Wild Watchtower: Shield & Claw Book One

Chapter Three: All Leaves Turn

Once Aonair was settled to wait for the arrival of the healers, and once my mother and aunt had checked on our younger siblings and cousins, the rest of us were free do spend the rest of the day however we wished. Cróga got dressed and disappeared down to the sea caves, under the tower, in part of the headland that hadn't been invaded by the warren tunnels and passages created by the citadel’s expansion. He spent a lot of time down there, helping to maintain the fleet of warships which lay hidden, unadvertised, and waiting for the day invaders would once again lay siege to our shores. Only the pack and our most trusted employees knew about the fleet, which was kept ready to sail at a moment’s notice. If we came under attack, we would divert crews from the harbour to man the warships, and my siblings would take to the seas themselves, commanding the fleet that could be Tírlaochra's first line of defence after the beacon was lit.

I think he felt obligated to work on the ships, even in our present peacetime, because of the prophecy which the queen's oracle had issued on the day of his birth. Back then, my grandfather had still been alpha of the Túrfaire pack, although his health had been failing him, and my father was close to his ascension. In truth, my father's relative youth made the oracle's prophecy so much more unwelcome, because she claimed that the son of Neart would command the first tower, only until his own firstborn son reached his prime. She predicted that when shadow elf ships were once again spotted off the western coast, Láidir Túrfaire would lose his life, and his son would don the mantle of Lord Warden of the Western Ports.

The oracle foreshadowed my father's death, and placed a burden on the shoulders of a cub who hadn't yet opened his eyes for the first time, a burden which Cróga had borne all his life. He was pushed to be stronger, braver, wiser, to fight no matter the risk, while all the time knowing that for him to become what was predicted, our father would have to die. My brother bore guilt over that, even though my father insisted that leaving such a legacy in his wake was an honour in itself. Cróga had a duty beyond any of us, and in a way, I felt some pity for him. Despite his strength, despite his elevated place in our pack's hierarchy, he was fettered by obligation in a way the rest of us weren't.

Éiri, on the other hand, enjoyed being both further up the food chain, while remaining unencumbered by the expectations of an heir. He expected to fight alongside Cróga, if war truly did come, or to leave to start his own pack, when the time was right. Whatever his future held, right now, he was a Túrfaire wolf, and it didn't surprise me when he and Céillí headed up to the roof, to relieve the human guards who assisted in keeping watch while we hunted.

While the others chose duty to Tírlaochra, Taibh chose duty to family. He followed our mother to the nursery where our younger siblings and cousins spent time when they weren't outside being taught to hunt smaller, more manageable prey, like mice, rabbits, and pheasants. He would spend his time entertaining the more boisterous cubs, nine-year-old twins, Martháin and Meon, and our eleven-year-old cousin, Dóchas, while my mother looked after our youngest sibling, four-year-old Grian, and our five-year-old cousin, Síocháin. My aunt had her infant daughter, Saoirse, to nurse, and my uncle to care for, and Taibh's help would be appreciated by the pack's matriarchs. In all likelihood, Iontaofa would join him in entertaining the cubs, and we would all fall back into a routine that vaguely resembled human lives, while also being guided by the traditions of wolfkind. It was how homecoming had always been, and how I wanted it to remain, no matter what some far away elven oracle thought.

While the others went about their business, I made my way to my room, to pull on a loose linen shirt and simple britches, then I headed to the library, where I found my oldest sister, Aisling, reading by the unlit hearth. We often spent time together amongst the books, in silence or discussing whatever was going on in the citadel at the time, and I enjoyed the peace and quiet, away from boisterous cubs and posturing males.

My eldest sister was a beauty, as fair-haired as Céillí, but taller, with determined green eyes and an un-wolflike love of dresses and fashion. She was as happy in her naked skin as the rest of us, but she enjoyed the pageantry of dressing in the brocades and silks imported from around the known world too.

Out of my siblings, she was second to Cróga in age, but third in the pack's subordinate hierarchy. She and Éiri had been at odds for a time, while he fought to earn his rank and she fought to maintain hers, but in the end, Éiri's challenge had seen her knocked down a rung. Thankfully, Aisling had too kind a heart and too graceful a nature to bear any grudges, and so she had settled into her new position without resentment, although she had never allowed any other to get the better of her, even when Céillí and Iontaofa tried.

“How was the hunt?” Aisling asked as I slid onto the rug by the hearth, perching cross-legged on the floor, rather than sitting on the leather cushioned seats.

“The hind fought. Uncle Aonair was injured. If it's a break, he might be stuck in wolf-form for a while. They're waiting for the healer to arrive. Ion is a little bruised too, but otherwise, it was a success. We all fed, at least.”

My sister's eyes were immediately full of concern. “Did Aonair make it home alright or is father taking the healer out to him? Cróga and Éiri must be pleased with themselves, bringing down a deer while Aonair was injured.”

I forgave her the assumption as I answered, “Aonair made it home. He's resting in his room. As for Cróga and Éiri, they did their part as well as they always do. When our uncle fell, it was me who went for the hind's throat, though. I helped to bring her down.”

The flicker of shock that flared behind her eyes didn’t surprise me, although I wished is wasn't there. She quickly masked the expression, although her next statement caused me concern.

“That's good. It's good that you're starting to step up. I was worried that come the autumn, you'd find things difficult. Whoever Cróga chooses as his mate will be alpha female in training. She'll want to stamp her authority on the rest of you, and I thought you might find that unsettling, but if you have a stronger position yourself, it might be easier for you to gain her respect too.”

I frowned, not because the thought of some stranger seeking my submission perturbed me, although it did, but because Aisling sounded as though she would be excluded from that shift in pack dynamics.

“What do you mean, when you say she'll want to stamp her authority on ‘us', won't she seek your submission too?”

Aisling shifted, visibly unsettled by that question, although her shoulder sagged and she admitted in gentle tones, “I won't be here, Fiáin. It's time for me to leave and find my own way.”

“But you can’t!” the words exploded out of me, forceful and insistent. “Cróga's oldest. You don't need to leave for at least another year!”

“It's not about ‘need’, Fiáin,” Aisling insisted. “Father isn't forcing me to do this, but some of the southern heirs know that many of the best females will be occupied come mating season, vying for Cróga's attention. They've put the call out early, seeking their own mates before droves of females leave the mainland to come here. If I go now, I could find a mate from one of the other watchtowers. I could bind myself to an heir, and one day become an alpha female in my own right. I want that, sister. I want a mate, and cubs of my own, and the ability to still serve a watchtower. I can't spend my life babysitting our mother's offspring, or bowing to Cróga's mate. It’s my time.”

“But I don't want things to change!” I argued, even though I knew she was right. “It's bad enough Cróga must mate and start creating his own pack, especially when that could mean we're close to losing father. I can't lose you as well!”

“You aren't losing me,” my sister responded, her tone still gentle despite the frustration in her expression. “We can write, and visit each other. I'm just going into the next stage of my life, like you really should think about doing soon too. Change is inevitable, and fighting it will only bring you distress.”

“But change is distressing! Expectation is distressing! Losing a sibling is distressing!” I yelled, my tone unintentionally loud.

“I'm not dying, Fiáin,” Aisling pointed out, finally growing irritated. “Please don't treat this as though I'm Misniúil. We all have expectations, both those of others and those we give ourselves. My expectations raise me up, to be an alpha female, to be a guardian of Tírlaochra, while you expect to let people down, to be weak and afraid, and so that is what you’ve become. Why not raise yourself up, too?”

Tears stung my eyes at her appraisal, and while I knew what the others saw when they looked at me, having it put so plainly still hurt. “You say that like I did this to myself, like I chose to witness my brother's murder, like I chose to be afraid...”

“I know you didn't choose that,” she answered. “But you haven't chosen to fight your way past it either. You're allowed to be afraid, but you choose to let your fear chart the course of your life, when you have the power to take a different course. You are faster than any of us, and as strong as Éiri. You're smart, and affectionate, and empathetic, and pretty, and you could become an alpha female too, not just of a nomad pack either, but of a watchtower, if only you would choose that life.”

“So, because that's what you want, it’s what I should want too?” I demanded, my voice a growl of anger.

“You should want it because you're a wolf. Not just a wolf, but one of the Tírgarda,” she snapped back. “And because it's not fair of you to expect Cróga to care for you, like you're one of his cubs rather than his sister.”

Hot tears rolled over my cheeks, but the air in my lungs left me in a deflated ‘whoosh'. I knew I had no right to dispute Aisling’s opinion of me. To do so, I'd have to challenge her, and she would win any scrap between us, then she’d force my submission. Over this, that would be humiliating. Too much so to bear. Instead, I wanted to turn my back on her, to flee from the room, but even that could be seen as rebellion and deserving of retribution. So, I stayed where I was, lowering my head willingly rather than forcing her to demand it of me.

Aisling sighed, placing the book she'd had on her lap on the side table instead, before standing and smoothing down her dress.

“I wish you had fought me, just this once,” she told me. “I wish I could have seen you become what you should be, just once, before I leave. You could be so much more than you're letting yourself be, and the only one who can't see that is you, yourself.”

With that announcement made, Aisling turned on her heel and stalked from the library. The silk of her gown rustled as she swept past me, but neither the sound nor femininity of her attire detracted from the predatory assuredness of her gait. She was a wolf. An assured female. She would have her pick of mates, and I hated that. I hated that we were adults now, and that our time together was drawing to a close. Grief tightened around my chest at the understanding the we'd never spend another summer together as a pack.

Pulling myself up off the floor, I turned away from the ornately carved shelves and paintings which adorned the library. I turned my back on the familiar histories and sagas that had entertained me as a child, and rather than seeking comfort in the familiar, I stomped out of the room and back down the hall, to the door which opened onto the dungeon stair. I wanted away from Aisling and my father, and away from the tower I'd been so happy to return to. I wanted to run from expectation, while being too much of a coward to actually leave.

What would it be like to be a wanderer? A lone, nomadic wolf, with no ties to a pack, and no duty to a country? Lonely, I'd imagine. And terrifying. Yet that seemed to be my only option, didn't it? Either conform to being Lady Fiáin of Túrfaire, eligible daughter, potential mate, and duty bound Tírgarda, or do something unexpected and vanish on my own, avoiding both frightening strangers and family duty alike. Yet both options seemed equally unpalatable... I just wanted everything to remain as it was, and that was one thing I had no say in.

My thoughts spiralled, as grim as the dark stairway, drawing my mood further down, even as I descended towards the dungeon. Once upon a time, the basement levels of the tower had been used to hold prisoners captured during the War of the Elves, and the long, narrow stairway would take me down past the still-functional-but-currently-vacant jail cells. The iron-barred cells occasionally held criminals awaiting trial, because, as liege lord of the citadel, it was up to my father to maintain order. As Lord Túrfaire, he was occasionally required to sentence to the few vagabonds and ruffians who felt themselves exempt from the rule of law.

Luckily, most of the citadel's populace respected my father, and our pack as a whole, and most wouldn’t flout our laws. More often than not, our only trouble came from visiting sailors; strangers to our harbour, who sometimes celebrated coming ashore with a little too much enthusiasm and a great deal too much rum. But it had even been a while since my father last send Cróga and Éiri to break up a tavern brawl. I couldn't remember the last time my brothers dragged a drunkard back to sober up in the darkness of our dungeon.

It had been so long, in fact, that a little brown spider had woven an intricate, gossamer web over part of the oak and iron door that led into the jail. Her endeavours had captured the only prisoner in the tower, and the fly that attempted to free itself from the spider's silk would struggle in vain. I had no interest in denying the little predator her prey, and saw no need to brush aside her carefully laid trap. Instead, I continued down the stairs, past cellars and store rooms, and then further, to the passage that led to the sea caves where our fleet awaited the day we would be called on to defend more that Tírlaochra's laws.

Much like the stairs I'd descended down, the passage to the sea caves remained shrouded in darkness, the sconces on the walls unused. Wolves had no need for torches; our eyes functioned just as well in the barely perceivable bioluminescence, which radiated from the mosses which clung to the slimy tunnel walls, as they would in the star-speckled blackness of a dark-moon hunt. My vision was so sensitive that stepping out into the torch-lit cavern, where our fleet bobbed on inky, glistening water, momentarily dazzled me. I could only stand, blinking; trying to focus through the sudden glare of firelight, while giving my pupils a chance to reverse the dilation which granted me sight in the blackness of the passages.

Around me, our most trusted employees busied themselves. Carpenters and ship-builders sawed and hammered, ensuring each of our existing vessel was maintained to the highest, or they strove to build new vessels that would rival the sleeker, faster, updated ships of the King's navy. Sailors busied themselves loading fresh supplies, taking inventory of ammunition, or polishing the brass fixtures of each ship until the metalwork gleamed. Some men sat repairing sailcloth, or knotting together ropes into rigging and ladders, while others pondered over maps, analysing supply routes and tactical mooring points, in preparation for the day the fleet would be needed. The cavern was a hive of industry, and if I hadn't known better, I would have guessed we were already at war.

Was Cróga truly so afraid? Did he really think war would come so soon that we needed to be so prepared for conflict? Did our father agree with him?

I frowned at the notion, perturbed by the possibility that asking Cróga to maintain the fleet was our father's way of beginning to pass on responsibility to his successor, even though we had nothing but vague prophecies to guide our footsteps. Was Cróga even ready to take charge? And what of the rest of us? Were we ready to lose our alpha?

“Curse the oracles,” I grumbled to myself as I stepped onto the swollen wooden planks of the make-shift quay. “Curse growing up. Curse change. Curse everything.”

The quartermaster of my father's personal ship, The Wavestalker, arched a bushy, grey brow as he passed me, carrying a sack of something-or-other over his broad, yet slightly hunched, shoulders. If his lips hadn't twitched, I would have assumed he was censuring me, and I would have let him do so without reproach. While few employs would get away with chiding a full-grown pack member, most of The Wavestalker's crew had known me since childhood. They had kept an eye on me and my siblings during summer days spent out at sea. They’d taught us to tie knots, and scrub the decks, and eventually to sail, while also ensuring we remained safe, even as we leapt overboard to swim with the migrating merfolk.

My parents had been happy to let them teach us, and to let trust and respect grow in both directions. Perhaps they did so because of the prophecies, because one day we might be called upon to captain gunships. Whatever their reasoning, we'd forged a bond with the sailors. We trusted them, and most of them would transfer to one of the warships, when the time came to serve under us... Under however many of us remained at the watchtower, that it.

“Lady Fiáin,” the quartermaster acknowledged with a slight nod of his head.
“Cadóg, is my brother around?” I asked.

“Lord Cróga is on The Stormbringer, driving both your Lord Father's master gunner and his boatswain to despair," the craggy faced sailor replied, pale grey eyes twinkling with mirth.

He and the master gunner had a rocky relationship. They worked together as duty required, but avoided each other at all costs when not serving. I wasn't sure why the pair disliked each other so much, especially as they were both loyal and hard-working, but I suspected Cadóg quite enjoyed the idea of the master gunner being driven to despair. Though what Cróga was trying to achieve, I could only guess.

“Maybe I shouldn't interrupt... If Cróga's occupied, I mean...” I mumbled, more to myself than to the quartermaster, not that the rhetorical nature of my pondering stopped him responding.

“Or maybe you should interrupt for that very reason. That boy is going to grow old before his time, worrying about what he may have to be and forgetting to enjoy what he is.  You've only just arrived home and he's already pouring over maps and debating battle tactics, all while fretting over whether his men have trained sufficiently. He should try to remember why he loves the sea, rather than fretting over the enemy which may one day sail from its mists.”

Very few people would get away with calling Cróga ‘boy' these days, but much as I'd let Cadóg chide me, I'd also allow him to speak of my brother with the affection of someone who'd had a part in making him the man he'd become.

“He has his burdens to bear,” I answered with a shrug.

Cadóg chuckled at my observation. “Which is why you're cursing the oracles, no doubt. Not everything seen in the herb smoke comes to pass, you know?”

“Not everything that seems unfulfilled has passed beyond possibility either,” I grumbled, which drew another laugh from him.

“But that is for wiser people than us to worry over. Go on with you, lady wolfling, I can't stand here blethering all day,” with that, Cadóg trudged away, singing a sea shanty under his breath and looking as strong as many younger sailors, despite the odd curve of his back.

I watched him go, wishing that I could return to those long summer days, when my siblings and I had all been cubs, before we understood danger, duty, and death, back when Cadóg's sea seemed like a world of endless adventure rather than a route for enemies to reach our shores. Then I turned towards The Stormbringer, and went to find my eldest brother.

Sure enough, when I opened the door of the Captain's cabin, I could hear Cróga and Duán bickering. My brother insisted that Duán's men were not caring for the cannons properly, and that they couldn't load them quick enough. Duán claimed that he drilled his men daily, and they were among the best trained in the country. I suspected that both could be true. We'd had peace for so long, and it was possible our men were both the best of Tírlaochra's navy, and still not as practised as those brave souls who'd fought and died in the War of the Elves. But it wasn't my place to comment, and so I stayed silent, patiently waiting for Cróga to notice me.

“Not now, Fiáin,” he snapped, without looking at me.

He continued to glare at Duán, across the spread map laid out on the table between them, while a third man stood to one side, his hands folded behind his back as he tried to merge into the background rather than attracting my brother's ire.

The boatswain was one of the few younger members of my father's crew. Even I had a year or two on Rigeálaí, but he'd started out as a powder monkey, showing such dedication and proficiency that he'd been promoted to cabin boy, then seaman, and eventually to boatswain, responsible for the maintenance of my father's galleon. To some extent, he oversaw the boatswains of the rest of the fleet too. Whatever criticisms he'd been handed, he'd accepted them more graciously than the master gunner.

Duán glared right back at Cróga, in a way that bordered on disrespectful, if not mutinous. If I'd been him, I would have re-evaluated my stance when faced with an angry wolf who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but Duán either didn't understand Cróga's demons, or he had no sense of self-preservation. That, too, might have been a mixture of both possibilities. Either way, for the master gunner’s protection, I decided I might as well distract my brother.

“Aisling’s leaving before the autumn.”

Cróga sighed at the interruption, but he didn't look at all surprised by my announcement.

“You already knew!” I accused, irritated. “Does everyone know?”

“The cubs don't,” he answered slowly, then glanced at Duán, demanding, “See that your men maintain the guns. When the time comes, we can't afford failures. You're dismissed.”

The master gunner spun on his heel and stalked past me, slamming the door on his way out. I ignored the grumpy sailor as I continued to glower at my brother, for once not caring that he was well above me in the pack's hierarchy.

“How long have you known?” I demanded, annoyed that my other siblings had been told, and that they'd kept it secret. “Does even Taibh know?”

Cróga flinched, unusual for him, which I took to mean that even the pack omega, my subordinate, had been kept abreast of Aisling’s intentions. “Ais didn't want to spoil the hunt for you. Once she goes, you'll be the eldest daughter here. You'll have to take on her responsibilities. She wanted to let you have the last hunt before she burdened you.”

“I don't need to be lied to!” I hissed, angry as I stalked towards my brother. “I don't need to be treated like one of the cubs! Like I'm lower down the pecking order than Taibhreamh!”

“That isn't the point, Fiáin! But don't make the mistake of thinking you are so far clear of the omega position. You choose to live in fear. You chose to live in denial. Times are changing, and we all know you'll struggle with that. We were trying to grant you a gift,” he answered, standing and folding his arms across his chest, squaring up to me when I dared to question him.

I saw a lot of my father in him, determination, and an understanding that he deserved to rank higher than the rest of us. His doubts lingered too, hidden under the bravado; doubts that he'd lead as well as his ancestors, and that he'd bring his pack through the next war, but overall, Cróga was an alpha in waiting. Really, he should have been beta male already. Everything in me screamed at me to bow my head and submit, to accept what he was telling me with the same meek obedience that I listened to my father and mother. But he wasn't alpha yet, and he hadn't even tried to unseat Aonair from the beta position.

“You and Aisling both treat me like I chose to see what I saw. That I chose to watch my twin die,” I spat back at him. “I didn't make me who I am, Cróga! Any more than you made yourself how you are!” I swiped at the map on the table, brushing it onto the floor. “This fearful, preoccupied, taskmaster who is driving his crew to disobedience with his lack of appreciation. You mistake fate for choice.”

“I appreciate everything my men do at my command,” Cróga snapped back. “But we are running out of time, and I need to ensure they're ready, because if they aren't, they will fall, then Tírlaochra will fall.”

I shook my head. “You don't know we're running out of time.”

Cróga sagged, his eyes closing. “The tree has begun to turn, Fiáin. The first leaves have already fallen.”

He might as well have thrown a bucket of iced water over me, and dread washed through me. I wanted to deny his claim, that the second part of the oracle's ramblings might already be coming to pass. She had claimed that the sacred, ever-green, ash tree, planted by our forefathers when they first sailed to Tírlaochra from the North, would finally drop its leaves. The unnaturally hardy tree, which stood in the shrine grove to the east of our island, had never followed the seasons like a common ash. To discover its leaves had begun to fall came as an unwelcome shock.

What had the oracle said? When the last leaf falls, so too will Láidir Túrfaire. The son will be forced to stand in his father's stead, as the shadow spreads from the west once more, to set fire to the sea.

“You lie!” I insisted.

“You know I'd never lie about this, sister,” Cróga answered, looking more tired than I'd ever seen him. “And you can't tell the others. Father banned me from telling anyone, even mother, until after the cub is born. He wants one more winter spent in peace, because he might not see a second. You have to keep this to yourself.”

For a moment, I could do nothing but mouth like a fish, unsure what to say or do. Soon, I'd lose my father, my alpha, and my sister would have left, and war would be on the horizon.

“I'm sorry, Cróga,” I said at last.

“Me too. I'm sorry too,” he answered. “I hadn't meant to burden you with this.”

“Is a pack not meant to share the load?” I asked. “You don't need to bear this alone.”

He sighed, sinking back into his seat once more. “It's my duty. Mine.”

“Maybe, one day soon, but not today,” I insisted, thinking back to what Cadóg had advised. “Let's take one of the ships out. We haven't been out past Greyhelm's Cove in months. Maybe even years. And the merfolk will be migrating back south and east, soon...”

“I'm busy,” Cróga pointed out, indicating vaguely to the map on the floor.

“Someone told me to remind you that you love the sea, brother. Please, we might not get another chance, and who knows who will fall during the war. Give me this one thing, and then I'll go and apologise to Aisling,” I begged.

My brother seemed about to argue, opening his mouth to do so, but then he nodded, pulling himself up from his chair. “Alright, Fiáin. This one thing. I'll arrange a crew.”