Sergeant Harry G. Wells

The door that opens from Milliways opens into the back room of the Wells farmhouse. Just for the moment it's quiet, save for the occasional noise coming from the kitchen. It's a clean, well-lighted, well-maintained farmhouse that's seen quite a lot of upgrading and repairs, but it still has something of the original look to it- and the place was built back in the 1920s, if not earlier.

"Here we are," says Wells. Outside, one of the dogs is barking.

The door from Milliways opens into Harry's barn. It's where he keeps the battered grey van he drives his farrier equipment around in. Sure enough, the van is there- emptied as far as it can be emptied. "All right," Wells says. "The way I see it, I'll just let us both into Etna from here, right? There's room enough in the van."

Abdera's long since gone, sixty miles of water away. Just as well, so far as Wells is concerned. That place gave him the creeps even after the thing with the horses was over. It's been a long damn boat ride, one that he doesn't much want to experience again.

The worry that's been plaguing him since he started looking for Hephaistos instead of Apollo comes back as he hops off the boat and onto the island docks: what if the god's not here? What if he is, but it's some version of him that Wells doesn't know? Hell, what if it's just too early for them to've met and he comes off sounding like some wanker looking for a favour? He'd be fucking stuck here. Not that he couldn't make his way, but he'd've wasted time he could've spent trying to run down Spoon's trail- assuming it was here at all-

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and pushes the thoughts out of his mind. The god's sanctuary's supposed to be down that road the ship's captain showed him, so he starts off in that direction.

It's not that he's afraid of them, exactly. Wells knows that even this far from the full moon, being shot by ordinary arrows isn't going to take him down for long. But when you've just threatened an entire village by proxy and run some unknown distance through the forests that cover the foothills of the mountains that ring Thessaly all around, carrying a wounded comrade who's lying on the forest floor behind you gasping for breath, you don't really want any more trouble.

Wells looks at the band of young women dubiously, his hands on his head, and does his best not to put a foot anywhere that might hurt Bruce the wolf any further.

For the past few weeks there’ve been tracks in the leafmould hereabouts that speak of some of the biggest deer Wells has ever seen. He’s hung up the ‘gone hunting’ sign on the smithy early today as a result, and gone looking for the beast. Bruce came along with him, of course. Bruce always comes along. The quarry in the Thessalian hills is better than anything the wolf was able to find in Arcadia or the other territories along the way, and he’s got to the point where he can almost manage to bring down genuinely big prey by himself. Explaining that the deer- if they found it- had to be left alive took Wells some time this morning, but it got through at last. Bruce is going to course the thing when they find it, Wells is going to catch up to it when it reaches the point of exhaustion, and they’re going to bring it- one way or another- to the temple of Athena two valleys over. Wells has enough rope on his belt to bind the thing’s feet and hang it from a stout pole if need be, although he’ll have to find a villager willing to help. One thing at a time.

They have to pick their way fairly deep into the trees before Wells picks up the tracks again, and the scent. The deer aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t have survived several moons’ worth of a grown werewolf and his four-footed packmate if they were. Wells took the precaution of wearing the stuff he’d been wearing when he first hit Greece for this hunt; the colors blend him in better with the trees, even this early in the spring. The bracers had to be muted with ash and dust, as he never leaves them or his sword or the magic bag of food behind when he leaves the village, and they’re too well-polished a shade of bronze not to give him away in an inconvenient sun-gleam. It’s a matter of stealth like none he’s had to employ before in his time here, and frankly, he’s enjoying the challenge.

At the sight of one of the huge deer in the distance (damn near big enough to ride, if you could get it to hold still long enough to throw on a bridle), Wells nods to the wolf. Bruce creeps off into the undergrowth and vanishes, a thing he’s been learning more and more of late. Some days, if Bruce approaches from downwind, Wells can scarcely tell he’s there. He’s getting good at this, which is why Wells trusts him to flush the deer out and start it running. Wells flattens himself against a tree and waits-

It’s not the sound of the arrow zzzzlip!ing through the trees that breaks Wells’ concentration. It’s the YIPE! of pain that follows it, and the smell of blood- some son of a bitch’s just shot Bruce! From downwind, no less. Cursing himself for not paying more attention to what lay downwind of his position Wells darts out from behind his tree. Bruce! Bruce, hang on, mate-

The wolf is lying very still when Wells gets there, but the man standing over him is all but doing a fucking jig. Wells knows him from the village, a little. His name’s Polypoites. He’s an arrogant little twat with a mouth that far outstrips his actual deeds. Seeing him take this much pride over harming Wells’ only real friend for the better part of a year is damn near enough to send Wells over the edge- he finds himself holding Polypoites well off the ground by the throat, the other man’s back pinned against a tree, with no recollection of how. “What the-“ Polypoites manages.
“Xenophon?”

“Yeah,” Wells growls, “it’s me. You, my friend, just made a mistake. A very big mistake.”

Polypoites shivers, his eyes going wide. Wells can feel the man’s pulse quicken under his hand. “I don’t- was it your wolf? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take your prey-“

Wells tightens his fingers enough to give the man a good shake. “I know you were a wanker, Polypoites, but I didn’t think you were a fucking idiot. I wasn’t hunting for the wolf, I was hunting with him.”

“But that-“

“Shut UP!” Wells snarls, and shoves Polypoites hard against the tree. There’ll be bruises on the man’s throat from that. Wells doesn’t care. “Congratulations. You just cost your village their only smith. I’m not coming back. Take your bow and your arrows and get the fuck out of my sight, and if any of you even think of coming looking for me you’ll find out what happens when you piss off a man who crossed the Isthmus alone and on foot.”

He lets go of Polypoites’ throat, and the man drops gracelessly to the ground. Wells hears him go. He doesn’t care. He’s too busy pressing his fingers through the fur on Bruce’s neck, searching for- and finding, thank the gods- a pulse. Bruce, mate, he says, hang on, all right? I’m gonna patch you up-

The wolf slants an ear in his direction, but doesn’t seem to be capable of speech. The arrow doesn’t look like it penetrated the lungs. Liver, maybe. Or something. Wells can’t tell and he’s too busy immobilizing the shaft to be sure. His only chance at getting the arrow out is if he can push the arrow the rest of the way through and snap off the head, but he can’t do that while Bruce is lying on the ground. If Bruce were a human Wells’d be keeping him alert by talking, but wolves aren’t the sort to pay attention to chatter when they’re hurt, even if it’s in their own tongue. Wells just slices off the bottom part of his shirt with his knife and starts on the impromptu bandage instead.

They’re coming, Bruce murmurs. I hear them.

What?

The human’s friends. They’re coming. We should move.

“Fuck!” Wells exclaims, and looks over his shoulder. They’re a good way off yet, and they don’t know the woods as well as he does, but they’ll be here shortly. In this mood he could snap all their necks and not feel the slightest guilt about it, but that won’t do Bruce any good, will it? He pushes the villagers out of his mind and looks down. This is gonna hurt, he warns. I’ll try to keep it down.

Keep what down? Bruce wonders, and then yelps as Wells scoops the wolf up off the ground and starts away at a dead run.

He’s got no idea where the fuck he’s supposed to be going and he doesn’t care. It’s more important that he put distance between himself and the villagers- or rather, between Bruce and the villagers. He’s seen most of the metal in that town and the only silver he remembers anyone having is in the form of jewelry. They’re not a danger to him. They’re just a danger to someone he refuses to let die. So he runs, the ground sucking at his heels here and there where the rains of spring haven’t quite soaked all the way in yet, and does his best not to make matters worse for the wounded wolf.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s found something that almost qualifies as a path, but he’ll take it, no matter how thin and wandering it is. It looks like it was made by deer; it’s not as if the villagers hunt this far out often enough to leave a real trail, after all. That’s fine. He doesn’t care. Like as not it’ll lead to water, or a clearing, and either way he should be able to settle down and see to Bruce’s welfare once he gets there. As it stands, he no longer hears the villagers in the distance. Hasn’t for some time, in fact. When that realization dawns he slows to a walk-

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Put the wolf down slowly,” says a woman’s cool, calm voice, “and turn around so that I may see you. If you so much as twitch towards your sword, you are a dead man.”

Bruce whimpers, but Wells puts him down, murmuring a reassurance as he does so. When he turns, there’s a group of women slowly making their way out from the shadows under the trees. Every one of them, including their speaker at the forefront, is carrying a bow and a full quiver. And most of them are pointing directly at him.

He raises his hands slowly and interlaces them over the top of his head.

Five months in, counting from the day he met Athena on the road to Delphi, and Wells is starting to look for animals he can bring down bare-handed without killing them.

Athena’s curse worked remarkably well. Wells got an excellent grasp of exactly where the borders of the Delphi shrine’s precincts were, because if he set so much as one foot wrong in his cautious circling of the place, the snake the goddess had so thoughtfully burned into his fucking skin started to throb with pain. He hadn’t felt that kind of pain since Cooper had to stuff his guts back in, frankly. After circling the entire works three or four times, Wells reluctantly had to concede that he wasn’t getting around the curse- at least, not today- and went off with Bruce in search of a place to plot and plan.

The answer came to him in the middle of something else, of course. Screw Apollo. Just ‘cos some other god suggested going to one of his oracles didn’t mean that’s what Wells had to do to find Spoon. If he’d met two fucking gods so far, and been cursed against calling on the power of a third, that pretty fucking strongly implied that all of that bunch was likely to be physically present somewhere. That meant Hephaestos had to be around- even if he was at Mount Etna, rather than Olympus. All right, fine. He’d find a seaport and get himself passage- somehow- say, work in the town for a few months and put his wages towards the boat ride. With any luck he’d catch the god at a point after he and Wells had met at Milliways, and even if he didn’t, he might be able to win him over again.

There was, however, a slight problem. Athena’s curse extended to every sanctuary and shrine of Apollo in Greece, not just the big ones. And Apollo was a fucking popular god. After Zeus and Poseidon the bastard seemed to have more temples than anybody in all of fucking Greece, and the fucking snake kept overloading his arm to the point of permanent damage every time he got anywhere close to one. Even stupidly tiny hilltop shrines that weren’t more than a pile of stones and a scratched wooden image of the god had the same no-go zone as Delphi itself. It made navigating the countryside interesting, but it made entering cities fucking impossible.

All right. Fine. No cities. No boats. He knew where Sicily was, at least. Rome wasn’t going to be founded for a few centuries yet, but there were people in Italy, right? He could probably get away with walking there and taking a boat. They probably didn’t even worship Apollo, so he should be just fine once he got there. He’d only just decided on that, and got himself ready to tell Bruce of the plan, when a whiff of something familiar on the wind sank his heart.

Snow in the clouds. The olive harvest back in the Peloponnese had been in October. Winter was coming.

No way did Wells plan on trying to make his way through unfamiliar territory in unfamiliar terrain alone except for a wolf in winter. He’d just have to find something else. In the high Thessalian hills he found a village that made their offerings to Zeus and turned to other villages for their worship of Apollo. It was bigger than Phoroneus’ village and badly in need of a smith, having only traveling metal-workers to rely upon. With the winter upon them, they weren’t likely to see anyone else arrive; ‘Xenophon’ was welcomed with open arms. Bruce kept to the hills beyond the town. On the days when the moon was full Wells headed off to find the wolf, returning on the morning of the fourth day with bones or ivory to show for his hunts. People didn’t ask. It was enough.

But now it’s growing warm again, and the weather is beginning to relent. That big fucking mountain in the distance is Olympus. Wells isn’t sure if it counts as a sanctuary of Apollo, but he’s not gonna take chances. Athena’s getting the biggest damn offering he can manage in the hopes that it’ll be enough to get her to relent and take off the curse.

Unless Wells very much misses his guess, he and Bruce aren’t much more than a few hours away from Delphi. Even taking into account how twisty the damn road is, they’re still good. Not much farther now, he murmurs to the wolf. Bruce just snorts. He’s been complaining about the smell of humans and the passage of other travelers on the road for days.

Oh, come off it. At least we’ll get to rest, Wells points out. It’s a shrine to fucking Apollo. People sleep in his temples all the time.

This one has no desire to come into a place fenced in for the sake of humans, Bruce points out. This one will be waiting in the hills until you have had your answer. This one hopes very much that your son is somewhere that has more trees and fewer humans.

Yeah, well- Wells starts to answer, and then stops; there’s a scent on the wind that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t speak wolf in front of humans if he can help it. It tends to put them off.

(He’s not sure when he got to thinking of humans as being on the other side of some line from him. It’s a little unnerving.)

Around the next bend in the road they find the source of the scent: a youth of perhaps fifteen, far too clean-looking to have been on the road long, fair-haired and grey-eyed. There’s something about his smile that pricks the hairs on the back of Wells’ neck. He glances down, half expecting Bruce to have vanished- but no, the wolf is there, clearly confused but quiet. “Good day, stranger,” says the youth. “Come a long way to meet the god, have you?”

Oh, fucking great, it’s the Dysaules thing all over again. Well, at least he knows what’s going on this time. “Yeah,” says Wells. “Yeah, you could say that. I’m looking for my son, but I dunno where to start. I’m hoping he can help me.”

The youth smiles, a knowing sort of expression that drives all possibility of this being a mere human out of Wells’ mind. “Quite possibly he can,” he says. “Though you should know the road ahead’s been ill-treated by the weather of late. There’s quite a few places worn down and washed out.”

“Fuck,” Wells mutters in quiet English; then he switches to Greek. “Thank you for the warning,” he says instead. “Is there another way?”

“I could show you,” says the youth. “But there’s a price.”

Of course there is, thinks Wells, but aloud all he says is, “And what might that price be?”

“The Pythia doesn’t much like it if I waste her time bringing her petitioners who ask foolish questions,” says the youth, leaning back against one of the rocks that mark the side of the road. “Show me something suitably intelligent, something that shows you know how to think, and I’ll bring you in by the short way.”

Wells is already finding this one intensely irritating, but after what happened at Lykaion’s house, he’s going to tread carefully. He eyes the youth for a while, thinking. “All right,” he finally says, “all right. I’ve got something for you, I think.”

One blond eyebrow goes up as Wells crouches down to sweep a patch of dirt bare.

“When I was in the Army,” Wells says, “we used to have this game, see. It passed the time, and it weeded out the really clever lads from the ones who had to have their weapons labeled ‘put pointy end in enemy’. “ The youth chuckles; Wells draws his knife and begins sketching lines out in the dirt. “Your masters, now, they were dangerous to cross. Wise as generals, cunning and sly as starving wolves.”

This one resents that, Bruce pipes up.

Shut your gob, it was a compliment, Wells mutters in answer. In Greek he says, “It needs two teams of two, but I can at least show you the board and the rules. I’ve even carved the dice for it.”

The youth crouches down to consider the game-board Wells has drawn in the dust. “I’d quite like to know,” he says. “What’s this game called, anyway?”

“Uckers,” says Wells.

It’s a long explanation. Bruce quickly grows bored with waiting and trots off in search of a rabbit, promising to stay in range of a good howl. Wells’ Greek isn’t fully up to the job, so he has to make do with what analogies he can and provide English words where he can’t. Fortunately his prospective student seems to understand what he’s trying to say, quietly providing translations where necessary (if Wells hadn’t already guessed at the youth’s nature, that would’ve been the giveaway). By the end of it, the youth’s fingers are twitching, and he murmurs, “Perhaps I should go and summon my brother and sister for this. . .”

“There’s a whole temple full of people just down the road,” Wells points out. “I can draw the board again when I get there, and you can teach someone there.”

“Hm? Oh- yes, I suppose I can. . .” The grey-eyed youth looks up and smiles. “You’ve done well, stranger. Better than I expected. Tell me, before I show you the way to Apollo’s precinct, what do men call you?”

“Around here?” says Wells. “Xenophon.”

The youth nods. “It suits, I think,” he says. “As for myself-“

Wells leans back on his heels, waiting for the chance to say I knew you from the beginning, but he never gets it. The youth’s form shimmers and shifts, his features easing only slightly, his clothing becoming that of an unmarried woman with a most peculiar design on the goatskin slung over one shoulder.

“-I have several names,” finishes the smiling goddess.

“Oh fuck,” Wells blurts in English, purely on reflex.

Athena blinks. “That was not one of them, when last I checked,” she says mildly.

“No, I mean- to meet you, of all the bloody goddesses-“

Grey eyes narrow; the goddess steeps her fingers. “I should think,” she says, “that considering your profession, you would be more pleased than that.”

“Yeah, and I’d think that considering you’re supposed to be the wise one, you’d’ve been less of a bitch to Hephaistos when you were supposed to marry him.”

There is a long and terrible silence as Wells realizes he’s said that out loud.

“By rights,” Athena says at last, “I ought to have turned you into something already, but you’ve at least given me something amusing to practice on Olympus. I doubt Ares will be able to keep his head long enough to play out a full game, and that’s worth something. So I’ll be merciful, for the game’s sake- but only for the game’s sake.”

Oh fuck, Wells thinks, and this time has the sense to keep his mouth shut.

She glances down the road, towards the shrine. “Now,” she says. “You said a thing I didn’t want to hear; for that, the punishment is not hearing that which you do want. Apollo’s Pythia could have told you much, but you will never set foot again in any of his sanctuaries, or even approach any of Serpent-Slayer’s shrines.” She lays one finger lightly on the bracer that guards his left forearm.

Under the metal his skin itches, then suddenly burns. Wells yanks his arm free, frantically unbuckling the thing’s fastenings. There’s no scorching, no fire- but there is a sinuous black mark winding its way down from his elbow towards his wrist, and the sudden, certain knowledge that it’ll do more than just feel nasty if he takes so much as a single step closer to the great sanctuary. He’ll be lucky to have an arm left after that, and he’s pretty damn sure it won’t grow back after. Not with a goddess involved.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, and looks up- but she’s gone. He’s not surprised. He curses a little more under his breath before buckling the thing back on and going to look for Bruce.

He’s screwed.

Bruce the wolf is waiting for Wells when he finally puts Lykaion's house behind him. Wells eyes the wolf suspiciously, but says nothing. He has some trouble believing any god could bring himself to appear as such a lousy hunter. They've got egoes to think of, even in beast shape- anyway, it doesn't matter. If Bruce is some god in disguise it's no skin off his nose, and if he's not, he's at least a decent traveling companion.

He'd wanted to ask the king about how he should begin the search for Spoon. That's not happening now, obviously- but the god had mentioned oracles. Wells is kicking himself just now for not reading more mythology in times past, but he does vaguely remember hearing about one of those at Delphi. Fine, then; Delphi it is. If he remembers right that's supposed to be a day trip out from Athens by bus, and Athens is- well, it's not here. Up for some long walking, Bruce? he asks the wolf.

Bruce's tail waves briefly. This one has nowhere to go and no pack to join, he says. This one may as well come with you.

Damn, don't be so enthusiastic, says Wells dryly. Bloody embarrassing, that is.

---

It takes some time to track down a village of any kind of size (not Phoroneus' village- he's not going back there for love nor money) and ask the way to Athens. It takes longer to follow the directions given. Arcadia isn't a land of roads and cities, it's a land of mountains and forests, some of the oldest Wells has ever seen. Lykaion never bothered to change that. It's annoying as fuck but there's not much to be done about it. By the time he finds another cluster of people it's nearly full moon, so he and Bruce stay as far off in mountain country as possible until those three night are past. No sense in spooking the locals.

Wells is just glad to find deer skulls in the morning instead of anything domesticated. The village isn't what you'd call prosperous, and he'd rather not prove Phoroneus right about bringing bad mojo down on people's heads just by being among them.

Bruce doesn't come into the village, of course. Wells makes bloody sure of that, for everyone's sake. One of the older women in the village says that she's been to Delphi in the past, and gives the stranger such directions as she can. She's got a few olive trees, and it's coming up on harvest time, so 'Xenophon' sticks around for long enough to help her out with the picking. He's not going to stick around for the oil-pressing, though. It'd be helpful, sure, but he's got Spoon to find.

He's not going to think about the possibility that Spoon might not be here. He's just not.

---

Eventually Wells and Bruce reach the limits of Arcadia and start passing through more civilized lands. The presence of so many humans, and the sheer amount of cleared land, makes the wolf intensely uncomfortable. They'll be reaching Corinth soon. From there Wells can either go into the city and take ship to cross the Gulf of Corinth, as the old woman did, or he can have a go at the Isthmus Road and head into Attica. He's got no money and no desire to spend more time working for it just to afford a ship; the Isthmus Road it is. But still...

Bruce, he says, come here, would you?

The wolf (whose hunting has improved, now that he has no one harassing him as his old pack did) looks up from nibbling at an itch and pads over. Yes?

You know I'm here looking for my pup, Wells says, and the way back to my pack and my mate.

Yes, you have said, says Bruce. This one would do the same, were he ever a pack-leader himself.

Yeah, well, there's a thing, says Wells. Where I'm going there's going to be humans- a lot of 'em. Maybe even proper cities.

Bruce's ears slant back reflexively for a moment.

Sorry, mate, Wells says. It's up to you, lad. You don't have to come with me if you don't want to chance that. I can turn back now and see you into wild country safely, and then go the rest of the way on my own, but I won't make you come with me into man's world.

Bruce thinks for a while, but eventually lays his muzzle on Wells' foot. No, he says. This one does not like the lands of men- but this one has nowhere else to go. This one will come with you a while longer, he thinks.

All right, says Wells, a little flattered and a lot glad of the company.

---

The less said of their Isthmus crossing, the better. Arcadia was no man's land because it was a wild place; the Isthmus is no-man's land because there is no king, no rule, no law. It's bandit country, and not the good clean sort like Will Scarlett and his ilk, either. A man traveling alone, wolf companion or no, is nothing but a moving target. By the time that stretch of the journey is over, Wells has had to coax poor Bruce out of the scrubby bushes that serve as bandit cover more than once; there've been a few fools who tried to grab his armored forearms during close-in fighting, and found out the hard way that Hephaestos' gift is as powerful as it ever was.

Wells has much better armor by the time he reaches Eleusis, which is about all the good he can say came out of that journey. That and some trinkets- gold, mostly, and a jeweled belt- but those he's saving for the sanctuary at Delphi. He's never met a priest yet who wasn't more cooperative if you offered a donation for the church.

---

Eleusis is farming and fishing country, but there are wild hills surrounding the seaport city, and Wells stays in them until the next moon is passed. Bruce compliments him on the choice of prey come the last morning, when Wells wakes up sore and more bruised than usual. There's not much left of it, whatever it was; just an old spear-head wedged into some bizarrely huge rib bones. He washes himself off in a stream and heads down into the city, where he learns that the Eleusinian herders have been troubled of late by a particularly savage wild sow. When he hears that she was supposedly speared in the side years ago and hated men for it ever after, he produces the old, greened-over bit of bronze.

They're very pleased to see it, and call for a feast. All well and good, but it seems it's not uncommon in Eleusis to offer guests of honour a bed for the night and a bed-warmer to go with it. Wells' Greek is not much better than it was when he met Dysaules, but it's good enough to say "I'm a married man, and I swore an oath to the gods not to touch another woman while my wife lived." It puts her off with a show of honour, and avoids offending Wells' prospective host, but he takes the opportunity to slip away when no one is looking. This is Greece. Someone's probably going to offer a boy next if he sticks around much longer.

That night, as he bunks down by the side of the road that leads northward out of town, he misses Annie more than he can possibly say.

The king's court is not the sort of place Wells would have imagined. One expects a certain level of civility in a king, or at least of terrible majesty if one is dealing with a certain sort of man, but this place is different. This is... this is rough-cut stone, and barely-hewed roof timbers, and great lazy-stepping boarhounds lazing about wherever they like. It's the dogs that put him off most. They watch with the casually half-lidded eyes of animals who don't give a shit about you, except to see if you might do something entertaining, like run away. They own the place. They're lords here. They don't have to care.

There's something of that quality to the king, as well. King Lykaion is a man in his late thirties, his beard black save for a gray stripe down the center, his hair going gray at the temples. He has a careless look to him, like one who sees no reason to prove himself and can't be bothered to put the effort forth for an inferior. When Wells and Dysaules came to his halls the spearmen made them stay at the gate a good quarter of an hour before returning, saying they could have the king's hospitality. They should've taken it as an omen and left, Wells thinks. This is not a house in which it's good to dwell.

Their seat is at the foot of the King's table, which is about what Wells expected. They're strangers, after all. Even if Phoroneus said that the guest of the land is sacred, Wells is used to a world where people only pay lip service to the sacred. Rough-hewn seats with cushions probably two or three kings old- well, he's had worse in his time; he'll deal. Dysaules doesn't seem to think the same, though. The old man's lips are thin and his scent is tight with disapproval as he eases himself down onto the stool. "You all right there, father?" Wells asks- he hasn't got the vocabulary to say 'old man' just yet.

Dysaules nods. "As well," he murmurs, "as may be expected. My lord the king sets himself very high these days."

The king's not seated yet, but his place was ready before the two strangers got there. Frankly, the further they are from Lykaion's end of the table the happier Wells will be. He makes a quiet noise of demurral. Dysaules snorts. "Not like that," he mutters. "No man is above the laws of the gods; he ought to give at least a decent welcome to a stranger, if nothing else. A king should set a better example."

"Yeah, well-" Wells shakes his head. "We can't rely on kings to do things right, just us."

Dysaules favours him with a small smile, but then the king is escorted in by two of his warriors. "Welcome, honoured guests," the man says, the words smooth and polished in his mouth for all that nothing else here is. I must beg your pardon for the state of my hall- I've been away, hunting, and the servants have grown lax in my absence." That's enough to make Wells wish he had mobile ears just now, so he could lay them back flat. He's seen it far too often- a man who blames his inferiors so casually for something he ought to have seen to himself. "But do make yourselves at ease. The wine is on its way, and the meat is to follow."

Wells winces inwardly at that and can't quite keep it out of his face; the king lifts an eyebrow. "Is something wrong, good Xenophon?" he inquires.

Ah, hell. Wells clears his throat. "I'm not much used to meat, I'm afraid," he says. "I meant no offense."

Lykaion's expression smooths out and he laughs easily. "And none has been taken," he says. "My hall may not be much, but we do set our guests food they won't soon forget. Do have patience, good Xenophon. I think you will find it worth your while."

Fuck. Wells should've asked Phoroneous how to say 'the gods have forbidden me to eat meat'. He puts on as polite a face as he can muster and nods, murmuring his thanks and settling down again. Dysaules pats his arm.

Then the wine is brought out by a thin-faced, hard-eyed woman whom Wells could well believe might let the hall go neglected. It smells excellent, at least compared to what Phoroneus had to offer, and Wells' thanks are sincere. Dysaules, Wells notes, takes very little interest in the stuff, only nodding as it's poured out. Wells takes the moment to pour out a little on the floor; Hephaestos never expressed an interest in libations, but it's not as if he can get the smith-god any of Annie's baking from here, is it.

Before he can take a sip of his own, though, several more servants emerge from the kitchens. The smell of meat is on the air, strong and thick. Wells tries not to gag; it's not a smell he recognises-

( "Get it down your necks, lads." "You can't do that!" "It's the training, miss. Never pass up an opportunity to eat." )

-oh God.

Yes it is.

Wells grabs Dysaules' wrist in a grip so tight it's a wonder he doesn't leave marks. The old man looks at him sharply, and then relaxes. "You know it too?" he says.

"I'd stake my arm on it," says Wells.

Dysaules pushes himself back from the table and stands; the king is doing much the same. "What is the meaning of this?" the old man demands.

"Why sir," says the king, "I don't know what you mean. Oughtn't I to provide for my guests?"

"This is blasphemy, Lykaion," says the old man, "and worse. To put the flesh of men before your guests-"

"And what are you going to do to me, old man?" says the king. "A doddering old fool and a smith with weapons beyond his station! I fear no man nor god, least of all the two of you."

"That," says Dysaules, "is unwise of you."

The dark and noisome hall is filled, all at once, with a dazzling sourceless light. When Wells' eyes clear Dysaules is no longer elderly and frail, but ageless and strong, blazing and terrible in his rage. The king and his men cannot so much as move, frozen in terrified awe as the god stretches out his hand. "For this crime," he thunders, "you shall have such a curse as has never been seen in this land before. Let the outer form reflect the monster within that you have become, from the next rising of the moon for the rest of your days, and let every man's hand be against you. As for those who abetted your crimes, Lykaion-"

He raises one hand, and the lightning that flies from it is terrible and blinding. Wells has no doubt at all that the others have been struck down to the last man.

"Such is your punishment, and theirs," says the god. "As for you, Xenophon, who gave of what you had when there was nothing, and did not give away what you had promised elsewhere: for so long as you journey in the Hellene lands you will never find your bag empty of such food as you require, and is safe to eat."

Wells would answer, but he's more than a little overwhelmed. Hephaestos has never made such a display as this; he barely has the wit to murmur his thanks and bow his head. The god smiles. "And a word of advice," he adds, leaning in a little. "Dead men need no armor and no weapons- but one who would journey to a sacred oracle to ask after his son's well-being might have such a need himself."

"Thank you again, sir," Wells manages.

The god smiles, and vanishes in a clap of thunder. Wells runs a hand over his face and looks around the room. Lykaion is cowering in a corner, trembling and speechless. "You heard the man," Wells snaps at him. "Going to give me any more shit today?"

Lykaion shakes his head frantically.

"Good."

Bruce, it turns out, is not an especially good hunter as wolves go. The natural wariness that keeps wild things alive is overdeveloped in him. He'll jump a mile at the least hint of something that might be a danger, and that sort of thing disrupts even the best of hunts. After his third attempt at running something down goes wrong Wells rolls his eyes. Give off, mate, he says. I'll catch tonight's meat myself.

Thank you, says Bruce gratefully before padding off to hide in the shadows.

By the time Wells returns to his evening's campsite with a dead hare dangling from one hand, Bruce has been spooked again. There's a reason, this time. Wells would never ask a wolf to stay anywhere near a human he didn't know- even if the human who's found Wells' encampment smells damn old, Wells knows better than to assume him harmless. "Hallo the camp," he calls, painfully aware of his stilted Greek. "Don't get excited. I'm coming in."

The man looks up, blinking. He's got a face to match the smell: rheumy blue eyes set deep in a lined and wrinkled face, with silvery hair and beard that had probably once been black. "I meant no harm, stranger," he says, and starts to raise his empty hands.

"It's all right," says Wells. "Neither do I. Just passing through."

The old man nods, a wavering gesture, though his eyes are still on Harry. "There aren't many who travel this country alone," he observes. "You seem very bold, stranger."

"Yeah, well-" Harry sits down ungracefully and draws his tanto. He figures Bruce doesn't need the rabbit's hide, and it might come in useful if he can figure out how to keep it from rotting. "I don't mean any harm. I just want to find the king."

"Is that so?" asks the old man. One silver-white eyebrow rises. "And why is that, I wonder?"

"I'm far from home," Wells answers as he locates about the right spot to start skinning and gutting the rabbit. "I'm not in my country. My son is lost, somewhere, and so am I. I need to find him. I have to start somewhere."

"I see." The old man has a staff, it seems; he leans on it heavily as he eases himself down to a seated position as well. "Wise enough, I think- though, still, to travel alone-"

It occurs to Wells that there's more than one kind of werewolf in the world, and some of them can do it voluntarily. Bruce isn't here. This man is. There's something about his smell that Wells can't place, but it has the quality of being too obvious; the man is trying to smell like a human. Carefully, Wells says, "I could do with some company. Only thing is, all I've got to share is a fire and some bread and cheese." It's barely enough for one for the night, but he's been living with Greeks long enough to know that hospitality is critical. "The hare's been promised elsewhere."

The old man smiles. "It will be enough," he says. "Thank you, good sir. My name is Dysaules. I am not much more than a teller of stories, but I can offer one for you in return for your gift, if you like."

Wells considers the night around him, then shrugs. "Why not," he says. "They call me Xenophon. Let's hear it."

Dysaules nods, placing his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back a moment. Then he speaks:

"Muse, sing of Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia, lord of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, the luck-bringing messenger of the immortals whom Maia bare, the rich-tressed nymph, when she was joined in love with Zeus, -- a shy goddess, for she avoided the company of the blessed gods, and lived within a deep, shady cave. There the son of Cronos used to lie with the rich-tressed nymph, unseen by deathless gods and mortal men, at dead of night while sweet sleep should hold white-armed Hera fast. And when the purpose of great Zeus was fixed in heaven, she was delivered and a notable thing was come to pass. For then she bare a son, of many shifts, blandly cunning, a robber, a cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief
at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds among the deathless gods..."

The story goes on and Wells listens in awe. He's pretty sure he had to read something like that a long, long time ago, back when he was in school, but he'll be damned if it was ever anything like listening to this man talk. By the end of it he's wishing with all his heart that he'd actually paid some fucking attention back then. He empties his bag of what remains of his provisions, offering them to the older man wordlessly, but Dysaules only takes a small portion. "A man my age scarcely needs to eat as much as he once did," Dysaules explains. "Though I would ask one small thing of you, instead."

"Name it," says Wells without hesitation.

"You have the accent of a native-born Arcadian, but you speak with too much care for that," Dysaules observes. "I think you come from a foreign land indeed. Would you give me some story of your own instead?"

Wells isn't his cousin Andrew. He hasn't got an entire head full of bedtime stories and fairy tales to share. He remembers the Narnia books, of course, but he hasn't got the fucking things memorised. Spoon's the one who's been doing the classical reading, not him. All of the stories Wells knows are obscene or worse, except Eddie's, and there's too much in Eddie's story that'd take too long to explain-

No. No, it's not true that all his stories are obscene. There's one.

"All right," says Wells, and takes a deep breath. "All right. Once upon a time, years ago, up in the land that you locals call Hyperborea, there were six soldiers on a mission deep in the woods, and it was the first night of the full moon. . ."

It's no tale of the gods, and it ends in curses and pain and fire, but to judge by the light in Dysaules' eyes it's enough. "Well spoken," the old man murmurs, "and bravely endured. Thank you, Xenophon. I will remember that for a long time."

"Thank you," says Wells, and passes a hand over his face. "Sorry, mate, I'm not used to that sort of thing."

"It's all right," says Dysaules. "You did well nonetheless. Go and offer the rabbit as you promised, and I will keep watch until you return."

Wells nods and heads off into the woods. He can check for the blood-smell on Dysaules while the old man sleeps, he reckons.

( "Far be it from me to give orders to a man of your standing," Phoroneus had said, his eyes never meeting Wells', "but-" )

This is the second day on the road, if you can call the narrow track through the forested wilderness a road. Supposedly it gets better as it approaches the King's palace, but this is Arcadia. There's no cities here. There's precious few villages here. There's barely any here here.

( "This is about the curse, isn't it. Did the boy follow me after all?" )

Arcadia's more dangerous for its wildlife than its people. Wells is ignoring the fact that he's got no spear and no shield. He'll manage. Once he reaches the king's palace he'll figure out a way to trade labour of some sort for a shield, at least. Not that anybody's got silver here, but he'd just as soon have something to sling over his back. Arrows are fucking annoying.

( "Please, Xenophon, don't be angry with him- he was only curious, he meant no irreverence!" )

He's got enough bread and cheese left to make it one more day before he has to start foraging. Just his luck that his survival knowledge isn't worth shit in this part of the world. He'd as soon not spend half a day puking or worse. And as far as meat goes, he refuses to consider it. He's not that desperate yet.

( "Irreverence? Phoroneus, do I look like a-" )

There's been a wolf trailing him for a while now, slinking along through the trees parallel to the track and trying not to be seen. It doesn't smell sick or desperate, so he's willing to let it be. Bloody persistent animal, though.

( "Xenophon, you are in the hand of some god whether you know it or not. You yourself said it, the smith-god gave you your sword. They don't give such gifts lightly." )

Wells stops, looking into the woods, and hears the wolf freeze. It's hard not to roll his eyes; the animal doesn't know the first thing about proper stalking.

( "My son and I are ordinary men, Xenophon. You have a stronger fate than we do. Such men are dangerous for the likes of us to know. Take this- it's all we can spare- and go. Find your son the hunter. But think kindly of us, when you speak of your travels." )

I know you're there, Wells calls to the wolf. You may as well come out.

There's a small whine and a skinny grey shadow slips out of the undergrowth. Sorry, sorry, sorry, it says, cringing and whimpering and generally doing its best to look ingratiating. Not challenging, see?

Is this your territory? Wells snaps. Thinking about Phoroneus left him on edge.

No, says the wolf, crouching low and submissive. This one has no territory. The others drove this humble one from the pack and the hunting-grounds.

Wells grunts. What do you want with me, then?

This one is seeking new territory and a new pack, the wolf admits. This one thought you might be going somewhere worth trying. It would be easier than trying for new territory all alone.

It's a little tough to argue with that. Besides, being alone on a journey like this isn't Wells' idea of a good thing. All right, fair, he allows. But I'm going to human territory. You'd best not follow me all the way.

This one knows better than that, the wolf promises. Its- his- cringe straightens out, becoming a more cheerful posture. This one will take care to stay hidden when there are men around, too.

Good, says Wells. You got a name?

One-who-lets-the-puppies-win-at-games-of-fighting-and-hunting, the wolf answers promptly.

Wells snorts. Too long. I'll call you Bruce.

Bruce yips, tail swaying briefly, and falls in beside him.

The moon was a little past full when Wells got here- two days, maybe three. Hard to tell for sure, freshly arrived. It took some getting used to, like jet lag. But now it’s coming on close to the moon being full again, and he can feel it without needing to count on the calendar any more. There’s less than three days left. That’s gonna make things interesting.

At least he’s got a chance in Hell of explaining. A few weeks of living with Pyrrhus would be an education for anyone. The kid hasn’t shut up for more than five minutes except when he’s been asleep. (Not even when the privy’s involved. That was a fucking education.) His conversation’s as awkward as hell and as crude as can be, but it’s better than nothing, and at least the words sound about the same when he says them as they do when Pyrrhus and Phoroneus speak. Just slower, and with a lot more struggling in between. He’s done his best to have proper conversations with Pyrrhus, not just word-exchanges, and it seems like it’s paid off by now. It’s time to talk with both his hosts, and to get things as clear as he can. The smith’s work is done for the day, so. . .

“Phoroneus,” Wells calls, ducking under the low lintel as he enters the little house. “Your leg. How’re you doing?”

It’s not quite the right question, but Phoroneus knows what he’s trying to say, and smiles a little. “Well enough,” says the fair-haired man. “It should bear my weight again soon. Thank you, Xenophon.”

Wells grunts, nodding. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad. That break looks- looked- nasty. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” says the smith, reaching for his crutch and heaving himself to his feet. “You didn’t break it.”

“I meant the word-“ Wells grimaces. “Never mind. Can’t explain.”

“Ah, you’re trying. That’s still something, isn’t it?” Phoroneus makes his way over to where the handful of vessels he and his son use for supper and drinking are kept. “You speak the language well, for someone from so far away.”

“Yeah. About that.” Phoroneus turns as far as he can, glancing inquiringly over his shoulder. “I want- wanted- to ask for the name.”

“Which name do you mean?”

Wells has to think for a bit to put the words together. “The name of the country,” he says.

“Arcadia,” answers Phoroneus, a little surprised. “You mean no one told you on the way?”

“Phoroneus, I have no idea how I got here. I don’t know where Arcadia is.” But he’s thinking, trying to remember where Arcadia is on the map. Unfortunately, Philippus never told him, and Hephaistos isn’t a god you ask about geography.

“Oh. All right. Arcadia, in the Isle of Pelops.”

That he knows, because the sound of the word is close enough to Peloponnesian and he remembers a little of Thucydides. Only a very little.

“And what of you?” Phoroneus inquires, fumbling with the cups and the household’s one jar of wine. “Where is it you come from? You’ve never- ah, thank you- said…”

The thanks was for Wells’ help with getting the jar open. As Phoroneus mixes it with water and moves to pour, Wells has a little time to string the words together before putting them out for inspection. “I don’t know your name for it,” he says. “But it’s north of here. Very far north. And a little bit west. But mostly north.”

Phoroneus pauses in his pouring, his whole face creasing in a frown as he thinks over what that must mean. “I don’t know any countries beyond the northernmost Greek lands,” he says. “Thessaly, maybe, or Thrace, but Thrace is east, not west. How far would it be, walking?”

“You can’t walk there?” Wells hazards. Then, a little more certain of his words: “You can’t walk there. It’s an island. Miles away.” He grimaces at his scraps of vocabulary and tries again. “Too far to see, from the mainland.”

By now Pyrrhus has returned from the agora with the evening meal. If ‘Xenophon’ weren’t such a hard worker he’d be an awful guest to have. The man could eat enough bread and cheese for three and not show the difference, but he does Phoroneus’ work for him and anything else that needs labour besides, so he’s earned his keep. The lad starts to call out his usual greeting, but his father waves him to silence. His eyes are on the foreigner. “A great island, in the green sea,” says Phoroneus slowly, “and so far north as that… your land is-“

The phrase is a hard one for Wells, who shakes his head in incomprehension. Pyrrhus looks to his father, who repeats himself without turning away from ‘Xenophon’ for an instant. “Sir,” Pyrrhus says, “what’s north of you?”

“Well- the rest of the island,” says Wells, picturing the map. “And there’s a couple of other islands- small ones, though. Tiny. They’re our land too.” He doesn’t think of Cybermen, or things lowing in secret midnight labs, or battles in the dark. These two wouldn’t understand.

Phoroneus and Pyrrhus exchange a look. “What is north of that?” Phoroneus finally says.

“Open sea,” says Wells. “Then-“ Fuck. The word for ice hasn’t come up yet. “Water, but hard, from being cold. All the way to-“ The words he has to use are the ones Pyrrhus used to direct him down a particular mountain path. “-the end of the north.”

The smith staggers, his son moving to catch him and then the jar; he’d already put the cup aside. ”Hyperborea,” Phoroneus breathes. “You come from Hyperborea, at the back of the north wind- why, that’s Apollo’s country, and his own dear people-“

Wells wants to say that they’re nothing of the kind, but before he can think of the words for it his host’s gone on. “And you came here! But you said you know nothing of how you got here. It must have been mighty magic to send you so far.”

“Something like that,” Wells says. Pyrrhus’ eyes are on him now, too, and they’re huge. “I have enemies. One of them maybe did it.”

Phoroneus nods. “I shouldn’t wonder,” he says. “Anyone who carries a god’s things is going to have enemies, I’m sure.”

Wells looks down at the bracers he always wears these days (no point to taking them off- they don’t get hot, and in the smithy they keep even the worst of the fire off his forearms). One finger starts to trace the star-shaped sign.

“I hadn’t thought that the smith-god was much worshipped in your land, though,” Phoroneus continues. “Isn’t it Apollo’s country all the way through?”

“I’m different,” says Wells. It’s the best he can do for words. “It’s a thing, with him and me. For being his friend.”

He scowls a little at his fumbling words, even as the father and son boggle. When it comes right down to it, though, it’s the truth. He was Hephaestos’ friend first. None of the rest would’ve happened without that.

“There’s also a curse,” he adds, since neither of his hosts seems to want to continue. “But that’s different.”

“Ah,” says Phoroneus, and Pyrrhus- who is, after all, only eleven, which is about the right age for boys to be interested in such things- says, “What sort of curse?”

“I can’t tell you,” says Wells honestly. Not that he doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t have the damn words. “It comes at full moon. Three nights of it. I have to go away then, or it’ll come to you too.”

Pyrrhus suddenly looks worried, but Phoroneus looks down at his leg thoughtfully, then up at his guest. “Three nights,” he says. “And of the days?”

“Those are good. But I should stay away. It’s easier.”

Phoroneus nods. ‘Xenophon’ has always been as courteous a guest as even a rich man might wish, and he and his son are far from rich. “Will you need anything, when you go?”

“No,” says Wells. “Everything stays. My sword, my knife- it stays. I go. I can come back for it?”

“Of course,” says Phoroneus. “But be careful. These lands are dangerous, even without curses.”

Wells’ mouth twitches in a smile without humor. “Believe me,” he says, “I know dangerous.”

So.

You're in Greece, somewhere. Damned if you know where, but it's Greece, or one of the islands in that bit of the Mediterranean.

You're lost in time. The best fix you can get on when you are is that it's sometime before Christianity. Mind you, that leaves a few thousand years in which you could be stuck, so that's no fucking good to anyone really.

You don't speak the fucking language. You can't even curse in it, and you can curse in fucking Cantonese, which is harder to do than you'd think.

You've been given a name that the locals can pronounce; that's something, at least, but you've been called Xenophon all of five minutes (you think), so that's hardly enough time to get used to it, is it.

And when you get to the village of the boy you ran across in the woods, not only is everyone dressed like something out of a fucking historical epic whilst you're in T-shirt and trousers, but you're at least a hand taller than the tallest man in the damned village- and he's a good three inches taller than the rest of them.

You've got armour, sort of, 'cos you put the forearm bits on to get them cleaned off and snugged up before doing anything else with your kit. You've got a weapon- two, really, since the tanto's on your belt and you had the sword in your hand when you got kicked through time. You'd think that'd be reassuring, but it's not; the villagers're all looking at you as if they expect you to start demanding they bring you tribute and women, bar the boy. And he's too busy gleefully telling what looks like the story of you versus the horrible wolf-monster in the forest (if the gestures are anything to go by) to realise that he's only making them stare at you worse. He shuts up eventually, which is nice, but it's only to snatch up his firewood bundle and grab your hand and start pulling you through the wide-eyed crowd.

God damn it, if you had to get kicked through time and land in some country where you didn't speak the fucking language, why couldn't it've been fucking Germany? At least the sodding Gerries would have beer.

Ah, but there's a house up ahead, and a thread of smoke coming up from behind it- and there's smells you'd know anywhere, after catching them full in the face every time you've been to Etna. Seems young Pyrrhus here's the son of the village smith, or his apprentice, or- no, the son, by the look of it, he hasn't got the sort of burns and marks you'd expect on his hands if he'd been prenticing. Nor on his legs, either, as the smith hobbles out of the house, leaning heavily on a crutch. The smith- Phoroneus, or so Pyrrhus says- looks to've had a run of bad luck a week or two ago, and done the bones in his right leg some real damage. Him you can handle the staring from. A, there's one of him, and B, he's in no position to run away if the stranger his son's brought home turns out to be a psycho. So that's all right, as far as it goes- until you realise you've got to win the bugger over if you're to have anywhere to stay until you figure out what the fucking hell is going on.

You've got no Greek. Phoroneus's got no English. But all things considered, you could do a lot worse, because men who've worked anything at all like the same trade don't always need words...

It takes a lot of gesturing, and some showing off of that maker's mark on your bracers, but the man reluctantly lets you have a go at his smithy. There's a few bits of scrap metal he's not likely to miss. That's all you need. It's not what you're used to, but you'll take what you can get. After the first minute or so your host can tell you know what you're doing, and by the time you've got a viable square rod worked up and starting to cool he's no longer nearly so scared of you as he was before. From there it's not much but a formality to finish the work.

You might be carrying a sword and wearing armour, and you might look like a great mad dangerous foreigner, but a smith of any sort of skill will recognise skill when he sees it in others. Bet you never thought learning the making of nails would turn out half so useful, eh? To you as well as him, 'cos you're pretty sure he's trying to convey the sense of 'I've got projects backed up coming out my arse thanks to this damn leg, would you mind lending a hand as long as you're here'.

So for all of that, you've got a place to stay. You've got something to do. You've got a kid who seems to be happy to take you in hand and cram the language into your head. That's a good deal more than you had three hours ago. It's a start.

Now if you only had a fucking clue where the fuck you had to go from here.

The kid's name is Pyrrhus. He made that pretty clear straightaway. The no-word version of 'my name is' doesn't vary much in Wells' experience- it's a thump to one's own chest and a few syllables pronounced slowly and clearly. You get that in damn near every part of the world he's been. So once he's got the sound of the kid's name right (not hard, the way he imitates accents), he gives his own- but even cut down to a single syllable, Wells just doesn't sit right on the boy's tongue. For some reason Xenophon does, at least if the pointing and repeating slowly is anything to go by, so Wells just sighs and accepts it. Who knows, maybe he looks like an uncle or something. It'll do, if no one can pronounce English around here. Not like he hasn't used aliases before during those years on the run.

The walk to Pyrrhus' home, which is pretty much the only assumption Wells can make about where he's being led, goes slowly. Without any menacing wildlife about, the kid's a chatterbox, and seems to fancy himself a teacher besides. Damn near everything they pass, from trees to grasses to acorns to rocks, gets the point-and-speak-slowly treatment. It wouldn't be so bad if Pyrrhus didn't refuse to go any further until Wells repeated the words after him. Well, there are worse ways to learn a language, even if it's a little aggravating. He'll put up with it. He's gonna need it, if he's to get anyone to understand I'm looking for a man about ten years younger than me, scarred all over and carrying a sword. He doesn't remember hearing of anywhere in Greece still as rural as this kid's clothes seem to indicate, so something weird is going on, and he's going to play along until he understands it himself.

A little ways into the language lecture Wells stops and indicates the strap that holds Pyrrhus' firewood in place on his back. He gets told the word for it, but that wasn't what he'd intended. It takes a lot of gesturing and some frustrated English to make it clear that he's offering to carry the wood himself. Apparently Pyrrhus hadn't expected that, if the tang of astonishment on the air is for real. Somewhat reluctantly he hands the bundle over, and they continue.

It occurs to Wells that even in the deepest and most isolated parts of the most rural and impoverished nations in Europe, certain words were still recognisable. Even if only one home in an entire village had a telly, and even if they only got a really shitty signal, they'd have been exposed to those words...

"Oi, Pyrrhus. D'you know what 'McDonalds' is?" Wells tries. "No? How about 'Coca-Cola', d'you know that one?" He almost says Nike next, but he remembers Philippus using the word- that was a goddess' name before ever the Yanks got their claws into it. "BBC? Football? C'mon, you've got to have heard of that, at least... oh, for fuck's sake." Pyrrhus gives him a quizzical look. "Dammit. How about Turkey, then, d'you at least recognise that name? It's fucking Turkey, you lot hate their guts."

That just leaves Pyrrhus saying something incomprehensible and putting up both his hands. Wells sighs and gives up, but there's a knot in his stomach as they keep on walking. This is Greece, it's got to be- if it's not Greece then it's what, Cyprus? Something like that. Not like the Greeks had a fucking colonial empire or anything, not in his time-

Oh, shit. A kid dressed like that who doesn't recognise McDonalds or football or Turkey but who knows what Hephaistos' maker's mark looks like? That's not geographic isolation, that's a fucking time-fart. There is no fucking way this is anything like the world he knows. Something happened back at the bar that gave him a shove into some other time entirely, never mind the location problem. He's in the past. He's so far in the fucking past that-

"Pyrrhus!" The boy looks over his shoulder again. "You a Christian, son? D'you know what Christianity even is?"

That only gives him an uncomprehending look that he last saw on the faces of his dogs, right before Snowflake meekly said humans are weird.

Fuck.

"-asked t'see Spoon'... what the fuck?"

He's somewhere else. Even before he can finish blinking, he knows. There's a shift in the air, a change in the sound and the smell around him. Even in the ground under his feet suddenly feels angled and loose. Opening his eyes is nothing but confirmation.

Milliways has mountains. Big, snowcapped, scenic mountains. They're in the distance, across the lake. This place is mountains- rocky, wooded, inelegant things- and it smells of nothing at all like man. If humans come here, they do it seldom, and they bring nothing chemical with them. Even the Highland glen, when he went to put Joe's ghost to rest, smelled more like the modern world than this. For half an instant Wells wonders if he's on Earth at all, and his grip on the sword tightens. Then the wind shifts, and he relaxes. There's a familiar scent on the wind, a wolf's scent-

Then he runs, because the scent has festering sickness in it, and because now he can smell a human, too.

It's not far up the mountain to the unfolding scene. Some yards along Wells hits the trail, with fresh prints of sandalled feet in the dust. A little further on, the wolf-scent grows stronger, and the sick smell of a wound too far festered to cure. There's no smell of rabies, at least. Wells has never smelled rabies. They don't have it in Britain, but this is an incurable stink nonetheless. It's the sort of thing that sets the body to burn with pain and fever, driving you past endurance- oh, yeah, he knows that smell. He knew it, even as a man, from a field hospital in Bosnia. You don't forget.

He puts on a fresh burst of speed as the memory of Lance-Corporal Gibson's final moments hits him. Even so, he barely makes it in time.

The boy's no more than eleven and his back is bowed with the weight of his bundle of firewood, and his eyes are terrified. The wolf is big, bigger than anything Wells has ever seen in a zoo, but it's skinny and dull-furred and smells like dying meat, and it's got its head down like it's just begging the boy to give it an excuse to leap for his throat-

Oi! Wells barks, not caring for the moment what the kid might think. You there! What the fuck d'you think you're doing?

The wolf's head snaps 'round, its ears going back against its skull. Hunting, it says, and starts to cringe at the scent of a larger, healthier, angrier wolf. Please- I meant no offence, I wouldn't do it if I had a choice-

"Run, lad," says Wells tersely in English. "Run while you can." Then, to the wolf, Hunting humans gets you killed, you fool.

The wolf cringes even further, bending almost double and whimpering in fear and pain. Better death than this, it says. It hurts so much, and it only gets worse...

Show me, Wells orders, and the wolf flops onto its good side to obey. The wave of stench leaves no doubt of it: this is the incurable wound. It's a huge gash in the beast's side made quite some time ago, and done by a weapon, not teeth or claws. THe fur is matted and clotted in places with blood and less wholesome fluids, but the fur up near the wolf's foreleg is worst of all. Wells thinks he can see a bit of greenish metal through the suppurating mess. His first instinct is to say I can get you a doctor, she can fix it- but the wolf's slightest breath jerks the edges of the horrible mess about, pumping more desperate pain into the air. Unless Milliways had its door open directly in front of him, no doctor would be swift enough for the poor thing.

He's still got the sword in his hand, he realises. And the black tanto at his hip.

I can't heal you, son, Wells says. I'm sorry.

The wolf whimpers where it lies.

But I can end it for you, if you like.

Please, begs the wolf, and the sword flashes through the poor benighted beast's neck before the wolf can draw another breath.

The smell of hot lifeblood is at least more honest than the wound's stench. Wells is grateful for that. As he wipes the curved blade clean on what little unmarred fur the wolf had left, it occurs to him that another smell is still here. He looks up; the boy is watching him, wide-eyed and not a little afraid. "It's all right, he's dead," Wells says. "He won't hurt you now."

The boy shakes his head. He's wearing a plain woolen tunic and a pair of sandals; the bundle of firewood's held together by a wide leather thong. It doesn't seem quite right. But it's not until the boy opens his mouth and speaks that just how not-right sinks in. The language he uses is so far from English that Wells can barely hear the spaces between the words, let alone recognise or understand anything of what's being said.

"Slow down, lad," he says, but there's a sinking feeling in his stomach, and it only gets worse as the boy looks at him blankly. "Ah... salaam aleikum? No? Bonjour? Sprechen sie Deutsch? ... neih hou ma?" The boy shakes his head; Wells mutters "fuck" quietly and covers his face with one hand.

The boy's smell is suddenly a good deal closer. He drops his hand and opens his eyes. The boy is staring at the maker's mark on his bracer, the five-pointed star with the single flame at its heart. "Yeah?" he asks a bit hopelessly. "What? What of it?"

When the boy speaks, it's slow and careful. There's almost a familiar feel to the language this time, even if Wells can't quite peg it. The words have the feel of a question to them, and towards the end there's finally a word he recognises: Hephaistos.

"Aaah, fuck," Wells mutters. Then: "Ne. Hephaistos. He made 'em. Don't suppose this is Themyscira by any chance?"

The boy shakes his head at the island's name, but there's more wonder than fear to him now. He smiles, and gestures for Wells to follow him; and because there is nothing else to do, Wells shoves the curved sword through his belt as best he can, and follows.

Wells very nearly didn't go home tonight, either. Every time he got to thinking that he ought to buckle down and face the music, the thought of that mystery companion out of Ace's past came roaring back up to meet him, and he wanted more than anything to track down the Roxanne bint and shove her teeth down her neck. When that happened he turned around and made for his punching bag. It was safer.

But somewhere in all of that, just when he didn't know whether to beat the shit out of the bag again or run until every muscle south of the collarbone burned or find a spot in the forest where no one would notice one more howl, something- he didn't know what- happened, like a spring suddenly coming loose in his head. At first he thought something had gone wrong with his healing eye that left him staggering in circles- but no, when the initial wave of it passed, everything seemed normal there (if unbelievably itchy). There was just a bizarre feeling of something having snapped, and the realisation that he'd said things to Ace that were on the order of the last words he'd heard his father shouting at David just before his youngest brother vanished to America.

It wasn't right. It wasn't even close to right. And being here wasn't going to solve any of it, but he couldn't quite get himself to go into the house when he finally arrived home from Milliways- so tonight he's out by his fire-pit at the little recess in the landscape, wondering what happened and what he did, and smelling the rains coming on the wind.

The briefing was yesterday. The mission begins today, before the storms that're blowing up out of the northeast can make the waters between Aberdeen and Orkney impassable.

One day, Wells thinks, somebody else is going to do the briefing on one of these things, and he is going to be able to nip out for a pint while they talk, or something of that nature. Alas, today is not that day. "Right," he says, looking over the arrivals. "I've just been on the wire with EPOC's man in Shetland, not to mention EPOC headquarters proper, and I've been given as much information as they say they've got."

"The enemy we're facing is several hundred Cybermen, potentially with an un-converted human commander. For those of you who haven't seen 'em in person, they're what happens when you take a human brain, stick it in a hefty dose of alchemical salts and solutions, and rig it up to ride around inside a seven-foot-tall steel body. The alchemical bath keeps the brain and bits of the spinal column alive; everything else about the bastards is electronic and computerised. They've been programmed to fight until death or a command to retreat, but they're as intelligent as you or I, and they're armed with combat lasers. And hand-to-hand weaponry. EPOC was able to get hold of a bit of CCTV footage of one of the things from the night Mr. Ingram died and it looks as if they've got retractile claws at the wrist and ankle, possibly elbow spurs. So they're equal threats at a distance or in hand-to-hand. The steel skin may or may not be vulnerable to conventional ammo, we haven't got the specs on that, but the alchemical solution that keeps the brain alive can be disrupted by the introduction of gold to the mixture. I've got water pistols loaded with colloidal gold suspension for everyone who wants one, and distance water weapons for those of you who're willing to give a fifty-foot range a go. No intel yet on how long it'll take these bastards to die after their little bath's been poisoned, so don't put your other weapons down just 'cos you've got a squirtgun, sunshine."

"The battlefield's to be the island of Papa Stronsay, in Orkney. Tiny little place, you won't have heard of it. The government'd bomb it off the map to get rid of these things if they could, but there's a problem, and it's called Golgotha. Transalpine Redemptorist monastery. Got about fifty monks living there. Unarmed civilians, the lot of 'em. I think the most dangerous thing they've got on the premises is the monastery cattle herd. We've got tonight to get the monks out and destroy the Cybermen before they can escape, and then we can expect a package from on high if we don't call in to warn them otherwise."

"I've also been notified that EPOC has reason to believe the Cyberman from the CCTV tape is still at large in England, possibly with several of its companions. Since they murdered the last Under-secretary of Defense, rather than going after his superiors or the Procurement minister, it's being assumed that their directives have to do with the fact that the position is also that of Minister of Fucking Scary Shit. The new occupant of the position's also cleared to know about projects like Special Weapons' little werewolf hunt, or the prosthetics research that produced the Cybermen. A new Minister's been chosen for the slot and his name's been circulated in the hopes it'll draw the steel bastards out. I need two volunteers to keep watch on Horatio Greene while the rest of us are committing mayhem up the back of beyond."

"Questions?"

If it's all the same, Wells would just as soon not have to go on the second leg of his itinerary. The trip to Scotland was plenty for him, thanks. Hauling his arse all the way out to Shetland in the middle of a stormy summer did not strike him as a good use of his time and resources. Besides...

Besides. If he were a fucking lunatic working for the government, and he'd just cleared an entire town of its population, he'd want to get out of there right quick. There wasn't anything in Shetland that'd keep that many freshly converted Cybermen from getting impatient. Fuck, there weren't even enough people in Lerwick to interest them- and that was assuming that all of Walls' population got switched over, one to one, no problems what-so-ever. Just 'cos the EPOC lads never found any bodies didn't mean that the process went completely smoothly. Like as not there were a lot of dead people out there somewhere who weren't walking around in tin cans.

The ones who were, though, they'd be programmed to hunt for more people suitable to replicate their kind, or else for combat, and either way they weren't likely to find it in Shetland. Ormvist probably knew that. He'd taken at least one of them to London with him for the meeting with Ingram. The others couldn't be that far behind; Ormvist didn't strike Wells as the sort of person to leave such dangerous creations to their own devices for very long. So there had to be several hundred alchemical Cybermen somewhere closer to the British mainland than the absolute arse end of beyond. The question was where. How did you get several hundred metal people into a functioning port or airfield without someone inspecting, without someone noticing...

Did it have to be functioning, though? Scotland's history was crawling with smugglers. Might be there was a harbour somewhere that'd been ignored for ages, that Ormvist eased his boat into. Come to think of it, the men at EPOC'd said Walls had a pretty good harbour. Closed by the storms, sure, but if you were already the sort of man who gave so little of a shit about human life that you were making Cybermen, would you really let that stop you? Might've been that he left from there after finishing the conversions, and headed for... somewhere. Someplace that had a reasonably deep harbour, someplace that didn't have a lot of people asking pesty questions, someplace that the MCA and the Navy weren't likely to notice 'cos it wasn't even worth a drug smuggler's while...

After some thought, Wells headed down to the ferry terminal in Aberdeen Harbour to ask about which islands NorthLink served, and which they didn't.

Harry Wells is not, by nature, a farmer. Born and raised in London, posted all over the place in his time in the military, he never really had any sort of opportunity to get close to the land, so to speak. Not until that nightmare in Scotland, anyway- and that's a different sort of closeness altogether. Predators aren't farmers, for the most part.

When he and Annie bought their land in Yorkshire, all he wanted was enough property to keep himself well away from anyone else's lands or herds. The piece of land they got is big, for all that its asking price was reasonable. It's always been too rocky to grow much of anything on. There's forage enough for the goats, and at the far edge there's good enough soil for a stand of trees. He and Spoon've been working on encouraging that. As for the rest of the land, he does what he can to keep it in good condition. It feeds the goats, if nothing else, and it's open enough to soothe the worst of the claustrophobia and other urges that grow out of his lycanthropy. It's even got a few spots here and there where the landscape was kind enough to dip or rise long ago and give him a spot in which to take shelter on the nights when he can't stand to be within walls.

Unfortunately, when the soil is thin and the weather vile, the landscape can change. It's the nature of mud to slide around, after all. When the August rains started coming this year, they came in earnest. Harry's hidey-holes aren't going to do him much good as they are now. Either they're full of mud, or they're full of water, damn his luck. So he's got to make do with something else- say, cut his own shelters into the landscape if he's got to.

The spot where he practises with his guns is sufficiently isolated that he feels just fine about carving a new dip into the landscape not far away. The shooting range is nearly all rock under the thin skin of soil, but twenty or thirty yards off looks all right, he reckons. The sod's tough as hell, though. A shovel alone's not going to be enough. Fortunately, there are a few factors in his favour:

1. His horse-owning neighbours come to him fairly regularly for farrier's work.

2. Some of them have old-school, horse-drawn ploughs mouldering away in their barns, behind the tractors.

3. He's never learned to drive a tractor, but he can get a horse to do what he tells it, if only because they're too scared of the wolf-smell not to.

4. The people who own the big Percheron down the way were looking for an alternative means of paying their farrier's bill.

So that is how it looks today: Harry Wells at the helm, so to speak, of what may be the oldest functioning plough in Yorkshire (Olivia's owners won't be picking it up when this is done; it's part of the payment), doing his level best not to think about what his old Army mates would say if they could see him now. It's a distracting sort of state to be in, which is why it takes him a moment to realize that the thunk! noise the ploughshare just made wasn't the sound of a rock being hit, but of metal...