Ten years ago...

Thrax glared up at the iron ramparts of West Gate as a horn blasted somewhere within. He was loath to cross the Black Bridge. Loath to have so much iron and stone between him and the outland. The last span of bridgework had yet to be extended. It lay like an iron drawbar locked across the portcullis.

Beside him, Thresh and Torgon were restless, too. Atop the battlements, crossbows glinted in the waning sunlight. Hundreds of bolts loaded and ready to launch. Even at this distance, Thrax spied twitchy eyes through the arrowslits.

"Nervous bastards, eh?" Torgon murmured. A muzzle full of fangs made it awkward to speak.

Thresh huffed, his breath freezing in the chill. "Are you scared of their fucking needles, old woman?"

Torgon chuckled. "Not with you here, old man. They're like to shoot at your fucking mug first."

The corner of Thrax's mouth twitched. He supposed he couldn't blame the humans for being leery. They'd invited wargs to their gate, after all. Likely they'd expected their guests to arrive in one form or the other. Yet the three wargs before them had come in berserker fettle—wolfish from the waist up. Men with pelts of thick fur, long fangs, and saber-sharp black claws.

Yes, he thought, to these humans they were three nightmarish beasts come to steal their daughters and devour their sons.

The sound of moving chains and grinding gears blared in the gloaming as the Black Bridge pivoted out over the gorge of black sucking mud. It locked into place between the iron gate posts with a grating halt.

With a growly sigh, Thrax shifted into human form and stepped onto the drawbridge. The other two followed suit, shifting from fur to flesh before filing in behind him like Hekki's faithful Death Hounds.

With a grunting sound of relief, Torgon rearranged his bollocks. Now that they were no longer in their larger half-wolf forms, their trews and jerkins weren't so snug. Although, Torgon's trews still looked uncomfortable.

They'd crossed the outland in their half skins so that they'd be fully dressed on arrival. Thrax had made that small concession, knowing humans suffered strange aversions to nakedness. And he knew wargs were thought of as nothing more than savages. Arriving naked would likely only frighten them all the more. Their judgment didn't bother him in the least, he was only here out of mild curiosity. He wanted to meet this High Lady with brass enough to seek a fellowship with wargs.

Thresh snorted in disgust as Torgon's crotch antics continued. "Gods, Tor, your arse is eating your trews."

"That's because my cock takes up too much room," Torgon replied. "Thanks for noticing." He seemed to strut a little prouder. "It's grown too large with all the exercise."

"So's your mouth," Thresh grumbled.

Thrax shook his head, enjoying their banter. And Torgon had indeed been exercising his manhood more than usual. They'd just arrived back from Warrow, where Thrax's father was wargrex, and Torgon had glutted himself on a widowed young warga.

Well, she was a babe by their standards. So were these humans, come to that. Thrax was nearly three hundred years old! The yardstick of mortal centuries was but a measure of moments to a warg. He supposed, to these frail creatures, he seemed a young male in the prime of manhood.

As they drew closer, the iron teeth of the portcullis lifted out of the ground, metal clanking in protest. Then it hung there like a guillotine as the three wargs passed beneath it.

He could feel hundreds of eyes rankling him from all sides. Even in this form, he knew he still looked very alien to the people of West Gate. To them, wargs were giants with pointy ears and fiendish eyes.

"It's like they've never seen outlanders before," Torgon grumbled, glaring up at the murder holes in the gatehouse ceiling.

"Not wargs in tight trews anyway," Thrax muttered. He'd also noticed the gazes quizzing them from above...from the holes whence boiled oil and hot tar could rain like fire.

Fragile though they seemed, there were some things to admire about these humans—their strength lay in their steel and stone fortifications. Their crafty torture holes, and their ability to withstand nixrath poisoning. He supposed, in some ways, he found them fascinating. Not fascinating enough to spend more than an hour among them, though.

As they entered the outer bailey, a man stepped forward to greet them. Behind him stood a company of guards in polished livery.

"Welcome, wargrex. I am Silas, High Steward of West gate." He scraped a bow, though his face seemed perpetually frozen in lines of disdain. His silver nixrath neck chains jangled menacingly over his silk doublet.

The urge to step back from all that nixrath was powerful—to creatures of the outland it was enervating. It was nigh insulting that the old fool wore it to welcome them.

"Our High Lady awaits you in her council chamber." The steward gestured towards another gate. "This way."

The wargs glanced between themselves a moment before they followed the steward into the inner bailey. All activity halted as the wargs proceeded towards the high towers of the keep. Skittish eyes watched from behind carts of vegetables, and children were hastily ushered out of the courtyard, their wooden swords discarded.

But it wasn't the awkward hush that pricked the back of his neck with sudden awareness. Something else had Thrax stalling at the stairs of the forebuilding. He glanced up at the stone towers, eyes sweeping all around.

Thresh tensed beside him. "What is it, Har Kan?"

"You don't...feel that?"

"Feel what?" Torgon asked.

Thrax darted looks at them before continuing his search of the buildings. "I've never felt it before, I don't know." But he had an awful suspicion beginning to gnaw its way into his head. "No," he breathed. "Impossible!" But what else could it be?

The steward was glancing askance at him from the unbarred door at the top of the stairs. "Wargrex?"

"A moment, High Steward," Thresh growled, startling the little man. Then he turned to Thrax. "Do you sense a trap?"

"No." Thrax abandoned his search and dragged his eyes down to his friend. "I sense her."

"Her?" Torgon elbowed Thresh aside, incredulous. "You're certain?"

Thrax's nod was curt. "My mate. She's here."

...

When Thrax left the High Lady's council chamber, he was as distracted as when he entered. He'd barely spoken to the woman. Torgon had taken the lead there. The Lady had been nondescript in mourning black, her mate having just died. She'd worn a black veil to cover her hair, but her skin was moonbeam pale. A beautiful woman, but for her voice, like cold steel, and tight unsmiling mouth.

His mind had been reeling all the while she'd droned on in that hollow voice. It still was. His mate was here! In this godsforsaken place. Which meant only one thing. She was human.

He'd scoured every face he'd come into contact with, skittish servants, gawking ladies—none of them...felt right. At any rate, he needed physical contact to be sure. And he couldn't very well go around demanding to touch every woman in West Gate. Well, he could, but he wasn't fool enough to pit their trio against an army of humans with crossbows of nixrath bolts.

They were tentative allies now, anyway. A fact that galled him. He hadn't meant to accept the High Lady's overtures. She needed the strength of his pack to keep her perimeter safe from the vishwa. Golrags and trolls she could handle. Perhaps even grendels, too. The vishwa were a different threat altogether.

The wargs and the vishwa, however, ignored each other—the hive queen left Carthyrk and his hunting grounds alone and the pack avoided the Deadwolds. That didn't mean he trusted that mad bitch to keep her pit traps out of his lands. Not one bit.

The High Lady needed him, but he needed her not at all. Yet his mate was here somewhere. So he'd left the council chambers, and the stone-faced lady, with a vow of fellowship. A vow to make her enemies his also. But he hadn't divulged why.

In return for his protection, the High Lady offered gold and other goods. He had little use for human currency, but, come winter, he would take her up on that pale piss they called ale. The wine and venison, too. These provisions were unnecessary but convenient.

However, he was no fool to sell himself so short. He'd accepted the alliance on one condition. He'd demanded a payment of his choice at some future time. He didn't know what yet, but he'd given himself time to decide. The High Lady was now in his debt, and he preferred it that way. She had agreed to his terms, but did so grudgingly.

By the time the three of them entered the courtyard again, it was deserted. Wonderful, he snarled. His last chance to catch a face in the crowd...and, Hekki curse it, there was no crowd. But there were two girls whispering nearby. Young girls in funereal garb. And a matron, or preceptor of some sort, dressed just the same in layers of black. Except she wore a hideous wimple, too, and she was hissing for her two charges to get moving.

He stilled to watch them, the feeling along his nape intensifying. The younglings were peeking at him from behind a stack of unloaded crates and barrels. Realizing they were spotted, they fled, squealing and gasping, back behind the cargo cart. As if that wasn't strange enough, there was a giant owl hobbling after them like a clumsy puppy. The old matron looked apoplectic, motioning hysterically at them, her gaze darting at the wargs.

Thrax's eyes kept fixing on the girl with the red braids. "It's her."

"Who?" Torgon angled his head, a look of horror on his face. "The old hag?!"

"Not that one," Thrax muttered, "the crimson-haired one."

"Ahh," said Torgon, grimacing.

"A child?" Thresh spat on the ground. Thrax's sentiments exactly.

She was pretty but she was still very much a child. And her hair was not exactly crimson—a strange shade full of nightshade and obsidian. He'd never seen a color like it. It was as though she didn't belong here.

Torgon shot him a pitying look. "Want me to knock the guards out while you grab her?"

"No," Thrax murmured, disgusted to find he was bound to a child. "They already think us monsters."

"So we wait a few years and come back," Thresh said. He was visibly agitated, eager to leave. They all were. "Maybe you'll return, make contact, and realize she isn't the one."

Oh, but she was. Awareness of her seized him to the marrow. "Steward," Thrax thundered, glaring at the old matron shooing the girls out of the courtyard. "Who is that girl? The one with the owl at her heels."

Silas lifted his chin to catch sight of the departing figures. "Who, Lady Ro—?" He pursed his lips suddenly. "That's the High Lady's daughter." He faced Thrax, lips twisting in disapproval. "Why do you ask?"

Thrax balled his fist, close to throttling the impudent steward. "How old is she?"

Silas's eyes darted suspiciously. "A half score, almost eleven. May I ask why—?"

"No, you may not." Thrax turned to the other two, switching to wargish. "We'll be back when she's of age. She's not going anywhere. She's the High Lady's daughter, she'll be well guarded here till then." And it just so happened the High Lady owed him payment... She just didn't know what yet. Maybe he'd somehow contrive to have the girl and a payment. He had time yet to devise a plan.

"Take her with you," Torgon urged. "She'll be safer with the pack."

Thrax thought on that for a moment. In the end, he decided it was best she stayed where she was.

She was just as safe behind the Iron Girdle as with the pack. In fact, safer. What if she fell ill? What did they know of human frailty and sickness. The healers here would take better care of her until she was of age. Until the mating bond could be forged...

Frankly, he needed time to come to terms with the fact he had a human mate. That alone was reason enough to leave her behind.

"Tell your High Lady," Thrax said to the steward, "that, henceforward, I expect all news of impending weddings and deaths pertaining to her household." He glowered so hard, the little man balked. "Seeing as we are now friends..."

"Yes, Wargrex, of course." The man looked about, flustered.

"And a yearly invitation to Mothersnight," Torgon added, his amusement hidden behind a scowl.

The steward blinked. "An invitation to—yes, I shall see to it personally."

With a sharp nod, Thrax turned to leave. He spared the steward no farewell, merely stalked off. He was eager to get back to Carthyrk. Once clear of the portcullis—which screeched shut behind them—and the Black Bridge, he breathed a sigh of relief. "An invitation to Mothersnight?" He drawled, glancing back at Torgon.

"Gives you a reason to check up on the girl." His friend shrugged. "Perhaps sip some festive spiced milk together by the winter fires and share fairytales."

Thrax glowered, annoyed by Torgon's misplaced humor. "I'm not coming back here." Leastwise not while she was of milk-drinking age.

And anyway, all that nixrath and iron had made his skin itch. He hadn't even touched the poison, yet he felt drained. He wouldn't step foot past that bridge again. Not until it was time to collect his mate.

Let her live in ignorance a few years more. Would that he had that luxury, too.