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Darwin's Legacy

Chapter 8 - Wanderers

With no more goods to trade Silver Tip steered his caravan directly for the winter campgrounds. After leaving the mountains they angled northwest, crossing the plains that were inhabited by coyotes and eventually entering the forests of a great river valley. It was a fascinating voyage for Roark and Dylan. Roark had never been farther than the edge of the plains and Dylan had never been more than a day and a half's travel from the den. All that they knew came from the scrolls the former storyteller had kept on behalf of the pack, and they were proving to be woefully inaccurate.

At first Dead Eye, the former chief of the guard, was too badly wounded to ride a horse so he rode in Dylan's converted wagon and shared what he knew of the inhabited territories and the fox culture with the hunchbacked wolf.

"You foxes are the only species that travels freely from one territory to another." Dylan commented early in the trip. "You must know everything there is to know in the world."

"Humph." Dead Eye grunted. "Not by a long shot. No one even knows how big the whole word is. The wolves that live in the highest mountains saw that you can see the horizon curve from up there, leading some to believe that world is a great ball. But how big of a ball must it be to look so flat to us on the surface?" He gestured to the plains around them. "If it were an orange then the portion we foxes trade in cannot be more than a sliver of the peel the size of my little claw." Dead Eye extended his smallest digit to demonstrate.

"That small?" Dylan asked in wonder. "The scrolls I have read claim that the world is a disc, with our mountains in the middle, and that one can see the whole of it from the highest peak."

"If you travel long enough with us you will see different." The fox laughed. "Already you mountains are fading in the distance, and in another week they will be below the horizon altogether, but more will appear in the west, on the other side of the valley."

"More mountains? Why can't we see them from our dens?"

"Because of the curve of the earth. From up here on top of the wagon we can see maybe seven miles on this plain. Build a tower a hundred feet high and you could see twenty. If there was another tower forty miles away and each had a beacon on top they may be able to see each other on a clear night. Take it from me Dylan, there is a lot to the world that you cannot see until you go there and more than anyone could ever travel to in a lifetime."

"What about our sliver of orange peel. Can you describe it for me?" Dylan asked.

"It is a long valley surrounded by mountains." Dead Eye began. "You know about the eastern mountains, where your dens lie, and the plains at their feet, where the coyotes prowl. But did you know that your mountain range is hundreds of miles wide, and on the other side there is said to be a plain that is much, much wider again? There are no sentient species there, but there are feral wolves and coyotes. I have never heard tell of any wild foxes or dogs there, but there are tales of a tawny wild cat with a thick tail that is nearly as large as a wolf."

"The western mountains are really just offshoots of the same mountain range. They curve out and back until they almost touch in the middle. Nothing lives on them except for ... well, maybe one day you shall see. All the small rivers that start in the mountains on both sides join in the centre of the valley to form two great rivers, one that flows south and one that flows north, but both run closer to the western mountains than to yours, which is why the plains at your foothills are so dry, I suppose. The dogs live along those two rivers. They use the power of the water to turn wheels that grind their grain and run their looms. The soil along the rivers is also very fertile, good for the crops they grow and for pasturing their herds."

"The felines live in the forests east of the rivers, between the coyotes and the canines. They fish the smaller rivers and hunt the creatures of the forest. They have learned to be excellent craftspeople because for generations they had to make everything by paw from the materials they found in the woods. They still make the best bows. Out in the open where distance and accuracy matter there are none better."

"The two rivers meet in the middle of the valley and together they flow out through the gap in the western mountains, to empty into the sea." Dead Eye went on to describe the endless body of water that lay west of the western mountains and the narrow stretch of land between them. "It is a desolate land, scoured by hot winds and scrubbed by the salt spray that comes from the poison water there. Foxes that have traveled there claim that it is a treasure trove of metal, plastics and artefacts from before the change. But they all came back sick, and none survived. Even some who only touched the material they brought back got sick. Their paws blistered and they lost great chunks of their fur. Although most survived many of them were plagued with ill health and deformed offspring. None lived as long as they should have."

"What could cause that?" Dylan wondered. "A disease in the air? Poisonous spores in the soil?"

"You can sanitize metal and most plastics by immersing them in boiling water, but that did not help with whatever had gotten into the material of the coastal strip." Dead Eye shrugged. "We even tried scouring them with acid and melting them down, but nothing worked. Since then there has been a ban on travel there."

"Still," Dylan said thoughtfully, "it would be a sight to see, all that water."

"There are safer places to see it from." Dead Eye said absently, but he refused to speak more of it when he was pressed.

One of the popular subjects at night around their fire was the leader and his mate, the feline Aster. But they had to get Dead Eye drunk to get him to talk about them. That wasn't too hard to do as the former chief guard had taken to cleansing his wounds with alcohol at regular intervals, from the inside out. They just had to increase the dose slightly.

"Mating is very important for us foxes." He told them one night after a thorough cleansing. "Not just for the, you know, sex, but for the kits, sons especially. If a fox loses his or her mate they will find another one. Silver Tip has had ten sons by three vixens before this. Plenty enough for any fox. Mind you, four have died trying to usurp him."

"Usurp?" Roark asked.

"Take over. Replace him as leader." Dead Eye explained. "Bad habit in the more well to do families. Silver Tip is one of the wealthiest foxes in the corporation."

"Corporation?"

"Never mind. Anyway, after his third wife died it looked like Silver Tip had given up on the whole mating thing. He just wanted to earn enough so that each of his sons could start a caravan of their own. But then, last year, he met Aster."

The one-eyed fox explained how each year the leaders of the foxes honoured the chief of the tribe that controlled the territory that they had to cross to get to their trade routes. Every autumn, just before the winter frost set in, the chief hosted a feast. The felines supplied the meat and certain grains. The foxes brought vegetables they had acquired from the canines and their finest fermented beverages. The evening usually ended in a friendly drunken brawl, with some of the younger members sneaking off into the woods for some safe interspecies cuddling.

"Near the end of the evening, the chief introduced his eldest daughter, still unmarried despite being in her thirties. She was a big lass, not fat, mind you, but tall and statuesque. Well, you have seen her, but she was slimmer before the baby. She has the same bluish tinge to her fur as her father, and the almond-shaped green eyes or her mother. A rare beauty to be sure. But she had rejected every suitor in her tribe, so the chief had sent her around to the other tribes on the excuse that she was some sort of roving diplomat, but he was really just trying to marry her off." Dead Eye took another dose of his distilled medication before continuing. "He had plenty of sons so there was no urgency to it."

"When Silver Tip's eyes met hers that night the connection was instant. Believe me, I was there as his body guard. I swear you could hear the 'click' as they locked in on each other. They snuck off like young lovers, much to the chief's amusement. He was surprised, however, when Silver Tip showed up the next morning asking for her to be his mate. After the shock wore off the chief questioned Silver Tip to make sure he was sincere, and sober, and then he took his daughter to make sure it was she really wanted. Then he gave them his blessings."

"He didn't mind losing his daughter, especially to a ... another species?" Roark inquired.

"Their daughter's get married off to other tribes regularly to strengthen ties and alliances." Dead Eye slurred, his medication catching up with him. "They only stay if they are taken with a local warrior or if the chief has no sons. The chief agreed for political reasons; Silver Tip is a very important fox. But Silver Tip did not propose to get in good with the chief, he was in love, and still is. This whole pregnancy thing has been a mess though."

"I suppose most thought that she had a feline lover before she met Silver Tip, or after." Roark commented.

"Oui, bien sûr. Sorry, yes, that is so. And Silver Tip's refusal to consider the possibility made many question his state of mind. I told you about the inheritance laws," he said, turning to Dylan, "but we also have laws about removing a leader that has been deemed incapable due to illness or dementia. Not all caravans change paws in a peaceful fashion like that of your former Patron, Broad Leaf. Many are what you might call hostile takeovers."

The older fox was struggling to keep his one good eye open, so they ended the conversation there. Dylan tried to continue the discussion about fox laws and leadership the next morning but Dead Eye kept changing the subject. He also restricted his cleansing sessions to a reasonable amount of medication for the remainder of the trip.

After another two days of travel they left the barren plains behind and entered the forest, but not before losing sight of the eastern mountains, as Dead Eye had said they would. They were able to move almost as fast as they had on the plains through the forest because they followed a wide road made of crushed stone and chunks of some black substance that neither wolf could identify. The felines in the area were supposed to be friendly, but the guard force stayed alert in any event. With the wagons straining under a double load of booty the temptation to relieve the foxes of one or two may have been too great for a pack of young warriors to resist.

At Roark's suggestion they had rearranged the order of the wagons. Instead of being in the lead, he placed Silver Tip's personal wagon in the middle and moved Dylan's turreted guard wagon up behind it. Although Silver Tip professed to be satisfied of his remaining sons' loyalty Roark was not so trusting. Foxes were difficult to read at best, and some, like Silver Tip's eldest, Bright Eyes, was as stone-faced as they came. So he was determined to stay close in case of further dissention. It also afforded him the chance of being close to Aster.

Roark was fascinated by her, and not only because she was the most exotic creature that he had ever seen. He loved her regal bearing, the silky-smooth way she moved, her habit of bowing her head and peeking up at one through her long, thick eyelashes, and especially her smile, which was both shy and knowing. There was nothing about her that he could criticize, and he wanted to know her better.

With their wagons in close proximity he expected that their paths would cross often, but he was mistaken. Still weak from the long, complicated pregnancy and a difficult birth, Aster kept to the wagon and rarely appeared except on the arm of her mate. But one morning, a few days after entering the forest, she appeared alone on the platform of their wagon just as Roark was passing on his daily inspection of the guard.

"Aster." Roark said with a small nod of his head, not sure how else to address her.

"Roark." She nodded back respectfully. "I hear that you are still concerned for my safety and that of Ki-Ki."

"Ki-Ki?" Roark asked, puzzled.

"Our son." She replied with a grin. "He is neither kit nor kitten but he is a bit of both so we call him Ki-Ki for now. In a few years we will rename him either in the feline fashion or the fox manner. I would prefer the former but Silver Tip favours the later. It will probably be the occasion of our first argument as mates, but there are worse things to argue over, do you not agree?" She batted her big green eyes to clear the dust that was rising from the road as she waited for his answer.

Roark was smitten. Although he had been skeptical about Dead Eye's love at first sight story he was a doubter no more. He would protect her to the end of time if need be, and if Silver Tip were to pass away one day ... Best not to think about that, he chided himself, but he is a very old fox, isn't he?.

"I agree." He said, having completely forgotten what she had just said. "Do you have any instructions for me, ma'am?" It was the politest form of address that he knew. He reminded himself to ask Dylan if there were titles more appropriate.

"Not at the moment." She smiled at his evident, almost adolescent, infatuation. It was a reaction she was used to getting from young unmated males of all species. It usually wore off after a few weeks of quiet discouragement. "Good day to you Roark."

"Ma'am." Roark watched as she turned and retired inside the wagon. That tail, he marveled, like a furry snake swaying to an unheard tune. He had never seen one like it. He lingered behind her wagon for a few moments before continuing on his rounds.

The caravan was trundling slowly through the forest and Roark had no problem passing them on foot. He confirmed that the large dogs, feline warriors, and coyote guards that were on duty were also keeping up at their stations. A few foxes on horseback under the command of one of Silver Tip's sons were patrolling further out. Maybe I'll learn to ride a horse one day, Roark thought idly, wondering whether Silver Tip would give him one to ride or whether he would have to buy his own.

Then he saw one of the wagons at the front pull out of the line and park under a large oak. This was not unusual, even though the caravan halted at mid day for a meal and once each morning and afternoon for short breaks the call of nature could strike anytime. Emergency repairs were sometimes required also. This wagon seemed to be fine but Roark angled toward it just in case. If they were broken down he would need to assign a pair of guards to it until they could catch up again.

Strangely enough, no one emerged from the wagon as he approached, neither to run for the woods clutching a paw full of broad leaves nor to check the most common cause of mechanical trouble, the wheels and axels. Roark frowned as he got closer.

The wagon was the most ornate one he had ever seen, next to Silver Tip's, with bundles and boxes of all sizes and shapes tied on it so that the original shape was totally obscured. He recalled that it usually kept to itself when they halted, away from the others. Like most it had an overhanging cab with wooden panels that could be dropped in a hurry to enclose it completely, allowing one to charge through an ambush as long as the horses were not hit. It had a small door giving access to the interior, and Roark saw a flash of amber fur disappear through it as he came up beside the wagon. He circled the vehicle, giving it a quick inspection before mounting the stairs and knocking at the rear door.

"Come in." An ancient voice invited. "We are expecting you."

More puzzled than ever, and wary, Roark pushed open the door and let his eyes adjust to the dark before proceeding in. The inside of the wagon was as cluttered and confused as the outside, except for a clear area in the middle of the floor where an old vixen sat in a small rocking chair. Her fur had gone grey and even her eyes were covered with ghostly white cataracts. Knelling beside her was a young female, just a kit really; whose shiny amber fur Roark recognised from the quick glance he had earlier.

"You were expecting me?" The old one must be the seer, the one they called Star Gazer, he realized. Had she foreseen this meeting he wondered?

"Of course. You check on all the wagons that fall out of the caravan. It is part of your duty, is it not?"

"Oh, yes, of course." The tack of the conversation was confusing him. "Did you, ah, want to speak with me?"

"I want to cast your fortune." The ancient seer gestured to her helper. The kit produced three plastic cubes with painted depressions on the sides and held them up for the old vixen to embrace.

"That's okay. I don't need my fortune told, and I really must be getting about my ..."

"Everyone needs their fortune told sometime, and this is as good a time as any." Star Gazer interrupted harshly. "Now shut your fly trap and let me concentrate."

Roark felt silly, standing in the small wagon with his ears brushing the ceiling while the tiny fortune-teller rocked and mumbled in the fox language. He did not believe in fortunes or fate, but he was afraid of what she might reveal, especially about his feelings for the leader's mate. He wanted to leave. There was no physical way that she could stop him from leaving, but he could not move all the same.

With a cry the old vixen cast the dice down and waited while her assistant tracked them down and declared the results.

"Well child?" She said impatiently when the kit Amber Rain did not report right away.

"They are all in a line against the runner of your rocker." The young fox said nervously. "The southernmost is a six, but the next two are balanced on their edges, leaning against the wood." Star Gazer had her describe the exact positioning and orientation of the dots on the two cocked dice. Then she sat silently for a few minutes.

The heat was building up inside the wagon and Roark felt beads of sweat on the palms of his paws; the paws always started sweating first. He fought back the urge to lick them. After an unbearably long wait the seer finally spoke, but now her voice sounded troubled too.

"It is impossible to separate you fate from those that you love. There are canines, cats, foxes, all mixed up. The images are cloudy, cloaked in the shadows of chance and opportunity. Much will hinge on the choices you make in the near future, but some things are inevitable. I see confusion, determination, pain and agony, the loss of a loved one."

"I don't have a loved one." Roark retorted, perhaps a little too hastily.

"You are mistaken." She sighed. "Love comes in many forms, Ro-Ack, and we express it in diverse ways. One day your eyes will be open to this fact, but by then it will be too late. Leave me now, I am tired."

Roark opened his mouth to demand a more thorough explanation, it was her that had arranged the meeting after all, but Amber rain nudged him out of the wagon with surprising strength. The door slammed as soon as he was on the rear platform. A moment later he had to grab the railing to keep from falling off as the wagon lurched into motion. Roark jumped to the ground and stood there as he watched it rejoin the caravan. Then he shook his head and hurried to continue his rounds.

It was only later, when he recounted the incident to Dylan that he realized that she had called him by his pack name, Ro-Ack, and that she had done so without a trace of accent or difficulty.

* * * * * * * *

They avoided the canine villages, which was not difficult because they were rare this far north, and passed through feline territory without incident. Roark saw Aster outside the wagon more often, and they exchanged pleasantries, but no more. At one point Silver Tip stopped the caravan and he and his sons on horseback escorted his wagon away from the rest. Roark was told politely but emphatically that he was relieved of the task of protecting them for that night. Dylan, who spent more time talking with the foxes in effort to know them better, informed him that they were going to visit her father's tribe to show of the wondrous Ki-Ki and would be gone for several days.

They passed the time cleaning and repairing gear, and helping Dead Eye on and off his horse as the one-eyed fox had recovered enough to get around on his own for a while each day. Every few minutes Roark would look in the direction that the leader's wagon had disappeared in, hoping to see it returning with Aster. Midway through the third morning it did, but he had no opportunity to ask her about the visit to her family because the caravan got underway immediately.

The day after Aster's return the western mountains first became visible. That same day the caravan crossed a large river at a ford that showed signs that a great bridge had been there once. All that remained now was a few broken columns thicker than the redwoods in their home mountains.

"There is metal inside those," Silver Tip pointed out to Roark as they crossed the ford, "should one care to break it up and get it out. But it is mostly rusty and not worth the effort."

Two days later they stood at the foothills of the western mountains. The road they had been following ended there at a junction with another that ran parallel to the mountains. There was a village of sorts surrounding the junction, and it was populated with a mix of species such as the wolves had never seen before. Cats stood with dogs. Coyotes walked beside wolves. Males and females mingled freely. They all had one thing in common however, they were the scruffiest bunch of creatures that Roark and Dylan had ever seen.

Roark looked down at himself. He was not much better with his travel worn breeches and shirt caked with sweat and dirt from the road. Dylan, standing beside him, was somewhat better seeing as he spent most of his days riding above the cloud of dust in his turreted wagon, but he had taken to wearing nothing more than a loin cloth, because the clothing the foxes carried were not cut for his hump or his twisted legs. We would fit right in, he thought with amusement, but then a revelation struck him, and his face went dark.

He looked around. Over by the supply wagons Bright Eyes was handing bundles of goods out to the other guards. After receiving their bundles each put their mark on a ledger another of the sons was recording the transaction in. When that was done they headed toward the village one by one, where they were being greeted like long lost friends.

Silver Tip and Dead Eye were sitting on their horses supervising the process and they saw him looking over. The two older foxes left the leader's eldest son and rode over to join the wolves.

"This is where the guards that we have hired live when we are not traveling." Silver Tip informed them after bringing his horse to a halt beside him. "The winter campgrounds are just west of here and we can manage security on our own from here on in."

Roark had suspected as much, but he stood and stared at the fox silently anyway. The implied message was obvious; other species were not trusted beyond this point. Looking around at some of the thugs and thieves that had gathered on the edge of the village he could hardly blame them, but he felt slighted all the same. Beside him Dylan swore under his breath, he had been looking forward to visiting the winter campgrounds and seeing how the foxes lived.

"You both have proved your value and your loyalty, and I am grateful." The old fox said, well aware of their disappointment. "But bringing you into the campgrounds would weaken my position among my peers at a critical juncture. Can you understand that?"

"I thought that as a caravan leader you were a law unto yourself." Dylan interjected before Roark could answer.

"On the road that is true." Silver Tip admitted. "But in the campgrounds it is different. We cooperate to produce the goods we trade and increase the riches of the species. Some families travel and trade, others stay here the year round to manufacture the goods. Caravan and guild leaders all have a place on the board that controls the corporation as a whole, but they are not all equal. Each is apportioned a measure of influence based on their wealth. The better one does the more say they have in our affairs."

"After the success we have had this year Silver Tip's share in this power will increase," Dead Eye put in, "but not until the board sits after the autumn season. He does not yet have enough influence to flout the rules that govern the campgrounds."

"I understand." Roark said, although he still felt bitter inside. He looked back down on the village, where several of the populace were already obviously drunk even though it was only noon. "It is just that I had thought to spend the winter ... in better company." He had almost said 'in more pleasant company' but changed his words at the last instant, afraid that Silver Tip would see the image of Aster that had come to his mind reflected in his eyes.

"You two are a cut above the rest," Silver Tip assured them, "and if I could I would take you with us. But ..." He shrugged as his voice trailed off.

"Will you pick us up on your way to trade with the canines?" Roark asked.

Silver Tip looked uncomfortable, and he took some time to answer.

"The route that circumnavigates the larger villages is a safe one." He finally said. "We customarily do not use other species as guards on this side of the great rivers unless we are venturing into the wild lands further south. Doing so would cut into our profits and that would upset my five sons, who are all hoping that earn enough for each to start their own caravan next year. Should that come to pass our clan will have an unprecedented measure of influence on the board, but it is not guaranteed. No. I am afraid that you must wait here for spring, when we venture out to the eastern mountains again. The distribution of power is at too fine a balance to risk tipping it just yet."

"I can understand the need for balance." Roark replied. He wondered how Ang-Ro's plans to conquer the entire valley would affect the foxes trading. He almost told Silver Tip about the Wolf Alliance and its leader's intent, and he might have if the old fox had not decided to stick to tradition and exclude them from the next leg of the trading journey. But he kept his mouth shut. Ang-Ro may fail, but should he succeed there was nothing that the fox could do about it from what he had seen, so why trouble him? "But I do not think that I will spend my winter here."

"Oh? Where will you go?" Silver Tip asked, his interest piqued.

"Yes, Roark. Where will we go?" Dylan inquired, equally mystified.

"South, I suppose." Roark said, a little uncertain but determined to go now that he had said it. "I have a desire to see the world. I've heard that it is warmer in the south. We'll be back in the spring and meet you there by the big river."

Silver Tip nodded sadly as he listened, knowing that there was nothing he could do to force the wolves to stay in the guard village and afraid that he would never see the two wolves he owed his spouse and child's life to. But Dead Eye's concern showed on his face and in the way he muttered as he dismounted his horse and passed the reins to Silver Tip.

"What are you doing?" The caravan leader asked his former chief guard.

"We cannot let our two best guards wander around getting lost or killed in the wild country." Dead Eye stated. "I'll just have to go with them to make sure they get back in time and in one piece, well, two actually." He said as he looked from one astounded wolf to the other.

"I thought you said that you were going to retire to the campgrounds?" Dylan said.

"Bah! Sitting around all day letting kits crawl over me? That is no life. I have a hankering to see the world one last time before I settle down."

"Can you walk well enough?" Roark asked, concerned with the old fox's health.

"I can walk as fast as Dylan." Dead Eye avowed, squinting at Roark with his one good eye. "And don't mind this twisted paw, I can fight one-armed well enough for the territory that we are going through."

"Should you not keep the horse old friend?" Silver Tip said, acknowledging his companion's right to live as he wished and his act of friendship for the two wolves. It should be me going with them, he thought, I owe them that much. But there is so much to do still. Dead Eye will keep them out of trouble ... hopefully.

"No. The walking will be good for me." Dead Eye did not need to add that riding while the wolves hoofed it would not be appropriate. "Tell my son not to worry and that I'll see him in the spring."

"Alright, mon vieux," the caravan leader replied, slipping into their own tongue, "à la prochaine."

"Au revoir." Dead Eye acknowledged. He stood silently as Silver Tip rode back over to where Bright Eyes was waiting with two piles of goods for Dylan and Roark. He tossed the reins to his eldest and directed another fox to add a third bundle to the pile.

"Will Silver Tip and Aster be safe without you?" Roark asked with concern.

"Oh sure." Dead Eye replied as he watched the old caravan leader gather his sons and head west at a gallop. "He's got enough protection with his five sons around him."

"I suppose." Roark thought about that for a minute. Something that Dead Eye had just said struck a false note in his mind. Something did not add up. He began counting on his digits, and then it came to him.

"Five sons?" He said, his brow wrinkled in confusion as he turned to address Dead Eye. "You had said previously that Silver Tip had ten grown sons but had lost four in the recent in-fighting. What happened to the sixth?"

* * * * * * * *

Annie stood naked in the ankle deep-water regarding the stranger who was pointing a crossbow at her midriff and ogling her. It was a fox, but a fox unlike any that had ever visited their den during the trading season. For one thing, there was the matter of his height. Annie was short for a wolf but the fox was shorter still. His head came up no higher than her chest, allowing him to avoid getting a kink in his neck while admiring the way her wet fur outlined her graciously curved figure. Yet despite being no taller than a wolf cub he spoke and acted like an adult, albeit a fairly young one. Then there was the manner of his dress. The fox wore tall leather boots with the tops turned down at the knee, pants with ruffles and a jacket with frills. A red and black dappled cape and a brown broad-brimmed hat with a long green feather completed his ensemble. If it was not for the crossbow and a long dagger that would serve as sword for the diminutive fox she would have laughed at the sight.

She stood exposed until it became obvious that the fox had no intent of interrupting his viewing pleasure with chatter. Losing her patience, she dropped her paws to her hips.

"You have the advantage on me, so if you want to rob me then get on with it, I'm in a hurry. If it's rape you are interested in then I would suggest you find a step ladder."

"Oh, now that hurt." The diminutive fox made an exaggerated, pained expression. "But I would never think of robbing or forcing myself on one so beautiful."

"Then just what are your intentions, ..." Annie paused, wondering how to address him, "... fox?"

"My pardon madam." The little fellow said, removing his hat and bowing elaborately. "I forgot to introduce myself. I am called Tig. That is the common form of the nickname my mother used to call me, Ti'Gar, which is short for 'little fellow' in our tongue. A short name for a short fox. I have also been called a throwback, an aberration and an abomination, depending on how insulting my detractors wanted to be. As for my intentions, I am an adventurer, a fighter and a lover, and I take life, and other things, as they come." He finished with a suggestive leer and a waggle of his brow that made Annie groan. She had dealt with his type often enough when she was Mi-Ran but had no intention of carrying on in that manner, especially with a fox that looked rather more foxy than most, and smelled more foxy also.

"You can call me Annie if you behave yourself. Now do you mind if I get dressed?"

"Not at all." The little fox stood there expectantly.

"Could you do me a favour and turn around?"

"Certainly!" Tig made a three-hundred and sixty degree rotation and stopped facing her again.

"That's it." She declared, the fur on the back of her neck bristling as she advanced toward him. Her eyes had gone narrow, something her friends would recognize as a dangerous sign. Unfortunately for Tig, he did not.

"Now madam, there is no need to rush." He began to lift his crossbow but he was too late. With a snarl that scared him into dropping the weapon Annie leapt from the bank to where he stood in a single bound. She swatted the crossbow aside and grabbed his wrist before he could put a paw on his dagger. Wrapping herself around the smaller fox she wrestled him to the ground and began to squeeze the life out of him.

"This ... is almost ... worth dying for." Tig gasped, his voice further muffled because his head was between her breasts. "But really .... madam ... I mean you ... no ... harm."

Annie relaxed her grip just enough for him to breath.

"Then why did you pull a crossbow on me?" She demanded

"After watching you kill two wolf scouts? Did you expect me to greet you with flowers? As it turns out I probably should have shot you in the leg before introducing myself."

Annie had to concede that he had a point there. If he had been hiding nearby and had seen the whole thing he must think that she was a cold-blooded murderer. But she wasn't, and she could not bring herself to strangle the little fellow, despite the fact that he was now nuzzling her with altogether too much familiarity. She decided to let him live, but not to trust him. After relieving him of his dagger she tied him to a nearby tree.

As she looped the cord around his wrists she saw that his height was not the only sign of his malformation. His snout was longer and thinner than any she had seen, and his teeth much longer and sharper. His joints were in the wrong places, making it look awkward for him to stand. His thumbs were just nubs on the side of paws with digits barely adequate for grasping. It was no wonder that he had dropped the crossbow when she screamed her battle cry earlier. When she was done she stepped away and began to dress.

"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?" Tig asked, as if he were chatting by the fire instead of bound to a tree.

"I am running away." She answered truthfully. She could see no reason to lie to him. "The scouts you saw were sent to kill me."

"Why, if I may ask?" He waited expectantly, but Annie did not answer. "The subject interests me because I ran away from my own kind also." He added by way of explanation.

Annie, a perpetual outsider because of her small statute and great beauty could sympathize with that.

"I suppose that they chased you away because they were afraid that you would breed small offspring and weaken the species." She said as she finished dressing with her back to him.

"No. Actually my father found my stature very useful. He would have me dress as a kit and frolic in the camps of our rivals and trading partners. It's amazing the things adults will say to each other when they think that no one but children are around. All I had to do was inch my way close to the leaders and listen." He said proudly. "My father envisioned me fathering a corps of miniature spies, so he was always on the lookout for short vixens to mate me with. But unlike me, most short vixens tend to be a bit ... stocky, if you know what I mean. Not the type I'm attracted to at all." He concluded sadly.

"In any event, I grew tired of the whole charade. We spend most of the year on the road and I hardly ever got to act my age. It can wear on you, having your cheeks pinched by fat old matrons and enduring the inane comments of condescending adults all day long. Mind you," he reflected, "I got lots of snuggles from some very well endowed females of all species. But that was it. The few occasions that I revealed my true nature and attempted to woo them all ended badly. Once they found out that I was an adult playing at being a kit they thought that I was just a dirty little pervert."

"How Strange." Annie commented dryly as she turned to face him again.

"Yes," he nodded, "it is. Oh well. In any event, I told my father that I didn't want to do it anymore, and he got mad because he felt that it was the only way I could contribute to the wealth of the clan. He thought that my brains had stopped developing along the same time as my body did, you see. He had nine other 'normal' sons to follow in his paw prints in any event. To make a long story short, because these ropes are really hurting my wrists, we both said some things that we should not have and he threatened to disinherit me, the worst fate that he could imagine. I packed my things, and a few others I helped myself to, and left the same night." The fox paused in thought again.

"I do not know if he ever searched for me." He said softly. "Certainly he never sent anyone to kill me."

"Why would he?" Annie found herself growing interested.

"Trade secrets. In order to know what information to report I needed to know what sort of information was valuable to him, so he educated me on the ins and outs of trading and business beyond what he told my older brothers. It is not unheard of for a son to turn on his father and try to use such information against him. A father is within his rights to challenge a rebellious son to a duel, but some resort to less chancy methods of silencing them. I suppose that his not sending anyone after me is either a measure of his love or his doubt in my ability to survive on my own."

"But," he said, looking up with a sly smile, "it has been two years and here I am; still alive and worldlier from the adventure."

Annie had to smile in return; the little fellow was quite a character. Seeing her do so encouraged him to inquire as to her circumstances again.

"I am eager to hear your story." He told her, and then he indicated his bound paws. "Maybe you could tell me after you untie me, while the circulation returns to my arms."

"How am I supposed to know if I can trust you?" Annie asked, her suspicions rising again.

"By the fact that I did not skewer you with the stiletto up my left sleeve while you had me down of while you were tying me up. Tig said, as a long sharp blade magically appeared in his paw. "I would use it to cut myself free but it is a difficult angle and I do not want to sprain my wrist doing it." He demonstrated how he would have to twist the blade to do so and finished by tossing the knife out of his reach.

"Do you have any more weapons hidden about you?" She asked.

"Two more." He replied with a smile. "Care to search me for them?"

Annie shook her head, the fox was incorrigible. She stepped forward to slice the cord with a stroke of his dagger. When his paws were free she flipped the knife to hold it by the blade and offered it to him. He took it with both paws. Once she had released it she turned her back to him and began to studiously pack her things. But every nerve in her body was alert in case she had misjudged him.

"Does this mean no search?" The little follow sounded disappointed.

"No searching." Annie assured him.

"Not even a quick pat down?"

"No."

"You have something against foxes in particular, or just short males?" He asked from behind her.

Annie swiveled around to regard Tig but stayed in a crouch, the better to spring on him if he tried anything. Far from being angry, as she had expected after rejecting him, as most of the males of her recent acquaintance would have been, the small fox just looked resigned. Seeing that look on his face made Annie feel sorry for the pitiful creature.

"Sit down and I'll tell you why I ran away." She said, patting the ground beside her.

She told him about her early days, how she almost starved when her parents died, about becoming prey for older males, and how the two misfits who became Ro-Ack and Da-Lan protected her and fed her. Then, forcing herself past her embarrassment, she told Tig about what she became when her two friends were too busy with their apprenticeships to keep her company, about how she overcame her loneliness in the arms of the males she had once run from. Finally she told him about taking the position of Mi-Ran, about the war, the disappearance of her cubhood protectors, and the note that revealed one's love for her.

"The hunchback was in love with you and you did not know it? And now you are in love with him too? What an amazing story." Tig jumped up, excited. "I will help you find this lover of yours, and do not fear for your virtue while traveling with me. Should I accidently seduce you into doing something you would regret later I shall throw you in a river to calm you down." Just as suddenly, he turned serious again. "But how are we going to find these wolves of yours, if they are even still alive. There are many dangers here besides the scouts that were sent after you, bears, gangs of coyotes, renegade wolves. Anyone foolish enough to be found wandering alone is fair prey."

"You seem to have done well enough on your own." Annie pointed out.

"Ah, but I am Tig. Many have underestimated me but few have survived to regret it. Besides," he admitted with a shy smile, "it is easier to hide when one is my size."

"What, dressed like that?" She pointed to his outlandish garb.

"Watch closely." Tig ran to a nearby bush and dove under it. He flipped his cape over to reveal a molted green lining. Wrapping it around himself and pulling his hat down to cast a shadow over his pointed features made him virtually disappear. Even the cocky green feather became just another bit of foliage. "Of course in Autumn I use the red side more often." He called from under his hat.

"That is amazing." Annie admitted. "You will have to teach me that trick. But I'm afraid that it won't help us find my friends, and I have no idea where to look."

"Start by looking for those who are likely to have news of strangers wandering about on the plains." Tig Advised as he stood up and adjusted his clothing. "The coyotes see everything that moves from the foothills to the forest, and the caravans that ply the trade routes through their territory know everything that the coyotes know. They make it their business to."

"So we just need to find a caravan? That should not be too hard."

"Were it earlier in the season I would agree, but they will have all returned to the winter campgrounds to restock before moving down the valley for the harvest. At this time of ear one would have to cross the entire valley and penetrate the winter campgrounds to find the information you seek. That could take several weeks on foot."

"Well then, we had better get started." Annie said, standing up and reaching for her pack.

"Wait!" Tig cautioned her nervously. "There must be an alternative. Walking into the winter campgrounds uninvited is dangerous enough for me, considering my clan-less status, but it is suicide for you. We should make camp somewhere and consider our options."

"We don't have time for that. The war will be upon us soon, and then it will be impossible to travel freely."

"War?" Tig frowned in confusion. "The war of the wolves? I thought it was over. You said that this Ang-Ro had united all of the packs, did you not?"

"That was just his first objective. He intends to move immediately down to the plains and then to conquer the entire valley before any of the other species realizes what is going on. By the time winter closed the roads in even the warmest reaches he will have subjugated everyone, the coyotes, the felines, the canines ... and the foxes."

"Hmmm. That information could be worth something." Tig said thoughtfully. "It might even buy us safe passage into the winter campgrounds. The Board will want to take measures to protect them."

"The Board?"

"That is what we call the group of clan leaders that make the decisions that affect all foxes ... except me of course. The defence of the winter campgrounds is a collective responsibility but it is directed by a committee appointed by the Board. Normally it is a boring assignment, but if a war is coming the members of that committee will have a great measure of power for the duration of it. Armed with this foreknowledge a clever fox could stack that committee and increase their influence, and therefore their wealth."

"Really? I thought that all foxes were wanderers, traveling about in their individual caravans. I had no idea you were so organized." Like most wolves, she believed that the foxes lived the year round in their wagons, and relied on their mobility and protection for their safety. She supposed that they would have to park them somewhere in the winter though, when the roads were impassable. She tried to imagine how large a field would be required to hold several hundred wagons. Pretty large, she decided_, and how does one defend such a large open space_? Would they have earthen walls with gates, brambles woven into barriers, or just fox holes to mount a defence from? It seemed like an awful lot of work for a field. They must have wells though, she thought, or other things that are not easy to abandon, maybe religious artefacts. The thought intrigued her.

"I know so little about your species." She admitted to Tig. "What makes your winter campground so special anyway?"

"It is cozy." The little fox smiled. "Very cozy"

* * * * * * * *

After leaving Silver Tip's caravan at the junction Dead Eye had suggested following the rivers and visiting the canine villages first.

"It is the harvest season and the towns and villages will be a bustle of activity." The older fox explained. "There will be local fairs and feasts and plenty of food and fresh beer. It is the best time to visit them. Plus," he held up a digit to emphasize his words, "there will be plenty of caravans so it will not be unusual for a fox to be seen in town. Although, explaining a couple of wolves may be a bit more difficult.

Dylan saved the day with his storyteller's imagination.

"Tell anyone that questions us that you got separated from your caravan after being thrown from your horse and sustaining injuries." He tapped the fox's crooked paw to indicate how easy it would be to believe. "Then tell them that you hired us to escort you because you are afraid of getting robbed by marauding felines. If what you have told us of their prejudices is even half true they will buy that."

"And if we encounter felines between the villages?"

"Tell them you were attacked by drunken dogs.

"When will we visit the cats?" Roark interrupted. He was eager to see if all the feline maidens were as beautiful as Aster.

"In the winter on our way back north." Dead Eye replied. "The canine villages are cold and lonely places in the winter when each family shuts itself away from the chill and only ventures out once a week to worship, but the cats are different. They hunt less and there is nothing to forage so they gather in large huts to entertain each other through the dark months. They welcome visitors and we will be able to stay for days or even weeks with a tribe if we choose to do so. It is also the time when they go visiting other tribes and distant relatives, so we will likely have company on the trail. We'll finish up at Aster's home tribe where you can meet the chief. He will surely be extra hospitable after what you two did for his daughter."

And so they set out.

The journey had gone well enough in the first two weeks, although the villagers were not as welcoming as they would have liked. They did not mind the fox and his 'escorts' coming into town and laying a few bits of metal down in exchange for food and drink, but they were less likely to have a room available, even if the local inn's signs said that there were vacancies. Overnight accommodation was usually to be had at the local stables, "providing the smell doesn't spook the horses" of course. They were regarded suspiciously when they wandered through the shops or visited the craft fairs, and were discouraged from lingering in any particular village too long.

"Thieves in the company of killers." Dylan overheard one matron mumble as they passed. He marveled at how strongly someone could feel about someone they had never met. It could not be because of their appearance, he pointed out to the others when they discussed the matter, because he and Roark were now dressed as well as Dead Eye, in custom made tunics and breeches sewed by Aster herself; a gift for the two wolves that had saved her and her child. They had found them in their bundles, along with a note of thanks. Roark kept his note in a pouch he hung around his neck, resting right over his heart.

"Heh, they are just a clannish, suspicious bunch." Dead Eye had asserted. "They regard all foxes as thieves and all wolves as feral killers, even if the evidence against it is staring them in the face."

Roark and Dylan had to agree. The canine prejudice was most evident on the subject of felines. Dead Eye made sure to wear no feline clothing or decoration, although he preferred doeskin over the manufactured cloths of the dogs, and he cautioned them not to take sides in any feline-canine altercation that they came across, and there were a few. In the north, where tribes and villages were small and separated from their own kind interaction between the two species was necessary, if not cordial. As they went further south the number of felines seen in the villages became less, and the attitude towards them became harsher. The village that they found themselves in at the moment was the worst yet, they actually had posters offering bounties for the capture of a feline warrior.

But other than that it was a pretty place, well ordered and clean like most of the dog municipalities. It had been built on a narrow section of one of the valley's many rivers where the current was strong all year round, which ensured a constant supply of power to turn the gears of the local flour mill. This village was too small to need a cotton or woollen mill, so whatever surplus they could not process on their personal looms they shipped downriver. All in all it was a typical example of rural canine culture, complete with the typical town characters.

As usual, the first citizen to make their acquaintance had been the suspicious guard commander. They were always suspicious, Roark reflected, but then again so had he been so when strangers approached the caravan he was a guarding. The three carried crossbows though they kept them dismantled and in their backpacks whenever they approached a town, but the size of Roark and the breadth of Dylan's chest and shoulders were intimidating enough. After the usual questions they were given the obligatory warning to stay out of trouble and be out of town by noon the next day.

They soon encountered the rest of what Dylan had dubbed "the welcoming committee". There were the sour looking elders that regarded them silently from the steps of the village hall. There were the merchants and shopkeepers that were eager to do business with them but reluctant to let them loiter before or after a purchase. Then there were the female canines that came out to gawk at the 'wild' wolves and whisper to each other behind their paws. Roark had to force Dylan to remove a rolled up shirt that he had stuffed in the front of his breeches least he inadvertently offend someone.

After being told that there were no rooms available and making arrangements at the stables once again the three sought out the local pub for a meal and a beer. The pubs were the one place in the villages where they were treated almost like equals, as long as they were buying. What they saved on accommodation they spent on rounds of drinks in order to learn something of the dogs and their doings.

This pub was no different than the rest. It was populated with the boisterous and outgoing larger breeds, the type that would challenge them to arm wrestling competitions if they stayed long enough and to a fight if they stayed longer. There were very few females, and none that either Roark or Dylan would approach, although Dead Eye had disappeared once or twice during their travels only to reappear smelling of freshly applied cologne. This pub also had the requisite drunk, a smallish tri-coloured dog with floppy ears that was staring morosely into an empty mug, one of several on the table where he sat alone. He was one of the gloomy ones, Roark suspected, as the gregarious drunks usually hit them up for a drink as soon as they entered.

It was early in the evening, the time when most of the villagers would be eating supper, so the three were able to order a meal, eat, and finish their first beer undisturbed. As the pub began to fill up with regulars and the curious Dead Eye excused himself to go out back and contribute to the municipal fertilizer pit. While he was gone Roark sat silently staring into space, his mind filled with the image of Aster as he had fist seen her. Dylan also sat silently, but he was studying his old cubhood friend and frowning.

"Is this what one calls 'a comfortable silence' between two friends?" Dylan asked after several moments had passed.

"It was until you spoke." Roark smiled. "What's on your mind?"

"You are. I keep wondering why you suddenly had an urge to travel."

"What do you mean?"

"The guards in the crossroads village were no rougher than the assaulters and hunters that you are used to dealing with back home. In a week you would have had them all organized and cleaning up that cess pit. By the time the snows came it would have been a model of efficiency. You could never resist a challenge, you can't help it, it's just who you are. So why did you want to leave, really?" Dylan sat back and waited for an answer.

Roark sipped his beer and thought for a moment before answering.

"Because I have fallen in love with Aster," he answered, knowing that Dylan was the only one he could talk about such things to, "and the thought of spending the winter with her so close, yet out of reach, was unbearable."

"Ha! I knew it!" Dylan rocked forward and slapped the table hard, earning a dirty look from the proprietor.

"Knew what?" Dead Eye asked, coming back in from the privy.

"That Roark prefers poodles over the shedding breeds." Dylan answered glibly, indicating to Roark in the wolf fashion with a tilt of his muzzle and sideways glance that they would talk later.

"Bah! Fluffy, frilly stuck-up bitches the bunch of them, with their curly locks and froufrou haircuts." The fox commented as he took his seat. "Give me a collie or a shepherd any day, anyone with enough fur to get a grip on."

"I'll drink to that, if you're buying." A loud voice interjected from behind them. Roark looked around. There at the bar stood a large canine with short brown and tan fur. He had his ears and tail cropped for fighting, a sign that Roark had come to associate with the more aggressive dogs. "Although, a long-legged afghan can tie you in knots with those silky locks." The dog continued as he sat down at their table without waiting to be invited and signalled for another round of beer.

Dylan introduced them and discovered that the dog's name was Crusher.

"They call you that with little paws like those?" Dylan teased, laying his own massive digits down on the table. Even though his arms were roughly as big around as Crusher's thighs he knew he could shame the big dog into an arm wrestling contest and win back most of the money they would spend on beer that night. The only problem would be stopping it there.

But their unsolicited guest was not in the mood for a challenge just yet. He preferred the subject of females, and his relations with them. Within minutes he had all the other patrons of the bar gathered around, drinking beer that he had not paid for, and giggling at his outlandish tales of conquest. Dead Eye was the only one of the three travelers that could even attempt to out-boast the doberman.

"I suppose it is fair to say that I hold the record for the most lovers in this district." Crusher said proudly after his third free beer. Most of the smaller canines nodded their heads in agreement

"But you don't hold the record for most audacious seduction." One of the other dogs, fully as tall as Crusher but stouter, pointed out. The room erupted in laughter at that. Even Crusher smiled. That piqued the wolves interest.

"It's true." Crusher shrugged. That honour goes to our sorry friend over there." He jerked a thumb towards the drunk and downcast hound that still sat alone in the corner. "Let me tell you what he did."

The story was longer and more detailed than one would have thought possible, and the storyteller in Dylan cringed at the obvious suppositions and exaggerations that the canine swore were the gods' truth. But it was an amazing story all the same, especially the part about how the fox the feline princess was sold to put her on display.

Roark glanced frequently at the subject of the tale during Crusher's recital. The poor creature had laid his head on the beer soaked table and covered his ears with his paws but it was impossible to block out Crusher's booming voice. Every time the big dog mentioned the name 'Snowdrop' the hound winced, and when they came to the part about her being sold into slavery a tear escaped from his tightly shut eye. But Roark thought that he did not look like a bad sort of fellow, and despite Crusher's exaggeration his part in the affair seemed innocent enough. Roark felt sorry for him.

"And the best part," Crusher's voice became even louder as he reached the conclusion of his tale, "is that she was reported to be some months pregnant the last time anyone saw her. You know what that means? Eh? Eh?" He elbowed Roark and Dylan gleefully.

"No. What does it mean?" Dylan said flatly. He had grown tired of the doberman's conceit.

"Ha! It means that the pussy was playing with one of her own the whole time." Crusher declared, having missed Dylan's sarcastic tone. "He was being out-dogged by a cat!"

"Well that is not necessarily so." Dylan leaned across the table and looked the taller but lighter dog in the eye. The room went quiet.

"Dylan, no ..." Dead Eye began, but the hunchbacked wolf stopped him with a glance.

Crusher stood up and stood over Dylan, trying to intimidate him.

"Oh, yeah?" He snarled. "How so?"

"Well," Dylan said as he stood up and pushed his chair back to give him room to manoeuvre, "just a few weeks ago I witnessed the birth of a half-fox, half feline. We all did." He swept a paw to indicate his companions. "And if a fox can mate with a cat then why can't a dog? He could be the father."

"You lie!" Crusher hissed and he raised his paws to fight. Roark and Dead Eye jumped up to assist Dylan by holding back the crowd, but before either they or the doberman could move in Dylan was grabbed from behind and spun around with more force than he had ever experienced wrestling with his pack mates.

He looked up, expecting to see a huge wolf hound or great dane but his eyes met empty space. Lowering them slowly he eventually found those of the drunken beagle that had formerly been drinking himself into a coma several tables away. The dog's eyes were wide and shot through with angry red veins from alcohol abuse, but they were clear and steady just the same. He had both paws buried in the collar of Dylan's shirt and he pulled the heavy wolf in to him until their snouts were almost touching. The odour of stale beer and rotten eggs enveloped Dylan as the hound opened his mouth. The entire room was frozen in shock, waiting to see if the dog would bite off the wolf's nose.

"What ..." The beagle rasped in a voice that sounded like it had not been used in years. "What did you just say?"