The Way of the Wolf
 

by Garett Kutcher
 

 All the others having long since fallen to their knees in fear and supplication, Dalkir alone stood before the wolf. How long he stood, how long he would stand, his face even with that of the nightmarish creature before him, none could say, for here time had little meaning.
 A moment, an eternity, later, a voice spoke. “Dalkir, I am pleased.” Though it moved not, Dalkir knew it was the wolf who spoke. “You have shown great strength, now drop to your knees and show wisdom, or I shall be forced to destroy you for your arrogance.”
 Without hesitation, Dalkir dropped, with surprising grace for a man his size, to one knee and bowed his head.
 Again the voice of the wolf, yet not of the wolf, spoke. “I am truly pleased. Know you who I am?”
 A nod from Dalkir.
 “Know you, truly and fully, the way of the wolf? Have you made the flesh of your enemies your only food, their blood your only drink?”
 A moment’s hesitation and then a slight shake of the head.
 The beast grinned, if such a thing were possible, and a small piece of its consciousness leapt into the human’s mind. Dalkir reeled and fell. The lives, memories, smells, sounds, tastes, sights, of a thousand wolves, or men who lived as wolves, entered his mind in an instant, a million in a second.
 At first he was overwhelmed as the wave of lives crashed over him, threatening to engulf and wash him away. The images battered and tossed him as a storm tosses a ship. The harder he fought to keep them out, keep them controlled, the greater the force with which they struck. Yet, as he fought to remain standing in the presence of the wolf, so now he fought and clung to that small insignificant thing known as Dalkir. Finally, exhausted and almost lifeless, uncaring any longer of his fate, he clutched his name, now a physical and real thing, to his breast and opened himself to the visions.
 Instantly, his body was wracked with pain and spasms. Strangely, mercifully, he blacked out then and did not feel what came next. His teeth gnashed and ground themselves together so hard that they flaked, chipped, until they were rounded and sharp. His head tossed from side to side and his mouth and nose extended outwards into a muzzle. With sickening cracks and pops, his limbs grew, his whole aspect lengthened and bent towards the ground, but was strengthened also. Given to him was the quickness of a wild thing. Thin his frame became, but made of steel and whalebone so its strength belied its appearance. The wolf took one last look at what he had wrought, then turned and loped away to be lost in the multi-coloured blackness of the North.
 Slowly, Dalkir clawed his way through the darkness. Always before him, he held an image of himself- in countless forms, through battle without number, in victory and in death, to show him the way. As he passed through the darkness, one thing became clear; once the wolf had chosen its prey, death for one was assured, for retreat did not exist. The wolf wins every battle save one. Of all he had seen, of the countless lives he had lived yet not lived, only that remained.
 The darkness through which he crawled seemed endless, and thus his surprise was great when it was suddenly gone. Dalkir was as one waking from a dream and not knowing if the dream or the waking is real. Yet, as he looked at those around him, rivals and deadly enemies though allies by fate, memory of himself came back. With these memories came the knowledge that he was much changed. The movements of his companions seemed stilted and sluggish. He could smell their fear and awe. Lifting his head, he howled to the North. They fell to their knees and pledged to follow him; he knew that they would.
#
 With Dalkir at their head, the Pack ran. Around them, half formed beings of thought and energy danced and flickered through existence. Day and night were alien concepts here, but had the men who followed Dalkir been mere humans, they would have collapsed from exhaustion long ago. They were not mere humans however, and new energy flooded their bodies with the knowledge that their prey lay just over the next ridge.
 The group slowed. To the untrained eye, the blasted land seemed to offer no cover, but the warriors melted into very tiny fold of the land. It was a wonder and any watcher would soon begin to question whether the warriors were aught but shadows; tricks of the lights dancing in the sky.
 Their prey though was cannier than any mortal watcher. As the Pack slunk up the hill, the wild music, liberally accompanied by screams of terror and delight, continued unabated, but those who caused and uttered the screams were quite prepared for the Pack’s arrival.
 The Pack spread itself out and settled around the crest of the hill. Beneath them was a scene from what humans would call hell. A number of greenskinned humanoids were strapped to long tables. Even the Orcs’ slow brains were aware of the horror of their situation and they cried out hopelessly for mercy. Around them danced men and women of lithe bodies and dazzling beauty. Occasionally, one of the figures would stop and pour honeyed wine between the captives’ lips. Other times, they would stop and pour tiny vials of acid over the Orcs.
 Soundlessly, the Pack rose as one and began their dash down the hill. The dancers sprung from their captives to meet them, changing forms as they did so. The dancers’ limbs seemed to shorten, to become large and bulky. Great claws grew from their hands, and long fur covered their bodies. The Pack slowed, confused and uncertain. Dalkir however was not fooled by the false transformation, and continued his charge. He tore into the false wolves and two fell to his claws before they realized their spell had failed. Their shrill and undulating screams of pain broke the hold the spell had over the rest of the Pack.
 Seeing now the Daemonettes true forms, the Pack howled their rage and rushed to attack. Chitenous claws met flashing blades in the flickering light. Lacking the skill and deceptive grace of their foes, the Pack attacked with sheer fury. Their wild and unrelenting assault forced the Daemons back. Yet, the Daemons were canny and only a few fell to these reckless attacks while their counters dropped many of the Pack. The only thing the Daemons could not counter was Dalkir. His speed matched their own and he strode through them as death incarnate. His claws shredded their flesh and his jaws crushed their bones. Before the battle was minutes old, he was covered in the blood of his foes.
 Seeing that he posed the greatest threat, three Daemons detached themselves from the larger battle. Their crab-like claws clicked menacingly as they warily circled their foe. Dalkir was guided by no such caution. With a snarl, he leapt at the foe on his left. He landed well short though, and as he did so, he twisted and rolled in the opposite direction. The Daemon, who had been charging Dalkir’s back, tried to stop, but it was too late. Dalkir rose from the roll and clamped his jaws about the arm the Daemon lowered in defense. Muscles in Dalkir’s neck flexed and bunched. With a sickening crack, the Daemon’s arm was shattered. Dalkir’s own hand then lashed out and gripped the Daemon’s throat. A single step brought him behind the Daemon, and a quick flick of his wrist laid open the creature’s throat. Then, grasping the Daemon by the hip and shoulder, Dalkir lifted the creature above his head and hurled him at his other foes.
 They easily avoided the missile, but separated themselves to do so. This was to prove their downfall. Dalkir charged behind his missile and, knowing that the separated Daemons could not help each other, threw himself into a full offensive flurry. The first Daemon swung and missed. Then Dalkir was behind him. Clawed hands reached out, and the Daemon flopped to ground, hamstrung. The other Daemon came on anyway. Aware of its fate, it consoled itself with the fact that death was one of the few sensations it had never truly experienced. That condition did not last much longer. Dalkir then turned and strode through the larger battle as a farmer through his field; harvesting his foes as a man might harvest wheat.
 When it was over, Dalkir looked at the warriors who remained and smiled. As in the battles before, those weak and unworthy had fallen away. The Pack released the Orcs from their bonds and allowed them to flee; an hour later, after feasting on what few remains the Daemons left when they died, the Pack set off after them. Within two hours, the Orcs too had been devoured.
#
 So it went for some seasons. Members of the Pack fell, but always there were many more who flocked to join. The unending strife acted on the Pack as a river might on stone; it scoured away all the soft sandstone to leave nothing but granite. By the end of three seasons, the Pack was an army unto itself. None in the North had been able to stand before them as they prowled silently through the land, struck without warning, and vanished whenever the enemy gathered enough strength to defeat them. All this Dalkir had learned from the Wolf, and the Pack from Dalkir.
 But the Pack was not the only tribe with a protector. For a while, the protectors of the other tribes appreciated and were amused by the Pack. They laughed and shared the Pack’s joy as the Pack destroyed their weaker minions; strengthening the herd as wolves strengthen deer. Their amusement faded and turned to anger though as the Pack grew and began to kill their more favored minions.
 Thus it came to pass that three seasons after the Pack was formed, the Raven and the Snake united to bring about its destruction. The shamans of each tribe performed great sacrifices and sent their spirits down paths darker than any they had ever tread to beg their protectors’ aid. These shamans succeed in rousing their protectors.
 Aid came, first subtly from the snake, as heady with victory, some members of the Pack fell to the diversions of wine or women and wasted their strength in these pursuits. Aid came, secondly from the Raven, who flew over the field where the victorious Pack feasted. As he passed, the blackness of his wings marked the bodies of the fallen who were the feast. With so much death about, the scent of the Raven’s touch was slight indeed.
 Yet, the next day, the change was felt in force and Pack lay moaning and writhing in the dirt while their bowels clenched and their insides burned. Now did the tribes of the Raven and the Snake come to battle while high above, an eagle laughed.
 The tribes moved quickly. Even together, they would not outnumber the Pack and no one knew how long the sickness would last. Though they slew many as they passed, always they hurried on in search of the heart of the Pack, Dalkir.
 Through his thrashings, Dalkir watched them approach. As they came nearer, he tried weakly to crawl away, but served only to draw attention to himself. The foremost warriors of the other tribes whooped and cheered at the sight. The whole of the tribes rushed forward to slay him.
 When the closest were almost on him, Dalkir’s thrashing stopped and he leapt to his feet. Likewise rose many of the Pack nearest him- with weapons in hand they rose. Shaken, the charge of the other tribes faltered. Only one warrior in ten of the Pack stood, but they were the strongest, the most able of Dalkir’s warriors and they were in the midst of a confused and shaken foe. The slaughter in the first moments was horrific. The warriors of the Pack hewed right and left while around them, the hands and heads of their foes flew like locusts and their blood covered the ground like rain. High above, the eagle watched the ruse within the plot and laughed all the louder. His respect for Dalkir had grown. Then, the eagle wheeled away, already knowing how the battle would end.
 Those foes closest to Dalkir reacted quicker than their fellows and threw themselves forward, hoping to slay Dalkir before his recovery was complete. It was a faint hope.
 Their blades found naught but air as Dalkir leapt among them. So quick was he that they may as well have tried to catch the wind with their hands. He side-stepped a thrust, then laid open the attacker’s wrists. Another swung an axe at his head. Before the foe even realized the attack had missed, his lifeblood was draining from slashes to his groin and gut. So it continued. Blades flashed through the air all around him, but never found their mark while each time his clawed hands lashed out, they came back bloodied, and another man fell.
 Not even these warriors of the North could witness such slaughter and remain unmoved. Fear; fear of a foe who should be lying helpless in sickness but was not, fear of a foe who killed warriors as easily as men butchered sheep, gripped their hearts. In mere minutes, their numbers had been cut in half. They turned to flee and were hacked down where they stood. The battle became a rout.
 Had the tribes been rational, they would have seen that they still outnumbered their foes more than three to one, but they were not. The fear which held them in its grasp turned their foes into invincible demons and so a thousand warriors fled the field to be harried and chased throughout the night by foes who wore the faces of men but spoke as wolves. By morning, barely four hundred still lived.
 Returning to the field, Dalkir awaited the arrival of his pack. Around him, a few of those who had been sick were beginning to recover. The rest were dead, their bodies already black, bloated and corrupted. Dalkir thanked the Wolf that he had been spared from such a fate. Faint though the scent of sickness had been, Dalkir had noticed it and quickly got word to his strongest warriors. When the others fell ill, they too feigned illness. Now, their revenge was complete and they began slowly filtering back to the field. Some few hours later what remained of the Pack had reassembled. Dalkir lead them away to their refuge to nurse their wounds and recover their strength. Those few who had survived the plague and could move Dalkir allowed to follow. Those who could not yet move, Dalkir left behind, food for the scavengers of land and air who followed battle. Despite the loss of so many, Dalkir was not unhappy. The followers he had left were pure, having fallen neither to the spell of the Snake nor the Raven.
 That night, as he spelt secure in the den, Dalkir met the Wolf in his dreams. Together they ran, and the Wolf showed Dalkir many things. The ran throughout the great wasteland the Pack called home and Dalkir saw enemies gathering everywhere. Seeing the Pack weakened, they prepared to strike. Even those who followed the Wolf in another of his guises readied weapons out of jealousy. They ran north, over the mountains of Dusk to a place where the land itself moved and changed. Here Dalkir saw the same- enemies great in both might and number, preparing for battle against him. Finally, they ran to the south and Dalkir saw large forests and vast plains teeming with prey.
 “It is here that you shall lead the Pack.”
 “Why?” asked Dalkir. “The worthy foes are here. We are few again. We can return to the old ways.”
 ‘No, here foes are aligning against you which even you could not avoid.” the Wolf didn’t bother to mention those foes included many of his own Daemons. “There you will find easier prey and more will join you. Return in strength. Even the largest wolf will avoid the bear until he has gathered a large enough pack.”
 “It will be as you say.” but the Wolf was already gone and Dalkir being dragged back to wakefulness.
 Dalkir wasted little time, and the next day, the Pack abandoned their den. As shadows in the darkness, they passed south, over the mountains of Frost, and through the Troll lands, until they entered the land known to men as Kislev. This too they passed through, pausing long enough only to feed themselves by destroying any farms in their path. Thus, it was an event barely noticed by men when the Pack first entered the Empire.
 The event was not entirely unnoticed however. Deep in the forests lived beasts who walked as men. Despite having the cloven hooves and horns of the prey, they were followers of the Wolf and through him learned of the coming of their new leader. As the Pack passed secretly into Talabecland, these Beastmen were drawn from the forests. So greatly did the Pack’s numbers swell that it became impossible to move in secret and even more difficult to control the entire lot.
 The figure of Dalkir however, was enough to inspire awe and terror in even the giant Minotaurs which accompanied his band and so, for awhile, the Pack managed to keep its location relatively secret by attacking only in overwhelming force and allowing no survivors. Dalkir’s aura, however strong, was not able to control his followers indefinitely, and soon, before Dalkir would have liked, the Pack revealed itself by burning and slashing a large swath across central Talabecland.
 Many small villages were razed, burned or trampled into the ground. The smoke of burning farmsteads darkened the skies and the Harpies left their roosts in the forests to feed on the fallen. People fled at the approach of the army though most were run down by Dalkir’s fleet footed warriors. Behind, few were left to oppose him. For almost a month, the army ravaged the land unopposed. Two hastily assembled armies of local militia threw themselves against the Pack. Twice, the battle became a slaughter as the humans were slain by the score and the survivors fled in panic and terror. Thus it was that the Pack, drunk with victory and bloodlust, appeared before the walls of Bremen.
 Inside the walls, people waited in grim silence. This deep in the Empire, the town was used to dealing with occasional raids from the Beastmen or small outbreaks of rat-men, but even the frantic efforts of the last weeks had not strengthened the walls enough to long withstand a siege. Still messengers had been dispatched and soon Aldebrand Ludenhof or Schimun Helsturm would bring their armies to the destroy the Beastmen.
 Seeing the hastily constructed defenses and tasty morsels within, the Beastmen, bellowing their joy and rage, rushed to attack. Cracks of thunder sounded from the walls, and withering rain of steel and wood fell among the Beastmen. Even their tough hides and unnatural vitality could not protect them and the charge faltered, borne down by the weight of projectiles. Hundreds died in that first ill-conceived charge. Dalkir eventually restored order amongst his horde, but so great was his rage that the doors within Bremen shook with greater violence at the sound of his voice than they had at the sound of the cannons.
 Finally again in control of his troops, Dalkir ordered them safely out of range of the cannons. He set to them to destroying outlying buildings, and using the wood to build rams and ladders. Despite much grumbling from the Beastmen, the work was completed by noon of the next day. Now was the greatest challenge as Dalkir struggled to keep his band in check. This became much easier after Garlog, and ambitious beastmen chief, became impatient and led ten score of his followers out on a foolhardy charge. Dalkir’s dire threats kept the rest of the army in place. They were soon glad though as when Garlog’s band was barely a quarter of the way to the city, the guns spoke and the entire band of beastmen vanished within a cloud of smoke. When the smoke cleared, a crater marked where the beastmen had disappeared, but of the band, nothing could be seen.
 For the rest of the dull and overcast day, Dalkir’s army remained motionless. As night came, the clouds remained and the Pack readied themselves. When the darkness was its deepest, they silently rose and rushed the city walls. With bloodthirsty roars and howls, the beastmen soon followed.
 At the sound, bells rang and torches flared within the city. Flaming arrows arched out. The light was flickering and uncertain, but it was enough to mark the rough positions of the charging beastmen. Again and again the booming of the cannon or the twanging of bowstrings echoed across the field. Though many beastmen fell, many more came on and unnoticed, Dalkir and his Pack neared the city walls.
 So great was the mass of beastmen, that the men within the city took no notice of the real threat until the first grappling hooks arced over the wall and hooked on the battlements. Frantically, the archers tried to draw swords and cut the ropes, but the Pack was quick. For every rope that was cut, two more sailed up from below. The precarious balance lasted for a few more moments. Then, Dalkir sprung onto the wall. Hardly believing such a leap was possible, the men nearest Dalkir were still dumbly staring when he hurled them to the ground. The other defenders reacted quickly and bravely turned to face the new threat. However brave the men may be, they were only part time soldiers. Warriors by necessity, not choice. Dalkir laughed as he killed them. Word and panic spread quickly among the defenders and soon the besieging army was flowing unimpeded over the walls.
 Such an event had not been unplanned for however, and those forces that were able, along with the women, children, and aged in carts and wagon, massed in the square near the south gate. With great hue and cry, they charged through the broken gate they had so recently failed to defend. Goaded by their leaders, a few groups of beastmen tried to block their path, but most plunged deeper into the city, hoping for easier targets. Thus many of the citizens and a good number of the garrison escaped.
 Within the city, a number of fires sprung up as the people barricaded themselves within their homes, then scattered the fires of their hearths about the same structure rather than be taken by the attackers. It was by the light of these fires that the strangest scene of the siege was illuminated.
 When news of the escape reached Dalkir, he was furious. The first to report it to him, he killed it as a liar. The second he killed for incompetence for letting it happen. He grew more calm after that though and was about to begin giving orders for the pursuit when a huge Beastman, scarcely smaller than a Minotaur, entered the small square where Dalkir stood.
 “Dalkir!” the Beast bellowed. “You give no more orders! Your orders let people escape! Your order get my litter-mates, Barlag and Togar killed. Dalkir no leader! Korath leader now!” Quickly, a all the Beastmen in the area had gathered around in a rough circle, anxious to witness the bloodshed that always followed a leadership challenge.
  Dalkir slowly shook his head. Mostly he was amazed at the stupidity of the creature, but somewhere deep inside was something else. This tiny part asked if this was the only way. Its voice though was just barely perceptible, easily ignored and and forgotten. He walked into the circle and faced the Beast. The Beast started to laugh. Somehow, Dalkir was no longer so intimidating as he had once seemed. The Beast hefted his axe, which was a tall a Dalkir, and dropped into a fighting crouch. Dalkir advanced but was forced to leap back as the Beast whipped the axe across his body. He as he landed, Dalkir was springing forward, but again was forced to dodge as the Beast handled the huge axe as easily as most men handled a willow wand. For a few minutes this pattern continued, as the axe missed Dalkir by the narrowest of margins. During the exchange, Dalkir remained calm though he scored few hits and none of consequence. The Beast though grew more frustrated the longer the duel continued. Finally, his patience left him, and with a roar he threw himself onto the offensive. With his anger, came a surge of strength and his axe lashed out in a flurry of swipes. It was all Dalkir could do to keep his head, literally. Throughout the attack, the Beast had pushed his steadily back, and the circle had moved to accommodate them. Now, the wall of the nearest building was a only a few feet behind Dalkir.
 The Beast found the time to smile. “Where will you run now, Dalkir the dead?” it asked, thinking itself clever. Dalkir just smiled.
 The Beast repeated its first attack, the axe flying from right to left, at a level just below Dalkir’s neck. This time though, when Dalkir leapt back, he did not have to wait for his feet to land. Instead he hit the wall, and sprung off. The Beast was quick, and reversed the direction of the axe, but Dalkir’s two leaps had placed him above it and swished harmlessly below him as he crashed into the Beast. Surprised, the Beast tumbled back, and before they had even hit the ground, Dalkir had bitten out his throat.
 For a moment those gathered stood in stunned silence. Then, as Dalkir rose from the body, a great roar of celebration and praise rose from the crowd. Again that small part of Dalkir questioned his existence as those around him celebrated, not his victory, but the death he had caused. That voice was again insignificant though, and when the band was finally organized, they set off in pursuit.
 It was mid-morning before they caught the rearguard of the fleeing army. They were drawn up, blocking the road, and they had chosen their position well. One flank was anchored by a fast moving stream, and the other by the edge of a dense forest in which the men had set all manner of traps that the time would allow. Dalkir made no attempt to restrain his troops. The human position was strong, but it left little room for tricks or tactics. The fury of the Beastmen would not lead them into any traps here, but it would help them break through the wall of flesh the humans had built.
 At the sight of the men, true men, untouched by Chaos, the hatred of the Beastmen became a palpable thing. For a moment, the men were weighed down by it, but their leaders reminded them that the fates of their families depended on them holding the beasts here. The speeches had the desired effect, and the men straightened, gripping their weapons with renewed determination.
 The Beastmen would wait no longer. They hurled themselves at the human army as they had hurled themselves against the walls of Bremen. This time though, there were no big guns to stop them. Instead, a withering blast of arrows and bolts flew from the human host. As the men had been bowed down beneath the Beastman’s hatred, so the Beastmen now were bowed down beneath the weight of the human’s missiles. Again, like the humans, they were bowed but not broken. Few who hit the human lines were untouched, but wounds that would have killed a man, barely slowed the beasts. They crashed into the human army, expecting it to splinter, break apart, and flee like all the men had done before.
 But, this time, the humans would not flee. Young boys stood together with warriors who had passed their prime and fought together. None wanted to die, but if their time came, each met his fate resolutely, secure in the knowledge that their sacrifice aided ones they loved.
  As always, Dalkir was at the forefront of the battle. As always his enemies fell before him. For a moment then, all his enemies were dead and he was clear of the battle. A quick glance around told him that the humans, despite their bravery, did not have enough numbers to defeat the beasts.
 The day and the battle wore on. Slowly, inevitably, the human army was ground down. By nightfall, the last pockets of resistance had been eliminated. The field was littered with corpses, mostly human, but no small number of Beastmen had also fallen. All these corpses now though served as food for the victors. The fact that their other prey would now escape was lost on the Beastmen because, as it always is with that race, the moment overshadowed any thoughts of the future. Their feasting lasted well into the night and most fell easily asleep, their full bellies making them lethargic.
 Unlike the others, Dalkir’s sleep was not restful. That tiny part of him, that questioned his existence, was always louder at night, and this night it was not alone. The faces of the many men who died this day appeared to Dalkir. While his voice asked again if his was the only way, the faces regarded him with expressions of pity and compassion. Those who had suffered facial wounds still bore them, but none seemed to hate Dalkir. In each he read the same feelings, and in their eyes he saw that they did not regret dieing. Unlike Dalkir and all his kind, they held no fear of those they called god, and now were satisfied to be beside him.
 In his dreams, he also drifted above the battlefield, and saw again the battle. Even before the battle had begun, he could see that the the men could not defeat the beasts, but finally he saw how the men had held for so long. He saw that the men had defeated the beast’s inside themselves and were able to put aside petty arguments and rivals so to better face a greater foe. The beasts, and even his own Pack were not able to and even during the battle he saw them striking at each other to settle old feuds. Attacking the backs of their allies, simply to gain more power, climb higher in the service of those who didn’t care, and make their own death from such an attack more likely.
 When Dalkir awoke the next morning, he felt an new sensation. He could not remember his dreams clearly, but he was bothered, and could not explain why. He thought it must be contempt for many of his allies, who lacked any vision past the moment. When his scouts returned with word that a huge human army was approaching, Dalkir made a decision. He gathered to him the remnants of his Pack, and the strongest of the Beastmen, then turned and headed back towards the wastes. They had entered the Empire in secret, and so they left it, leaving only a broken trail of abandoned and destroyed farmsteads and small villages to mark their passing.
 When the combined army of Aldebrand Ludenhof and Schimun Helsturm arrived they destroyed the remaining Beastmen, and thought they had won a great victory. The true foes though had already vanished.
 So well did Dalkir train even the Beastmen, that their return to wastes was not noted immediately. The Wolf knew, as the did the Eagle that had followed, but they were the only ones. The Pack though did not like to remain secret for long and when other tribes and warbands began completely disappearing, the words spread quickly throughout the wastes that the Pack had returned.
 The Pack was quickly again becoming one of the strongest bands to roam the wastes. Food and slaves were plentiful and those who had followed Dalkir the longest had everything they could want. They reveled in the bloodshed and were strong enough that attempts on their lives were few. Dalkir though grew increasingly troubled. He became more and more disconnected with the life around him. Each night he dreamed for longer and longer. The Pack believed that he was again being rewarded by the Wolf with wisdom and knowledge to better slay his foes. His name among the tribes continued to grow.
 Dalkir’s dreams though were not from the Wolf. They were almost the same as they had been on the night of the battle. Yet each night small changes had occurred. At first, Dalkir did not notice, but now it was becoming very clear. The faces he saw were no longer the many who had died in the battle, but one who had fought and died many times, and it seemed in many worlds, including this one.
 Dalkir did not know a name to put to the face, but felt as if he should. He sensed in it a power as great as that of the Wolf, but less self-serving, less cruel.
 Eventually, the face became a man. The man awed him as nothing, not even the Wolf, had ever done. Then Dalkir felt fear. Felt this man had come to avenge all the men that Dalkir had killed. This was not the case though. When the man finally spoke, he the first thing he did, after introducing himself as Sigmar, was to reassure Dalkir. Then, in kind and gentle tones he explained to Dalkir that what he did, that this way of life, was wrong. Somewhere in the many nights that the conversion took place, this became almost as clear to Dalkir as it was to Sigmar.
 Sigmar’s visits followed a simple almost ritualistic pattern. Each night he would greet Dalkir and then they would travel together as Dalkir had once traveled with the Wolf. But, where the wolf had painted the world in broad sweeping strokes and huge generalities, Sigmar would show Dalkir the individuals, or families, who populated the world.
 Together they saw families throughout the Empire. For the first time, Dalkir saw people living together not for protection or power, but because of friendship. For the first time, he heard laughter.
 Not all of the trips were pleasant though. Together they traveled the wastes and saw the rewards which waited for the Wolf’s followers. Here, where time had no meaning, Dalkir saw others blessed as he was. He saw their first transformations and felt their pride. He saw them full of life in battle and empty without. He saw their continued transformations as their bodies twisted, just as the their spirits twisted together with that of the Wolf, until they could not longer serve the Wolf. He would move to the next follower then, leaving behind a broken shell to live out what short and pitiful life it could.
 The one who called himself Sigmar knew of much greater vistas though and eventually revealed even these. They traveled so far that Dalkir’s world was less than a speck of dust in the sky. Yet even at this distance and on all the worlds between, the Wolf’s cried echoed. Creatures on many different world heard and heeded the call. Everywhere the story was the same though as those who followed the call were consumed by it.
 With his guide, Dalkir traveled elsewhere- to the very lair of the Wolf himself. He saw the mountains of skulls and oceans of blood offered to sate the wolf. Yet the Wolf’s hunger was ever expanding and could not be sated. He believed that he owned the universe and his rage could not be placated until he ruled what could be ruled and consumed the rest.
 All of this Dalkir heard and understood. Almost all of it, he believed. Yet, the training of the Wolf was deeply embedded and the truth did not affect him as deeply as it should have. His ego perhaps played a part in this as he over-valued his, and the Pack’s, importance.
 Not long after this phase, in which he had spent more time dreaming than awake, Dalkir told the Pack that he was again leading them south. The Pack howled in delight at the prospect of the destruction of the soft-skinned ones who lived in the south, and of the food and slaves they would surely return with. They believed Dalkir’s proclamation to be that of the Wolf, who had spoken for so long with Dalkir.
 The Pack again passed into the Empire. So great was the Pack’s awe of Dalkir and the time he had spent with the wolf, that none disobeyed his orders to travel in complete secrecy with no slaying, killing or burning- none save himself. Though he did not slay, kill or burn, he made sure that the Pack’s location and numbers were no secret.
 From his scouts he learned of the movement of forces in the Empire and could tell they were closing in. No one else though heard all the information and so they could not know.
 Dalkir lead the Pack towards the city of Middenheim. Here he told them they would begin their rampage of destruction that would see all the nations of men fall before them. He told them of great and powerful allies who were trapped beneath the city, that the Wolf had showed him how to free once the humans were driven from the city. The Pack heard him and believed. When they finally appeared in the cleared land around the city, so great was their belief in Dalkir, they believed themselves invincible.
 The human army that had trapped them was ten times their size. They didn’t care. When Dalkir ordered them to attack, they obeyed without question, though he sent them in that paths that would prove most dangerous.
 As always, Dalkir was at the fore of his army. Around him, the humans’ guns reaped a terrible harvest. His army did not care- his orders were greater than any fear of death. Quickly it became apparent to Dalkir that his army would be slaughtered. Thus, when the knights thundered towards him, he offered no resistance. Even as their huge hammers descended, he made no attempt to save himself. Here was the Wolf’s teaching claiming him as its victim for the Wolf wins every battle save one.
 Far to North, the Wolf howled the loss of a favored son. High above, an Eagle circled and laughed.