“My thanks, Kurush.” Lilias inclined her head, aware of the weight of the Soumanië on her brow. Her Ward Commander, Gergon, and his men flanked her uneasily, hands upon weapons, watching the Were. In the unseen distance, somewhere atop the mountain, Calandor coiled in his cavern and watched, amusement in his green-slitted eyes. Lilias did not fear the Were. “I seek to affirm our pact.”

Kurush’s jaws parted in a lupine grin, revealing his sharp white teeth. “You have seen the red star.”

“I have,” she said.

“It is Haomane’s doing,” he said, and his Brethren growled low in their throats.

“Perhaps,” she said carefully. “It betokens trouble for those who do not abide by the Lord-of-Thought’s will.”

Kurush nodded toward the mountain with his muzzle. “Is that the wisdom of dragons?”

“It is,” Lilias said.

Turning to his Brethren, Kurush spoke in his own tongue, the harsh sounds falling strange on human ears. Lilias waited patiently. She did not take the alliance of the Were for granted. Once, the east had been theirs; until Men had come, claiming land, driving them from their hunting grounds. In the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, the Were had given their allegiance to Satoris Banewreaker, who held the whole of the west. Haomane’s Counselors had arrived from over the sea, bearing the three Soumanië and the weapons of Torath, the dwelling-place of the Six Shapers: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light, the Arrow of Fire.

There had been war, then, war as never before. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only the Dwarfs, Yrinna’s Children, had taken no part in it, taking instead a vow of peace.

While Men, Ellylon and Fjel fought on the plains of Curonan, the Were had lain in wait, on the westernmost shore of Urulat—the last place they would be expected. When the ships of Dergail the Counselor and Cerion the Navigator made landfall, thinking to assail Satoris from the rear, the full force of the Were met them and prevailed. Dergail flung himself into the sea, and his Soumanië and the Arrow of Fire were lost. Cerion the Navigator turned his ships and fled, vanishing into the mists of Ellylon legend.

And yet it was no victory.

If the Were had remained in the west, perhaps. Though Satoris had been wounded and forced to take refuge in the Vale of Gorgantum, there he was unassailable. But no, Oronin’s Children returned east to the forests of their homeland, flowing like a grey tide, and the wrath of Men was against them, for Haomane’s Counselors and the army of Men and Ellylon they led had failed, too. And Men, always, increased in number, growing cunning as they learned to hunt the hunters; waiting until spring to stalk Were-cubs in their dens, while their dams and sires foraged.