scathingly.

"You stand by while humans pollute our rivers," he accused. "You fight for legislation to protect them while they pass legislation that will destroy us."

Tzo's voice was thundering with equal passion: "Patio, Montanore, nanoparticles: do you feel no shame at their steady poisoning of our people? You stand back and allow that. Now stand back and allow me to defend wolves," he ordered, power resounding in his voice.

A murmur of unease ran along the walls, the defending wolves shifting uneasily.

Mac waited in silence while his allies quieted, staring down at his enemy. The remaining defenders had volunteered, and they knew what they were getting into. Both what they were standing against, and standing for.

He had also known that the Tzo would not accept the mortefio. The Chinese Warlord had the longer claw, and would be a fool to hazard his advantage in a one-to-one fight. Yet Mac had so hoped to keep his wolves out of this.

"What is in those barrels, Tzo?" he asked, his quiet voice easily audible in the waiting silence. "Over three thousand years have passed since Xerclides, when the Four gathered on the wasted battleground with the remnants of our people, and vowed never again."

More than eyelids flickered among the Alphas surrounding Tzo this time, one of them so far lost his impassivity as to glance sharply at his Warlord, seeking reassurance.

"Move aside," growled the Tzo. "I have no wish to do so, but if you force me to, I will fight with all I have," he vowed. "To defend the freedom of all wolves. Do not seek to deny me, Mackeld. I will fight for the right to defend them to my last breath."

Mac hissed out a frosted cloud in the chilled air. "As will I," he said coldly. "You would enslave their minds, to protect their bodies."

"You would destroy them all, with your love of humans," the Tzo replied. He turned and stalked back beyond the line of loaded catapults, his entourage trotting uneasily in his wake.

The line of defenders settled with a sigh, casting wordless glances between themselves. Some were shivering, but all stood firm.

Twin? Mac's conveyance was simply an affirmation. The arguments had been shaken to death and smothered hours since, well before Ulf had left through the hidden tunnel, leading his small scent-masked force. Mac absorbed the pulse of raw feeling that was punched back at him from his natal. Words were superfluous, they had shared sense and emotion long before they had known how to describe them.

Natasha tentatively laid her nose across Ulf's bristling neck. He didn't shake her off, and Mac let out a quiet breath. Twin.

The rope creaked as the bucket of the last trebuchet was secured, and quietly Jorgen intoned, "Nine," when the casket was carefully lowered into the sling.

Silence frosted along the wall.

Gemma? Mac's voice was calm in her head. He was so calm. So adamant. Tears were rolling down her cold cheeks as one last time he sank into her awareness, sharing the crispy chill of the snow den in which she lay curled, feeling the flakes melt on her nose. The dread within her was colder than the snow, unbearable, but this was who he was.

This was who she loved.

Wood splintered. Mac's full focus wrenched back instantly to the walls he was defending as silvery liquid scattered across the nearby defenders from the casket shattering on the Eastern gate turret above him. His arm was drenched and he jerked backwards with a mangled yell, the limb hanging useless, fur smoking and skin turning black. Jorgen caught the full douche and dropped with a scream, rattling a hoarse breath before lying unmoving on the parapet. More barrels were breaking on all sides, the howls of the allies deafening, wolves screaming as they fell to the ground, fur smoking, skin blackening.

Mac struggled to clear his head, to hold the few still standing together and broadcast the images for all: Fealden, his packs, his allies. This was the Tzo. He ran back toward the stair, shouting orders. Relief seared through him as Walter and Andrea dropped into shelter behind the far turret, fur sizzling on them both, but only small patches. Then a second casket shattered at the feet of the Aster Warlord, showering him with its icy contents. Mac crumpled with a howl of pain, rolled to the edge of the rampart and fell like a stone to land motionless on the gravel driveway behind the gate.

A wave of revulsion from the ranks of watching Tzo wafted over the battlements, but the Chinese Warlord barked several orders and his Alphas held their warriors firm.

The deluge was over. The screams died. A deafening quiet followed, even the birds in the forest seeming shocked into silence.

Eventually, the Tzo called a gruff order and several sets of feet paced forward heavily. After several hard blows with a ram, the gates gave and were pulled open, framing a scene of smoking devastation. Impassive, the Chinese Warlord stepped up into the gap and surveyed the sparse smattering of blackened, twisted wolf bodies littered behind and atop the walls. His eye lighted on the charred heap of tawny fur lying face down in the gravel away to his right.

Carefully the Tzo stepped beyond the high wall, his eyes cold. Despite the heavy rubber boots encasing his human-form feet, he could not prevent a quick glance down, to ensure protection from the damp earth as he walked seemingly at ease toward the still-smoking body of his enemy.

Behind him, in their own protective footwear, half of his warriors began to march, stepping their way across the soaked ground just as cautiously, heading straight toward the vast lawn that stretched between the hospital, the lagoon, the beech grove and the wall, beyond the fall of the death rain. Carefully, none of the warriors looked left or right, although many scents were mangled with guilt. Reaching the grass, they kicked off the heavy boots and strode swiftly on to escape the scent of burned fur and flesh behind them.

One quiet order from the stocky warlord looking down at the blackened fur of the Mackeld, and his own pack detached and reluctantly fanned out to search for survivors among the fallen, those in the healing coma who had not yet died of the poison. Reluctant to touch the drenched bodies, they nudged them over onto their backs, bending to listen to the rattling breathing of those slowly dying in merciful shiatz, rounding up three heavily wounded, dazed survivors.

Zaban pack had been ordered to remain outside the walls to defend the trebuchets, together with almost half of Tzo's forces. The excuse was a fabrication: with the scouts in the woods, Fealden Wolflord would not be able to approach without warning being given. Besides, with only one or two aircraft, he would not arrive in any numbers for days.

Unbidden, Zaban stepped under the tall stone archway. The Mongol Alpha choked a shallow breath, bitter anger burning in the polluted air. He halted, and closed his eyes in revulsion.

The Tzo was standing over the remains of the Mackeld, his fingers flickering in the salute of honour.

I have never felt shame to be Tzo before, the Zaban broadcast, his mind heavy with the vile scene his eyes had witnessed. Resolutely, he reopened them. He was here to bear witness. How can you be a party to this? What can justify this? he addressed all within his range, savagely.

Unease rippled through the wolves marching in ordered ranks onto the clean grass, and Zaban saw the Su Alpha lift his head, his shoulders pulling back against a blow.

Tzo's head lifted sharply from his contemplation of Mac.

Zaban pulled free of the Tzo alliance, saying fiercely, I cannot. There is no justification which will wipe clean this smear. I would not wish to be wolf, with this smear. His eyes met his former Warlord's across the wasteland, anger boring into cold resolution, yet making no impression.

Tzo nodded. I do not rejoice, he said stiffly, and turned to follow the last of his warriors now marching barefoot across the clean grass toward the hospital complex. The front ranks had nearly reached the car park surrounding the white buildings. Make your way as you will.

A faint, mechanical click echoed under the steady footfalls of the advancing army.

Encircling the perimeter of the lawn, a line of hundreds of delicate jets hissed into the air, sprinkling a delicate barrier around the advancing ranks.

The Chinese Warlord halted, a command to his Alphas stopping the half of his force, those within the wall encircled by the sprinklers, while the Tzo frowned at the clear liquid tracing the air between himself and his warriors.

Silhouetted against the silvery waters of the lagoon, four indistinct figures unfolded shakily among the bushes edging the lawn, from where the quiet whirr of a pump now emanated. Two were in human form. Two were wolf, their fur blackened and smoking like their fallen comrades, with patches of burned skin shining bare and stark among the sizzled hair. Four sets of eyes flared in angry disbelief, one pair highlighted by the white-and-black mottled, mangled skin disfiguring his face.

"I never thought that you would really do it," said the female wolf. She didn't raise her voice, but a lilt of shame wafted from the sea of wolves between herself and the Warlord, a sea shifting uncertainly as though stirred by a violent gust.

The Chinese Alpha standing on the lawn nearest to the four grunted to an order in his head, and strode quickly toward the scentless survivors.

"The lagoon water contains silver," the young, silver-maimed male wolf warned, his voice deadened as one hand indicated the line of sprinkler jets. "Be careful."

The Alpha stopped perforce, hearing a hiss run through the army behind him.

"I do not rejoice," repeated the Tzo, answering the sjeste as he stepped back carefully from the tinkling line. "Had the Mackeld backed down, we could have -."

The young male cut in, his raised voice damning, " -enslaved you all without the need to first commit this atrocity? Here you show your true colours, Dingo."

"I never thought any wolf could do it," said the female, her voice uncertain, quavering. Her eyes had dropped to stare at the shiny, stretched scars already formed on the back of her hand, some seeping at the edges where they had cracked when she had stood up.

Abruptly, as one, almost a fifth of the encircled wolves dropped to sit cross-legged on the grass. The short, wiry Alpha beside them cast one expressionless glance across their bowed heads to the Tzo, then folded gracefully to sit in silence with his pack.

For the first time, a spark crossed the Chinese warlord's face, but all he said was, "Turn off that pump."

"No," answered the human-form male. His eyes mocked, anger lifting one corner of his mouth.

The Tzo pack who had been checking the bodies reformed around their Alpha. Co-ordinated, they dropped into loup with their leader, and began to run swiftly around the perimeter of jets. They had almost reached the trees when a deluge of images plunged into the Warlord's head, and he skidded to a halt.

Far out in the forest, Tzo's hidden, scentless scouts were under attack. Synchronised ambushes dotted around the wooded hills where pairs of other scentless wolves leaped out from the undergrowth. Xingchau caught glimpses and scent of a dog, holding back in the bushes behind the pair of wolves attacking him. Then the Tzo's attention was wrenched sideways by the last image Sha-Po sent, of the Mackeld, enraged, diving upon her. Impossible.

Tzo spun.

His eyes lighted, incredulous, on the empty patch of gravel to the left of the gate, where he had left the smouldering body of his enemy. His gaze lifted and swept across the battlements: also empty. All but the two bodies huddled by the west tower were gone.

The heavy gate underneath the tower clapped shut. Hunched figures of the blackened, dishevelled defender wolves were piling boulders from the nearby rockery against the feet of the broken panels to hold them closed, while at their back the tall, powerful figure of their leader turned with slow menace to meet the eyes of his enemy.

A murmur of disbelief swayed through the ranks of wolves on the entrapped grass.

Mac was trembling: anger, fatigue, grief. Emotions tumbled through his mind of unanchored, weightless recoil. He no longer carried the knot of a single wolf, having released them all to their Alphas or seconds, in case one of the barrels that hit him had been live. At the last moment, he had shunted the Gems-and-Faulk meld to his mate. He was floating on anger. All that held him down on the gravel was the touch of Twin, and Gemma.

Yet the power still itched, beating against him. He brushed frazzled fur from his arm, glancing down at his blackened skin peeling off in tiny flakes where the new growth was coming in. He had released them all, but they hovered: loyalty proffered, ready, power shrouding around him despite his disinclination to grasp it. This was what the Fealden wore, a cloak of powerful, shimmering loyalty. Mac shook his head as though irritated by gnats, and flicked more dead skin from his face.

Jason Allison, released last night from the deepest cells, had had the knowledge to enable this trap for the Tzo. Long ago the old Faulk, Louise's father, had had his enslaved chemists reinvent the silver rain. The old Faulk Alpha had only employed it once, to subdue a riot in the canteen, after which no prisoner had dared to push their overseers that far again, for decades, until the memories had faded.

Yet that riot had been smoke and mirrors, staged. Jason had been compelled to devise the decoy rain, and a selection of Grey wolves, who none at Faulk would recognise, had impersonated new inmates for some weeks before putting on their show of rebellion. The decoy that had been used to 'subdue' them was poison to a wolf, frazzling hair, and blackening and scalding skin in a reaction similar to silver. Yet although the conflagration was agony, a wolf would heal.

So much of the Faulk centre had been built on lies.

Jason Allison's chemical knowledge had been too valuable to destroy, yet the Faulk had had to prevent knowledge of the fake rain from spreading. All the long years since that riot, the chemist had been isolated from the other prisoners, both with walls and Argen, hidden in a suite of cells in the high security block, until his release the previous night. He had spent one whole day with his grandson, Rupert.

Mac cast a stricken glance at the two bodies fallen at the base of the west tower. Rupert.

The Little Gem lab rats had worked feverishly all day to produce enough of the decoy barrels. But the Tzo was cunning. His own pack had been the bearers of the ammunition through the forest, sets of eight warrior carrying four caskets spaced at random distances throughout the army - never all of the poison in one place. Pairs of warriors had ported the barrels, lashed securely to two poles carried across both shoulders.

There had been one vulnerable position on their route, where they had had to manhandle the poles over a boulder field and up a short rockface, overhung with trees. Crossing that field, the bearers had been preoccupied with placing their feet securely and keeping their burden from hitting the rocks, passing the load from one to the other or resting it on ledges as they had manoeuvred around and over obstacles. There had been several places where the barrels had been out of sight of both bearers and guards among the branches and rocks.

Tor and Ulf Mackeld had both been trained in tree-diving by Senshal N'Gula. Throughout the long day, they had both found satisfaction using the skills their mentor had taught them to confound his killer, taking turns away from defending the wall to race through the forest to the boulder field and substitute the silver rain with the fake. Setting this trap.

Between them, they had substituted all but four barrels. Four. The defenders who had volunteered to stay on the wall had known the odds: four of the twenty-four barrels had been live. Nine of those twenty-four had been loaded in the trebuchets. They had all accepted the risk.

One of those deployed had been real. Mac glared across at the Chinese Warlord who had violated a three thousand year old treaty with the silver rain. Rupert and Tate. Walter and Andrea would heal, if they survived this conflict.

The Tzo inhaled a sharp breath, calling his wolves still outside to renew the attack. His fulminating eye now landed on the Zaban pack, uncoiling from where they had crept to lie on the ramparts inside, now standing to line the parapet, facing down at their former allies. They must have entered while he had been leading his pack around to the pumps. The Chinese Warlord exhaled slowly, raging at the memory of his own words to the Mongol Alpha: Make your way as you will.

Tzo drew himself up, black eyes burning across at the Mackeld. "A wolf should know when he is dead," he said, chill darkening his voice.

"You will," growled Mac.

Gemma sighed in relief as Mac reached to melt his mind back through hers. She was lying curled in her snow den, eyes blind with the excruciating headache grinding at the inside of her skull. Softly, link by careful link, he eased the mesh of the Faulk and Gem battle meld up off her. She had kept them calm, he murmured in pride. The Tzo wolves hadn't suspected - her koiru had played their parts perfectly, soothed by their Alfamme.

Mac had explained why he had had to shunter their pack, why they couldn't just disband the battle meld and regroup after the attack. When a pack disengaged from the meld, each wolf began to heal immediately. His analogy had been a human taking a shoe off a swelling ankle. A good Alpha will carefully unpick the laces holding his wolves, ease his hold off as gently as possible, but once the minds had ballooned with healing it would still be nearly impossible, and intensely painful, to force the meld back on again until they were healed. The Faulk wolves had only just healed enough since breaking out of their meld with the Louse to be able to meld with the Mackeld. Had he crashed the Louse, yanked that meld off, there was no way they would have been able to.

Gemma was drifting among her thoughts, watching what her mate was doing through a fog of pain. It was like he was trying to ease gauze off a wound without tearing open the scab, or breaking the fragile mesh. She was trying to let go her grip, heed his gentle instructions, but it was hard, she didn't know how. It hurt.

Abruptly, they were gone. Her mind creased in a new sharp pain as it soared free, dizzyingly unencumbered, sliced bare but clear.

A thought brushed over her cartwheeling mind like a kiss as her mate withdrew with the meld back to the battle. Gemma lay aching, her heart pounding in steady dread. The pain was too great, she couldn't reach out to kiss him back, couldn't extend her thoughts, and so curled in on herself and prayed, faintly comforted by the scents of her sleeping brother and fellow hunters curled asleep behind her in their snow den.

Gemma's thoughts circled to the searing burn of the slowly healing holes that had been torn in her head. Pack killed. Her throat was tight, sore, thoughts drifting back through memories, gently touching the remaining knots, praying. Slowly, slowly, her mind stopped trying to pound out of her skull. The wereem lay awake, looking out at the snowflakes drifting down, her shivering increasing as she lay waiting, waiting, for the next call. Dreading. Hoping. The night was interminable.

Tentatively she reached, carefully stretching her pounding mind like a fiery band of overstrained muscle longing to collapse, but held by her will.

Mac's focus was entirely on the battle. She could easily feel her mate, the deep, steady anger balanced by grief and wolf stoicism. But if she tried to focus on what was actually happening, around him, it was like trying to decipher a DVD forward wound at maximum speed. No, make that a bank of dozens of DVDs, hundreds, the focus of thousands of eyes and minds careering higgledy-piggledy past her, making no sense whatsoever. And she already had a blinding headache.

She winced as Alan's voice sounded in her head. Try Walter, he advised brusquely. Her second and Alpha-mentor was sprinting somewhere across the inside of the Faulk grounds, three other wolves at his side, a cold wound pulling painfully in left front leg. He's just gone to the phys station. Then Alan was gone.

It was excruciating, diverting her already overstrained mind. But she had to know.

Alfamme! cried Walter, gratified and welcoming. Hearing what she wanted, he leaned back against the parapet behind him while Mini cleaned his wound, and carefully focussed on each element of the battle in turn.

The young wolf could see both ways along the wall from this point, the corner above the lake was safe from the Tzo ladders, and so Mac had set the field hospital here. Mini was the only wolf on phys duty at the moment, the other volunteers were helping the Zaban pack in the struggle to hold back the current wave of Tzo cresting the wall beside the gatehouse.

Despite the pitch-black night, he could see the outlines of the invaders pouring over the battlement, ladder tops and furry figures silhouetted by the smouldering orange glow lining the edge of the forest. Walter half smiled. When he had changed sides, the Zaban had left a troop of warriors outside to disable the war machines. While his koiru had been unable to reach the remaining barrels of silver rain to destroy them, they had found the oil that the Tzo had had brought for the gate, and had used that to torch the trebuchets. Now they had retreated into the forest and joined forces with Ulf Mackeld and his fighters, harrying the enemy warriors working to fashion new catapults from damp timber.

In retaliation the Tzo allies outside had doused the remaining oil over the Faulk gate and set it alight. It was blazing like a beacon into the night, lighting the Faulk warriors defending the smouldering gap from the Tzo fighting to break through.

Walter's attention flickered back to the wall. A surge of movement crashed into and halted the wave of invading Tzo up by the western gatehouse turret, and the young wolf's heart pulsed on a blinding surge of pride. The Mackeld! He could not see his Alpha, but he knew - Walter was proud to be one of the Little Gems, who fought alongside the Warlord himself. The Gems were the relief force, Mac led them around the compound to wherever the defence was weakening, to shore up their allies: the Zaban on the wall, the Faulk at the gates, or the human-and-wolf crew down at the lagoon, guarding the pump and sprinkler fence which was holding the rest of the Tzo captive.

Holding all but the Tzo himself, and his koiru. The Tzo moved almost as swiftly as the Mackeld.

A warning shout sounded from down by the hospital corner of the sprinkler fence. Walter swung his head that way and peered into the darkness, unable to see more than a glimmer of movement, his night vision distorted by the faint sheen of the lagoon away to the right. But yes - the line of the jets was broken, a gap several feet wide showing faintly, where the gleaming lines of liquid no longer leapt into the night. A horde of trapped Tzo were already running through the breach, but they flinched backwards as he watched, as though running into something. Some cried out.

Walter shivered. Many humans were fighting for the Mackeld. Some were friends of the Alfamme, more were enemies of his enemies, but all were immune to silver. Sets of humans circled the jet fence with portable carwash units, taken from the garage store, and held the trapped Tzo back from sabotaging the line. Through Jorgen, he could see two of the humans pumping their lagoon-water spray onto the escapees, while others were hurriedly clearing the sprinkler hose of the earth the Tzo wolves had thrown to block the nozzles. Mac had allocated a wolf with each human group, to guard their backs them from physical attack and keep him informed. Whenever the Tzo packs tried to attack them or break out, they used the spray as defence. The pair guarding the pump had an even more formidable weapon: a water cannon, the force of which could knock a wolf off his feet. A silver cannon.

Walter's eyes clashed on the shimmer of light on racing furry bodies speeding towards the gap in sprinkler teeth from outside the jet circle. Mac! he shouted, instantly aware that the attackers were not theirs, not in the meld. Then the young wolf subsided, sheepish and ashamed, as the Gem Second appeared at Jorgen's side to help him guard the humans, demanding caustically, What the hell do you think he sent us here for?

Walter squirmed.

Never mind, Gemma consoled him. Alan's that polite to everyone.

So long as that's not the Tzo himself attacking, the young wolf thought defensively. Then: where is the Tzo? His heart leapt. Two powerful figures were clashing on the gravel circle behind the burning gate, visible in the flickering orange light. The Tzo had finally been cornered by the Mackeld. Their wolves were engaging around them, Gems facing the small number of Tzo who were currently with their Alpha, but it was the centre two who held the watchers' rapt attention.

Impossibly swiftly, Mac was running straight across the gravel to his enemy. On the last bound he dove to his right, somersaulting over a twisting back kick from the Tzo. The Aster Warlord's left forearm lifted to deflect a rake of claws aimed for his stomach, while his right fist looped to jab in under the collarbone, extended claws puncturing deep.

The Chinese warlord grunted, continuing his spin. Mac felt a sharp pain carving into his neck from behind and twisted on out of reach as the claws of Tzo's other hand scored his flesh a hair's breadth from his jugular.

For a second the pair were still, facing each other across the short expanse of gravel, panting heavily. Tzo was pinching his spurting wound closed with two fingers. Blood was darkening the fur at Mac's neck. Then Tzo leapt, a chillingly fast rake of claws to the face to blind his opponent, but Mac ducked his head back out of reach. The Mackeld swung at ninety degrees, his right claws biting into his enemy's wrist, yanking him off balance, left clawing into the elbow joint and he slammed his foot down on the Chinese Warlord's overextended right thigh, breaking the knee backwards.

A heavy grunt burst from the older warrior's lips, but he completed his own kick up into the air using the grip on his disabled right arm as leverage, and twisted and kicked his left foot into the Mackeld's stomach, winding him while puncturing deep. The claws raked down towards the tawny Alpha's groin before the pair of them rolled apart and uncoiled rapidly back to their feet again.

Mac grabbed his stomach to hold the wound closed as he dove straight back to the attack, leaving his enemy no time to recover. Off-balance, the Tzo lurched a series of unsteady steps backward, delivering stab after stab past the flurry of one-handed punches and blocks from the advancing Mackeld, piercing the younger Alpha's shoulders and stomach like a pincushion but never hitting a vital spot, until the damn Aster finally stopped his headlong assault, pausing to heave a breath while the series of holes dappling him stopped flowing and slowly closed over.

The Tzo snarled, well aware that during the Mackeld's reckless onslaught, his own leg had set at a skew, and would unbalance him to serious disadvantage unless he could find a moment to re-break and reset it.

"Hypocrite," Tzo panted. "All this you do for your wereem pet, not wolves." He leapt over a sweep from the Mackeld, slashing but missing anywhere vital.

Mac snorted, not bothering to answer. He pressed in to attack with both foreclaws again, speeding through his enemy's blocks and counters, causing the Tzo to heave for breath while their arms blurred in the air, blood drops from each new cut in the flying limbs arching at a slower pace through the gathering dusk.

The Chinese Warlord stumbled slightly on his skewed leg, and Mac was in the air, running lightly up the front of his enemy, pushing off holds kicked deep into thigh, stomach, chest, head, although the Tzo managed to deflect the kicks away from his heart and throat. The Mackeld's weight on his face slammed the off-balance Chinese warlord onto his back in the gravel, fresh blood running from each puncture. However, as Mac was pushing off from his face, Tzo snapped his head sideways and bit down hard on his attacker's foot. The tawny Alpha snarled and yanked his bleeding limb free, but the fraction of a second delay enabled Tzo to slash a claw through the Achilles tendon at the back of the Aster's heel.

The older Alpha rolled one way, heaving for breath, a hand over one eye.

Mac landed staggering on one leg, the knee of his disabled foot bent to his chest, toes pointing down. Without pause he speared the very tips of his almost fully retracted claws into both shortening ends of tendon behind his calf and heel, pinched the caught ends between his finger tips and sliced through his own skin to draw them carefully back together, holding them while they knitted.

A Tzo koiru leapt towards the disabled Alpha, snarling triumphantly. Mac jumped off his standing leg and kicked the cocky puppy in the groin with that same foot before landing wavering back in the same pose as he had started, without letting go of his swiftly knitting tendon. A hand reached to steady him, and he snarled after the retreating form of the Tzo, who was loping swiftly away into the darkness with his warriors, a limp to his gait.

Mac's head snapped around, to the defenders on the wall, just as a cry for succour echoed from the Zaban warriors fighting near the western corner. Walter's head also pulled around to the cry, and he was on his feet, brushing away the fingers rubbing antiseptic along his closing wound, surging into motion with the call in his head. I have to go! Walter conveyed unnecessarily, he and Mini dropping into loup to sprint together along the wall.

Gemma pulled her pounding, grated mind back, quivering, and blinked at the snowflakes melting on her nose.

*

The afternoon of the second day was wearing to a close. It was a good job the Louse had run out of scent mask, Gemma would not have been able to lead the hunt, unable to focus with the pain in her head and worry in her heart. The increasing potency of the Faulk's trail, despite the light drizzle here in the lowlands, indicated that the determined hunters were gradually gaining on their quarry.

Alfamme! Alan called. His body was screaming in agony, plummeting into shutdown, and he flung his conveyance at her urgently just before blacking out.

He had flung her the battle meld of remaining Little Gems and Faulk. Everything whirled in Gemma's head: her wolves were scattered, some in little pockets running from Tzo pursuers through the grounds, others fighting, both outside in the grounds and inside cramped corridors, defending the entryways to the underground lair. Some few she just experienced, writhing in pain, waiting for shiatz or death to take them.

Shit. Where was Mac? Gemma skidded to a halt. Her heart jumped to him as she realised the truth of what he had told her long ago: silver could not block their bond. But it had shut him off from everyone else. Mac was fighting furiously to free himself of an Argen net the Tzo warriors had ambushed him with, where he and a small group of Gems were guarding the main stairwell down toward the lair.

Mac! Gemma shouted, exasperated, and held the links for him. Her mate did a double-take, realisation hitting him, and grabbed up the meld through her, sinking instantly back into that blurring stream of imagery and orders careering in all directions. The Tzo warriors he was facing himself staggered back, confusion flashing on their faces as the Aster Warlord punched his trapped arm through the mesh and dove back into attack, oblivious to the silvery net streaming from his shoulders like a lopsided cloak.

Gemma's mind was screaming in pain. She was clinging on with everything in her, feeling the thoughts surging through her like molten lava. But the agony in her mind was nothing to the ache in her heart as she absorbed all that Alan had conveyed to her in that short call.

They were losing. The lagoon was drained down, shrunk to a hollow of water framed by slimy grey mud, and the trapped Tzo warriors had finally broken free of the jet-fence, all but the seated Su, overwhelming the small force of guard wolves and humans when the intakes to pump and water cannon had blocked simultaneously.

Alan had been cornered on the shore, defending the retreat of the last three humans as they had run to their refuge within the lagoon. One of the Tzo packs had caught him there, and had flung him out into the silver-rich slime, their Alpha cursing him for a human-lover as her second had struggled to escape the clagging poison. Gemma cried out in pain, staggering to a halt as the fiery knot of his bond tore from her head.

So many dead.

The gate had long since burned to bones of blackened timber, the Faulk defenders driven back when the Mackeld Alpha had called a retreat, shifting his forces to guard the entrances to the underground complex. Only a pocket of Zaban remained trapped on the wall and had withdrawn to the corner above the river, fighting to hold back the tide of their former allies.

Mac suddenly pulled a blow and stepped back, calling his warriors across the complex to a halt as the kutich, the truce call, sounded above him. The Tzo warriors they had been fighting slowly retreated back up the steps to the ground floor, their eyes never leaving their enemies, until they had backed behind the newly arrived Tzo Warlord. The Tzo limped heavily to the top of the steps, and glared down at the Mackeld.

"Will you damn well surrender, whelp?" he cursed.

Mac growled.

The noise of something heavy rolled across the stone flags above, and the Chinese Alpha stopped it with his foot at the top of the steps.

"Surrender or die," he ordered. His foot was resting on a small barrel.

Mac felt panic stab through the warriors trapped with him in the stairwell. Even if it was the fake rain, there was no way the Tzo would leave them to heal out of shiatz this time.

Without a second thought, Mac dove to the attack, rocketing up the stairs. The Tzo swore, thrusting the barrel over the top step as he leapt backwards, but the Mackeld caught it on the second bounce and slammed it down on end before bounding on up into the hallway.

Mac was heartened by the fierce cheer that ran through his remaining warriors as they surged back in to fight with him. They were surrounded by Tzo koiru in the open space, fighting back to back, but they were going to die their way.

Gemma's head snapped up, and Mac blinked: outside, a second cheer was echoing in the ears of their wolves, a hoarse shout of triumph from the Zaban on the walls.

They were answered by a roar of howling from outside the Faulk perimeter.

Ulf Mackeld charged in through the broken gate at the head of Mackeld pack.

The Tzo's furious eyes suddenly met Tor Mackeld's, and he leapt backwards, calling a retreat as he absorbed what his allies on the wall were seeing. He realised that Ulf Mackeld had killed any Tzo warriors out in the forest not only to prevent them from rebuilding the trebuchets, but to ensure that their Warlord had no forewarning of this.

The Chinese Warlord had presumed that he had at least another day before any major relief force could reach the Faulk centre, knowing that the Fealden had only one air transport. Yet the Mackeld pack was followed by the Marsh, the Whites, the O'Connell, and the Vanilchov, thousands of warriors streaming out of the forest.

Mac ripped the Argen net off his right shoulder. His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to straighten, stars stretching through his deepening eyes, the power exuding from him multiplying thousandfold. The Tzo warriors facing him shuddered convulsively. Including their Alpha.

Mackeld Wolflord.

High in a green valley, Gemma fainted in the recoil from releasing the meld.

*

The following day, Gemma's hunters were closing on their quarry.

Gemma smiled around at her companions. She smiled at the sun. She smiled at the patchwork of fields. Mac had killed the Tzo. She had woken from the healing coma with the knowledge singing in her head. Her wolf companions smiled back at the exuberant Alfamme in their midst, Ada and Penny also looking as though they might burst with pride. Adam rolled his eyes.

The chase had led them to the edge of cultivated lands, the foothills of the mountains. Gemma's sore feet were thankful to race across soft meadow grass in the deep, narrow folds of pasture between rock buttresses clinging to the edges of the high peaks. Her scent disturbed the grazing ruminants, cows and sheep crying fearfully as they lumbered away, sparking a flicker of hunger within her.

But she was already hunting.

Besides, she had heard the names for a wolf so pathetic as to hunt domestics. Her smile widened. She flickered an ear, and her companions dropped back. They had already masked their scent, Lee reluctant with revulsion until she had explained that this scent-mask was barbiturates, and held no silver. The Alpha had accepted the small phial, then left on his own trail, cutting away to the right.

Back in the trees, Gemma climbed a steep slope at a steady lope, her enemy's scent thick in her nostrils. The sun blasted into her eyes as the trees cleared at the edge of a plateau atop the hill. Boulders were littering the ground at the foot of an old rock face, an overgrown trail disappearing among the trees to her right - the signs of an old quarry.

On the edge between sense and sight, at the corner of her vision, a darkness flickered, and her mate shouted, alert in her head, already rolling Gemma away. Teeth tore the loose fur of her upper arm, but failed to get a grip in her flesh, and her brown eyes were flashing as she rolled back to her feet, surging lycan, facing her opponent.

Louise Faulk's eyes were mocking as they looked her over. "What are you, six months old at the most, little were?" crooned the voluptuous wolf, "Do you really think you are going to win this fight?"

Gemma didn't deign to answer, leaping to avoid a second attack.

"Slow," sneered the former Faulk Alfamme. "The meld is not enough, pet, even with the Mackeld. Limbs also need training. In light of your disability, I will make this death as slow as you."

Gemma just watched her blustering, alert for the next attack. She watched the Louse spin as Adam dove toward her flank. Watched Penny land on her back, snapping an arm around her neck from behind, while Ada tore into her calf. Louise Faulk laughed, and with an impossible twisting move slung Ada into Adam, and looped herself out from Penny's headlock, raking a claw up toward her face. Nils caught the claw before it connected, and suddenly all four of Gemma's hunters were swirling around the former Alfamme, trying to land a blow.

Gemma was quivering, bouncing on the balls of her feet, needing to join in but held back by the stream of comments cutting through her head. Mac was swearing, promising he would stop guiding her damn hunters through this fight if she put even one toe forward. He had yielded over her doing her bit, pretending to be slow. Let them fight.

Her eyes crossed at the half-seen, half expected shape bounding towards them through the bleaching sunlight, nearly impossible to see. Lee.

Moments later, the Louse blenched as she spotted him, and turned and sprinted for the trees on the far side of the quarry.

All four of Gemma's hunters jumped her, delaying her, swirling in a vicious melee against a desperate fighter much more skilled than they. Ada was swung through the air at the end of the Louse's arm, her claws catching Adam before she shifted human and was released to whirl through the air. But the delay had been enough, and Lee pounced.

Gemma's heart was in her mouth as she watched this fight. Faintly, she realised she had a long way to go before Mac would have a proper struggle to subdue her to mate. But slowly, steadily, the Faulk was being immobilised. Limb by limb. Eventually, the couple stilled, panting, the Louse swearing steadily in a hoarse voice.

"I can't believe you would do this," she cursed the Alpha atop her. Lee glanced around at Penny.

Shortly afterwards, the six of them stood around the trussed female, five wincing at the stream of invective still shrieking in their heads.

Ada sighed "This is going to be a tedious journey. Can't we just kill her now?" she asked her Alfamme.

Gemma's head turned. They all watched as Adam walked forward, a grim look on his face. Slowly he knelt down next to the Louse's head. He leaned forward, whispered, "Hello, honey," and sank his forehead against her cheek.

Louise's mental curses cut off with a grunt of pain. Adam lifted a shaking claw and cut the band tying his cap under his chin. With a sigh, he carefully held the grimy piece of sweat-soaked cloth against the ex-Alfamme's skin while he sat back again, face pale. Ada strode forward, human, and pulled a roll of gaffer tape from her pocket.

Ten minutes later, Gemma, Penny, Ada and Adam stood in a line, facing the spot where Lee and Nils had just disappeared into the undergrowth, carrying their prisoner towards Moss Airfield. The four would have plenty of time to catch up, once they had hunted some food for them all. Adam pocketed the small piece of Argen that Nils had shorn off from the battered brim of the cap now worn by Louise Faulk. Just in case.

As one, the three females sank down among the grass stems, breathing out long sighs of pleasure as they relaxed in the weak sunshine.

Adam seated himself carefully on one of the boulders and began to massage his greasy scalp tiredly, his face creased in memories. Hurtful memories.

Gemma, watched, trying to hold back tears, searching for something to say, to mitigate the lines on her little brother's face, bring him back to the carefree boy she had known. "Your hair looks better long," she eventually gargled.

Adam looked up. Brown eyes met brown, and Gemma saw the shadow in the old eyes of her little brother. The swirl of black was banked in their depths, a wisp of pain, forlorn longing.

"I love you," she told him quietly.

They stared at each other.

Adam's brown eyes softened slightly, crinkling at the edges, the darkness receding. She could tell he couldn't quite work out what to reply; theirs wasn't a vocal family. Love was demonstrated, not stated. Gemma smiled a little sadly that she had never vocalised to her little brother before, it had never been necessary.

"Eww! Big sis!" Adam protested softly. A slow smile crossed both faces as they savoured memories, just looking at each other.

Then Gemma's eyebrows lifted as long, lean legs passed between brother and sister, cutting through that quiet, connective gaze, and Ada folded gracefully to sit cross-legged near Adam, not quite touching him.

Interesting.

Penny rolled to her feet. "Anyone else hungry?" she asked plaintively.

*

Gemma had an eerie feeling of déjà vu.

The audience chamber at Fort Amicable was little changed. The stained-glass window behind the council seating had been mended seamlessly, concealing where she and her mate had leapt through to their freedom, months earlier. The late afternoon sun falling through the ornate framework of glass cast a colder, sharper, light upon the row of powerful wolves now holding judgement, the white-blue of late winter. And the tiers of seating were even more packed than last time she had been here, every atom of space crammed with solemn, sickened and stridently vocal wolves. Everyone had a very passionate opinion it would seem. Everyone except the defendant.

The trial of Louise Faulk had taken half a day, the verdict unanimous, her deadwolf sentence carried out instantly.

The subsequent trial of Tor Mackeld seemed endless, long days stretching into weeks.

But now, all the arguments had been heard, all the hundreds of statements sifted. A restless unease simmered through the crowd awaiting Fealden's verdict. This was primarily a military trial, and the Senshal had conceded judgement to the old Wolflord.

The solitary bench down at the front was also unchanged. Mac had waited throughout the weeks of bitter argument, sitting quietly, his mind flitting between cold thoughts and frivolous memories. The Alpha had judged himself long before he had taken any of the actions that had been debated in this courtroom, and knew he was guilty of the charges: criminal endangerment - letting a werewolf run loose; desertion; and dereliction of duty. Theft and hijacking had been added later, when reluctantly, under cross-examination, Senshal Waring had admitted how Tor Mackeld had taken her helicopter during the war.

The worst charges were that Mac had abandoned his post defending Marshmont from Tzo to succour to his mate. And he had allowed her brother, a new werewolf, to hunt the wereem alone, with no defence for wolf or human society had Adam gone insane. Each choice he had made, he had known full well the penalty for doing so.

Fealden Wolflord had been lenient at O'Connell Range, he could not be so again: the wolf world was reeling from the recent, overwhelming threat from Tzo. In response, the Senshal had to be strong, to impose the safety of full discipline so as to pull all the discordant rescued or recovering wolves back into line, back into civilisation.

Yet, as many had shouted throughout the trial, it was largely due to Mackeld Wolflord that Tzo's threat had been vanquished at all; that they still had a civilisation.

Others hissed that the threat would not have been so immediate had it not been for Mackeld's selfish actions.

There were lower, deeper mutterings that the Tzo had not been, and was not, the true threat. Wolves were not the true threat.

Mac quietly awaited the verdict. He would uphold wolf law - he would always uphold wolf law, to protect his people. He could not do otherwise.

He was such a stubborn idiot.

Gemma had given up on trying to get her mate to listen to alternatives: Mac could not bear to argue with her any longer, and just waited in silence, silence echoing even in his head. His sorrow was fathomless; but he could not do otherwise. He had never had any choice in taking this path. He had known its end.

But he had been right in calling Fealden a sneaky bastard. Mac wouldn't listen to any of them. But it wasn't his judgement to make: he wasn't the senior Wolflord.

The snapped, growled rustling among audience and judges dropped into silence as the old Wolflord unfolded slowly to his feet at the centre bench.

"There is no question as to whether Tor Mackeld carried out the actions of which he is accused," the old wolf began softly, looking toward the bench on which Mac was sitting motionless.

Fealden did not need to raise his voice: "No-one disputes this."

The Wolflord waited a few seconds for the rustle of movement which followed his words to cease.

"What is in question, is whether he was right to do so: whether he had the right to do so."

The rumble was louder this time, some words bitten off, hissing sounds of discontent and passion.

Then the soft grumbles hissing around the room were cut off in shock at the next words of the Wolflord: "Human law allows a commander relief from his obligations if his family is threatened."

Human law?

Fealden's eyes turned to Gemma, who lifted her head, returning his look, wondering - was he trying to incite a riot?

"More, human law demands that the commander be relived of such duties, deeming him or her incapable of carrying them out without bias, when his family is under threat," added the Fealden.

There was growling noise of protest echoing around the room, rising as the Wolflord cited human law at the packed tiers of wolves. The jet black eyes lifted from Gemma's and the room fell silent again as Fealden Wolflord burned his gaze over them.

"I am relieved to find that in our ancient statutes, there is evidence that we can be no less magnanimous than the humans; no less aware of the stress such threat will place on a leader." The old Wolflord now had to raise his voice slightly, speaking over the rumble of dissonance from the packed benches: "Tor Mackeld deserted his post, yes, left his packs unaided, and led the Tzo to Faulk range, to the near undoing of us all. Yet he did this because his wereem was threatened. Whether we should be lenient to his abandoning his Alphaship depends on whether we believe she is truly his mate."

"This, none of us have the right to pass judgement on." Fealden's tone now turned cold, hard: "None of us can know."

Shouts rose in both opposition and strident advocacy, wolves crying out in fierce rebuttal that a werewolf could be even considered as a mate. The senior Wolflord's head snapped up and he released his displeasure at the audience, power shattering through the room.

The dissenting barks of sound dropped instantly to a strident undertone. No-one quite dared take the old Wolflord on directly over this, but the disbelief was palpable. Fealden nodded slowly, satisfied that that was a good as it was going to get, and turned to face the accused. Mac lifted his head, a slight crease between his fiercely challenging eyes as they met those of his mentor.

"By the right of primounguis, and the law of Etricia and Nossun and Tigrid, I hereby proclaim Tor Mackeld to be lone wolf and exile him for five years from these shores, sundering him from and forbidding him any and all pack rights, responsibilities and bonds during the reft," said the Fealden.

A maelstrom of howls and shouted comments rose as half the audience leapt to their feet, but the Wolflord snapped his head back up to the crowd and his eyes flashed again, shiele sheeting painfully through the crowd.

Mac sat stunned: the penalty had to be death. How else could their people move beyond this betrayal? How could they settle back into trust of their leaders if one so flagrantly sidestepped the laws he himself was trusted to uphold?

Mac, you always said you were crap at wolf history, Gemma reminded him. This isn't a new law specially invented for you: get over it. Live, you damn stubborn wolf.

"From today the wolves who have looked to him will consolidate under new Alphas," Fealden thundered over the now subdued muttering. "Ulf Mackeld will resume leadership of his pack, as will Zaban Liu, and Caspar Vanilchov; Jasmine and Karim Marsh are to rebuild the Marsh pack and determine the succession; Lee Faulk will do the same. The O'Connell will select further Alpha-lin."

Mac's heart suddenly creased on a new spike of pain: five years. Was this life? He thought of the two packs the Fealden had not yet mentioned. He knew the only Alpha whom they would trust, once he was obliged to slough them off.

Gemma.

He could feel the pain in his picchu. They couldn't both abandon their haunted, damaged wolves. Five years, sundered from his mate. Mac lifted an unsteady hand and stroked his fingertips over his eyebrows, trying to lift his heart.

Five years will pass, Gemma whispered in his head with brittle stoicism.

Fealden Wolflord and Valerie had both explained in detail. Mac needed to heal. Gemma herself had seen the strain he had been under, the tearing pull of all those thousands of wolves. By the end of the third invasion, Fealden himself had gone insane regularly, berserk, and it was only now, decades later, that he trusted himself not to dissolve under the demands of his wolves. Mac had not had time to reconsolidate. For that, he needed to leave, because he was their Wolflord: if they needed help, he would help them. There was no sentence that would stop this, except death. If he would allow them to, they would cleave to him again. To heal, properly, he needed time away.

Despite the shiele shocking from him, Fealden was now having to raise his voice to thunder above the furious shouts, explaining the ancient law.

"Tor Mackeld cannot, and will not retain any form of pack after deserting his koiru during a siege, whatever was his reason. An Alpha leads by example: such an example, putting personal need before pack, means he has either revoked his position as Alpha, or is not a wolf!" the Wolflord pronounced, almost swearing at the crowd.

Gemma looked down at her motionless mate, and for once his eyes lifted to hers. There was a fiery glimmer of life lurking among the stunned disbelief, swirling deep within the green-black.

Gemma, you cannot yet lead the Whites and Gems alone, said Mac fiercely. You have not the training, the strength - you need peace still to settle into being wolf, you cannot do this, it is too risky for you.

Finally, her mate had woken up. No surprise as to why: to protect her.

Gemma looked away, answering quietly: You are not the only one to follow the only path open to you. With Alan dead and you exiled, I have no choice but to lead them alone. I have no fear of the rage, Mac, it is a paper tiger now. Her mind was drowning in the tears smothered inside her. Five years.

You still cannot lead them solo, it will place too much strain on you.

What would you have me do? she snapped. Take another Alpha as bondmate?

The growl which rolled around the large room snapped the seething audience into momentary stillness, but as it subsided Gemma could feel the power Fealden was having to expend to hold the packed wolves from letting loose their anger with tooth and claw.

A tingle shimmered across her skin: Fealden was not the only Wolflord in the room. Mac was now lending the aged wolf strength, calming the boiling wolves with the strength of loyalty they still gave him.

"The most difficult to decide have been the Whites, and the Little Gems." Fealden voiced gruffly, and his eyes suddenly pierced Gemma. Sad eyes met his. Mac needed to heal, as did their wolves. She would wait.

"Both packs still have an Alfamme. But a mate also has the choice to follow a lone wolf into exile."

Her small pack of Little Gems. They had stabilised in the last month, choosing to live alongside the remaining Whites on the old Grey range under hers and Mac's leadership, carefully unfurling their wolf instincts in the freedom of the forest, beginning to build homes around the new Range house that was slowly being erected far from the city of Medway.

"If she so wishes, and her packs will accept other leaders during her absence, they need not release their oaths to her." Fealden seemed to echo her miserable thoughts aloud.

She did so wish, but they could not bring themselves to open their minds to any of the Alphas here. She had to stay, for them, she knew how fragile they were - and she could never push them away. Her tight little mesh of fellow prisoners.

Gemma's eyes were shielded as she looked up to where the knot of them were huddled together in the far rows of seating. Her heart suddenly missed a beat, then sped up, thundering in a staccato rhythm. Alan was sitting among them.

Alan was dead.

Gemma's eyes clamped shut on sudden tears.

You should know better than any wolf that a bond snapped does not invariably signify death, Valerie conveyed quietly. He only broke from shiatz this morning, and I believe he only did so because of your need of him.

Alan wasn't dead. Gemma had risen to her feet and was staring up the tiers of seating to her old mentor, tears rolling down her cheeks. But how had he survived? How could he have survived - drowning in silver?

Thank your human friends, Valerie answered silently. The images tumbled in explanation through Gemma's head.

The humans who the wereem had freed from the Faulk lair had run across Adam in the forest, and had subsequently been introduced to Mac, to whom they had explained Gemma's predicament. Mac had gone to Faulk, and during the underground battle, he had called in Ada and Penny, the two White hunters who had been with Adam. The werewolf, Bethan and Kate, Nils, and three of the escaped humans had elected to return to Faulk with them, to help their wolf friends however they could.

As the tide of battle had swung Tzo's way, the humans had taken shelter from the wolves on the chimney-stack island in the lagoon, their escape there enabled by Alan. The ex-Alpha had then been thrown into the muddy silver-laced sediment as revenge for helping the humans. Together, those humans had scooped the dying wolf out of the mud, carried him above the remaining water to the tiny man-made island, and hidden him behind the chimney stack. They had slunk carefully back and forth to the shore, pulling up grass to meticulously wipe clean every single inch of the wolf's shuddering body, before finally smothering him with soot scraped out of the top of the stack, to try to absorb the poison. Alan had been in shiatz ever since, hovering on the edge of death, but not quite sinking under it, Valerie reported. I have been tending him. I did not say, as I did not wish to raise false hopes.

Helen, Gemma's face creased. Her friend had learned how to treat a silver-poisoned wolf, by helping her. And her nurse had returned to Faulk, to help her again. And now, again.

Her wet eyes reopened on Alan's grey face. His gaunt features were creased in bitter self-doubt, but he met her gaze, eyes hooded. Stop blubbering, he conveyed. Gemma smiled through her tears.

I do not want to do this, Alan grated in her head. His fear of failure, failing the wolves he would try to serve, failing again, was almost too strong for him. But his eyes flicked sideways to Mac and returned to Gemma, burning. But I owe you one.

We will cleave to Alan, the mesh of whispers from the others rippled through her, soothingly, unbelievable. Here was an Alpha they need feel no shame cleaving to: he knew.

Tears sparkled in Gemma's eyes, and her heart creased again. Mac was conveying to her privately, fiercely, and she saw as clearly as he: without this responsibility, Alan was lost. The ex-Alpha, ex-prisoner would lose himself to his self-doubt, self-loathing and give way to the poison if he wasn't forced to hold because he owed them one. This could heal Alan also. Yes.

Please lead them for me. Gemma conveyed quietly to her second, heart suddenly evaporating in stunned hope.

The Gems sighed, settling around their new leader. Ellen reached out a hand, palm up. Alan stared at it. After a short pause he nodded, his shoulders tensed, and he reached his palm to cover hers. Mac's sighed, and Gemma saw a faint relaxation twist the corner of his mouth as the wolf circled to the new oath.

Watching Alan as the rest of her Little Gems pressed around him holding out their palms, Gemma barely noticed Hakan bounding swiftly up the shallow steps between the seating, until the White second was standing in front of the new Gem Alpha. Hakan extended his hand, palm up. Inwardly, Gemma and Mac could read his jubilation - he had not felt in the least bit adequate or ready to support the Alfamme while she led the Whites by herself, but he no longer had to: here was an Alpha who understood the hell they all came from.

Most of the other Whites were on their feet, protesting, faces snapping between their Alpha, Alfamme and the traitorous Hakan, bewildered and unhappy, until Mac conveyed softly to them.

Please. Follow Hakan in circling. Alan is a wise, seasoned leader, but he will need a loyal pack of wolves, wolves who understand how hard it is for even the strongest to grow free from captivity. Be true to him.

The silent keening of the Whites was hurting Gemma's head. We are loyal to you, they vowed.

She flinched slightly, unable to bear the tearing inside her, and suddenly it ceased. Opening her eyes again, the Whites were all staring at her. Sadly, but also happily. Their Alfamme hadn't meant to convey it, but the feeling had pulsed through: let me go with my mate.

Silently, in twos and threes, the adult Whites began to shuffle up the stairs to settle in groups around the increasingly unhappy Alan, waiting their turns to cleave to him. The new Alpha was glaring across at Gemma as the crowd around him swelled, but he didn't convey a word.

All sound in the room abruptly halted, then rose to a new level as focus shifted to Will Bancroft, excusing his way through the packed back tiers toward the huddle of Whites and Gems around the simmering Alan. Rebecca Mackeld was following slowly in her mate's wake, her eyes troubled.

Alan's eyes were lit with fire, glaring at the Alpha Physician when Will halted in front of him. Slowly, the phys's hand extended. Gemma turned her head, incredulous, and saw Ulf Mackeld nod calmly across the room to Alan, who tilted and twisted his head abruptly in an unhappy motion, skimmed his eyes over the breathless pack of wolves waiting around him, and with a grimace, covered Will's hand with his own. They would need a skilled physician.

Both winced violently: Alpha giving the oath to Alpha.

Sitting solitary on his bench, Mac let out a slow, steady breath of release.

Will will steady him, he told his mate in satisfaction.

And Rebecca will steady Will, Gemma agreed softly, watching Mac's sister slowly following her mate. Gemma's crying heart was easing: their packs needed this, needed a strong, united tier of leaders. They were doing this for Mac.

They are doing this for both of us. Mac returned. His mind was in shock, only just beginning to realise - life. Albeit exile. But his mate could come with him.

"Thank-you," Fealden said. The senior Wolflord had watched the proceedings silently, and his voice was gruff as he now resumed his sentencing in the following stillness.

"Tor Mackeld, do you accept the judgement of this court?" he asked.

"I do," Mac replied, his voice hoarse. However, his heart had started dancing, jubilation swirling in his mind, together with flickering images of places he wished to take his picchu. The lone wolf smothered his rising excitement, steadying himself to accept his sentence with suitable solemnity. Without his mate, the five year reft would have been interminable. Now - it was a gift.

"And will you consent to and heed your exile, neither bonding with any wolf nor returning to these shores, unless for pietid, until your sentence is completed?" said Fealden.

"I will," vowed Mac. A beautiful gift. Time for them both to heal, to learn. Time together.

Pietid? asked Gemma faintly. Her mind was also faint with happiness, reeling in sudden delight.

Family congregating for death or acute illness. An exile may formally request admittance at such times, explained Mac absently.

Gemma's heart creased, thinking of her little brother. Five years - too long for a werewolf. How would her family cope? How were they coping now? Could she really not see them for five years?

Mac cleared his throat. We will invite them to visit us.

"I would request a week's grace, in which to gather my mate's family and take her as my bondmate according to human laws and traditions, before we leave," her mate said aloud. Gemma's heart jumped.

If you like? Mac's offer was tentative. I didn't think - should have asked - maybe it is too soon, after all you've been through, what would you prefer? Her wolf was really worried that she might say no, worried that she might cry off, or be better off here, with her family. Gemma's heartbeat was erratic, she was almost crying again at the soft request her mate had just put forward. Mac was unsure that he should ask this of her: unsure that he should let her come with him into exile.

"Granted," Fealden answered.

Such a beautiful idea, she conveyed, eyes welling with tears. A honeymoon in Paris. And London. And Rome. And Stockholm. Prague. Vienna. Venice. New Delhi. Beijing. Tokyo. At least a week in each.

Let him just try and stop her from coming with him.

***

Heat shimmered up from the wide, paved walkway, cut through by a delicious breeze off the water that was teasing Gemma's hair as she and her mother strolled along the crowded waterfront.

"This place really is idyllic," Mrs. Smith breathed, eyes looking beyond the silhouettes of the men walking three-abreast some distance ahead, to the range of white-capped peaks reflected in the blue of Lake Geneva. "Is one of those Mont Blanc?"

"We can't see it from this angle," Gemma replied. "But you've seen it every day from the kitchen window, Mom."

Her mother sighed, "The mountains are so beautiful, but wouldn't it be easier if you lived here, in the city? You would be much nearer to your work, and to Adam - you wouldn't have to commute across the border every day and with Mac away so much, it surely wouldn't make so much difference to him?"

You'd be surprised. Ada had come over with Adam.

Shortly after Gemma had flown to Europe with Mac, Dr Amy Waring had formally referred her brother to the care of the eminent Dr Valerie Fealden of the Sanitaire Frontière in the Alps. It had been such a difficult time for her parents, they had been distressed by Gemma moving so far away, only two short months after she had recovered her memory (that lie tugged at her heart). And then Adam - well although all of his physicians had promised that this was the werewolf's best chance, the prognosis was still not good. And Europe was so far.

However, Gemma thought fierce, fierce thanks to Valerie for bringing Adam over here, where she and Mac could help him. Over the last six months her brother had maintained a brittle calm, just settling into his new home, adjusting to his new life. He spent a lot of time with Ada, who had accepted a post as a research pharmacist with the Sanitaire, working as both trainee and tutor.

"It's a shame that Ada and the girls couldn't join us today," Gemma's mother said slightly wistfully, seeming to read her daughter's thoughts. "Although I still worry - Adam's too young to be a father. Stepfather."

Gemma was slightly astonished that her mother hadn't seen the pattern that was glaringly obvious to her. Ada and her cubs never joined them while Mac was there. He was always leaving by one door shortly before they entered at another: as their former Alpha, he had vowed not to see them again until his sentence was completed. He couldn't even live in the same range.

"Ada's too young to be a mother too," Gemma pointed out. "It does him good - he loves it, loves them," Yes, much of the strain on her werewolf brother was through being partner to someone so fragile, and a father to Ada's two cubs, who adored him. Yet it also gave him so much - Adam wanted fiercely to live all he could. She knew that feeling.

If her brother followed the pattern of most werewolves (not that peculiar wereem turned by a patchwork of bites and shiele and finally, cubs), then Valerie believed that Adam had a further six months to a year before the insanity would really begin to shake him, although with his Mordeuse dead it was a little difficult to predict. He would have time to strengthen his ties with the Fealden pack at Frontiere, strengthen the bond he and Ada were developing, create a support network which may help him to survive the rage. They hoped.

Gemma closed her eyes in a brief prayer. Valerie was Adam's best bet. And Ada, Alexandra and Lucy. Love palliated the battering new instincts, urges.

Urges. Her blood surged.

Back off, broadcast Mac silently, a stark warning. The wolves who had been edging closer behind Gemma halted, scents agitated and pungent.

European wolves lived much less segregated from the humans around them, probably due to the lack of space, and the shared history in these lands. They didn't lair in cities, but they spent a lot of time in them. There seemed to be an especially dense male population in Geneva right now.

After a slight pause, the scent of the wolves behind her began to shadow her again, a silent game of Grandmother's footsteps. Gemma's right hand clenched in the folds of her skirt, and she carefully eased her breathing, lowering her hackles. Thankfully Mom and Dad would be flying out this evening anyway, she didn't think she'd be able to bear one more night without taking off, she wasn't quite on full heat, but her blood was burning with the need to run.

The corresponding scent that had been building off Mac all week didn't help.

"I don't like to think of you living alone in that remote little house most of the time, what if something happened?" her mother said, maintaining her usual tenacity with a subject that worried her.

The ringing in Gemma's ears receded a little, and she pulled herself together, blinking. "I'm the one who chose it, mother," she replied. Then she smiled cheekily. "And Mac checks in with me all the time, he's worse than you even. Besides, he's not away that much."

Mac was forbidden any type of pack bonds, and had fully expected to be isolated with his mate for the five years of the reft, building a life among the humans, separate from the wolf world. They had passed many wolves in both wilderness and cities as they had roamed blissfully after their marriage, giddy with happiness and freedom, but no-one had spoken to him, apart from the challenges during her spring heat.

However, on the third month of their protracted honeymoon, an Alpha had accosted them in the tall pine forests of the Pyrenees, and enlisted their help.

Two fugitive guards from the Faulk siege, carrying who knew what supplies or knowledge, had been traced to Eastern Europe, but were proving very difficult to track because one drug they definitely did have was the silver scent-mask. The pair were also skilled warriors - they had killed the only hunting party which had so far managed to find them.

Since that first request, Mac had steadily been solicited for more work, hunting and killing fugitive guards from the Faulk or Grey lairs, or hauling back for justice the buyers of various illegal drugs. Jeremy Fealden had shared with Mac his work to unravel the broker Grey's network of contacts, her mate had become the field agent in Europe, and now, increasingly, further afield. The Senshal were determined to wipe this episode clean. Gemma or Adam would help Mac track those who were silver scent-masked, but use of the drug was becoming more rare now that the source had dried up.

Mrs. Smith sighed, interrupting Gemma's careful concentration on things other than how she felt right now. "I can see why he has to go, that exhibition was wonderful - how close he can stalk completely wild animals still amazes me. But I just wonder - are you sure you're not starting this Masters to fill in the time while Mac's away? It seems a step back to me, honey."

Gemma smiled at her mother. They hadn't had so much time to talk alone this past fortnight, the first week James and Jess had been over too, and naturally Mom had spent most of her time fussing over Adam anyway.

"Professor Rubens is an expert, Mom - I'm very honoured that he's taken me on for a research degree." Her blood cooled slightly further as she thought of her prospective new studies.

"Yes, but a Masters - you're a post-doc, honey."

Gemma shrugged, "I know metals and remediation. His expertise is biochemistry, and bioaccumulation. We're both very excited to combine the two and see if we can improve understanding of both how metals accumulate in the body, and how to better get rid of them. I have to start as an MRes, Mom, this is a branch-off from what I know."

There were a lot of new techniques that Gemma was very excited to start learning. A lot of wolves were also very excited for her to start learning them.

Mrs. Smith sighed.

"Dad seems to have calmed down a bit," her daughter added quickly, a note of interrogation in her voice as she slanted a look across at her mother.

Mrs. Smith smiled, at first ruefully, recognising Gemma's blatant attempt at diversion, then a full sparkling face of mischief as she looked ahead to where her husband, son, and son-in-law were walking, clearly in the middle of a lively conversation.

"Well, you know your father. It's clear by now that despite the haste it was not a shotgun wedding," said the older woman, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Gemma gave a tiny gasp, which her parent ignored, continuing, "Besides, he's seen Mac as slightly less of a wastrel since Bethan told us about his previous position in the military."

Military - what whoppers had Bethan been telling? thought the wereem faintly, mind still reeling from the previous allegation.

"And now, with the acclaim his photography receives, and you both living so happily over here - Dad only wanted what's best for you, Gemma. You know that."

"Yes, I know that," her daughter agreed, eyes narrowed on her father's back. Shotgun wedding? She had been so shellshocked at the time, it had never occurred to her that that might be why her father had been so silently thunderous towards her fiancé throughout those hasty preparations and festivities back home.

A wisp of longing curled through the wereem, then flared into pure want. This would be her second heat since they had moved across the Atlantic, but Valerie said it was still far too early for her to be fertile as a wolf. If it ever happened at all - they could only wait and see. Gemma tried to still the emotion welling through her, reminding herself of the heat charts her mentor and physician (and friend) had drawn up for her, that it would be at least another year before her cycle might align with a sjeste's. She had to consider the matter scientifically.

She couldn't tell her mother the true reason she was only signing up for a year of research: apparently shape-shifting was deadly to a foetus, and female wolves always carried to term as wolf. She had to hope.

The males behind drew closer, drawn by the potent longing in her doft, and Gemma saw both her husband and brother lift their heads to glare at a male who slid off the low wall bordering the walkway and began trotting swiftly towards them. The well-built youngster veered off across the road, but once past the Alpha and werewolf, he turned back towards the wereem, eyes aflame.

Back off! Gemma herself flared.

The wolf flinched, and stumbled back toward the far sidewalk, shoulders slumped, eyes hurt. Gemma continued to glare at him until he turned and slunk away among the pedestrians on the opposite side. The anger was sparkling through her - how dare that puppy think he could saunter that close?

Please will you drop Adam back at the Sanitaire after we wave off our parents? Gemma asked her mate, trembling as she again fought to smother the surging urge to run. Now.

You want me to leave you at the international airport? With your doft driving everyone crazy, and a credit card and pill that'll allow you to take a flight anywhere? her mate demanded.

The pill won't last more than three hours, Mac, you know that. And I'm going to lose the card as soon as I shift. Surely you can handle giving me a bit of a head start?

Her wolf halted and looked back at her, exasperated.

Gemma stopped herself and eyed him, eyes turbulent. Then she smiled, and blew him a kiss.

Please, oh my most beloved mate?

Mac glared, the backlight firing his eyes with danger. Then he grinned, eyes gleaming, and blew her a kiss back.

I'm still going to catch you, he promised.

What, a slow wolf like you?