Page 8 of The Wolf Queen

But the trouble with such a powerful figure like the devil was… no matter what sins were ascribed to him, some would find that power, that freedom, alluring. A shadowy cult of the wolf existed before any of my forebears had landed in Grania, largely adhered to by soldiers: those who looked into the wolf-maw of death often enough were the ones who came to deify and worship it.

Like these men that my pack and I watched, for on that medallion was incised a familiar symbol. A black sun, partially surrounded by a crescent moon, symbolising the jaws of the Great Wolf.

“Lay your offering at the dread god’s altar, brother,” the man with the medallion said.

“Private Higgins?” The first man seemed surprised to see the man with the medallion. “But you—”

“No rank here before the wolf god,” the second man said. “You know that. We face him as we face death, on our own two feet, alone. Make your offering, so that you might live another day, then say your prayers.”

It was a sheep’s heart in the bag, the grisly remains emerging as it was lifted out and the bag was tossed to one side. My wolf’s tongue flicked around our fangs, almost able to taste it, but we kept still.

“Tell the dread god what you need,” another man prompted, “and see what he is willing to grant.”

This was a completely different approach to the gods than that which was taught in Granian churches. The clergy there preached that we were to surrender to the gods’ will, let them shape our lives. But I felt like I caught a glimpse of the origin of this religion.

There is a moment in battle, and I remembered it all too well, when you’re lined up with your fellows, armed to the teeth. The fighting hasn’t begun yet and, while you wait, your mind races, showing you the likely outcome of this fight. Your side might win the day, but that wouldn’t mean much if you were lying in the dirt, staring up at the sky, eyes glazed over by death, right before the raven stabs its beak into them. As if on cue, I heard the coarse caw of one from somewhere in the forest.

The petitioner before the rough altar started nervously, then fell to his knees, setting the heart down on the carved stone and slapping his bloodied hands down on the rock either side. Old handprints made me think this was part of the ritual. And then out it came, in short, rambling bursts: his prayer.

“Dread god, let me get back to my family. I know I sinned—” He was cut off by a hiss from the others, making me think the concept of sin was a foreign one here. “I stole bread for my family’s table when I couldn’t get the coin to do so.”

“A wolf takes what’s needed,” the man with the medallion said.

“I’ve served out my time on the border, did as I was told and kept my head down, but…” He glanced around, as if scared of admitting what came next. “But, in her letters, my Josie says she needs me back by her side. She’s had the bailiffs around and they’re threatening to take the house. My boy is getting older, but not old enough to run the farm by himself to be able to cover the taxes.”

“Fucking parasites,” the other men said, spitting on the ground.

“I’ve done two years here and I’ve pleaded with the screws…” He stopped himself. “…with the wardens to let me go free and see to my family. I need a sign, dread lord. Hear my prayer, because my family is headed to the poor house if I can’t get a pardon, my daughters will be due for the streets.”

“The dread lord has heard your prayer,” the man with the medallion said, putting a hand on the petitioner’s shoulder. He hauled him upright and all of the men moved forward, patting him on the shoulder and murmuring words of encouragement.

“We face the darkness each night,” one of the other men said. “And we emerge each time unscathed, due to the dread lord’s grace. And so we will again. Your family will not starve. Your daughters will not have to turn to whoring.”

They all spoke with such confidence. I’d had up close dealings with goddesses and felt none of that certainty, something that had the Morrigan laughing inside my head.

You have plenty of confidence, she said.You know what I’ll do.I shifted on my paws at that, the wolf wanting to run towards or away from the threat, but unable to do either.You just hide in the dark from that knowledge, like a child.

But whatever else she might have to say, it was driven out.

“You are amongst brothers now,” the man with the medallion said, squeezing the petitioner’s shoulder. “We’ll send word to our brothers in the south to stop in and see how your wife fares, have a word with the bailiffs…”

He steered the other man away, leaving only the sheep’s heart and the man that had met the first one by the edge of the trees, led him to the altar. He dropped down to one knee, made a strange genuflection, then plunged his hands into the spring waters, bringing his dripping hands to his face.

I didn’t consciously take a step forward, the wolf did, and she brought us closer to him, to the altar. The man sensed our presence all too late, jerking his eyes sideways then widening them when he saw my wolf. But he wasn’t our focus. We lunged forward, sending the man scrabbling back, but he paused in his flight when our jaws latched onto the sheep’s heart. Perhaps it was because we were hungry, perhaps animal instinct, but we bent down to scissor the meat from the organ, gulping down every mouthful, before going back for more, until the heart was completely consumed.

“Dread lord…?” The man’s voice was thin, reverent, as he reached out for us, but we bared our fangs, making clear what a mistake that would be. That jerked him to his feet, and he was moving, a visceral reaction to the danger we presented, before he could think. But he shot a strange look over his shoulder, right before he took off running.

“A wolf cult?”General Rath said when we arrived back at camp later that night. “How in the hell—?”

“It’s something Father and I were aware of,” Dane said. “Our… interrogations of Granian soldiers sometimes bore better fruit when we were in wolf form, the prisoners’ fear overcoming their loyalty to their king and country. But there were others who seemed delighted to see us in fur, speaking of how salvation was at hand. That’s when we did some looking into it. The Farradorians were the forebears of the Granians and they had been invaded by the wolf worshippers of the icy north who were the origins of those religious beliefs.”

He looked at me then.

“Our observations of the garrison lead us to believe it’s poorly manned and, moreso, held by men with low morale. I believe we will take it easily.” As his eyes bored into mine, I wondered if I was going to like what he had to say next. “But beyond that. Darcy has shown herself capable of bringing a man’s wolf to the surface, with Gael’s help.”

“And a helluva lot of ‘pure born’ Granians are the result of an ancestor who was born on the wrong side of the blanket to our captive women,” Gael growled. “Darcy, we could…”

But I saw it already, the moment I had transformed all of the remainder of Snowmere into wolf form, as blood coated my hands. Whose blood would it be this time? I wondered, because if some of the Granians had enough Strelan blood to activate, then they’d find themselves at odds with their own people.

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