Anomaly

Song, and the joy of song, composed most of Camran's first memory. The full, silver moon hung low in a sky speckled with stars, and the light reflected off the black, brown, gray, and white throats of his pack. Normally human but now in the forms of half-breed wolves, the BehnKailev Clan howled their monthly Gathering's harmonized chorus toward Heaven. From high, piping wails to bone-deep moans and every sound in-between, not a single note rang sour as the guardians of the montane Rebirth Forest wove a song of thanks, promise, and supplication to their God. They were the stewards of their land and everything living within it, and through this land, the Triune sustained them faithfully. So, forever and always, even when the pack's famously hardy goats suffered, the BehnKailev Clan would watch over the lot of Earth within their care and treat it as one of their own.

During that night, Camran, a mere three-year-old boypup, sang with his family for the first time. As he sat between his father's moon-white front paws, the chorus's melody and harmony flowed through his soul like cleansing water. His spirit lifted high, joining the moths, bats, nighthawks, and even a giant, dark grey owl that soared overhead on the midnight breeze. Then, finally, unable to contain himself further, he threw back his head and unleashed his first Gathering howl, its pitch a bit shrill but merging perfectly with the other voices wafting around his own. In fact, within every moment his child-sized breaths allowed him to join, it sounded as if there was only one voice, each of its many parts sailing from deep inside his chest.

After the Gathering, Camran's father looked down at his son proudly, licked him between the ears, and said, "Great job, Cam! I've got the feeling we just might have another top-notch intoner born to our family. What do you all think?"

The other clan members either nodded or spoke their assent, and Camran's mother added, "Indeed, I think so, too."

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From the next week onward, Camran joined his parents out among the goats. Within days, he learned they were ornery, pugnacious creatures that could eat anything and almost always gave birth during the worst weather conditions possible, but he loved them anyway. And when his intoning powers budded at the tender and near-unprecedented age of seven, the animals loved Camran's singing the most whenever he practiced as part of his herding lessons. Even the most headstrong beasts calmed as the boy's body and spirit weaved together lyric, pitch, tone, and melody into one gentle command, and without fail, he could then lead, corral, retrieve, or soothe any of the goats at his leisure.

However, one piece of early advice from his mother always stuck with him, no matter what else he did throughout the day:

"Remember, Camran, to always start small with your intoning whenever you use it. Learning the range of your power first and foremost is extremely important, as it will teach you both technique and discipline."

"What are those things, Mama?" he asked.

"Technique is simply skill, the many different ways you can use your power, and discipline is knowing when and how to use your intoning so as not to hurt anyone. Remember, especially for the strongest intoners, we want to avoid using our full strength to tame the will of any other living thing unless there's no other choice. Otherwise," her eyes clouded over, "very bad things can happen to them. So, Camran, will you promise me that you'll always be careful?"

A prickly chill running up his back, Camran nodded and said, "Okay, Mama. I'll be careful."

"Good." His mother nuzzled him. "Now, run along and play with your friends. Your father and I will call you in later for lunch."

With a lick to his mother's furry cheek, Camran yipped happily and bounded off through the grass to join the other BehnKailev children. In between lessons, the youngsters especially enjoyed playing among the kid goats, chasing them, dodging headbutts only to butt right back, and competing in long, rowdy games of King of the Mountain until they lay breathless with exhaustion and laughter.

Then, during one of these games, as nine-year-old Camran finally managed to leap atop the oblong boulder "mountain," full, pulsing, and delightful power welled within him as he prepared to announce his triumph.

"Hear me, Howling Runners of BehnKailev Clan, for I am King Camran!" he shouted, and then, unable to hold it any longer, he released that power into his next words. "Fear me, all of you, and obey!"

Suddenly, Camran's friends all staggered, some caught mid-run or mid-jump and tumbling to the ground. As he watched in confusion, the other boy- and girlpups' heads began to sway slightly, but none of them moved. All of their eyes were wide open, and they seemed to be staring into nothing but empty space.

"Hey!" Camran called, jumping down and approaching his nearest friend, Lillie. "What's wrong?"

At one glance, Lillie shrieked in terror and quickly huddled down in the grass. The other children also screamed and hunkered away whenever Camran drew near them, and he soon found himself surrounded by their quivering bodies.

"Come on, guys, what's wrong?" he asked, a cold, trembling dread of already knowing the answer seeping through his skin. "Talk to me!"

He nearly jumped as the others all started speaking at once.

"You're scary, King Camran!"

"We're afraid of you!"

"Go away, King Camran! Please go away!"

His heart pounding like the hooves of a stampeding elk, Camran turned on his heel and ran. Then, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Mama! Papa! Help! HELP ME!"

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Later that night, as Camran lay curled on his bed in the BehnKailev summer village, his parents finally returned from the clan meeting. Glancing up into their eyes, the young boy's gut clenched at their serious faces, and he tried not to remember how dazed and frightened they'd looked when they half-galloped, half-stumbled to him back in the field. As they sat down on the bed, he instantly moved to take shelter between them, and his mother wrapped one arm around his shoulders.

"Are...? Are my friends okay?" Camran asked, tears slipping down his face "Will they be alright? I-Is the clan mad at me? I... I'm sorry I broke my promise, Mama. I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean to..."

"It's alright, Camran," his mother said. "I'm not angry with you, and the Mind Healers say your friends should..." She paused before giving him a smile that just barely reached her eyes. "They should be okay, since they didn't try to resist your power and it only hit them once. It might take them a while for them to fully recover, but it doesn't look like they've suffered any permanent harm, so please don't worry."

"Okay."

"You might be incredibly blessed, Camran," said his father. "Nephilim with the level of ability that the elders are estimating to be in you are very rare—maybe born once or twice a century at most."

"If that," added his mother.

Her husband nodded. "Right. But, for now, the clan has decided what needs to be done from here. Staring tomorrow, you'll be put through extra rigorous intoner training until you learn how to fully control your powers—and there's always the chance that your soul-singing ability'll simmer down to a more normal level as you grow and mature. It's happened before, and there's no reason to think it won't happen now, okay?"

"Okay..." Camran replied.

His father smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. "Either way, there's absolutely no need to worry, son—trust me, and trust the Triune. He especially knows what He's doing. Now, go to sleep, and dream happy dreams. We'll see you tomorrow."

With another hug and a couple of kisses, Camran's parents left for the night. However, as Camran laid his head back on his pillow and kicked off his blankets, his gut twinged with the distinct feeling that, somehow, some way, his father was wrong.

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Six years later, in the dead of an abnormally harsh winter, a plague struck the BehnKailev Clan. Nephilim influenza, once called the "weakening sickness" before the invention of electric radios, spread through the family like wildfire. Thus, predators and bandits stalked the goat herd almost endlessly, waiting to seize any who strayed or weren't well-guarded enough. As the thieves' boldness and frequency increased with each new plague victim, the handful of still-healthy members of Camran's pack soon found themselves pushed to their limits.

Hunkering beneath an icy outcropping of rock, the young BehnKailev barely managed to not shiver within his red-brown fur. The tail end of a blizzard wind moaned through the valley sheltering the goats for the night, and snow fell in slushy, near-blinding sheets that, by the Triune's mercy, just barely no longer threatened to bury them alive. Still, it was difficult enough to stay warm in his thick winter pelt, much less sit on call for kidding duty while also keeping an eye out for well-concealed enemies closing in on the herd. So, as Camran's heavy eyes darted across the woolly, snow-covered backs of the goats, he silently prayed that his family's illness would pass soon and someone...someone else...could...take...o...ver...

Suddenly, Camran jolted from dreams of toasty warmth to the warning bleats of the herd. Staggering to his feet and whipping toward the call's direction, the gleaming flashlight strapped to his collar revealed a pack of five gigantic white wolves snatching away some pregnant nannies and a billy. However, he immediately knew the group to be his own kind, and he howled a quickly-answered war cry to some of the other sentries near his position.

Using supernatural speed, Camran and four other herd guards galloped after the raiders. However, the bandits also possessed the same quickness, and as the sentries used their intoning to try and make them either slow or stop, Camran felt his own skills hit a wall of incredible endurance. He snarled in frustration, but his clan ultimately proved faster and more fleet-of-foot; not long after entering the edge of Rebirth Forest, they leaped onto the thieves' backs and tore at their flesh with fang and claw.

The chase devolved into an all-out brawl from there, speed versus speed and transformation versus transformation. Wolves, bears, porcupines, elk, and all sorts of other creatures battled through the snowdrifts as the goats bleated in terror. Spatters of crimson blood soon stained the white ground, and at least one of the nannies went into labor from stress, but Camran hardly paid attention. Despite his great speed and agility, he now traded blows with only three legs, at least one broken tooth, and a body covered in bruises and gashes throbbing with pain.

He glanced around and saw his pack mates also struggled. Though they'd given as good as they got, exhaustion now sapped at their movements. Short bursts of intoning popped out here and there, but a growing dirge of gasping pants soon wheezed through the barren trees. Meanwhile, their enemies remained much stronger and more spry, and Camran suddenly saw murder glinting in the eyes of his own opponent.

If something didn't give soon—!

The bandit leader let out a vicious cry, and Camran's foe rammed him with a full-bodied tackle. Most of the wind gusted from his chest in a yelp, and the young BehnKailev balled up to protect his throat and belly a heartbeat after he crashed into the snow. Fangs and claws tore at his limbs; crushing weight tried to pin him as he writhed; and his heart skipped terrified beats as he listened to desperation bleeding through the other sentries' cries.

Then, as Camran found an opening to escape, rolled onto his belly, and gathered his legs beneath him to run, fangs speared into the scruff of his neck and held him fast. He transformed and thrashed, trying to shake off his attacker, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't muster the strength to break free.

"Now! Kill them!" the raider leader shouted.

In the next instant, two gargling, bloodcurdling BehnKailev death cries sliced through the air.

Both wails stabbed through Camran's heart, and then, every bit of him running on raw, panicked rage, he released his hold on his intoning and screamed out, "STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"

Power surged through the woods like a storm-fed wave. Directed by Camran's will, it rushed around his surviving pack mates, missed them by the barest margin, and then slammed into the bandits. Some of them stopped mid-strike and barely caught themselves from falling, but he felt them then call upon their supernatural endurance and try to push through his compulsion.

"STOP!" he shrieked. "GET OFF, GET OFF, GET OFF, STOP, STOP, STOP!"

Camran's intoning drove home like a sledge hammer against five stones. The first command chipped away at their outsides; the second broke through; and the next five strikes shattered through what resistance remained before blasting out the other side. At each successive blow, the raiders all reeled back, some of them screeching out in pain or for Camran to relent, but he didn't.

He couldn't.

"STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP...!"

"...over, Camran! Camran?! Camran, stop! That's enough!"

Another BehnKailev grabbed and then shook him willy-nilly, shocking him out of his intoning. Moments later, a cold, muffled silence blanketed the forest, and when Camran looked around, he saw the bandits lying motionless in the broken, bloody snow. They still breathed, but all-too-like that horrible afternoon six years ago, their eyes stared at nothing; they didn't speak; and their only other movements were spasmodic twitches of their legs.

Then, as Camran's eyes flicked over the huddled and miserable goats, the two newborn kids lying frozen stiff beneath them, and the dead bodies of his pack mates, he curled in on himself and broke down into hoarse sobs.

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At the next Gathering, Camran sat in the center of his clan. Beneath their scrutiny, he said nothing when not spoken to and barely moved as the meeting proceeded. Except while conversing, he also kept his eyes downcast, though any more tears he might've shed had dried up long ago.

"Well, I suppose that settles things," said the lead elder at last, finished whispering among the others on the BehnKailev council. "Camran?"

Barely lifting his head, Camran answered, "Yes?"

"After convening on the issue, the BehnKailev Clan has determined that, based on last week's raid, your intoning ability is as we thought when your power was unleashed six years ago. As of this moment, you are officially declared an Anomaly Class intoner, with might and skill as to be perhaps unmatched throughout the entire Isle of Mixed Blood."

Camran nodded, his head hanging lower with the verdict.

"However, considering the circumstances and your sincere remorse over what happened, it has been decided to withhold punishment for any possible misusage of your powers against the bandits. Though the Mind Healers say there is little to no chance of them ever recovering, the circumstances surrounding the raid were clearly dire, and the force of your intoning has been deemed acceptable and even necessary to protect innocent life."

"...thank you for your compassion and mercy," Camran replied with a flat voice.

The elders nodded their acknowledgment before their leader continued, "Of course, since your power of intoning is beyond the BehnKailev Clan's ability to properly train, we have also decided to approve your initial request to leave the clan and apply for service within the Peacemakers."

This time, Camran's head jerked up in surprise, and his tail wagged slightly.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes. Captain-Commander BehnAbethal and Overcaptain Rio have much more experience with Anomaly Class Nephilim and exceptional track records with the few they've taught; they will know better than we what to do. And, though our clan could certainly make use of your power, we also believe the Peacemakers would, overall, be a better fit for your personality and goals as well.

"So, prepare yourself, Camran, for upon the day you turn sixteen next year, you will be made an applicant for the Peacemaker entrance exam that takes place the following spring."

An unbidden and unexpected grin split the young BehnKailev's face. At first haunted by the terrifying harm he'd done, his imagination soon filled with images of himself enforcing the law, potentially serving as a soldier, and helping out with charity and diplomacy opportunities throughout the Isle of Mixed Blood. He also knew the reputations of the Captain-Commander and Overcaptain of the Peacemakers; if anyone could help him, he hoped in his heart they would be the ones.

Smiling, the head elder asked, "Though I believe I already know the answer, do you, Camran BehnKailev, accept these terms as decreed by the clan elders?"

"...yes," the young intoner said. "Yes, I do. Thank you!"

And that night, despite intending to keep silent, Camran joined into the Gathering howl. Though deep sorrow and a note of fear still edged his voice, his heart and his cry—his anomalous, potentially mind-breaking cry—were once again blooming with a wishful confidence for the future.