Sapir Englard The Millennium Wolves Novels & Stories

Her eyes go wide at his comment. “Well...what about your beta or gamma?! I would still be perfect for them too!” She tries to bargain herself. What is with this girl? She must be some special kind of stupid or crazy. My father told me that sometimes you can get a fanatical human that passes through the gates and security checkpoints. They are so desperate to get away from their own lives, or they fantasize about being a part of our world so much that they go to extremes to try to get around large groups of wolves since we typically keep to our own and stay on our own territory compounds.

Had most likely been around others of their kind before they had been stolen. Clutching at the door, I felt my energy waver. I had used too much. Consumed too little of the deer today to last me through the night. Wolves burned through calories easily. Especially if you hadn't eaten a lot an hour or two before you expended your energy. "Does anyone of you speak English?" I asked, breath raspy. Most of them nodded. Stood up. It was only in human form that I noticed the squalor they sat in. Feces. Vomit. Piss. No blankets to speak of. Hard floors and buckets overflowing with waist.

The book lay open between them, the aged pages worn and delicate, the ink faded but still legible. The illustration stared back at them—two wolves beneath an eclipsed moon, one black, one white. Tangled together. Bound. Selene traced the image with her fingertips, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “The Wolves of the Eclipse,” she murmured, repeating the words as if saying them aloud would somehow bring more clarity. Theoden leaned in beside her, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the text. “What does it say?”

Finally, he spoke but it was in a low voice like he did not want anyone to hear what he was about to say. “When the dreams about you started, they weren’t just images. They came with… sounds. No…. Words. It was a voice repeating things I didn’t understand. Sometimes it was like I was standing in the middle of a storm and the storm itself was speaking.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I honestly thought I was losing my mind. But then one word came back again and again, the word was wyldtongue. Myrathi.” The moment the word left his lips, something inside me jolted awake. Eryndra stirred sharply in the back of my mind, her voice suddenly sharp and alert: That is the old tongue, little wolf .

He almost cries from a weird mix of joy, relief and exhaustion when he sees the menacing wolves stop abruptly, so much so that they pile onto each other in a mess of limbs and confused barks. Millan has to retain his laughter; they really are one of the most idiotic packs he’s ever encountered. He falls to the ground and clutches his painfully pulsating leg with both his hands and leans on the sheltering tree, desperately trying to catch his breath. The pile of alphas and betas slowly disentangle themselves before their leader comes as close to Millan as the border would allow it. “If I catch your scum rogue ass on our territory again, I’ll rip your head off. Is that clear?”

“Just let go, and I’ll be right there with you.” She calmed slightly as he held her. The first time was always the worst and she was so much older than she should have been for a first timer. He felt his own wolf clawing its way to the front of his mind rushing to be freed. He could feel her letting go, letting the beast with in her move forward. Her wolf was violently making its appearance, with one more blood curtailing scream Tifs eyes opened wide as the wolf broke free of the human form that held her. A beautiful red and silver creature, the bright green eyes glinting in the moon lit snow covered night. His black wolf hushing to meet hers. Siron had only one thought rush through his mind

“That language he used... Have you ever heard it before? Anywhere?” He went still, the warmth from his arm tightening around me. “No,” he said after a beat. “But I’ve heard of it.” I sat up, curiosity sharpening. “What do you mean?” “There’s an old tongue,” he began slowly, as if dredging words from a place he rarely visited. “Older than the packs. Older than the treaties. Older than the founding bloodlines. My grandfather used to say it was the language the first wolves spoke, before the Moon Goddess gave us the gift of speech as we know it now.” His eyes locked with mine. “It’s not spoken anymore, Lyra. Not for centuries. Not even taught. The only place I’ve ever heard it mentioned–”

Wayne muttered and Olive whipped her head at him, scowling deeply. “Don't even think using words like that on me will get me to stop being angry,” she blurted but Wayne laughed and winked. “This is a masterpiece. It contains every myth and legend regarding the firewolf, what is true and not true,” Mufasa spoke out as he began glancing through the pages. “Apparently, they're rare and only happen in millenniums. According to Milicent who almost turned us all to book shelves of course,” Crusoe stated.