A/N: Forgot the disclaimer last chapter, but I think its clear that I only own what's mine by right of original characters. This was one of my favorite chapters to write, hands down.

Several hours later, I was reminded why I alternately despised and pitied the rouge werewolves.

Most of them were stark raving mad!

I dispensed sanity in the form of claw-bearing cuffs, until they came to their wits long enough to tell me what I needed to know. Each had said the same thing; they hadn't seen or scented the Breton child; didn't even know that there was one missing. Even with this small blessing—none of my kind would be the cause of death—I snarled to myself as I trotted from the grove of the last rouge, even while I reflected on how they had become insane.

No one knew for sure, but my theory was that they cast themselves out from their community, or perhaps were cast out, and never joined with my pack. Deprived of the contact that both sides of them needed, not to mention the support, they became hermits, and the need to kill and maim eventually overcame their senses. In essence, they lived as wolves even in the day, and that drove them mad.

But who was I to contemplate philosophy at a time like this? The child still needed to be found, and I was no closer than when I started, save for the fact that I had mobilized the majority of the island's werewolves. I shook my head as I slowed to a walk, ears pricked up, listening for the two howls that would say that someone had come across the child's trail, at the very least. Save for sounds of the night, which I dismissed as common, there was nothing. I growled a particularly vehement werewolf curse, falling to all fours to run again, heading for the cabin of the Breton mother, and Ranger.

Alert to the softest bark of my species-kin, I learned what was happening with the search. Many were as frustrated as I was, but no one was willing to give up; to do so now, after we had pledged to find him, would be a blow to our pride. If anything, the knowledge that he would not be easily found made many throw themselves into the search; we were the best hunters and trackers on the island. If we couldn't find him, no one could. We must find him. It was now a matter of pride. Many of the werewolves were Nords like me; tough, hardy, and stubborn. The combination of wolf and Nord seemed to multiply said stubbornness five times over.

A short bark greeted me, and I looked up to see Ranger standing a few yards away, waiting for me to catch up. I growled my own greeting, and called to him, "How goes the tracking?"

He winced, turning his head to continue even as he said, "Not good, not bad. I was able to get his scent at the cabin, but Stars does that child wander! I came across several dead ends before I found this trail, but even this one's pretty faint."

I nodded, and sniffed the ground curiously. Sure enough, besides the usual sent of holly and heather and the various creatures, there was the unmistakable scent of a Breton; the scent of magicka barely contained in their skin. I scouted around, and found a small footprint that reeked of the scent, and took several slow breaths, memorizing the nuances of that scent, the tiny details that would make it unique among the rest of the population of Bretons. When I looked up, I saw Ranger give me an approving nod, and I stretched, tilting my head back to seek out scents on the wind.

Together we padded, side by side, alternately sniffing the ground and thrusting our heads into the wind, the faint trail leading us on. I exchanged a skeptical glance with Ranger after three miles; surely no child wandered this far from home! But this Breton had already proven to be elusive, enough to fool not only the normal population of Solstheim, but also the werewolves. Our gait was a mile-eating tireless trot, not so fast that we couldn't pick up the scent, but fast enough. It was already morning by the strictest sense of time; three am, going by the stars. Three more hours until we change back...probably two more hours until the humans head back out...We need more time! But not even the gods can stop the sun or moons...We can only keep searching. And pray that when we find the child, we're not too late.

Hours dragged by as Ranger and I continued following the faint trail, though it grew stronger with every step. Still, we were often forced to circle an area, noses to the ground, trying to pick up the long-cold trail again, ever alert for the howls that would end this insane hunt. I was distantly aware of the movements of the stars, the night's clock, slowly ticking down the hours until, like the townspeople, we would be forced to retreat. And I wasn't sure that I would regret collapsing on my bed to sleep through the day, without a second thought to the Breton child. Never in my life—either as an adventurer or as a werewolf—had I done such a thing. I had never worked so hard, much less all day and all night. My paws were exhausted; it felt like I couldn't trot another mile.

But trot I did, on and on, head low, scarcely registering the fact that the scent was growing stronger beneath me; strong enough that now we never needed to search for the trail. The significance of this hit me just as the scent grew true enough to catch with my head lifted from the ground, and I glanced over at Ranger, grinning, "This is fresh, not more than a day old."

He sniffed at it, eyes wary until he had seen for himself that I spoke true, and only then nodded, "You're right. Call the Chase?"

I didn't answer, but tilted my head back and howled twice times before taking off in a sprint, weariness forgotten as adrenalin surged through me at the prospect of the end of this hunt. I howled the Chase call again even as I scrambled up a slope, hearing the calls of my species-kin echo behind me. They abandoned their own searches, joyfully calling to their neighbors, relaying the news, until even those to the far extremes would hear and come. Our species' great speed and stamina served all of us well; as I paused on the summit of the slope, I could see three werewolves running towards us stopping behind me, barely breathing hard. They acknowledged me as the leader of the hunt with wolfish bows, slinking back to sort out their own position with growls and snaps of their jaws.

I waited for five more to join us, then turned to Ranger and nodded, "Scout the trail ahead," I ordered. I almost went with him, then stamped the thought out. I was the leader of the pack for now, not a scout. I knew as well as any werewolf did that leaving a group of us together and unsupervised was a bad idea in every sense of the phrase. I needed to be here to keep them in line. It meant missing out on tracking the scent to its source, but I needed to be here. I felt a moment's guilt, then snorted to myself; gods, I was the leader of the pack! Werewolves fought and died for this position. True, I'd relinquish it back to Thunder when we found the child, but for now...

I settled down to wait with the other hunters for Ranger's return, staying quiet and still, forcing them to do the same. Though I was as impatient as they to be on the hunt, I had to lead by example, as the saying went...if I wasn't allowed to pace and snarl at the moon, then they weren't either. Though I fully admit; if I wasn't able to hear and smell Ranger's progress, not to mention follow his shadowy figure for as long as I was able, I wouldn't have done as well as I had.

But when he was lost to all senses, there was little I could do but crouch in the grass, with the hunters surrounding me, and wait for his return. As the minutes stretched on, more and more werewolves joined us, the most notable one being Thunder, and their soft growls to sort out the hierarchy of the hunt punctured the background sounds of the night.

With no warning, Ranger bolted into our midst, blowing hard from the long run. "Found him! But so has a necromancer!"

"Necromancer!?" I gasped. "I didn't know we had a necromancer on this island!"

"Apparently, we do. Big Orc, wields a silver axe, and has already raised several...bodies to wait on him."

"What in the heavens does a necromancer want with a child?" One of the werewolves behind me asked, mostly to himself.

I had to consider that question, but commented before I had thought the situation through, "A soul is a soul. Enchanters can use the souls of rats to power their enchantments. I guess a Breton child's better than a rat...oh, gods! Breton. Magicka-born! Even at such an age, a Breton has more magicka than an Orc! And when the necromancer does kill him and raises his body, he'll still have that vast resource of magicka, all at the command of the necromancer!"

Thunder shuddered, "Killed? Not necessarily. Slave bracers leech magicka, right? What if this necromancer learned that spell? He could absorb the child's magicka, store it in a soul-gem, maybe, let the child rest, and..."

I nodded, grim, "Etcetera. Like some vampires do to their victims. The child would be a constant source of life and magicka. And then, when he grew too costly to keep alive..." I trailed off, and my jaw tightened at the implication. "We have to stop him. Now." The werewolves around me nodded agreement, sickened by the description. "Right. Ranger, take them to the necromancer. Do your best with him. Continue to fight even after you change back. Try and get the child. Or just kill the necromancer. But we're going to need more help...the rest of the pack won't come in time. It's about five in the morning now. Those of Raven Rock should be out...."

"NO!" Ranger shouted when he saw where I was going with this.

"YES! They aren't vulnerable to silver. We are. I'll lead them to your necromancer. When you see them, scatter, get away as fast as you can, and run as far as you can. I'm willing to bet that they'll be too concerned with the Breton child and the necromancer to chase us. But if they do...use all your cunning to throw them off. I need not list all the tricks; you are hunters, you know them well. Remember the three aspects of the hunter; his strength, his speed, and his guile. Tonight, we have all used those aspects in one form or another. Continue to use them as you battle the necromancer, as I will continue to use them to bring the searchers to you."

I looked them over, and the thought occurred to me that this might very well be the last time I saw my species-kin alive. "Hircine watch over you, hunters."

With that, I turned my back on them and ran, even as behind me, Thunder took charge of the hunt. Their howls, though meant to encourage themselves and rally the rest of the pack to them, had much the same effect on me. Buoyed by the song of my species-kin, I raced through forest and over hills, twisting my head this way and that to try and catch the scent of the trackers...Oh, come on! They're a big group of twenty or so men and elves. Most of them don't bathe regularly! They've got to reek to the highest stars... Ah-ha!

The slight waft of wind blew their faint scent towards me, and I turned into the wind, picking up speed now. They were so far from the necromancer...would they get there before my pack was decimated? Of course they would; the pack was strong, and soon all forty werewolves who had embarked on this search would be gathered to harass and fight the necromancer. Besides, I couldn't fall into despair; things were always darkest right before the dawn. Literally, too.

I crested a rise, and couldn't stop a sigh of relief as below me, I saw the assorted searchers, all with torches high, as if werewolves were afraid of fire, not silver. I didn't pause, a rudimentary plan forming in my mind as I bolted downhill, straight towards them.

A deep growl formed in my throat, and I leapt for the throat of one, deliberately missing to hit the ground running. I turned slightly, heading back towards the necromancer, with one major difference; now that I 'had attacked,' they felt obligated to kill me. But first, they had to catch me...I may not have been fast enough to outrun arrows and magicka, but I was agile enough to dodge them. My point was proven when I leapt to one side, a steel bolt shattering on the rocks where I had been.

I plunged through the ancient pines of the forest, slowing now. Over rugged terrain, I was far faster than man or mer, and I didn't want to lose my pursuers...they had to get to the necromancer. It was a fine line I walked; fast enough so that I wasn't killed, slow enough that they could keep up and still have enough wind to fight the necromancer. Their shouts of "Kill the beast!" echoed behind me as I wove between the trees, never giving them a clear shot of me, but making sure that my distinctive black pelt was always in sight.

I continued working my way northeast, wanting so much to flat-out run; I could have been fighting the necromancer by now if I didn't have to lead these bumbling two-leggers! But, I reminded myself, if I didn't lead the colonists to the necromancer and thus the subject of their search, it was certain that at least one of my species-kin would be killed by the necromancer, most likely many more, some to the silver axe, others to his 'servants,' and still others to the deadly magicka of the necromancer himself. With the help of the colonists, at least the pressure of the battle would be off us; we wouldn't need to get close to the necromancer, risking undead servants, poisonous silver, and destructive magicka. The colonists could do that.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that only the sound of battle jerked me back into reality. I had covered the remaining distance to were we'd found the necromancer without even thinking about it. I couldn't slow, or risk getting into the range of the colonists, who still shouted their battle cries towards me. But I did prick up my ears, listening closely as I scrambled up the hill above the battlegrounds. Yes, there were the snarls of my species-kin. And there were the sounds of pitched combat...I crested the hill, and paused a moment, taking in the mêlée below me.

The necromancer was a big Orc, the most recognizable of the non-beast species...though some would argue the non-beast part. Not that he was taking part in the battle; he was standing with his back to a large rock, waving his silver axe at his 'servants:' five skeletons, four walking corpses, and one summoned Winged Twilight.

The pack had their paws full with that lot, four or so harassing each, doing their best to stay out of their 'quarry's' range, darting in to snap and slash at the joints of the skeletons and corpses. They weren't quite sure what to do with the Winged Twilight, and so settled for keeping it occupied, circling around so that it had its wings full defending its back. But the pack hadn't gotten close to the necromancer yet; a blessing and a curse. None of them had suffered at the wrong end of that silver axe, but none of them had gotten any closer to rescuing little Hethan. I could see him, too, planted at the side of the necromancer, and I could smell his fear over the varied scents of the battle.

I was infamous for acting on the first half-formed idea that popped into my mind, and this time was no exception. With the colonists closing in, I tilted my head back and howled the name of a werewolf with a special gift for jumping...He backed out of his battle with a skeleton, and trotted up the slope some distance from me. As I loped over to him, I heard the searchers cresting the rise, and heard their gasps of astonishment: they weren't quite sure what to make of forty-some werewolves spontaneously fighting a necromancer and his summonings...then a great cry went up, and I knew they had seen Hethan. The sound of many booted feet charging down the hill to engage the necromancer's servants reassured me; taken by the frenzy of battle as they were, they wouldn't even remember fighting shoulder to jowl with werewolves when this was all over.

But at that moment I had drawn close to the werewolf I had summoned, a tall, lanky male who called himself Flyer. With short, quick barks, I told him what I wanted from him. He nodded agreement, and we turned to run along the ridge that surrounded the battlegrounds. Our stride extended as we circled towards the necromancer, until we were running at our top speed, the speed usually used to chase down the more evasive of prey. It didn't matter much that we'd been running all night and were tired. It didn't matter that in a little less than an hour, we would change back to our normal forms, most of us to sleep until night. No, what mattered was getting Hethan to safety. And so we ran along the ridge until we were behind the necromancer; because we were not part of the direct battle, he ignored us, perhaps assuming that we were fleeing. How very wrong.

Without slowing, we turned down the slope, sprinting now for the necromancer and his prisoner. It was not a great distance, perhaps five of our extended strides. When we were close enough, I gave a short bark, signaling to Flyer. He collected himself, muscles tensing, and then he showed why the name Flyer suited him.

He soared through the air between us and the necromancer, all his weight focused on his front paws. He slammed into the necromancer, snapping at his unprotected back...the Orc went down hard, several hundred pounds of fighting male werewolf on his back, bearing him down. Just like I planned...for a change.

As the necromancer fumbled with his axe, trying to bring it around to slam into Flyer's side, I launched myself into the air as well. However, I landed next to Hethan, my jaws dipping to close on the nape of his shirt. With a broad gesture of my head, I slung him onto my back even as I hit the ground running.

And then I turned and for once in my life fled the battle, my long legs carrying me over the ridge in a matter of breaths. On my back, the Breton child flopped up and down like a guar-leather pack, right on my spine, until he got his head together and sank his hands into my thick black pelt, working his knees around to grip my sides. And this is the downside of the plan...I have to play 'horse' for him...oh, well. At least he's not kicking.

I tilted my head back and bayed once, letting the pack know that their job was done at last; I had the child, and I was returning him to his cabin. They could—and did, from their barks and howls—back out of the fight, vanishing into the night without the colonists being any the wiser. I slowed by headlong sprint after a few miles, trotting as fast as I could; soon, I would be forced to change back to my normal form, and if I did so in front of this child...I was dead. But I couldn't run like I had been. Thus the compromise and the trotting.

For the life of me, I cannot remember what happened between cresting the ridge away from the battle and getting to Mistress Veta's cabin, only that it seemed to take forever. But I couldn't have been any slower than when I was searching for the scent with Ranger...I shoved it out of my mind, noting that I was at least partially delirious with lack of sleep. However, I can remember the instant that I stopped in front of the wooden door, the instant Hethan released his death-hold on my fur and slid off. Primarily because at that moment, the sun broke clear of the horizon. And when the first ray of light touched my pelt, I began the change back to a tall female Nord. Right. In. Front. Of. Hethan.

I gritted my teeth and tried to focus, tried to slow or stop it, tried to remain a wolf...but it was no use. Even though the change was slow and gradual, as if even that part of me was tired and sapped of strength, there was nothing I could do. I couldn't even move out of his line of sight.

For his credit, Hethan took a half-step back, a puzzled frown creasing his brow as he regarded the series of changes with scholarly curiosity, not with repulsion or horror as any adult would have. Finally, when I straightened from where I'd crouched, fully Nord, he nodded once and said, "You're secret's safe with me. You saved my life, after all."

I'm sure my jaw dropped at that calm statement. It was a long minute before I could form coherent words, "Hircine bless you forever, young one." Then I turned, still thanking all the Daedric Lords I knew or could think of for the honor and the simple views of an eight-year old, and began the long walk back to my own cabin.

As always, if you like this story, please review and tell me! If you see mistakes or places that I could improve in, again, please tell me; I welcome constructive criticism. Much thanks to Mathek, Jman, xvwvx, reviewer, and Daystorm Mage, who all reviewed previous chapters.