Tails of the Apocalypse

Protector ^{by Stefan Bolz}

The fire had separated him from his pack. The wolves had made their way east, across the great plains and toward the lower mountains. They traveled around the city. Even though there was food there, they dared not go too close. Meat was rare, and wolf meat was considered a delicacy. They wouldn’t have survived.

When the thunder came and fire began to rain from the sky, the earth shook under them in great tremors. He was still too small to run as fast as they did. So he and his sister, cubs and not yet fully certain on their feet, fell behind. His mother’s eyes commanded them to follow whenever she turned her head back to find them. He understood but couldn’t go any faster, as hard as he tried. His sister, slightly bigger and stronger already, had a good twenty feet on him. But even she couldn’t reach the others.

His mother slowed down and his sister caught up to her. Through the raging fire and the thunderous sounds around him, he saw his mother pick up his sibling by the neck. She looked at him once more, then turned and disappeared into the storm. His howling didn’t reach farther than the wind.

His nose couldn’t find them anymore. The acrid smoke overwhelmed his senses. As he drifted farther and farther away from his mother’s path, trying to escape the maze of fire that enclosed him, his feet suddenly stepped into emptiness. He fell down an embankment, tumbling over and over to land in a small reservoir of water. The fire above him leapt across the narrow creek bed to the other side, the heat scorching the parts of his fur not covered by water.

And there he waited. In the days that followed, he never forgot his mother’s eyes as she’d turned, his sister safe in her jaws, to find safety for the pack. He saw her face when he looked up at the sky at night, and she was there when he closed his eyes to sleep. He’d never been alone. No previous experience had prepared him for it. He felt the pain of it, raw and unremitting. It ached worse than the growing hunger in his belly.

When the rain came, the creek swelled up, and he found a low section of the embankment to climb up. He ran across the plains, his nose picking up his mother’s fading scent. He didn’t have to go far. He saw her, recognized her shape and that of his sister—blackened remnants, coated in ash on the charred ground. The whole pack lay there with them in death.

He held watch for two days. It was his hunger that drove him away in the end. It took the night and half the next day before the ground beneath his paws was no longer burned, before the desert grasses began to peek through the blackened soil.

He was dizzy and half-starved when he came upon the settlement. It lay in a valley before him, with the sun shining on the small lake surrounded by makeshift tents and hastily erected huts.

Somewhere in his mind he remembered his mother’s warning, her fear of places like this one, where wolf flesh was prized. But his exhaustion had taken over, and finding food was his only instinct. He trotted along the creek bed, watching the slow-flowing water for any signs of fish. He’d been with his mother when she’d caught them in the past, but he’d never done it himself.

He didn’t see the trap. It was set inside a patch of ferns in a narrow area between the creek and a large outcropping of rock. If he’d been protected by the wisdom of the pack, or older and more experienced himself, he would have seen it or smelled the human imprint on it. But he was young and hungry and alone.

The sudden, piercing pain obliterated his hunger, inundated his senses completely. Panicking, he tried to pull away from the iron claws that ripped through the muscles and tendons of his front leg. His cries of terror were swallowed by the sound of the rushing stream. Nobody heard him. Except for one.

“It’s not gonna hold.”

“It’ll hold.”

“It needs to be reinforced over there. Otherwise, it’ll break apart.”

“It’ll hold.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“I’m telling you, it’ll hold, Manny.”

Jack, ever so slowly, let go of the branch. It was embedded in a pile of other branches anchored into both sides of a small creek bed. The two boys stood in the center of the stream, watching the dam.

“We need to reinforce it here.” Manny pointed at a spot where the water rushed through, cascading along the driftwood and into the now much lower stream on the other side of it.

Both boys dug their hands into the muddy soil along the water’s edge.

“We’ll mix that with leaves and smaller sticks, and we should be good to go,” Jack said as he worked.

They moved several handfuls of dirt up top and added whatever they found from the ground, working it into a thick paste. They then carried it carefully to the dam. Jack heard the faint whining sound but didn’t think much of it. He was too focused on ladling the leafy paste into the narrow openings between the dam’s branches.

The second grunt was louder, more urgent. Jack stopped for a moment, listening closely.

“What is it?” Manny asked. His hands were still submerged. At this point, their clothes were completely soaked.

“I don’t know. I thought I heard something.”

The third cry was followed by a low growl.

“There’s something out there,” Jack said.

He saw fear in Manny’s eyes. Fear and the hope that if it was an animal, it would simply pass through without bothering them any further. Jack knew better. The cries had been stationary. They’d come from the same spot maybe fifty feet behind the area of the ferns and close to the large boulder downstream. He moved away from the dam toward the other side of the creek bed.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack.”

“We won’t find out until we take a look.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Manny said.

“I did.”

“We should go back. It’s getting late.”

“I’m going,” Jack said, climbing out of the creek bed. Manny followed as he’d always done. They’d entered the world from their mother’s womb three minutes apart, with Jack leading the way. Manny had followed his older twin ever since.

The whimper was urgent now and fueled by pain. It was Manny who found the source first. They’d climbed on top of the boulder.

“It’s a wolf cub,” Manny said. Jack moved forward until he saw it too. The cub’s right front paw was caught in a large, iron trap. It was evident from the whining and the odd way it was trying to stand that the cub was in pain.

The two boys gave each other a glance. Both knew that meat—any meat—was sparse, and for them to come home with something that could feed at least part of their group would be a big deal. Their status would instantly rise from mere children, dependent on their elders, to young men, able to take on some of the group’s responsibilities.

When they climbed down the side of the boulder and approached the cub, it didn’t move. Jack didn’t realize just how young it was until they stood in front of it. Half its fur was blackened and singed, the other half burned off entirely. The trap had caught its right front leg half-way up, and the shin and foot were soaked in blood.

Jack could almost feel the animal’s pain himself. He held his knife inside his pocket, readying himself to cut the cub’s throat. The boys had watched other members of their group of survivors slaughter animals before, and Jack was fairly sure of what to do.

He’d planned to move around the cub and get behind it. From there it would be relatively easy to hold it and slit its throat. But when he saw the cub up close, all he could think of was to open the trap and set it free.

“Help me open the trap,” Jack said after a moment’s hesitation.

“What?”

“The trap. We need to open it and I can’t do it by myself.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“We have to go back and tell them that there’s a wolf cub in one of the traps.”

“But they’ll kill it,” Jack replied, louder than he’d intended. He was sure now. He wouldn’t kill the cub or go back to the village and tell them of a new food source. He could only hope it wouldn’t die out here, injured and without the ability to hunt for itself.

“It’ll die anyway,” Manny replied. “It’ll die without food.”

“You don’t know that—”

“And if it doesn’t die, if it survives and gets stronger and becomes a full-grown wolf, it will come back and try to kill us.”

Jack didn’t want to admit that Manny was right.

“Besides,” Manny continued, “we can’t set the trap back. It’ll be closed with nothing in it, and they’ll know someone must have freed whatever was in there.”

Damn you, Manny! Jack thought. He couldn’t argue with his brother’s logic. He was right.

“I’m going back to tell them,” Manny said as he turned and began to climb up the boulder.

“Manny!”

“I’m going back to tell them,” his brother repeated without turning. “You can come or not. It’s up to you.”

Manny was gone. It would take him thirty minutes to get to the village and another thirty to bring someone back. Jack didn’t think. He didn’t consider the possible consequences for himself or the village. He only saw the pain the cub was in, the terror in its eyes. Its silent plea for help.

He knelt before the trap. A grown man could probably open the trap alone, but Jack knew he wasn’t strong enough. Nevertheless, he had to try. He put his hands on either side of the iron jaws and pulled. The cub was still, as if it knew that moving might result in further injury. It watched him carefully.

Jack was able to pull the claws apart a quarter inch, but it wasn’t enough. The cub whimpered when Jack eased them back together around its leg. He needed to prevent the claws from closing once he pulled them apart. He needed to pull harder and farther than he did before.

Jack sat down with the trap between his legs and grabbed the two sides of its jaws and pulled. He was able to move the claws farther apart than the first time, but it still wasn’t enough for the cub to remove his foot. Jack felt his strength waning. The sharp edge of the iron cut into his hands and tears filled his eyes. He screamed his frustration, fueling his arms with one last ounce of strength. Jack’s muscles were cramping, and just when he was about to give up, the cub pulled its paw out of the trap. The blood had made the fur on its leg slippery enough to slide out.

Jack let go and the trap snapped shut. He expected the cub to run, but it cowered instead, licking its injured leg. The wound was raw and deep and caked with dirt and blood. Jack took the handkerchief off his neck and soaked it in the stream.

“Let me take a look,” he said, slowly stretching out his hand toward the cub. It didn’t resist, but its whining asked for tenderness. Jack gently took the paw and cleaned the wound as best he could, then ripped the handkerchief in half and wrapped one part around the cub’s leg to staunch the flow of blood.

“You need to leave,” he said, lightly petting the cub’s head. It responded by pushing its ears against his fingers. The young wolf was in no hurry to leave Jack’s loving touch. “You need to get out of here. Do you understand? You have to go!”

Jack stopped stroking the cub’s head and pushed at its side, away from the direction Manny had walked. But the animal refused to go. Its whole body shivered, and it pulled itself forward until its head rested against Jack’s palm again. But the boy knew what had to be done and pushed the cub a few more times and finally—afraid one of the villagers would walk around the boulder and see them—he picked it up and carried it downstream, scratching its ears as he went. The village was several miles upstream from where he was. He figured he’d go down another mile and leave the cub there. After that, it was on its own.

Ten minutes later, his back and shoulders ached so much, he had to stop and set the cub down. It hobbled a few feet away from him, still unable to put any weight on its injured leg. It looked miserable.

“Come on now,” Jack said as he picked it back up and continued their journey downstream. A series of rock formations stood a few hundred yards to the west, near the stream but relatively hidden behind a cluster of low-standing pine trees. Jack climbed across the rocks to a small gap between two of the boulders. The overhang there was large enough to give shelter from the rain and protection from prying eyes that might look up from the creek. Only by climbing the rocks as he had would anyone see the small dugout. Jack hoped that wouldn’t happen.

“This will make a nice den for you, at least for a while. You stay here. Okay? I’ll be back tomorrow to get you something to eat. It won’t be much. Don’t leave!”

The cub appeared even smaller now as it lay, back pushed against the flinty wall of the hollow, licking the handkerchief. Though Jack expected to be punished once Manny returned and the villagers learned what he’d done, he ran upstream just the same. Part of him regretted setting the cub free. It would most likely die anyway, either from hunger or from the infection in its leg. He should have killed it and brought it back to the settlement, he knew. Everything would have been better. Perhaps even for the cub, blessed with a merciful, quick death.

The pain was red.

It wasn’t only in his leg. It radiated upward into his chest. When he slept, his fever dreams were filled with images of crows pecking at the wound, piercing the slowly healing skin and ripping out large chunks of it.

The night before, he’d eaten a rat. It crept up from the stream, probably attracted by the blood seeping through the cloth around his leg. He couldn’t keep any of it in his stomach. It came back up in heaves, though he managed to walk a few feet before he threw up.

The boy returned after two nights and brought a bowl of thick liquid. He only stayed for a short time, during which he replaced the smelly cloth with a fresh one. The new cloth had some kind of salve on it. It smelled almost as bad as the previous one, so the cub shied away from it.

The next day—or maybe it was the day after that—the boy came back again. The other boy was with him, and they each brought him a fish. They sat with him for a while, cutting the small fish into pieces and feeding them to him. He felt better after that.

From then on, the boys came every day. They never stayed long but always brought something for him to eat. They petted him, and when he began to feel better, he played with them, pretending to gnaw them but never actually biting them. In his mind they were cubs like him, from the same pack and equals.

After a few more days, he was able to put both front paws on the ground with only a little pain. The boys came one last time. That day, he saw fear in their eyes, and when they left, he knew they wouldn’t return. He waited at the entrance to the cave for two nights and two days.

When they didn’t come back, he left his hiding place and followed their scent along the banks of the creek until he reached the settlement. His nose caught the sweet smell of death before he found its source.

Half the huts were burned to ashes. Slain bodies lay on the ground, limbs ripped from their torsos. There was no sign of the boys. No sign anywhere. He sniffed at each tent, each hut that still stood, and even the remnants of all the burned ones. He found the younger boy along the lakeshore, ten feet from the water’s edge. Half the boy’s arm was missing. His lifeless eyes stared into the sky. The cub’s howl echoed across the water.

He picked up the older boy’s scent at the edge of the green surrounding the lake. He followed it into the tundra, the pain in his heart as wide as the land that lay before him, as vast as his hope for the boy’s safety. The stars stood cold against the darkened sky that night, and he felt immeasurably small below them.

The next day brought rain. It washed away the scent, leaving no trace of it behind. For seven months, he searched the steppe. He traveled far to the east until he reached the mountains. From there he went west, through the swamps and the lowlands. Twice he came upon another settlement. Perhaps the boy had joined one of those packs. But he didn’t dare go near them to see, though he so desperately wanted to. He remembered the lesson of his pack. He remembered how much humans loved wolf meat.

Except for a slight limp in his right front leg, he became strong and fast and a fierce hunter. His scorched fur grew back in, and save for a streak of black skin, a ghost of his burning, it stood thick and warm against the winter. He learned how to fish in the narrow creek beds and hide from the packs of hyenas at night. He learned to be a shadow in the dark. The cub had become a wolf.

Jack and the others had fled across the plains and toward the mountains. There were twenty-eight of them left. First, they’d run from the fire. Now they ran from those who hunted them. They’d found a small plateau in the hills, protected by a steep, narrow incline in front and sheer cliffs in back. They stayed there for a few months. It reminded Jack of the small hollow he’d found for the cub. And as he had then, the survivors clung close to the rocks, protected by them, until the wounded were able to walk again.

But as the nights grew colder and food once again became scarce, they left their refuge and made their way along the green river at the edge of the desert. The rocky landscape made it difficult for anyone following to spot them. At the same time, the rough ground slowed their progress to a few miles per day.

One night, Jack overheard the men talking about a settlement, a stronghold where they would find safety and food and warmth. The mountains on the horizon came closer each day. Yet, they seemed unreachable in Jack’s mind, standing distant and mocking him with false hope, a promise of safety never to be fulfilled.

Seven moons ago, Manny had taken his hand and pulled him to safety when the dark figures charged into their makeshift camp. The boys had risen early and snuck into the kitchen hut to steal a bowl of wheat porridge for the cub. From there, they’d seen the shadows moving through the fog that stretched across the lake at dawn.

The intruders were cloaked in dark robes, hoods pulled over their heads, and armed with long, curved swords that gleamed in the early light. One minute the camp lay sleepy and quiet alongside the water’s edge; the next, chaos reigned. The attackers set fire to the huts to force out the ones sleeping inside, then cut down anyone who escaped the burning. They slaughtered his fellow villagers right in front of him, and Jack knew the cloaked invaders weren’t merely after their food—they were after them. Through the smoke that filled the air, Manny took his hand and pulled Jack away and toward the shore and safety.

“We’ll swim out,” he said. “We’ll be safe out there.”

Only a few feet before they reached the water, Jack felt his brother’s grip release as the sword cut across Manny’s back. With a cry cut short, his twin fell to the ground. Jack stumbled on, driven by terror, the screams of his fellow villagers echoing across the lake. When he looked back, he saw the cloaked man kneeling next to Manny, lifting his brother’s arm up and pulling it toward his own mouth, teeth bared.

Pain gripped Jack’s heart as he fled. He wished he could’ve found the courage to return to his brother’s side. But the way Manny had slumped to the ground made Jack certain he was dead.

Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision as he ran as fast as he could along the edge of the water to where the lake became swampland. From there he went east, and following the high grass, Jack circled the settlement. He stayed low to the ground, running from one boulder to the next for cover.

Jack had found the other survivors a few hours later. The small group, mostly women and children, huddled against a large, rock outcropping, tending to the wounded. The few men remaining were too old to be warriors. None had brought more than they wore on their backs. A few had knives, and one carried a small bow. From that day until this one, they’d lived their lives on the run.

Jack grabbed the quiver he’d made from the furs of muskrats he caught by the river. He’d made it his mission to look for long, thin sticks he could cut into spears for fishing. During the last few months, he’d become one of the group’s main food providers. Jonu, one of the older women, taught him how to set traps for animals, and Carrie, a girl only two years older than him, showed him how to use the spears to catch fish. She’d stand completely still in the center of the stream, holding the spear above the water, then drive it through an unwary swimmer.

Now they fished and hunted together. Carrie let Jack use her knife to whittle the sticks into spears. It was important not to make the tip too long and thin, or it would break. Too short a tip would leave the spear dull and unusable. They figured out how to attach sharp pieces of narrow and pointy stone to the tips to make them more effective.

Carrie knew that Jack and Manny had been brothers. Every once in a while, she’d ask Jack if he still thought of his twin. He’d simply nod his head and continue with whatever task he was working on.

Jack wanted to talk to her about Manny, wanted to tell her all about him and how they’d found the cub and brought it food each day. But he was afraid he would start to cry. So he kept silent, even though he suspected she’d understand.

“When we reach the stronghold,” Jack said, “I would like to find a stream and build a dam in it and name it after Manny.”

“I like that idea,” Carrie replied.

She was shouldering a spear with four fish stacked on it. As long as he’d known her, she always wore her hair long and braided. About a month before, she’d come to him, handed him her knife, and told him to cut off the braid as close to her head as possible. He didn’t want to do it at first, but she told him it was getting knotted and filthy and she couldn’t take it anymore. So she sat down on a rock in front of him, and he cut her hair while tears ran down her cheeks.

To lay his palm on her head felt strange. He’d touched her hands before, but that was necessary touching, when his hands were tools that helped her up onto a boulder or pulled her out of a deeper part of a creek. But Jack had never touched her like this.

Despite the dirt, her hair was soft, and he felt the warmth of her head under his hand. When he saw Carrie crying over her lost braid, he wanted to hug her and hold her, but he could only bring himself to pick up the braid from the ground and hand it to her. After that, her hair always stood up in all directions.

Sometimes, when he watched her kindle a fire with two sticks and a few blades of grass or tell stories to the younger children in the evenings, he wished they’d lived in a time where she hadn’t had to cut her hair, where she could wear it long and beautiful and pretty.

You would like her, Manny, he thought during those times. She’s one of us.

One morning, Jack felt someone tugging at him in his sleep. When he opened his eyes, Carrie knelt beside him, pulling his shirt.

“You’re early,” he whispered. Except for the two women holding watch at the edge of their camp, nobody was up yet. The night was just beginning to lose its hold on the land, and Jack saw only Carrie’s silhouette against the sky.

“I couldn’t sleep anymore.”

Jack got up and grabbed his quiver. They left the camp silently, signaling the guards on their way out. They’d been in this spot for a few days now, mainly to stock up on food and water before they went farther into the mountains. The rocks all around them gave them cover from anyone approaching from the east and south. To the west stood a large cliff. It rose up steeply, protecting the group from possible attack from that direction. The land to the north sloped downward and into a valley. A cold, clear stream rushed over the rocks, providing pools of water for fishing and some of their more basic needs, like washing clothes and bathing.

They hadn’t seen other groups for the last six months. After the cloaked invaders killed two-thirds of their group, they avoided contact with anyone else. Though they’d taken to sleeping huddled together against possible attack during the first few weeks of their flight, they’d become more confident now, spreading out more—still holding watch each night but not under constant fear of death.

Jack and Carrie climbed down a rocky path they’d explored a few times over the last two days. Their familiarity with it made their steps certain, even in the dim twilight of the early morning. The stream was their hunting ground, and if today was a good day, they’d catch a dozen or so fish before the sun came up.

Carrie was only a few feet ahead when she stumbled and let out a muffled scream. The dark shape on the ground appeared to be a large blanket at first. Jack went down on one knee to explore the lump on the ground, then jumped back, pulling Carrie with him.

Before them lay a body. Jack dared not speak. Both looked at it, watching for any movement. After a moment, Carrie knelt and shook it slightly. There was no reaction. Jack knelt again beside her.

“Jack,” Carrie whispered. He could hear the fear in her voice.

“Yes?”

“Whoever this is—was—is wearing a robe. A hood.”

The hair on the back of Jack’s neck pricked up. There was a moment when he felt paralyzed, unable to take another breath or move. He felt the darkness closing in around him, and a grim certainty that his own death was imminent descended over him.

“What shall we do?” Carrie’s voice brought him back. Jack took her hand as they retreated.

“We have to tell the others,” he said.

She nodded.

They made their way quietly but quickly back along the rocky path, their feet swift and sure again. When they arrived at the camp, the eastern horizon became a pale, orange hue, pushing the darkness back.

“A dead cloaked one, halfway down toward the stream,” Jack said to the two women holding watch. They rushed to the others in the camp, waking them quietly.

“Get ready to leave,” Jonu told the group after they’d roused. Two older men had already shouldered their weapons.

Jack’s heart raced when they returned with the others to the body. Carrie wouldn’t let go of his hand, and he was glad to offer his own for comfort. He’d never seen her afraid until today. But now he saw the terror in her face, and he knew it mirrored his own fear back to him. He was glad she wouldn’t let go of his hand. The gesture filled him with an irrational sense of calm. Perhaps, he thought, it was fate balancing the scales, offering him absolution for when he’d held Manny’s hand but fled, leaving his dead brother behind.

By the time they reached the cloaked figure, the horizon had lightened. Dawn was now in full bloom. The early light softened the face of the dead man lying on the ground. Jonu turned him on his back, and his hood slipped off. His head was shaved bald and covered in blood. His right ear was missing. When Jonu opened his tunic, the extent of his injuries became visible. One part of his neck was ripped away and hung by a few pieces of skin and muscle. His sword was still in its sheath, as if he hadn’t had time to draw it against his attacker.

“An animal,” Carrie said.

“Yes,” Jonu replied.

“Shouldn’t we have heard it?” Carrie asked.

“Not necessarily,” Tom, one of the older men, said. “It was far enough down the path, and as long as he didn’t scream, we wouldn’t have heard him.”

A feeling had gnawed at Jack since Jonu had exposed the man’s wounds. Their size, their shape. Could it be?

He looked from the man to Carrie and the others. He’d never told anyone about the cub. And now, they were hundreds of miles away from where he’d first encountered the wolf, when he’d saved him from the iron trap.

No, he thought, dismissing it again. It can’t be. Maybe another wolf, but not that one.

“Wolves?” Jonu asked, voicing the question everyone was thinking. The wounds had demanded it be asked.

“This far into the mountains?” Tom sounded doubtful.

“We need to leave.” Jonu unbuckled the belt and took the man’s sheath and sword. “We need to leave now.”

The fear in her voice made everyone move quickly. Now and then, Jack looked back to scan the land below.

No, he thought again. Impossible.

He packed his sleeping blanket and hunting quiver, and while the others hurriedly gathered the little they had, he decided to tell Carrie about the cub. She needed to know. He couldn’t think of a good reason for why he hadn’t told her already. Was he afraid she would judge him for not telling the group about saving the cub rather than offering it as food to the village before?

The group made its way along the rocky mountain pass in single file, with Jonu scouting ahead a few hundred feet and Tom at the end, guarding the rear. They carried a few smoked fish from the previous day but little else. Jack calculated they’d be able to move for two days, assuming they found a fresh source of water. After that, they’d have to catch more fish or find another source of food.

None of them spoke. They glanced worriedly about, all lost in their own thoughts, each fighting an individual battle against a feeling of rising dread. If an attack came, they’d never survive, so exhausted were they from their long, strenuous march. The hope they would reach safety had vanished this morning.

“We’ve got three more days, maybe two, before we reach the stronghold,” Tom said quietly when they rested next to a small pool of water. “At this speed, three is more likely.”

Jack could see the fatigue in his weathered face.

“We’re so close,” Tom lamented.

Tom’s wife had died on the same day as Manny, Jack knew. Most if not all those who’d survived had lost at least one loved one. Carrie had lost her older brother; Jonu her two children. Jack’s parents had died the year before the raid, but he’d always had Manny.

“We’ll make it,” Carrie said.

Jack wanted to believe her. In fact, at this moment, there was nothing he wanted more. He wanted to be strong for her and tell her that he’d be there to help her and the others—that he’d protect her, all of them, from harm. But the place that held that belief in him was nearly empty. He cast his eyes down and didn’t speak for the rest of the day as the group sought refuge deeper in the mountains. His thoughts circled around Manny and what he could have done—what he’d failed to do—to protect him.

It wasn’t until after they’d settled down for the night that the howling began.

The wolf had picked up the scent of the cloaked ones a few days past. They smelled of death and decay, of festering rage. He circled around them and stayed downwind, careful not to get too close, vigilant to remain hidden from their scouts. He saw their curved blades and remembered the slain bodies in the boy’s village. But the way they moved, swift and fearless and as one group, recalled another memory from even further back: the memory of life as a cub with his pack. Following the leader without question, unified and complete as a group, he’d felt utterly whole.

During the last few months, he’d longed for the companionship and trust of the pack. His natural instinct to protect others lay buried deep below his need to survive on his own. But as much as he yearned for the safety of companions, he also sensed the danger that wafted from the group he was tracking—their willingness to take life, without mercy; simply for the pleasure of taking it.

A few hours ago, he’d passed the two scouts who moved a mile ahead of the rest. Now he made his way deeper into the mountains, following the small creek as it flowed over smooth rocks.

He spotted a few small fish. He was hungry and looking for the best place in the water to snatch them from, when he saw the boy. A female was with him. The humans weren’t cubs anymore but they were still young. The female stood at the center of a basin, spear in hand. She was quick and caught one fish after another in a short time. The wolf admired her stealth and swiftness.

His instinct told him to retreat, to leave and find a different hunting ground. But he only stepped backward into the brush until he was certain he couldn’t be seen. From there, he watched. He knew the scouts of the cloaked ones were close and feared they’d fall upon the boy and the others during the night. When the boy and his companion left, the wolf followed them until they reached their group’s camp. When night fell, he doubled back toward the creek, looking for the cloaked scouts.

When he was halfway down the mountain, he saw the first one. The cloaked figure moved up the narrow, silvery path toward him. Then the wolf saw the second scout. That one was farther down in the valley, moving away from them and in the opposite direction, most likely to guide the rest of the hunters to their quarry.

The wolf didn’t think. He didn’t calculate the value of his own life versus the boy’s. He moved as a fast, gray shadow darting across the dark landscape. When the first scout became aware of him, it was too late. The human grabbed for his sword but the wolf jumped, his fangs clamping shut around the side of the man’s neck first. The scout fell, already dead before his body touched the ground. His companion fled.

The wolf sped toward the creek and crossed it in two leaps. The second scout was a fast runner, but the wolf gained quickly on him. He’d never been a strong sprinter, but no prey could outrun him over distance. The wolf saw the cloak’s silhouette move in the wind as the scout ran toward a copse of small trees in the distance.

Until now, the wolf had used the rocks to stay hidden from his target, but now he stepped into the open, where he could move more quickly. The moon shone bright in the night sky, illuminating the land around him. In long strides, the wolf leapt after the running man. Farther down the path, a group of cloaked ones started toward him, swords in hand. The wolf knew he’d reach the scout before his comrades could, but it would be a close race after all.

The scout stopped and turned, drawing his sword. The wolf slowed, baring his teeth, one weapon challenging another. His head low, the first scout’s blood still crimson on his muzzle, he circled his second target warily. If he didn’t attack soon, the wolf knew, he’d be overwhelmed when the other humans arrived.

The scout smiled, a hunter certain of his prey’s fate. The wolf heard the others coming and growled as he retreated, then turned and disappeared into the night. By the time the other cloaked ones arrived, the wolf was gone.

He watched them from afar as they gave up the search for him and made camp for the night. A few slept on the ground with their swords close, but most stood in pairs at the perimeter, their backs to one another, holding watch. Low to the ground, the wolf crept toward them. He’d watched them hide two traps in the grass before, but the night was his ally, and for a few more hours he’d be invisible to them, a shadow at best. He wouldn’t let them get to the boy.

He quietly approached the two guards who kept watch to the east. They spoke quietly to each other. If not for that, they might have heard him.

He jumped, his jaws open, his fangs ripping into the first man’s sword arm. The second scrambled, fumbling for his sword leaning against the rock, but the wolf was too fast. The man threw his hands over his face as a last defense against the onslaught of sharp teeth ripping into his forearms and hands.

The wolf disappeared before the others, alarmed by the screams of the two watchmen, arrived. He heard shouts behind him as he slunk low in the darkness, once again beyond their vision.

There were eight cloaked ones left. One kindled a fire. Two brought driftwood and the dried remnants of a dwarf tree. The flames licked upward into the night, creating a circle of orange light around the men who gathered within its warmth, their backs toward the heat, their eyes watching the shrouded land beyond.

The wolf knew he wouldn’t be able to attack now and live. The light was too bright for him to move among them unseen. His eyes found the horizon, where night would soon surrender to dawn. He hoped the dead one he’d left near the boy’s camp would be enough warning. He hoped the boy’s pack would be gone. He hoped he’d bought them enough time. And with only the boy’s image in his head, he stepped forward into the circle of firelight.

Jack and the others had reached the mountain pass that evening—the narrow road that would lead them to the stronghold and safety. Their camp lay behind a cluster of rocks near a small spring.

They were weary of walking. Their feet were blistered and raw, and they needed to rest. Jonu tended to the children, and Tom organized the watch schedule for the night. Jack sat next to Carrie, who used her knife to divide the last of the fish.

When Jack heard the howl, he knew. They were used to hearing animals along their journey. There’d been distant cries of coyotes at night, of owls hunting for food. But this one was different. It was full of pain and weak, and somehow Jack knew it was his wolf calling to him.

Everyone heard the howl when it came. Tom grabbed his bow, Jonu the sword she’d taken from the corpse of the cloaked one they’d found the night before. As Jack got on his feet, the wolf stepped unsteadily into their camp. Tom raised his bow, but Jack quickly moved between him and his wounded friend.

“No!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

As Tom lowered his bow, Jack went down on one knee. The wolf, shaking and barely able to stand, stumbled forward, then sank to the ground.

“We need water,” Jack whispered.

Carrie handed him one of the canteens, and Jack poured the water into his cupped hand. The wolf licked at it. His coat was covered in crusted blood. A large cut to his hind leg was visible, and half his left ear was missing.

“We have to clean those wounds,” Jonu said as she knelt next to Jack. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t judge. She simply ripped off part of her scarf and soaked it in water, then wiped the crusted blood from the cut. “How do you know him?” she asked.

Jack looked at her for a moment, considering his answer. He wasn’t the same person from nine months ago. He was no longer a child. He’d lost his brother, his best friend. He’d learned to provide for the group. The boy from that earlier time was gone, killed on the same day as Manny had been. When he answered, Jack spoke as a young man whose life had changed in an instant; who’d survived against long odds.

“I met him when he was still a cub. His foot was caught in a trap and I freed him from it.”

He looked up at Tom and the others, whose expressions reflected the sadness in his own gaze.

“The dead cloaked one near the camp earlier…” Jonu said.

“Yes. I’m pretty sure that was him.”

Jack noticed the blood on the ground. It was pooling from the wolf’s belly. “He’s bleeding,” he said, unable to stop his tears from flowing.

“Let me take a look.” Jonu moved to the other side and lifted the wolf’s hind leg. He whimpered sharply. The cut was short, no longer than the width of a blade. “He must have been stabbed. There’s no way of telling how deep it is. Here, hold this on the wound with a bit of pressure.”

Jonu gave Jack the piece of scarf, and he pressed it against the wolf’s soft belly. He felt Carrie’s hand on his shoulder as his tears dropped onto the wolf’s head. He hadn’t cried for Manny, wouldn’t allow himself to. He knew that crying for the loss of one would open the gates to his grief for all the others, the stored-away grief of the last two years. In front of Jack, on the barren ground, lay not just a wolf, but a brother, a mother, and a father. His sorrow washed over him, drowning him, and Jack couldn’t stop himself from weeping uncontrollably. Anguish and gratitude for his family’s sacrifice, his wolf’s sacrifice, twisted in his gut as he buried his face in the wolf’s fur and sobbed. He could feel the wolf’s ragged breathing begin to slow. Shallow, short breaths now.

“It’s okay,” Jack whispered. “It’s okay. You’re among friends now. You’re among friends.”

The wolf felt the life bleed out of him, but with it also the pain. He’d killed some of the cloaked ones, wounded all, one of them only a few hundred feet from the boy’s camp. He’d ripped their sword arms or their legs, whatever he could reach, so they could neither move nor strike.

At first, he’d felt fear. But when he’d stepped into the circle of firelight, it lifted from him. Only the boy and his need to protect him remained in his thoughts. When the cloaked ones came at him, swords raised and screaming with their heat and rage, he moved like a silver shadow among them. He struck and withdrew and struck again. He was quick, and he was death to three of the eight.

When the first sword cut him, the pain struck him straight to the ground. But he’d rolled back to his feet and tore more legs and more arms to shreds before one of them stabbed up and into his belly with a short knife. The wolf ripped that one’s throat as well, but he knew by the way the blade had sunk deep into his belly that he would die.

And he’d loped, slowly but steadily, following the boy’s scent until he’d reached his camp.

As he lay on the ground, the boy’s tears falling onto him like drops of warm rain, the wolf felt at peace. For he knew he’d breathed his last breath surrounded by his pack.

Jack and the others reached the stronghold two days later. They’d buried the wolf in a grave made of river stones at the edge of a valley. Into the soil surrounding it, Carrie etched the name Jack gave to the wolf before he died. Rain washed the letters away by the time the moon was full.

But the name was never forgotten. It lived on—passed along as family history by Jack and Carrie to their children; then a half-believed story a generation later; then a myth of survival handed down through the history of an entire people. The telling of the tale, a testament to one whose bravery stands as a lesson of loyalty, captured in the simple name of a wolf who gave his own life so that many might live.

Protector.