One Hundred Years Chapter 25

Chapter 25

" ...till Birnam wood do come to Dunsinane"

Most people quickly forgot that Dolf was thirteen years old in his presence. His language felt young, but he projected an older presence. He was nearly full grown at thirteen and muscular, and although he would never be huge- he was large enough. He was sitting cross-legged on top of the desk he had claimed from the former commander while the regular officers of the camp stared at him with a mixture of anger and discomfort. Ogre stood at the door- leaning against it and holding it closed. Ogre was ostensibly there to prevent interruptions, but the fact that he stood on their side of the door made the officers think he was there to intimidate.

"Al right my baboochkas let's talk freely here. A small banda led by my bratties- my half brothers- are dancing around us and shiving us every place we turn. The troops are creeped and workers are going missing- maybe kidnapped, maybe escaped. I want to blame somebody, and somebody wants to blame me. But when you cut this problem open and look at the keeshkas, you see that none of us get out of this clean. And worse, we all take the blame."

"Me, and my droogs are top notch hunters and raiders and everyone knows it. But this is our first command, and everyone is watching. You guys got to pick up the pieces either way when I'm gone. All of us have our asses out waiting to be shived, unless we turn this grazhny pile of crap into a victory."

Colonel Springbok was the former commanding officer of the base and now answered directly to Dolf. The Colonel was forty-five years old and wore a short moustache and a salt and pepper crew cut. He cleared his throat and began speaking.

"Everything you say is true. This simple question is how. The troops are as afraid of your men as the are of the raiders- and they are very afraid of the raiders. Not everyone gets trained at Fort Winterheart. These men are simple line soldiers. They are not up to the same standards, what do you want them to do?"

Ogre spoke, "They survived the pits. The tribes have no pits. Do they wish to bow to cowards and weaklings? Remind them who they are, make them angry, and then we may win."

The officers were silent at that. All of them had survived the combat pits of the Winter Wolves, it was a mark of superiority in the mind of any Winter Wolf. Other tribes allowed everyone to reach adulthood just by letting the years pass. The Winter Wolves had to fight for the right to reach adulthood.

"Your droogs aren't trained like my banda is trained. But my banda was weak when I found them. I shaped them from baboochkas with nothing, into killers who would shiv the devil himself. You baboochkas and your droogs can be made better, you've been through the pits, its just a matter of putting you all back in the pits to keep you motivated." Dolf was smiling now.

Colonel Springbok cleared his throat, "What does that mean precisely?"

"It means that I sent out a letter this morning. My father will receive it in about five days. It tells him to send a cleaner squad out in another five days if a secret signal isn't sent before then. Do you pony what I'm saying? If we do not solve this in less than ten days, this fort will not just be shived, it will be leveled and everyone on the duty roster will by hunted down and killed. My dad didn't want to send big troops here for a number of reasons. He won't be happy if he has to send them. He'll see see to it we all die- you, me, Ogre, these bratchnies we're fighting. He'll send napalm launchers and flame throwers and purify this place with fire."

The Colonel stared in horror, "That's insane!"

"Welcome back to the pits Colonel. Tell everyone what a crazy bratchny the commander is and what he's done to everyone if they don't kill these raiders. Tell the workers, their names and faces are on record too you know- the cleaners will find them too. Forget having them continue working, they scout for us now. We're all one big banda now, 'cause otherwise we all die. A viking funeral, you know."

One Hundred Years: Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Nugget

Nugget knew that Widow was behind him. he acknowledged her with a quick series of hand gestures that indicated he knew that she was there and indicated that she should stay back. Nugget liked to look at Widow and Widow knew it. Except for his experience with Dolf, Nugget had no sexual experiences- and he wished his first to be with Widow. This would of course be difficult. Widow hated Nugget and killed any man outside the banda that looked at her for longer than a moment.

Nugget had heard older men talk of smelling fear to scare the inexperienced. Nugget could not smell fear, but he could read it in people's posture. Widow was afraid of Nugget, but Widow was far more afraid of Dolf. 

Nugget's mind rolled back to the task in front of him. He had found where the prey left the clearing. He had found where the prey split up, and now he had to decide which prey to follow.
Nugget could follow the prey that walked with the big dog, or the prey that walked alone. Nugget weighed his options.

Both of the prey were heading back to the base, and as such both were likely after more prey of their own. These people were Nugget's prey, but they hunted pack wolves. Neither was to be underestimated. 

The prey who walked with the dog would have the advantage of the dog's sense of smell. This was a greater challenge, and appealed to Nugget. But Dolf would want to kill leader himself. Nugget knew this from experience, and the prey with the dog moved like the leader of the group. But the prey who walked alone was clearly older and stronger, perhaps the older prey was in fact the leader. Nugget wished to kill something, he just did not wish to have Dolf kill him afterward. 

Which was the leader? Was it the elder one, or the confident one with dog? Nugget decided to trust the tracks. The younger prey walked as thought he were in charge, so Nugget would assume that he was in charge. Nugget would kill the older man. The older man alone was now Nugget's prey. Nugget smiled. And any friends the older man encountered, they would be prey too- of course.

Nugget signaled Widow to follow the younger man and report his destination to the group. Nugget dropped into a crouch and moved along the older man's tracks, following his prey.

* * * 

Pike was exhausted. He had been putting Helen through the paces, to see what she knew. And he was both impressed and horrified. Helen was in good shape for thirteen, probably do to the labor was required. Helen had said that she hid when she could, but she could only hide so often without being caught. 

Pike was surprised to find that Helen was remarkably familiar with fire arms. She knew how to load and fire a weapon. She knew how to adjust the safety on most weapons, and how to carry them safely. She knew the proper way to hold a pistol and a rifle. She had no idea how to aim because she had learned everything that she knew about firearms from watching the guards. 

Helen was also quite good at stealth and hiding and use of cover. This again, she had developed while hiding from the work crews. She was better at hiding than she was at sneaking, able to practically turn into a rock or bush as needed, but she was still decently skilled at both.

Helen had no idea how to use a knife, and no idea how to use a bow, or a sword or a machete or any of the common hand weapons. Her knowledge of firearms was only good as long as Pike was asking about modern firearms. Helen knew nothing about older model firearms that were more common amongst the tribes. 

Helen did not know the first thing about building a shelter, or staying warm without a blanket around her and a roof over her head. She could not determine the cardinal directions with a compass or without and barely even seemed to have any idea what Pike meant when he talked about the north or the south, the east or the west. She could not make fire without matches. she had no idea how to cook without a pot and pan and decently stocked mess hall. 

Helen also had no idea how to fight unarmed, how to use her body with aggression and confidence. She moved like a deer, ready to take flight the moment a sharp noise startled her. She lacked all the instincts that a warrior needed. Pike decided to start there. He had far too much work to do, but this was the essential part. Helen was desperate to transform into the knights of her clan's stories, so Pike would need to provide that transformation. 

 He would need to provide some life changing event, something from which there was no going back, something after which she could never go back to who she was before this all began. Pike was mulling this over when he heard something moving about twenty feet into the brush. The thing was displacing enough of the undergrowth to be a wolf or a coyote, maybe even a black bear or a human. Pike drew his machete in his right hand and his straight razor in his left. Helen froze and was about to ask something when Pike shook his head and raised a finger to his lips to shush her.

Helen nodded. And then Pike heard a voice from the brush.

"The prey has spotted me. You're really horrorshow, prey never sees me."

The figure stood up revealing a thin short man wearing nothing but a kevlar vest and a loin cloth. His head was shaved and he carried a wire thin stiletto knife in each hand.

"I am Nugget. Your brattie sends his regards. I will shive you now and he will be happy. Die now."

And with that, as Pike was still trying to decipher Nugget's slang, Nugget broke into a sprint and burst through the bush straight at Pike.

One Hundred Years: Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Hero Worship

Five years ago...
July 15th, 2115   

Helen practically bounced beside Pike as the two waited back at the campsite that Pike, Cooper and Malika were using during their raids.

Pike had used all of his skill to cover Helen's tracks from their trek to the campsite. At thirteen, a child in the Redwing clan would have been ready to begin testing as a warrior. They would have been able to track and counter-track. They would have been able to move silently and blend in with the surroundings. They would be familiar with how to carry and use a knife and a machete and both a hunting bow and a war bow.

Helen was smart, very smart at thirteen. Pike could tell from what he had heard of her and from his conversations with her. She had the right attitude. She was in good shape. She was eager. Still, Pike was worried about her lack of practical experience.

That said, she had been the best choice, because she wanted to destroy the Winter Wolves as badly as Pike, Cooper and Malika wanted to destroy the Winter Wolves.

Now Pike's only immediate problem was how to convince his new student to be quiet.

"So why are you guys fighting the Wolves? You use their snowflake in you flag so I don't get it. Why are you guys fighting them?"

"Maxwell Winters is the father of myself and my half brother Cooper. You'll meet Cooper later."

"Wow, you're fighting your father. Why are doing that?"

"He raped and kidnapped my mother. She escaped with me and Cooper when were very young. We were raised by my great uncle at the Redwing tribe."

"That why you have red wings in your flag huh?"

"That's right."

"So are you married?"

"What? No, I'm twenty-two years old. I've been fighting the Winter Wolves for the last five years. When would I have time to find a partner... ...a wife? Cooper and Malika have been friends forever and have had crushes on each other since they were, well as long I can remember. They fight beside me and despite both of them being here- together- they still haven't managed to sort out their feelings for each other. How was I going to manage that?"

"Oh, well maybe with the right person?"

"I'll be honest Helen, I have my brother, and I have Malika- who is practically my sister. I am fighting for them and I am fighting for my family by in the Redwing tribe. The right person would have to walk right up and smack me in the face, and I would still probably have to make them wait until after this war was finished."

"Oh... ...What's Cooper like?"

"Cooper is very smart, and kind of spooky. He's a ghost dealer; and he and his wolfhound do tend to scare people. He has a learning disability called dyslexia, which means that he can't read because the letters seem to move on the page when he looks at them. Don't comment on that you're upset him. He's very sensitive about not being able to read."

"Oh that's okay, I can't read very well either. My elders tried to teach me, but how do you learn in a prison camp. But he's a ghost dealer, how did he learn that?"

"He doesn't talk about it much. I think he likes promoting the mystery. But you're welcome to try and get him to tell you."

"So you're going to teach my to be a knight?"

"I'm going to teach you to be a warrior. I know of the Wallace clan, but I don't know their specifications. I am going to teach you to be a warrior in the manner of a Redwing warrior, because that's what I am and what I can teach. If there are things you need to learn as a member of the Wallace clan, tell me. If I can teach them to you, I will."

"You know the Winter Wolves killed all of our knights. So I only know a little of what it means to be a knight. Maybe I should talk to the dreamspeakers, they might know. What do you think?"

"You will be speaking to your clansfolk. You will need to inspire them and help them rise up. Because we can't destroy this fortress without their support and your help. But before you do that, I need to teach you enough that you can actually help them."

"I'm ready. I promise you I'm ready."

"You better be, because if you're not this will awful. And even if you are, you're going to hate me by the end of this."

"Oh, I could never hate you."

One Hundred Years: Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Poisoning Young Minds

Five years ago...
July 15th, 2115  

Nugget approached the clearing and observed the ground, took everything the earth told him into his mind and assembled it into a complete picture. Nugget could see the prey carry the sleeping pack wolf into the clearing and tie the pack wolf to the chair. Nugget could see one of the prey walk back and forth between the restrained pack wolf and the table with the medicine several times, several times this action caused the restrained pack wolf's leg t spasm and kick up dirt. Nugget could see the other prey walking around to the hidden speakers each in turn. Nugget could see one of the prey sitting down in the tree chair. Nugget could see the tracks of the wolfhound that had been waiting in the clearing, patiently, the whole time.

Nugget could see the entry of the other pack wolf into the clearing and could see that pack wolf injuring himself on the caltrop. Nugget could see his increasingly erratic movements and his trips and falls and general loss of balance. Nugget could the dead bodies of both pack wolves lying where they should lie- at the end of their trails.

For Nugget everything was a trail leading to the end of a trail.

Nugget saw words on the body of the pack wolf. Nugget hated words. Words were a trail who's marking didn't go anywhere. But Nugget could track words if he had to. So Nugget read.

Nugget was not surprised that the caltrops were poisoned. The trails had told Nugget that much already. Nugget was surprised that the words claimed the ammunition shed was sabotaged. Nugget understood stealth. Prey and predator alike needed to move quietly and leave few tracks. Why would prey leave obvious tracks. The prey was not acting like prey. Predators leave false trails or use diversions to send prey where the predators wishes the prey to go. Prey do not do this. Nugget was worried, the things at the end of this trail were not prey- not his prey in any event. Many predators are themselves prey for predators higher up the food chain.

Nugget felt a shudder beneath his ribcage, and he scanned the clearing again. Nugget realized that his mind had shifted. Nugget had become prey in that instant and didn't know how to reverse it.

Nugget broke radio silence, "Droogs, Appypolly loggy. I screwed up. This is bad bad baddiwad. We ain't millicents or rozzguys no more. We're prey. They be hunting us. I pony everything the ground tell me. I pony what it all means. They're the hunters, we're the prey. They're going toskeeve us and we won't ever see it."

The radio was silent for a moment. And then the unmistakable voice of Ogre crackled in Nugget's ear, "Nugget, your orders have changed. Find them and kill them. Widow will arrive at your position shortly. The two of you will kill them. They day you cease to be hunter, the day you allow yourself to become prey, is the day your 'droogs' have no use for you. So kill them- or kill yourself."

Nugget was quiet, "I pony. Nugget out."

* * *

Helen was actually working when the explosion ripped through the encampment. She had been helping carry loads of cement up to the latest earth works project. Helen had been thinking about how this so-called 're-education camp' was actually a frontier fortress under construction.

But that was then, no Helen was crouched behind a half finished wall waiting to see if another blast would shake the camp.

The silence stretched on, and Helen stood up.

Most of the other members of the Wallace clan were still behind some sort of cover. There was a single guard trying to get the clan back to work, but the other guards had charged off in the direction of the explosion.

They still rush about like panicked chickens, Helen thought to herself. Winter Wolves were tough and not afraid of violence, but they seemed to like to charge right at the point of violence. And these attackers knew this and were using it to their advantage.

Helen realized that she had become lost in thought, when the guard grabbed her by the hair and yanked her almost off her feet.

"You do no ignore me! When I tell you to get you skinny ass over here, you do it!"

"Just because you're scared of them, doesn't mean we're scared of you!" Helen said, and immediately realized that it was a mistake. Simpson wasn't the only cruel guard in the camp.

"What did you say to me? You skinny little tribal whore! I will split you open from bottom to top if you aren't careful."

"Really brave of you to threaten a thirteen year old who's never been trained. I bet you mount my skull in you mess hall to commemorate my kill. I'm probably the most dangerous thing you've ever faced in person."

The guard hit her with a gauntlet, backhanding Helen to the ground. Helen was tangled in a mass of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, Helen was terrified. On the other hand, Helen was furious.

Helen kicked out at the guard's shin, which she discovered was armored as she bruised her moccasin bound foot. The guard kicked back and connected with Helen's shin. Helen screamed in pain. Her shin bone held, but the pain was excruciating.

"You dumb bitch! First you ignore me, then you insult me, and now you try to fight me. You tribals really are stupid aren't you?"

The guard stomped down hard on Helen's hip. Helen managed to spit out an insult despite the pain.

"If we're so stupid then why are so afraid of the tribals dancing around the camp killing your buddies?"

The guard kicked Helen in the face and she spat out a bloody tooth, noting somewhere in the back of her mind that none of her clan members were coming to her rescue.

"Those aren't your tribals though are they whore? And if they're so damn impressive, why don't we ever see them?"

A straight razor snaked across the guard's neck and then retracted, leaving a trail of red blossoming on the guard's throat. The guard clutched at his throat gasping.

And then Helen heard a voice from behind the guard.

"You don't see us coming, because we're better than you. You don't see us leaving, because you're dead. Simple enough mongrel?"

The guard keeled over, revealing the most gorgeous man Helen had ever seen. He was dressed in burgundy-brown leather armor and knee high moccasins. His face was deeply tanned and might have been chiseled from marble with high cheekbones and a jawline that belonged to an ancient god rather than a mortal. His hair was wild and thick and luxurious. He cleaned the bone handled straight razor was a confident hand and snapped it closed before reaching out a strong hand to Helen.

"My name is Pike, and very few people fight to the last breath like that. I can teach you how to fight effectively. I can help you free your people."

"Really?" Helen could barely breath. This handsome, and a knight, and he would teach her- Helen was certain now that she was unconscious. The guard had clearly knocked her unconscious and she was dreaming. The man, Pike, smiled a roguish smile.

"Come with me, if you want to be free."

Helen to the hand and let the man, Pike, pull her up as easily picking a flower. Helen was afraid that she was blushing. If this was a dream, so be it, she would dream.

Read the next chapter here

One Hundred Years: Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Man depicted...

"The Problem with Witch Doctors" 
From "Discourses by the Invisible"
By Sorinesti Jones.
Published by University of Toronto Press
copyright 2120

The problem with Witch Doctors is, that despite filling an important niche in a tribal culture, they normalize superstition. The Witch Doctor may act as doctor and therapist and apothecary all rolled into one with a slice of father knows best to boot, but the Witch Doctor also adds a big heaping portion of stage magician and carnival huckster. If there is a single easy reason for the the rest of the world's quick dismissal of North America, it is the wide spread prevalence of folk medicine, hedge magic and rampant superstition.

Even in the UNR (the United North American Republic), superstition is heavy in the rural areas. In the Oil Baronies and the DRO (the Democratic Republic of Oregon) superstition is even more widespread. This makes the challenge of reintroducing progress and science to the wilder areas of North America.

This also puts the Witch Doctor in a strange position. On one hand, he is respected for his knowledge and abilities. On the other hand, he is feared for his mysterious powers. More than a few doctors on outreach work from the UNR have been executed by superstitious tribal groups after being accused of dark witchcraft.

The Witch Doctor must walk this line with delicacy, but we should dream of a day when the Witch Doctor can put away his bone rattle and his top hat and put on a lab coat and join the ranks of civilization.

* * *



Five years ago...
July 15th, 2115  

Devlin approached the clearing with the methodical caution of a bomb technician. He could see speakers- probably stolen from the fort's public address system mounted in trees with rope and duct tape around the edge of the clearing. Devlin couldn't imagine what purpose the speakers had served, but their presence alerted him to the fact that he had probably come to the end of his search.

Devlin listened at the edge of the clearing. He could hear a human voice, but only one, and that voice sounded scared. The scared voice was likely Simpson. Were the raiders still with Simpson? There were no other sounds from the clearing that told Devlin anything.

Devlin weighed his options. He could barge in with his gun up and hope to catch the attackers by surprise. But that plan assumed that the attackers were still there and that he actually had the element of surprise- something that Devlin didn't think that he could count on. He could try to sneak forward and get a better look first, and then devise a plan. But if the attackers were aware of his presence that would simply give them a clear shot.

Devlin nodded to himself. He was dead already, he had decided this before he began. He could hear Simpson's voice in the clearing- he was certain that the voice did belong to Simpson.

Devlin crouched down and then pushed off, launching himself through the wall of leaves. He hit the ground and rolled into a crouch with his Beretta up and ready. He scanned across the clearing. There was a chair with somebody sitting in it at the center of the clearing, the person was draped with a sheet of some sort and was shuddering as though in pain.

Behind the chair was a table and then a burned out black tree. Devlin ignored the tree and the table for the moment and focused on what he was fairly certain was an injured Simpson in the chair. He walked over to the chair, noting that there were bird bones scattered around the chair. And then he felt a stab of pain and looked down. As well as bird bones, there werecaltrops - nasty things made by hammering three nails through small bits of wood so that a point always faced up. Devlin had stepped on one, and although it hadn't gone in deep- it had definitely pierced his foot. He ripped thecaltrop out of his boot and examined it. The device looked relatively free of rust- which was the real danger with such things. He tossed thecaltrop onto the table and continued walking toward the chair, using low brushing steps that swept bone and caltrop both aside as he went.

He reached the chair and looked at the sheet, and then recognized it as a flag. The flag was mostly white with a large red snowflake in the center and red wings spreading on either side of the snowflake.

"It is the Red Snow Raiders." Devlin whispered to himself.

All the guards thought that this was the work of the raiders. Proof was not comforting to Devlin however. The Red Snow Raiders had been active for five years now and had never been caught, never been seen, never taken a casualty. The Red Snow Raiders were ghosts and bogeymen. They only attacked Winter Wolf holdings. And they didn't lose. There was no solid information about the raiders that the commanders were sharing with the troops, but rumors were plentiful. The double red wing design on their logo lent itself to obvious conclusions. But in the five years since the raiders had begun their attacks, they had never once launched an attack near theRedwing tribe holdings. Maxwell Winters had also never retaliated against the Redwing tribe. He had continued to send the usual raiding parties, but had not launched a large force against the Redwing tribe. The snowflake design was also an obvious element, but since the Raiders attacked the Winter Wolves it seemed unlikely that they were wolves themselves.

Still, rumors circulated. Some people thought that the raiders were Maxwell Winter's elite force, testing and disciplining troops. Others claimed that the raiders were the bastard children of both theRedwings and the Winter Wolves and had sided with the Red Wings. Others claimed that the raiders were the ghosts of Redwing members killed by the Winter Wolves. Devlin didn't know who the raiders were, but he knew how good they were. And that worried him.

"Don't leave me like this." the figure under the flag muttered, and Devlin snapped back to reality. The voice definitely belonged to Simpson.

"Don't leave me like this. Don't let me die as a zombie."

Devlin whipped the flag off Simpson and stared. Simpson was tied with wire to the chair. He was bleeding at the wrists and ankles from the wire. His eyes were vacant, staring into the distance. And duct taped to his chest was a cardboard note.

It read- 'The caltrops were poisoned."

Devlin felt the blood drain from his face. He looked down at his left foot in horror.

"Ghost Dealers, ghost dealers, ghost dealers." Simpson muttered to himself.

Devlin collected himself and noticed that the note kept going.

'We've sabotaged one of your ammo sheds'

"Wild man and wolfhound, wild man and wolfhound." Simpson muttered.

"Damn it!" Devlin swore.

Devlin turned away from Simpson and began to scan the table. It was filled with medical gear including a number of syringes filled with various liquids. Nothing that might help him tell with what he'd been poisoned. He looked to the burnt tree, which he now noticed had been carved into a chair, and approached it cautiously. There was a small headset microphone lying on the seat of the old tree- nothing else.

Then he noticed that Simpson had stopped muttering. Devlin ran back, stepping around the caltrops and checked Simpson's pulse. There was nothing, Simpson was dead.

"Crap."

Suddenly a wave of dizziness hit Devlin and he staggered, stepping on another caltrop. He fell onto his hands and knees. He was having trouble focusing his eyes, and was getting headaches.

"Damn, what did they put on those caltrops."

Blackness engulfed Devlin and he lost some time. Clearly he had been unconscious, because he was now flat on the ground. He probably was going to die and probably hallucinating like Simpson had done. He needed to pass whatever information he could manage on to command.

A wave of dizziness hit Devlin, but he managed to switch his radio back on.

"This is Devlin, I have an emergency. I think Simpson is dead- I found him- but I think he's dead. There are caltrops around our position, they are poisoned I am poisoned and hallucinating I think. I arrived before something important what was I going to say I think I'm losing it command do you copy?"

There was a silence that felt far too long and then Devlin heard.

"I repeat, Private Devlin we hear you. Do you copy? Over."

"I think I blacked out again command been poisoned it'll do that to you. Simpson was alive when I found him and he was talking about Ghost Dealers and Wild men and wolfhounds and that might be important and they have and they have and I what was I saying command?"

"Take it slow Private. What to the attackers have?"

"They stole our public address speakers. And I think that they used 'em to mess with Simpson and there are a lot of drugs on a table here but I don't think that any are my antidote and I was afraid to try and check and Oh yeah Simpson was talking about zombies too command."

"Did you say zombies Private? Please confirm."

"Yeah something about not wanting to die as a zombie which is kind of weird 'cause aren't zombies already dead I've seen the old movies you know and it's getting really hard to hold a decent conversation cause this jackass Simpson won't stop talking to me."

"Private, are you still lucid?"

"Don't think so command I think I'm on the way out and I know I need to say something else and ammunition and how we store it or maybe something about going to the store no that doesn't sound right and I'm pretty sure its about the ammunition and the raiders I think and you know they really are the red snow raiders and now I want to know why somebody using our snowflake would attack us and damn it the ammunition thing I don't know how much time we have on that and there may not be enough time if you have to send somebody else up here to read itthereself or is it themself that doesn't sound right either but I know I disobeyed order command but you don't leave a man behind."

"Private, take a breath and let's keep you lucid."

"You don't leave a man behind and I can't let Simpson go out ahead on his own so I'm going with him command."

"Private, You do not have clearance to go with Simpson."

"Sorry command he's my partner I figure I'll probably lose radio contact where I'm going so this's Private Devlin signing off 'n I did my best sir 'n I ain't letting Simpson go alone."

"Private you are not cleared to enter the afterlife! You will wait for debriefing, do you copy?"

"Sorry sir I got a higher authority I'm talking to on the other line and they say that I gotta go."

"Private, do you copy?"

"Private?"

"Preston you damn well better not be dead!"

"Preston?"

* * *

"Anyone still doubting my ghost certified plan?" Coop asked.

"What's your next trick- catch a star like Munin tried to do?" Malika said.

"I think I'll teach the people magic, like Martegas did." Coop answered.

"So, next move?" Pike asked.

Coop nodded, "Malie and I will detonate the ammo shed, you can start the insurrection. Pick carefully."

Pike Nodded, I'm on it.

One Hundred Years: Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Man depicted...

"The Problem with Witch Doctors" 
From "Discourses by the Invisible"
By Sorinesti Jones.
Published by University of Toronto Press
copyright 2120

The problem with Witch Doctors is, that despite filling an important niche in a tribal culture, they normalize superstition. The Witch Doctor may act as doctor and therapist and apothecary all rolled into one with a slice of father knows best to boot, but the Witch Doctor also adds a big heaping portion of stage magician and carnival huckster. If there is a single easy reason for the the rest of the world's quick dismissal of North America, it is the wide spread prevalence of folk medicine, hedge magic and rampant superstition.

Even in the UNR (the United North American Republic), superstition is heavy in the rural areas. In the Oil Baronies and the DRO (the Democratic Republic of Oregon) superstition is even more widespread. This makes the challenge of reintroducing progress and science to the wilder areas of North America.

This also puts the Witch Doctor in a strange position. On one hand, he is respected for his knowledge and abilities. On the other hand, he is feared for his mysterious powers. More than a few doctors on outreach work from the UNR have been executed by superstitious tribal groups after being accused of dark witchcraft.

The Witch Doctor must walk this line with delicacy, but we should dream of a day when the Witch Doctor can put away his bone rattle and his top hat and put on a lab coat and join the ranks of civilization.

* * *



Five years ago...
July 15th, 2115  

Devlin approached the clearing with the methodical caution of a bomb technician. He could see speakers- probably stolen from the fort's public address system mounted in trees with rope and duct tape around the edge of the clearing. Devlin couldn't imagine what purpose the speakers had served, but their presence alerted him to the fact that he had probably come to the end of his search.

Devlin listened at the edge of the clearing. He could hear a human voice, but only one, and that voice sounded scared. The scared voice was likely Simpson. Were the raiders still with Simpson? There were no other sounds from the clearing that told Devlin anything.

Devlin weighed his options. He could barge in with his gun up and hope to catch the attackers by surprise. But that plan assumed that the attackers were still there and that he actually had the element of surprise- something that Devlin didn't think that he could count on. He could try to sneak forward and get a better look first, and then devise a plan. But if the attackers were aware of his presence that would simply give them a clear shot.

Devlin nodded to himself. He was dead already, he had decided this before he began. He could hear Simpson's voice in the clearing- he was certain that the voice did belong to Simpson.

Devlin crouched down and then pushed off, launching himself through the wall of leaves. He hit the ground and rolled into a crouch with his Beretta up and ready. He scanned across the clearing. There was a chair with somebody sitting in it at the center of the clearing, the person was draped with a sheet of some sort and was shuddering as though in pain.

Behind the chair was a table and then a burned out black tree. Devlin ignored the tree and the table for the moment and focused on what he was fairly certain was an injured Simpson in the chair. He walked over to the chair, noting that there were bird bones scattered around the chair. And then he felt a stab of pain and looked down. As well as bird bones, there werecaltrops - nasty things made by hammering three nails through small bits of wood so that a point always faced up. Devlin had stepped on one, and although it hadn't gone in deep- it had definitely pierced his foot. He ripped thecaltrop out of his boot and examined it. The device looked relatively free of rust- which was the real danger with such things. He tossed thecaltrop onto the table and continued walking toward the chair, using low brushing steps that swept bone and caltrop both aside as he went.

He reached the chair and looked at the sheet, and then recognized it as a flag. The flag was mostly white with a large red snowflake in the center and red wings spreading on either side of the snowflake.

"It is the Red Snow Raiders." Devlin whispered to himself.

All the guards thought that this was the work of the raiders. Proof was not comforting to Devlin however. The Red Snow Raiders had been active for five years now and had never been caught, never been seen, never taken a casualty. The Red Snow Raiders were ghosts and bogeymen. They only attacked Winter Wolf holdings. And they didn't lose. There was no solid information about the raiders that the commanders were sharing with the troops, but rumors were plentiful. The double red wing design on their logo lent itself to obvious conclusions. But in the five years since the raiders had begun their attacks, they had never once launched an attack near theRedwing tribe holdings. Maxwell Winters had also never retaliated against the Redwing tribe. He had continued to send the usual raiding parties, but had not launched a large force against the Redwing tribe. The snowflake design was also an obvious element, but since the Raiders attacked the Winter Wolves it seemed unlikely that they were wolves themselves.

Still, rumors circulated. Some people thought that the raiders were Maxwell Winter's elite force, testing and disciplining troops. Others claimed that the raiders were the bastard children of both theRedwings and the Winter Wolves and had sided with the Red Wings. Others claimed that the raiders were the ghosts of Redwing members killed by the Winter Wolves. Devlin didn't know who the raiders were, but he knew how good they were. And that worried him.

"Don't leave me like this." the figure under the flag muttered, and Devlin snapped back to reality. The voice definitely belonged to Simpson.

"Don't leave me like this. Don't let me die as a zombie."

Devlin whipped the flag off Simpson and stared. Simpson was tied with wire to the chair. He was bleeding at the wrists and ankles from the wire. His eyes were vacant, staring into the distance. And duct taped to his chest was a cardboard note.

It read- 'The caltrops were poisoned."

Devlin felt the blood drain from his face. He looked down at his left foot in horror.

"Ghost Dealers, ghost dealers, ghost dealers." Simpson muttered to himself.

Devlin collected himself and noticed that the note kept going.

'We've sabotaged one of your ammo sheds'

"Wild man and wolfhound, wild man and wolfhound." Simpson muttered.

"Damn it!" Devlin swore.

Devlin turned away from Simpson and began to scan the table. It was filled with medical gear including a number of syringes filled with various liquids. Nothing that might help him tell with what he'd been poisoned. He looked to the burnt tree, which he now noticed had been carved into a chair, and approached it cautiously. There was a small headset microphone lying on the seat of the old tree- nothing else.

Then he noticed that Simpson had stopped muttering. Devlin ran back, stepping around the caltrops and checked Simpson's pulse. There was nothing, Simpson was dead.

"Crap."

Suddenly a wave of dizziness hit Devlin and he staggered, stepping on another caltrop. He fell onto his hands and knees. He was having trouble focusing his eyes, and was getting headaches.

"Damn, what did they put on those caltrops."

Blackness engulfed Devlin and he lost some time. Clearly he had been unconscious, because he was now flat on the ground. He probably was going to die and probably hallucinating like Simpson had done. He needed to pass whatever information he could manage on to command.

A wave of dizziness hit Devlin, but he managed to switch his radio back on.

"This is Devlin, I have an emergency. I think Simpson is dead- I found him- but I think he's dead. There are caltrops around our position, they are poisoned I am poisoned and hallucinating I think. I arrived before something important what was I going to say I think I'm losing it command do you copy?"

There was a silence that felt far too long and then Devlin heard.

"I repeat, Private Devlin we hear you. Do you copy? Over."

"I think I blacked out again command been poisoned it'll do that to you. Simpson was alive when I found him and he was talking about Ghost Dealers and Wild men and wolfhounds and that might be important and they have and they have and I what was I saying command?"

"Take it slow Private. What to the attackers have?"

"They stole our public address speakers. And I think that they used 'em to mess with Simpson and there are a lot of drugs on a table here but I don't think that any are my antidote and I was afraid to try and check and Oh yeah Simpson was talking about zombies too command."

"Did you say zombies Private? Please confirm."

"Yeah something about not wanting to die as a zombie which is kind of weird 'cause aren't zombies already dead I've seen the old movies you know and it's getting really hard to hold a decent conversation cause this jackass Simpson won't stop talking to me."

"Private, are you still lucid?"

"Don't think so command I think I'm on the way out and I know I need to say something else and ammunition and how we store it or maybe something about going to the store no that doesn't sound right and I'm pretty sure its about the ammunition and the raiders I think and you know they really are the red snow raiders and now I want to know why somebody using our snowflake would attack us and damn it the ammunition thing I don't know how much time we have on that and there may not be enough time if you have to send somebody else up here to read itthereself or is it themself that doesn't sound right either but I know I disobeyed order command but you don't leave a man behind."

"Private, take a breath and let's keep you lucid."

"You don't leave a man behind and I can't let Simpson go out ahead on his own so I'm going with him command."

"Private, You do not have clearance to go with Simpson."

"Sorry command he's my partner I figure I'll probably lose radio contact where I'm going so this's Private Devlin signing off 'n I did my best sir 'n I ain't letting Simpson go alone."

"Private you are not cleared to enter the afterlife! You will wait for debriefing, do you copy?"

"Sorry sir I got a higher authority I'm talking to on the other line and they say that I gotta go."

"Private, do you copy?"

"Private?"

"Preston you damn well better not be dead!"

"Preston?"

* * *

"Anyone still doubting my ghost certified plan?" Coop asked.

"What's your next trick- catch a star like Munin tried to do?" Malika said.

"I think I'll teach the people magic, like Martegas did." Coop answered.

"So, next move?" Pike asked.

Coop nodded, "Malie and I will detonate the ammo shed, you can start the insurrection. Pick carefully."

Pike Nodded, I'm on it.

One Hundred Years: Chapter 20

Chapter 20

White pins and Zombies

"We've got a tail, you guys," Malika said as she slid out of the brush onto the game trail that Cooper and Pike were using to help lug the sleeping body of Simpson quickly. The drugs they had liberated from the fort's medical tent were more than able to put Simpson out on the spot.

"That's okay, we're prepped for Simpson's partner. He's a piece of work, but we've got something special for him." Pike said.

The team had liberated more toys from the camp to help them in their games. They had done this on the first day, when their surprise attacks had scared guards and disrupted normal patterns and protocols. They took little useful things here and there so that people would be less likely to notice.

Malika shook her head, "I know you spotted the partner, we've got another tail beside that guy. Some creepy little guy in a loin cloth. He's good, I couldn't get close enough to see what he was packing in terms of weapons, but he was wearing kevlar and made good use of cover. I only saw him clear once, and didn't have a shot. After that, I could follow him by brush movement and the sound of animals staying clear of him, but nothing out of him personally. He's really good."

Cooper nodded, "Then we need to pick up the pace, and we need to be prepped. Stay away from us and cover your tracks like never before as you leave this trail. I don't him knowing we have a third person. How much time do we have with Simpson, do you think?"

Malika closed her eyes and estimated, "I'd say you'll have maybe five minutes if you really push it."

Pike nodded, "We need to run then, forget anything else, let's add distance. Let them track us. We'll buy more time by running than by being careful."

The brothers nodded to each and broke into a run as Malika faded back into the brush carefully removing her tracks and adjusting leaf litter on the ground to make everything look natural.

* * * 

Devlin had been following the trail for about half an hour. He had crossed a game trail about twenty minutes back and almost lost them, realizing after the fact that his quarry had turned onto the game trail instead of crossing it. The move had seemed silly to Devlin, better to make pursuers work hard by tracking through brush and debris. But the Devlin realized that taking the game trail allowed them to carry Simpson more easily. It made sense, once you thought like your quarry.

Their trail had become hard to follow on the game trail. The dirt was already packed down by the animals that used the trail and the tracks the tribals left were much less distinct on the game trail. Devlin had trouble following them, but would spot tracks that matched the moccasins his two quarries were wearing every so often to prove that they were still on the game trail at this point.

Abruptly though, the tribal's tracks became more distinct, easier to spot and follow. Devlin was able to measure stride distance, the tracks were so distinct. The tribals were running- almost a full sprint. Devlin cursed under his breath.

"They hadn't thought I would follow them, and then I must have given away my position. They were moving at a normal pace before, because they thought that nobody was following. Now they're running because they know I'm on their trail. Fine. Then let's run, I can run all day!"

Devlin broke into a run.

* * *

Nugget paused and listened to Devlin rant. He looked over everything at the transition point. Why had the prey been spooked here?

Was the pack wolf right? Had the pack wolf given away it's position to the prey? Nugget admitted to himself that this was a possibility.

Had Nugget himself given his position away. Nugget didn't think so. If they knew about Nugget, then they knew about the pack wolf much earlier. They would have spooked earlier then.

Nugget looked at the ground where the tracks told him of the change in speed. The tracks lengthened their stride, the pressure releases grew extreme, and the younger man in carrying the front of the sleeping pack wolf had a rock in his moccasin.

Everything else looked as Nugget would expect this area to look. Nonetheless, something bothered Nugget about this scene. There was a smaller game trail behind the bushes on the left side of the trail, Nugget realized. Why did the signs on the ground not tell him there was a game trail connecting with the main trail. The signs on the ground told him that there was nothing beyond the bushes but regular woodland.

Somebody had hidden this game trail, Nugget realized. The person who had hidden the side trail had done it so well, that Nugget couldn't even tell when the trail had been hidden. The trail could have been hidden recently or ages ago. Did this relate to Nugget's hunt- Nugget did not know. Nugget stepped delicately onto the side trail and looked at the ground for signs.

Signs on the trail spoke of deer, many deer, and rabbits, and foxes and skunks and porcupines. The trail spoke of a few bears and many coyotes, and some wolves. The trail did not speak of humans. This bothered Nugget and he sat down more two minutes to think this over.

Nugget did not like not knowing what the ground was telling him, but his quarry was escaping and he would have to deal with his not knowing.

* * *

Private Morgan Simpson awoke to pain in his wrists and a voice speaking behind him.

"Hello Simpson."

Simpson opened his eyes. There was a table in front of him with a large assortment of medical tools: scalpels, pliers, a bone saw, syringes and numerous hunting knives added for apparent effect.

Behind the table was a large chair carved out of a burned out dead tree whose leafless branches stretched out over Simpson's head. Seated in the chair was a figure wearing a black top hat with raven's bones on it. The figure was dressed in a black cloak with a deep red lining and black glyphs stitched onto the red. Beside the figure sat a wolf hound. A wolf hound.

Simpson knew what a top hat and a wolfhound meant. He tried to stand, but felt metal dig into his wrists. Simpson looked and found himself bound by his wrists and ankles to a big old wooden chair, worn down from age, but still quite sturdy. Simpson was tied with some sort of wire, and resistance would cut his own wrists.

"I told you, that we would be meeting."

The figure in the top hat didn't move, and the voice didn't come from the figure. The voice came from behind Simpson. He turned his head to look, and saw a wild haired man in leather armor who was gently running a straight razor across his own face in a pantomime of shaving.

"What do you want?" Simpson asked the wild man.

"You aren't talking to me." The wild man answer, and Simpson realized that the wild man hadn't been speaking earlier- the voice was wrong.

"We should move this along Simpson, you don't have much time." The original voice spoke again, but this time came from his left.

Simpson snapped his head back around sharply, but there was nothing there. His movement caused the wolfhound to growl though and as it did, Simpson heard the voice say, "Easy Phobos."

Simpson turned back in time to see the figure in the top hat gently scratching behind the wolfhound's ear, "Easy boy, I'll let you eat his fear as soon as he's dead." The voice came from Simpson's right this time.

"You, the ghost dealer, you're the one who's talking." Simpson said.

"It's taken you long enough to catch up with the rest of the class Simpson. Time that will work against you." The figure lifted a pocket watch with it's free hand and snapped it open.

"By my measure, you only have seven minutes until you are going to wish you are dead, although it will be days or even weeks until you actually are dead."

Simpson stared at the figure in disbelief, "What do you mean?'

The figure did not answer.

"What do you mean?!" Simpson shouted, shaking the chair and causing the wire to cut into his arms and legs.

"I mean what I say. I have killed you Simpson. Do you know history? Have you heard of Haitian Voodoo? Have you heard of the Zombie?"

Simpson was silent as he tried to process. The ghost dealer's roving voice continued to speak.

"The Voodoo master would make a powder and administer it to a victim- usually orally- you can see from the syringes that we chose a more direct route. The mixture slows the victims bodily functions until they seem completely dead, even most talented doctors cannot tell the difference. The victim is declared dead and buried or cremated. But here's the rub Simpson, the victim is still alive and fully conscious- trapped in a paralyzed body that is slowly suffering brain damage from oxygen deprivation."

Simpson was shaking his head now.

"Normally the Voodoo Master would dig up the victim before the brain damage was too great, and would administer the cure." The ghost dealer held up a syringe and shook it gently.

"The Voodoo Master would then own the cured individual, because- of course- brain damage is incurable and tends to make one highly suggestible."

"But if the Voodoo master didn't dig up the victim, the victim would die a slow agonizing death as the brain- its functions slowed to a crawl- slowly suffered from oxygen deprivation and the victim died while slowly losing everything that made them who they were. They would lose memories, plucked slowly from their minds. They would lose the ability to make distinctions and understand concepts. They would regress to a child-like state, and would rage in their minds at their containment in their grave. And they would eventually despair and breakdown as they lost the faculties that allowed them to cope with emotions- finally sliding away as the last brain cells flickered off. It's a horrible way to die, not one I would wish for any day."

The Wild man behind Simpson spoke, "So my master and I have a deal for you." The wild man placed a hand on Simpson's shoulder.

"Answer a few questions for us," The ghost dealer's disembodied voice said, "And I will administer this to you."

"And that's the antidote right?" Simpson said, trying not to sound desperate.

"No," The wild man answered, "We do not have the ingredients that would allow my master to mix the antidote. This is a poison that will kill you instantly."

"Then why would I tell you anything?"

"Choose not to answer, and we will leave you." The ghost dealer's voice said, "I have added a few ingredients that will delay the onset of the symptoms, but we only have five minutes now before things start to happen. Choose not to assist us and by the time your partner finds you- you will be apparently dead. And then you get to attend your own funeral, perhaps you're own autopsy first though. I can't imagine that would be fun, but probably more enjoyable than slow brain death in a coffin buried six feet underground."

The wild man leaned in and spoke into Simpson's ear, "Four minutes and thirty seconds. You can die now in peace Simpson. My master promises that the poison is tasteless and painless. Or you can die slowly imprisoned in your own body over a matter of excruciating days."

"Time grows short Simpson," The Ghost dealer's voice said quietly from behind, "We do not need you, there are many others who could answer our questions. But if you wish a peaceful death you need to answer us now."

One Hundred Years: Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Dead Man Walking

Five years ago...
July 15th, 2115  

Devlin and Simpson walked along the edge of the perimeter. Simpson had an AK-47 assault rifle in his hands as he walked beside Devlin, and Devlin couldn't help but notice how jumpy Simpson was by the way he turned at every sound.

"It's the damn tribal's fault all of this is happening." Simpson said abruptly.

Devlin turned to look at his patrol partner. He was quiet for a moment as he thought Simpson's statement over.

"If they didn't live like animals, and like living like animals, we wouldn't be having this kind of problem."

Devlin nodded without saying anything and kept his eyes on the trees, watching for movement.

"It took us ten thousand years to drag ourselves up from the slime to a state of real civilization. And all it takes is a few hippies to break thousands of years of work. And here they are still fighting as we try to make things right again. Damn them!"

Devlin nodded and then turned back to Simpson, "It's been almost one hundred years since the collapse. People get by as they can, and they get used it. Of course they aren't going to want to change. Yes, civilization is better, but they couldn't know that, there isn't a person alive today who was alive when things collapsed. So how would they know how good things were?"

Simpson shook his head, "I heard a rumor. These little puss mongers we're dealing with right now are supposed to be from the Redwing Tribe. The story goes that there actually is an old man in the Redwing Tribe who was born in the year of the collapse. So that means they do know and the choose to throw it away. I hate that so much I can't stand it."

"You heard a rumor man. Nothing solid, its probably a fairy tale that the tribe uses to impress other tribals and make it seem like they know what they're talking about. People are frightened easily and resist change. It doesn't matter how good that change is, or how bad they need that change, people resist change. People became tribals when things collapsed, because it was how they could survive. Now they're good at it and don't what to change."

"What? Are you on they're side?" Simpson asked.

"No. I'm not on their side. I'm just pointing out that people are stupid and don't like to change. Some people are able to change, but most of them are lazy pieces of crap. They get good at wallowing in the mud and so they don't want to change. Progress is 'unnatural' or 'against god' or 'against nature'. It pisses me off, coal and uranium came from nature just as much as trees and butterflies did. So no, I'm not on their side. I just don't see the point in getting mad about it. These people like living in the mud, because they've gotten good at it. You know humans can do better. I know humans can do better, I just don't expect them to know humans can do better. So we have to go to war against them. We have to drag them back into civilization. This generation is a lost cause, we're not going to save them or civilize them or convince them. We build this despite them, and the next generation - their children- will understand. We do this right and their children will be civilized. They'll understand what their parents wouldn't."

"That isn't going to work. You remember the wars against the Indians from our history lessons? They kept fighting and protesting and complaining all through the golden age, generations after they lost and generations after we civilized them. We gave them paradise and they wouldn't stop complaining. To be honest, I don't know why we're even keeping them alive."

Devlin turned back to watch the tree line as answered Simpson.

"Because we're the good guys Simpson. We're bringing light to a nation that was thrown into darkness. We're going to have to do a lot of awful things in this generation, because there's no other way, but next generation will be better for it. We are the good guys, because nobody else has the guts to do what has to be done to rebuild civilization."

Simpson didn't answer.

Devlin turned around to look back at Simpson, but Simpson was gone. Devlin dropped to the ground, looking under the brush, looking for feet moving or tracks in the ground and listening for the sound a large animal passing through the vegetation.

Devlin heard nothing out of the ordinary. There was wind passing across the tops of the tress in intermittent gusts. He could hear the sounds of small animals moving our of sight, but none of the shuffling sounds were of enough vegetation to be the sound of human, much less two humans. He heard a crow in the distance and the sounds of a few song birds.

No sounds.

Tracks. Devlin could see the tracks. There had been two of them. He wasn't the tracker that the elite Winter Wolves were, but Devlin could see two sets of moccasin tracks beside Simpson's boot prints. They had come upon him from either side- probably while Devlin was lecturing- and had done something quick and nasty. The tracks showed to two people with moccasins had dragged Simpson for a few steps and then one of them had lifted Simpson's feet, because the boot prints disappeared after a short period where they left dragging trails in the dirt.

Devlin cursed silently. These guys were scary efficient. They had grabbed Simpson using Devlin's own speech as a cover for the sound of their movements. They had taken Simpson out of the fight without letting him cry out or resist at all. They had probably drugged him, or maybe put a knife into his lung from behind to prevent an alarm cry. They knew when to move and how to hide their sound amongst the ambient noise of the woods. They were too good. They were beyond Devlin's ability, he knew that. Devlin knew he should go for help, call for back up.

But Devlin knew that it was his fault that Simpson was caught and probably dead. There was a member of the Winters family in command here, and Dolf Winters did not look kindly upon failure. Devlin knew he would be punished for letting Simpson die. Devlin also knew he would probably die if he followed Simpson and his captors. But Simpson had been Devlin's responsibility, and Devlin was loyal.

"We're not animals Simpson. We're civilized men, and we don't leave our men behind." Devlin spoke just above a whisper. He closed his eyes for a moment, and got comfortable with the idea that he was a dead man walking.

"Command this is Private Preston Devlin 1126, Simpson is gone. We were checking in opposite directions and when I turned back towards him he was gone. I have a lead on fresh tracks. I will mark the point where the tracks start, and I am going after my partner. Over."

Devlin pulled a bright pink roll of marker tape and tied bows around trees around the tracks.

"Copy that Devlin. Do not proceed. Wait for back up. Over."

Devlin shook his head, "Command, this is Devlin. I did not copy that last message. I need to move now in order to have a chance at catching up with my partner, so I will assume that I have a go on my proposed plan. I am now entering radio silence. Devlin out."

If he survived, Devlin knew he was receive a reprimand for this. But if he survived it would be because he had succeeded in some measure and so the reprimand would be mixed with accolades as well. Better than what he would face for letting Simpson get killed.

He would probably die. These tribals were indeed talented at what they did. But Devlin was a warrior in his heart. If he had to die to bring a better world into existence, then so be it. He would not stand by idly while these savages tore chunks out of this infant civilization.

Devlin slid his shotgun back into its sheath on his back and drew out his Beretta pistol- smaller with less of a profile to give him away as he tracked. Devlin studied the initial tracks and then looked ahead trying to gauge where his enemies had taken Simpson. Once he thought he had an idea, Devlin set off carefully to the northwest. He kept his eyes up, glancing down every three meters to verify that he still had the tracks. Two men carrying another man left deep tracks, even skilled men in moccasins. He would be able to follow them.

Six meters behind him Nugget followed silently, moving when the winds gusted, watching Devlin's progress like a starving wild dog.

One Hundred Years: Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Cuts from a Thousand Razors

Five years ago...
July 15th, 2115 

Helen smiled and watched the guards moving around. They were much larger than her, men all of them. The guards wore Kevlar and machine made blue cloth badges with white snow flakes in the center on their shoulders. The guards wore a plexi-glass face shield that distorted their faces. The guards were imposing and well equipped with modern gear.

They normally scared Helen, but today the guards looked scared. The guards were walking quickly and looking everywhere. A wild cat in the bushes would make half of the guards whirl around in alarm when it pounced on a bird or a squirrel. Earlier that day, one guard had fired his shotgun into the bushes on reflex when the man heard a shuffling. The noise had been made by a chickadee that had miraculously survived the buckshot.

Yesterday morning the guards had found the Trojan horse. Yesterday morning the guards had discovered that three of the prison’s five grain silos were contaminated with the gasoline from two of the prison’s four fuel storage tanks. Yesterday afternoon the guards had discovered that roughly a third of the prison camp’s convoy vehicles had their gas tanks filled with cement powder from the construction shed. Yesterday afternoon a guard had died when he opened the door to that construction shed and triggered a crossbow trap that punctured his Kevlar and collapsed his lung.

That was yesterday.

It was noon now and the workers were eating the meager potato soup that they were allotted. The guards were barely even watching them. All the Winter Wolves were watching the woods around the camp. In one day, Helen had watched her captors fall apart in the face of an enemy who had not engaged the guards in a single battle.

She had heard rumors that something had happened in the guard’s barracks last night, but the guards were not talking about any nighttime event. Helen knew better, because some of the prisoners who woke early had heard cries of alarm from the barracks near dawn.

Helen had a counted, and all the guards were present today. She wondered what had happened in the barracks.

Abruptly Helen heard a whistle and then a thunking noise and turned in time to see a single guard fall over with a war arrow through his throat. Most of the guards scrambled around the fallen man trying to administer first aid. Several guards charged into the woods in the area that the arrow must have been fired from. The woods swallowed them up.

Helen heard a second whistle and thunk, and turned her head towards the prisoners in time to see an arrow quivering in the handle of a shovel that had been shoved into the ground when her clansmen broke for lunch. The arrow had knocked the shovel over, but remained firmly stuck into the wood of the handle. This arrow could not have been fired from the same point as the first. There was more than one attacker, Helen realized. Then Helen saw that there was a cylinder attached just behind the arrowhead- and that the cylinder contained a rolled piece of paper.

Helen scrambled from here hiding place. The guards wouldn’t even go near the construction shed after one of their number died there. She ran to the prisoners as Brennan Wallace was reading the arrow’s note.

“Tell Simpson that he’s next.” Brennan read aloud. Several people made noises that ranged from surprise to admiration. Simpson was one of the more violent guards, smaller and meaner and more likely to rape the female prisoners- none of the clan liked him.

The guards were still busy with their injured comrade.

Helen’s Uncle Asher spoke up, “We should tell the guards about this.”

“They may hurt us for bearing bad news.” Brennan said.

“They will hurt us if they find out we didn’t.” Asher said.

“If we tell them, the Simpson might have a chance.”

“And if we tell them and Simpson is killed anyway, it will rattle them beyond all measure.”

“Don’t you think Simpson will try to defend himself?”

“I think he’ll try,” Asher snatched the note from Brennan’s hand and then hefted the shovel- arrow still in it. “I’m not asking your permission young man. I am telling you for your education.”

Asher turned and walked to the guards, stopping about two meters back and calling out to them. When a few looked up, Asher simply hefted the shovel and note together silently. Sergeant Aspen, a weathered man in his fifties stood up and walked over. He took both items and nodded slightly to Asher.

Aspen was a strong man with a mind that reminded somebody of a large truck with a wide turning radius. Aspen’s mind got the job done, but tended to drive over the garden and other people’s toes in order to do so. He scanned the note briefly and turned and bellowed for Simpson. Simpson approached and Helen strained to hear Aspen’s conversation level statement.

“They want you next kid. Get a buddy and get your head straight. You ain’t sharp enough alone.”

Helen could have peed herself laughing as Simpson’s knees literally shuddered. She held her amusement in as Simpson immediately looked furiously at the prisoners as though they were the cause of his problem.

Simpson was looking at Helen. He didn’t look happy. Helen shuddered. Now she was scared again.

* * *

Dolf stood quietly in the doorway of the administration building, watching the guards moving with distaste. The guards were scared- one day and they were scared. His brothers were not incompetent, although Dolf was beginning to think that his guards were. This did not make Dolf happy.



The teams had been sweeping the woods for nearly three hours, and had found nothing. Dolf had somebody else in the woods as well. Nugget was looking for tracks. None of Dolf's team or any of the guards could track like Nugget. Nugget had orders not to pursue the targets, just as the guards did. Nugget's job today was to look for patterns, hides and caches that his brothers might use. Unlike the guards, Nugget was under orders to maintain radio silence unless he needed back up- the was Nugget's standard method of operation.

"Grazhny eegra," Dolf said to himself, which meant 'dirty game' in the Nadsat slang of the novel "A Clockwork Orange."

Widow placed an arm around Dolf's shoulder. Dolf hadn't been aware that she was behind him and managed not to flinch. She didn't say anything, she simply spooned against him as he stood.

"My bratties are clever," Dolf said quietly, "They've spooked our chasso boys in less that thirty-six hours. Our six are good obviously, but the chasso babies are creeching at shadows."

Widow ran a glove clad index finger along Dolf's chin.

"If Nugget finds anything useful, You and Pillbug will join him in flushing them out. Force them into a fighting retreat towards the open camp. I want them loveted between our best and all of our chasso boys. We'll end this eegra with a britva at their throat."

Widow's hand stopped moving, "Pillbug baddiwad bolnoy"

Dolf's voice hardened, "Cheena, I don't care how sick you think he is. I don't keep you around to think. I keep you around for the old in-out-in-out, and because the way you shive people gives me a pan-handle. So don't think- just do those things that make me real happy. You pony what I'm saying?"

Widow's hand dropped away and she didn't speak.

Dolf didn't turn around as he continued speaking, "Tell you that you pony or I'll give you to Ogre."

Widow shuddered backwards.

"Pony," she said quietly.

"Dolf, We've found the guards who went after the targets." Ogre's voice crackled from Dolf's head set.

"Are the gloopy chasso babies alive or dead?"

"The guards are dead. And they are stripped clean, clothes and gear."

"The sodding sods are going to dress like us and shive us while we're blind."

"That would be obvious, but then why allow us to find the naked bodies? It makes that conclusion obvious."

"They're trying to trick us with a baddiwad eegra. Like their horse trick. Use the obvious trick as a distraction. Did Nugget find the bodies or was it the chasso?"

"The guards found the bodies."

"Charlie Cal!" It meant 'priest excrement', and was a curse of Dolf's, "Now the chasso babies will be even more spooked. Even a gloopy chasso will be able to count one and one and get two. They'll know what those missing uniforms mean."

"Agreed. Dolf I think that I should explain our suspicions about your brother's plans. It may be the only way to counter their fear."

"Ogre, If we tell the chasso that we know my bratties are bluffing us, then they won't bluff us. If we don't tell the chasso, then my bratties get another victory against chasso morale. What we need is not a lecture. What we need is one of the targets being sodded by spear in the center of camp."

"We do need them dead on a pike, but we don't have that option. Do I have your permission to give the guards our conclusions?"

"You do what you think will prod the best results from our chasso babies."

"I will Dolf."

One Hundred Years: Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Beware Greeks Bearing Gifts

Five years ago...
July 14th, 2115

"A horse? You aren't serious? A horse? A Trojan horse? Munin would kill you in shame. Nobody is going to fall for a Trojan horse, its too ridiculous."

Malika was staring in disbelief at Cooper. Pike was sitting quietly looking at his half-brother as Cooper stood grinning at himself.

Cooper stood silently grinning, waiting as Malika stared in disbelief and Pike sharpened his boot knife quietly. Pike always sharpened his knife when he was uncomfortable with something.

"Cooper," Malika shook her head, "If people find a big sculpture of a horse, forgetting of course that we don't have a big sculpture of a horse, but if the wolves find a big horse, they are going to cut it open, they are going to know that its us."

Cooper didn't stop grinning, "Hey, they already know we're coming. And I have a big plan, a special ghost certified plan."

Malika shook her head again, "Coop, I like the fact that Mister Poe taught you his secret medicines, and his spooky secret secret stuff- but I'm a Freeman to the core and I don't believe in voodoo and ghosts and spooks and magic and the secret oil fields of Australia. I generally trust you, but as cute as you are, you can be a total flake some times."

Cooper blushed, "Hey, I've walked inside my own brain, and I've got my own special ghost dealer top hat."

Malika shook her head.

Pike looked up and chuckled, "You look like a dog shaking itself dry Malika."

Malika faced Pike and pointed a finger and Cooper, "A hat is not enough to make a stupid crazy plan work. Your brother is going to end our streak of wins and this time one of us is going to die."

* * *

Helen sat and watched the camp work. Helen was thirteen years old. She had slipped from her bunk in the earlier morning and was hidden under the shed before the workers arrived at the site. The workers had not been at the site long, and had just finished leading the donkey carts full of earth up to the site.

Helen hated watching her clan work. The Wallace clan had been a powerful clan amongst the peoples of the Great Alliance fifteen years ago. But that was fifteen years ago, today the Wallace clan was a tenth of its original size and what remained of the clan was packed into a prison camp. Fifteen years ago the Wallace clan had been conquered by the Winter Wolves, and its warriors were executed and replaced with Winter Wolves. The peoples of the Great Alliance had suspected other tribes and clans of being puppets of the Winter Wolves, nobody had even suspect the Wallace clan. Perhaps that was the Winter Wolves' plan. Slowly, members were moved to prison camps and replaced with Winter Wolves. The Winter Wolves seemed to breed like rabbits, if rabbits approved of raping conquered peoples.

Helen Wallace watched the camp, and watched her clansmen work.

Helen knew that she should be working. She and possibly her clansmen would be punished if the Winter Wolves caught her hiding under the tool shed. But Helen could not shake the fact that as her clansmen were build earthworks and the beginning of a new fort here for the Winter Wolves, they were building the gallows that the Winter Wolves would hang them all from.

Helen was not going to build her own gallows, and she was not going to build one for her clansmen. She was young but she remembered what her great grandmother: Ella Wallace, had read to her.

"At every stage, the oppressor will give you a choice," great-grandma Ella had said, "Go along or risk being beaten and maybe killed. They will ask you to be reasonable, and at every choice the reasonable step will take you closer to your extermination. That is the choice, die now or build your own gallows."

Helen was lying on her belly under the tool shed when a shout went up from the earth works team. Helen scrambled out from under the shed and rant to the edge of the hill that would eventually form the foundation to a quickly built motte and bailey fort. The workers had just walked into the center of the work site and the workers at the center that were yelling.

Helen wriggled between adults until she reached the center of the site, and stared in astonishment.

There was a large, crudely built wooden horse in the center of the motte. The wooden horse stood about ten feet at the horse's shoulder. The horse had been built with the wood that had been left behind at the work site. The sculpture looked ridiculous with a huge belly that the light shone through and clearly contained a chamber with something inside.

Around the horse's neck hung a cardboard sign that read 'Gift'.

None of the workers wanted to get too close to the horse. One of the guards approached the horse and walked around it at a distance of about ten feet. Finally the guard pulled out his sub-machine gun and, as workers ran for cover, sprayed nearly half his clip into the belly of the horse.

Nothing moved inside the horse and there was no sound once the gun was quiet. Then Helen noticed something and pointed at the bottom of the belly.

"It's leaking grain!" She called.

And indeed the horse was leaking grain out of the openings in the bottom of its wooden belly. The guard who had shot the horse grabbed a crowbar from a pile of tools and tore two boards from the horse's belly in short order and then reached in and threw two bags of grain out onto the ground. The bags had been punctured by multiple bullet holes and were leaking grain from their bullet wounds.

Tied to both bags were cardboard signs.

The bullets had mangled one beyond legibility, but the other clearly read, "We're already inside. Your grain was tasty, but I wouldn't eat any more."

The guard read the sign and quickly turned towards the workers. After a moment he pointed at a teenage boy named Niven.

"You, boy get over here."

Niven approached cautiously. The guard grabbed a handful of the grain and thrust it into Niven's hands.

"Eat it."

Niven stared at the grain in horror. His eyes darted between the grain and the guard's machine gun. Finally he drew his hands up to his mouth and put a small amount of the grain into his mouth and tried to chew. He gagged sharply and spat the grain onto the ground.

The guard rammed the butt of his gun into Niven's nose and blood flew as Niven toppled to the ground.

"I told you to eat it boy, not spit it out."

"It's been soaked in gasoline sir."

The guard cursed and began looking around wildly as though he was expecting an attack at any moment. After a minute or so he walked over to the other guards and they began talking quietly to each other. Helen could only catch parts of what was said.

"...has to be our gasoline. They're luddites about..."

"...where did they..."

"...all food compromised, do you think?"

Helen smiled to herself and slipped away from the site while the guards were engrossed in their conversation. She snuggled back into her spot under the tool shed. Somebody was fighting the guards, and they were scared. That made Helen very happy. There were still knights alive and fighting. The Wallace clan would not die on a gallows of their own construction. Helen hoped they were handsome. But more than that, Helen hoped that they would teach her the path of the knight.

* * *

Dolf's team consisted of himself and five others. There were three boys- Nugget, Ogre, and Pillbug, and two girls- Nana and Widow.

Nugget was dumb as a post and thin. He was stronger than he looked, but still not terribly strong. Despite his lack of wit, Nugget was the group's point man. He was fast as deer and nothing escaped Nugget's eyes. He was a master of anatomy, no matter the species, and could kill with the efficiency of a surgeon- only Dolf was a better killer. Nugget kept his head shaved and wore a loin cloth as his only clothing besides sandals and a Kevlar vest.

Ogre was as big as his name suggested. He was also smart enough that Dolf used Ogre as his right hand man and second-in-command. Ogre was slow and clumsy. He knew this, and hated his massive hands. Ogre played the part well, and only the group knew how clever he was. Ogre wore a huge metal breast plate and scavenged leather plates that heightened the effect his six foot seven frame had on people. He carried a huge wooden club; it wasn't for use as a weapon, but as a tool of interrogation.

Pillbug was even smaller than Nugget. His hair was a greasy blond that Pillbug kept in a scraggly ponytail. Pillbug was a scrawny youth who could hide anywhere and who was a better shot with a hunting rifle than most of Maxwell's snipers.

Nana was the group's medic and torture expert. She would have been attractive if she wasn't missing her right eye, lost in training pits. Nana kept her hair in a strawberry blond buzz cut. She dressed in a formal looking grey military uniform that she had bought in the Victoria market.

Widow was the toughest and capable of Dolf's team, and Dolf's unofficial lover. She dyed her hair black and braided it long down her back. Widow fought with two Tokarev pistols, and fought to win. She almost never spoke and enjoyed mutilating her male victims- hence her name.

The team was clustered around Dolf's desk when the report arrived from the work site. The office had belonged to local Camp Director, but Dolf had commandeered it after a quiet conversation with the director.

Dolf was quiet during the report, and after it was done Dolf simply told the messenger to inform the director and tell him to await further orders. After the messenger left, Nugget spoke.

"I don't pony this at all, Wolfman. Why take a britva and shive our toe, then brag about it?"

"They didn't shive our toe to attack us," Nana corrected, " They shived our toe to hurt us and make us creech. This is meant to show us that they can hurt us whenever they want to hurt us."

Ogre shook his head," Not us. This is meant to show the rank and file, as well as the prisoners, that the raiders can attack at will. It is meant to break faith in the leadership and to induce an uprising." Ogre, alone amongst the group did not try to speak like the characters from "A Clockwork Orange."

Pillbug looked around, "You said you know who these lewdies are Wolfman. So who are they?"

Dolf stood up, " The banda is called the Red Snow Raiders. Two of them are my brothers. And so my droogs, we have a very grazhny eegra ahead of us- A very dirty nasty game indeed."

One Hundred Years: Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Helen and the Devil

"Munin flew above the sky and tried to catch a star.
But Jatar said she shoudn't since it was very far.
Munin asked how Jatar knew if she had never tried.
Jatar said that those who tried had failed or even died.
Munin flew out past the sky where stars were said to roam.
And she was gone so long, they thought she never would come home.
But in the end, back Munin came, though with no star to show.
But even though she had no star, the truth was cause to go."

Redwing Tribe Nursery Rhyme

"Once a man has died inside,
No force on earth can oppose him."

Jerome Clan Maxim

Five years ago...
July 14th, 2115

I was born in the prison camp on the day my mother passed away. I am told by my uncle that my father was mad with grief and even blamed me for the loss of his wife. My uncle tells me not to think ill of my father. My uncle says that most people are bound by circumstance, and only the knights can rise above their current circumstances. My uncle says that the knights step into a better future, and then bring that future back to the present for the good of the clan. And so I will become a knight, with the pistols and the boar spears and the leather breast plates, for I have lived all of my thirteen years in a prison camp. And when I bear my children, I wish them to breath the free air of the mountains while I nurse them.

My name is Helen, and my uncle says that I should seek to marry a knight. My uncle says that women do not create the future, they nourish the present like a child. The Winter Wolves have killed of the clan's knights. So unless somebody takes their mantle, my people have no future. My father was a huntsman; not a knight by any stretch, but respected amongst the survivors in this camp. My uncle is a dream speaker, the secret guides of the clan and the knights. The Winter Wolves knew of the knights and killed them in battle or , more often, executed them from afar with high powered rifles. The Winter Wolves did not know of the dream speakers. And so our source of wisdom survives.

But without the knights, my clan has lost the hands with which we act. We have our eyes, but we lack our hands. It is my goal to become the hands of my people and grip the spear that kills the wolves that hold us here.

* * *

Dolf was thirteen now and wore a devil mask. The mask was solid steel, carved and pounded to look like the shimmering blue face of Lucifer. It had long curling horns that wrapped around Dolf's ears and a leering fanged smile with breathing holes punched out of the spaces between the teeth. It attached snugly to his war helmet, but could be worn without the helm. When he wore the mask around Fort Winterheart, Dolf would often wear the mask perched upon the top of his head like a cap.

His father had named Dolf, which meant 'wolf', to make a point of Dolf's lineage. Dolf didn't care about the point his father was making, but liked the name. He also liked the obvious association, which scared people. Certain names would always be associated with savagery and power. Dolf felt that one might as well make use of that advantage. A man could succeed by being clever, by being charming, or by being powerful. Dolf's father preferred to be clever and charming. Dolf wished to be clever and powerful.

Dolf wasn't impressed or concerned by father's dreams of an empire. Dolf still wished to succeed his father as leader of the Winter Wolves. But he has learned some things from his brother Cooper. Cooper had taught Dolf failure. Cooper had also taught Dolf what it was like to be in battle. Dolf was no longer a little boy, puberty had hit and that as well as his training had turned him into a lean  densely muscled young man whose hunger was expressed him every sinew of his body.

Dolf wanted a viking funeral- to live a grand and violent life and die glorious in battle at the head of an army. He wanted to die with his brother, to prove to Cooper that things had changed. To prove to Cooper that he was the better of them. That would be enough.

He worked out every day, mostly by fighting until he could fight no more. He didn't drink or do drugs. Alex of 'A Clockwork Orange' may have done these things but Dolf had more than one mentor. He also found virtue in the words of Lycurgus: the founder of Sparta.

Dolf had his gang, three guys and two girls who would all fight and die for Dolf. They were all older than him and been floundering in the training pits when Dolf entered the pits. They would have died in the Winter Wolf Training Pits- as many children did- if not for Dolf. The five had been weak, but Dolf had seen potential.

He had seen people he could shape and mold. He had been small when he was younger, and had seen that weakness can breed strength. And so he taught them. He taught them that the battle does not go to the strong- they were not the strongest. Instead, he taught them that the battle goes to the most committed, the best prepared, and the most brutal. These five were monsters now, but they were his monsters. They needed Dolf's guidance to survive. Dolf liked their relationship that way. Dolf's Dad wanted to rule the world. Dolf just wanted to rule his own life.

His five had names before Dolf took them. Now they were his five, and he named them accordingly.

Dolf had three pastimes: fighting and reading and researching how people broke.

Dolf had a vicious knife that he called 'The Christmas Tree'. The blade had been filed into four inverted V's that hooked flesh and tore it out when the blade was pulled from a wound.

Dolf liked to perform handstand push ups as a part of his regular workout. He didn't do the push ups for any fitness benefit, but to intimidate people watching him.

Dolf was a rapist at thirteen, something in which he took pride. Dolf only enjoyed sex if it was a battle. He only assaulted women that he knew would be able to fight back- the warriors of enemy tribes were popular. He enjoyed the real danger involved. He had been stabbed during such sexual assaults no less than five times, and made no attempt to hide the scars. He had also raped all five members of his gang. Dolf was heterosexual, but he felt rape was an effective way to establish dominance.

Dolf had considered being a vegetarian. Hitler had been one after all, but Dolf had rejected the practice as unworkable given his circumstances. Eating puppies was too useful an intimidation tactic to give up, besides that he had grown to like the taste of puppy meat. It was tender.

The one chink in Dolf's perfection- as he saw it- was his concern for his mother. He should love nothing, should care for nothing but the fight. But he cared for his mother. He had told himself that he should rape her to cleanse himself of concern for her, but he couldn't. His weakness shamed him and Dolf didn't talk to his mother as a result. He could fully not become the monster he longed to be, as long as he cared for somebody as truly broken as his mother Rose. He knew her story. Dolf knew that she had been a truly promising warrior and stateswoman when Dolf's father- Maxwell- had claimed her. Dolf knew that Maxwell had broken her will slowly, painfully and completely. Dolf told himself that he should respect his father's achievement, but he couldn't. He loved his mother and hated Maxwell for the fear his father had placed in his mother's eyes. He hated Cooper as well. His mother talked about Cooper, her kidnapped eldest son, which such pride. She was actually glad to learn that the Redwing Tribe had raised Cooper. Dolf had read a great deal, and knew that it was typical for the younger son to resent the elder son for the respect parents gave to that elder son. This didn't temper Dolf's jealousy and only fed Dolf's hatred of Cooper.

Cooper was the one his mother loved. Cooper was the only foe he hadn't been able to break. Cooper was the one his father still wanted as successor. Cooper was the boy rebel who was embarrassing the Winter Wolves at every turn. Of, course Pike was there as well, but it was Cooper that Dolf hated- the so called Winter Hawk. One might as well call him Robin Hood and be done with it.

Dolf hated Cooper.

He was sitting in the square reading 'A Clockwork Orange' when his father- Maxwell- found him that day.

"Dolf, get your nose out of that book."

"Don't be a baboochka, Dad. This book is a droog. It's a trusted friend, an amigo."

Dolf spoke like the characters in the novel and saw virtue in their savagery. He sought to emulate them, but temper their savagery with the theories of Lycurgus- founder of Sparta.

"I know what that means, boy. I've read the book as well. You should be reading Xenophon or Clausewitz or Machiavelli."

"Machiavelli is real horroshow Dad, but Clausewitz is an outdated baboochka. I've read them all, and I think I pony the important stuff enough to walk the walk."

"Then 'pony' this: I need your little band of monsters to head out a re-education camp on the western border."

"That is one boring rabbit you're throwing me. Give me something with a little ultra-violent."

Dolf saw his father tense at the shoulders, ready to slap Dolf, and then relax. Dolf smiled. Maxwell had beaten Dolf senseless after Cooper and Pike had escaped. Dolf had sworn that it would never happen again. Now Dolf could see that he had succeeded. His father was afraid of him.

"Listen to me. I am sending you there, because your brothers will be there."

Dolf put down the book.

"And you're just real sammy and want to give me that present 'cause you're my droog? What's the catch? I know you ain't telling me the whole raskazz."

"The catch is that we know where they are going to be, but we don't know when. You could be waiting for months. They have deliberately allowed a map of our territory to be found. It marks five targets. This camp is one of the those targets. They have done this before, they have always hit every target the let us know about. They are mocking us."

"So why not just round up all your millicents and razz-boys and stuff these places with enough pooschkas to level the land around them. Why me, if it's so embarrassing?"

"Two reasons. First, they know that Seattle has sent out raiding parties against The Vancouver Territories and Whistler County. They know that I must defend Whistler. This requires a significant show of force, Lilith does not back down lightly. Second. I do not wish the world to see me lock down five obscure holdings with my best men when faced with my own errant children. You and yours are monsters, good effective monsters. I trust you will be able to follow your brothers after they make their raid. I do not expect you to be able to prevent the raid, just that you capture them after that."

"Why should I do that babooshka? You want like Cooper's Hawk to be king and give him all your bugatties. Bratty don't want to be your kid, don't want to be your banda- I do. Why so gloopy anxious to get him back? He ain't all boohoohoo that you're not around. Besides, they ain't got the yarbles to run this place, not like I do."

Dolf didn't even see his father flex, before the blow struck Dolf- closed fisted in the jaw- and sent the youth flying off the stone bench he had been sitting on.

"Do not confuse my tolerance of your methods, with weakness boy. You are a monster, yes. You are a good effective monster, yes. I am proud of you for these things. You are an excellent sergeant, and an excellent field leader. You are not a politician, you are not a king, you do not have the vision to lead anything larger than a war party. You will do this because I told you to. I will have all my sons with you. All of you belong to me. Then, when I have finished with my plans and my conquests, I will decide which of you will succeed me. It will not be you, or Pike, or Hawk. It will be whoever is the leader that the Winter Wolves need. Do you understand?"

Dolf stood up, picking his devil mask on the cobble stones. "I pony mister razz man. I pony real good."

* * *

Pike, Cooper and Malika sat around a makeshift table in an abandoned barn near Hundred-Mile House.

Pike was twenty-two years old now, and had filled out into a strong muscular warrior. He dressed in typical Redwing warrior attire- brigandine and pants with lace up moccasins. He had let his hair grow out since they left the comforts of the village, and now boasted a long wild mane of hair. He still kept his face clean shaven, and kept a straight razor in a case on his belt for that purpose amongst others.

"So, which one first?" Pike asked, looking at the stolen map of Winter Wolf territory laid out on the table between the three young warriors.

Malika studied the map for a long time. She was eighteen now and retained a slim lean build as she matured. Malika had let her hair grow out as well, keeping them in carefully maintained corn rows. To retain this look, she recruited Cooper's assistance. Unlike Pike, Malika was not dressed like a Redwing warrior. She had not taken the warrior test when they left and did not have the brigandine. Malika instead wore a handmade shirt of lammellar style leather scales. Beneath that she had taken to wearing a black leather kilt she had bartered for several years ago, which had become her summer wear.

Finally settling on a position, Malika pointed to a point far to the west they had circled. "The Pass, Roger's Pass. They can't reinforce it in time. We can move faster than any military unit of decent size, and I don't like the idea of charging people money to walk from one place to another."

Pike nodded, "I can work with that."

Cooper shook his head, "It's too easy. We'll get there and there won't be any challenge, nothing to feed the legend, nothing to weaken the WinterWolves ' image. We don't hit them where they are weak. it serves no purpose anymore, we've been doing that for five years. We have to start hitting them where they're strong, to prove they aren't."

Pike shrugged, "All right Sun-Tzu, where do we strike first?"

Cooper pointed to a small mark on the western edge, but much closer than all of the other markings, "We liberate the prison camp. We make a statement. They cannot hold what they have conquered. Nobody should be imprisoned by our father. We show every tribe not yet on side with Uncle Redwing, that this war can be won, and that it isn't luck the Redwing tribe is still free."

Malika shook her head, "You're cute Coop, but you better have a plan. Because we told them where we were going to hit, and that camp is the closest. It will be the best protected."

Cooper leaned forward, disturbing the large wolfhound beside him and tapped the black top hat he was wearing, causing the raven bones tucked behind the ribbon to shift a little, "I've been talking to the spirits of every Winter Wolf we've killed. You'd better believe I have a plan."