Wolves Of The Beyond: Watch Wolf Part 6

KATRIA'S DEN SEEMED SO TERRIBLY empty since Kyran had been killed. She had been a silly little wolf, but Katria could not believe her daughter meant any real harm. It was very tempting to blame Ingliss, her best friend, for Kyran's character flaws. Ingliss had always dominated Kyran. But that wasn't fair either. Ingliss's mother, Pegeen, had been killed the year before in a mating dispute. Such disputes were not uncommon in the MacHeath clan. Some lord of higher rank took a fancy to a she-wolf and normally had to fight it out with the she-wolf's mate. But this time, Ingliss's mother had stepped into the fray to object and called the lord a stupid cur. Well, that was the end of her. Malan, the pursuing male, forgot Pegeen's beauty and lashed out at her, ripping open her neck. As she was dying, Pegeen managed to bite him and draw blood.

It was from Pegeen that Ingliss got her spirit. Now, Katria thought Pegeen was lucky to have escaped the horror of knowing that her only daughter had been murdered. What kind of life was this?

Katria's mate, Donaidh, entered the den. "Well, you made a spectacle of yourself at the gadderheal," he snarled. Katria didn't answer him. "Oh, you're getting all sulky on me, are you?"

He advanced on her to give her a bite. After all, he had to keep up with his chieftain, who had drawn her blood back there in the gadderheal. But this time, Katria did not cower; she did not sink to her knees and commence the submission postures as she normally did. She stood up, shoved her ears forward, peeled her lips back, and growled. Donaidh was stunned.

"What are you doing?" he snarled.

Katria did not answer but took a step forward and continued growling.

"Well, let me tell you something! I'm going with the chieftain and Malan and Blyden and Fretta. Yes, you idiot she-wolf. I'm going after the cub and then you'll see. I'll be promoted. I might rise nearly as high as Malan."

It was obvious to Katria that Donaidh had not seen the malicious look that Dunbar MacHeath had shot him in the gadderheal. Katria knew Donaidh was aiming to succeed Dunbar, but he was not Dunbar's choice. She sensed that Donaidh might be walking right into one of Dunbar's tricks. He had never before been invited to join a slink melf or any other special mission. They needed him for all the wrong reasons.

But Donaidh was musing now about his luck at being selected for this cubnapping mission. "We'll see who is dominant in this den. Remember, Dunbar has no sons to succeed him as chieftain of the clan. His mate is too old. But I am not old, nor are you. You could be the mate of the next chieftain, the mother of one someday."

Never, Katria thought. I shall never bring another pup into this clan. But she cast her eyes down in a semblance of submission. "We'll see," she replied in a docile voice.

"I thought you would."

Donaidh turned and ran out of the den to join Dunbar, Malan, Blyden, and the scout Fretta, who had tracked Edme to the river where she had played with the bear cubs.

As Katria watched Donaidh vanish from the entrance of the den, she knew the time had come. She must leave the MacHeath clan for good and seek refuge with the MacNamaras. She-wolves had tried in the past, but they rarely succeeded a" at least not in Katria's lifetime. But now the chieftain, his highest lieutenant, her own mate, and two of the best scouts were heading out of the MacHeath territory to look for a bear cub. The time to go was now!

She would leave in broad daylight as if she were going to hunt for small prey a" rodents or marmots. Her trail would take her north and east, toward a peninsula jutting out into the Hoolemere Sea.

Over the centuries, a secret language had evolved among the abused females of the MacHeath clan. In Old Wolf, this language was called banuil caint, which roughly translated to "she-wolf talk." There had been whispers about it for centuries. But it remained a mystery how the abused females learned banuil caint. The language was said to have been invented by Hordweard, the founder of the MacNamara clan. Hordweard had lived a thousand years before, in the time of the first embered monarch, King Hoole. When she escaped the MacHeath clan, her mate, the chieftain Dunleavy MacHeath, had tried to follow her. Near Broken Talon Point, she had slain him.

Hordweard went on to form her own clan and became known as Namara, which in the Old Wolf language meant "maker of strong spirits." It was said that ever since the clan was founded, secret agents of the MacNamaras left bones with Hordweard's hidden language gnawed into them in MacHeath territory, to embolden the she-wolves who wanted to flee.

Katria had found a banuil caint bone shortly after she gave birth to her first litter. She didn't really understand it but somehow sensed that this bone was meant for her. It took her years to decipher it, and when she did, it ignited a small glow deep within her marrow. The words were simple. You are good. You are wise. She had deciphered the bone after Donaidh lashed out at her, calling her a mangy cur and ripping off her dewclaw, the fifth claw on one of her front paws. There had been other messages since. None of them were addressed specifically to Katria a" they could have been meant for any she-wolf who had suffered a harsh life in the Beyond's most brutal clan a" but Katria seemed to find them at moments of utter darkness and despair. The most recent she found soon after the death of Kyran. She buried the bones where no one would discover them.

Through the years, the language had become easier and easier for her to comprehend. The messages were never demanding or didactic. They never told her what to do or even suggested a course of action, for the words did not seek to teach as much as to make her believe in herself and her own power. Most important, the bones of the banuil caint allowed her to reflect deeply on her life and its meaning. Gradually, she began to believe in her own worth. With this belief came a trust in her dignity as a living creature on earth. It became clear to her that nothing was owed her but that there were things she needed to do if she wanted to live a life of courage instead of fear.

And now the MacHeaths were planning a war, and Katria knew she had to leave. If anyone could stop the war, it would not be the wise wolves of the Watch but the MacNamara clan. For no one knew the ways of the MacHeaths better than the MacNamaras. And no wolf was braver than a MacNamara she-wolf. They were slow to anger, but once set upon, a spark ignited deep within them that forged their marrow into stone. It was as if flint ran in their bones.

Katria set off shortly before dawn, just after the departure of her chief and his top lieutenants to grab a cub. Katria blessed the prevailing wind that would speed her journey and slow the chieftain on his own diabolical mission in the opposite direction. Her journey would take longer, but she planned to travel at press-paw speed. Females were the strongest runners in any wolf pack, and outflankers were the strongest of all. She felt a kindling in her bones. Was it the flint of the MacNamaras? She was determined to get to them in time.

She had been on the trail for a while but was not in the least tired. The words of the banuil caint seemed to sing down her bones, and with each step, she became increasingly invigorated. As high noon approached and her shadow grew shorter, a bright shadow inside her seemed to be growing. Katria did not have a name for it. She had never before felt this sense of emboldened spirit expanding within her.

A sound emanated from a spa.r.s.e copse of birches and brambly thornbushes, and Katria stopped for a moment. She knew in her marrow that if Donaidh followed her, she would slay him. Something white moved in the thicket. Her hackles rose. Was it a slink melf?

She crouched into a defensive posture but shoved her ears forward. The days of submission to tyrants were over. Like a silent rebellion, the words of the banuil caint rumbled through her marrow.

But it was not a tyrant who stepped into the clearing. It was Airmead the Obea. It was as if she had materialized from the very bark of the birches.

"You!" Katria gasped.

"Yes. You were not the only one reading those bones. But you were much braver. I left when I knew you would."

"But how did you know? Were you the only one who saw me leave?"

"I didn't see you leave. I saw when you decided to go."

"B-b-but a b-but a" Katria stammered. "You weren't in the den when Donaidh and I argued."

"I was in the gadderheal when the chieftain lashed out at you. I saw your eyes as you buried your muzzle between your paws. I knew you would be leaving soon." Airmead paused, then continued, "If it was not for the threat of this war, I might not have ever worked up the courage to go. A hundred times I promised that I would leave, but I was frightened to go alone. Don't worry. I was careful to cover my tracks and I left many false scents."

It hadn't even occurred to Katria to leave false scents; her head had been too filled with leaving. "I should have thought of that," Katria said. "I have been careful only to urinate in streams, though."

"That's good." Airmead paused. "I think we can make it, Katria. I think we have a chance. The chieftains and the lords are all caught up in this notion of capturing a grizzly cub, setting off a war between the wolves of the Watch and the bears." She sighed. "In my entire barren life as an Obea, I have never had to take a malcadh to a tummfraw. But I have to admit that the opposite thought did cross my mind." She stopped and cast her eyes down toward the ground. Snow had begun to fall, even though it was the first quarter of the Moon of the Flies.

"What's that?" Katria asked.

"I thought I might rescue that cub from Old Cags and perhaps stop a war."

"A single wolf is not going to stop a war," Katria said as she dug her claws deeper into the ground where the snow was beginning to stick. "Dunbar MacHeath will find another way. We must get to the MacNamaras and tell them what he's plotting. We don't have a lot of time. It is at least a four-day journey to MacNamara territory."

"Yes, but it will take Dunbar at least two days to get to where the cub dwells with his mother and then back to the Pit. And remember, the prevailing wind will be against them for part of the journey on their way to s.n.a.t.c.h the cub, and it will be with us for all of ours."

"True, but we have to move fast. Are you up to doing most of this journey at press-paw?"

"I'll try. I'm not an outflanker like you, Katria. I've never had to run a byrrgis and press in on the prey for leagues on end. And now this weather a" She hesitated. "If it snows again, it's going to be hard. But I'll try."

Airmead was right. It was going to be hard. Nearly impossible if there was another blizzard. Katria looked down. The snow was piled almost as high as the scar where her dewclaw had been. Why are snowflakes dropping instead of flies during this moon? Everything seemed turned around. Was there something worse than war coming?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE SHE-WINDS.

"PYGMY!" FAOLAN SHOUTED.

"Burrowing!" Edme said.

"Boreal!" they both blurted at once.

"Great Gray!" Faolan leaped a bit as the elderly taiga Malachy held up the jump bone with the incised profile of an owl's head.

"Long-eared!"

"No, Faolan," Malachy replied.

"Great Horned!" Edme said.

"Well, it had to be the other if not a Long-eared," Faolan said. "That was an easy guess."

"True." Edme nodded good-naturedly.

"It wasn't that easy," Malachy chided. "You forget Screech Owls have tufts as well. But now for the test," Malachy, a brindled wolf with crooked hips, said slyly. "Edme, can you tell us the distinguishing characteristics between the so-called ears of the three species that sport them?"

"Uh a uh, I forget."

Faolan c.o.c.ked his head. "I think," he began slowly, "that the Long-eared Owls' feather tufts stick up more and are closer together."

"Very good, Faolan. Yes, exactly, and the Great Horned Owls' tufts are wider apart and stick out at an angle. And the Screech's tufts are, well, somewhere in between." He paused and squinted at the two young wolves, a merry glint in his green eyes that reminded Faolan of the green sparkles on the river on a clear summer day. "Now, here's a tricky question for you."

"What's that?" said Edme, eagerly hoping to redeem herself with a truly challenging question.

"It has nothing to do with owls' heads."

"Uh-oh!" Edme and Faolan both said at once.

"Have a little faith in yourselves, young'uns. Which owl has featherless legs?"

"Featherless legs!" Edme said.

"Not a single feather!" Malachy snapped his jaws shut for emphasis. "Bare as a bear cub's b.u.t.t."

Faolan and Edme inhaled sharply. "Uh," Edme said, her voice taut. "Are you sure bear cubs' b.u.t.ts are bare?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. When they're first born. They hardly have a patch of fur on them. By the time they come out of the den, they're little fur b.a.l.l.s. The cutest things you've ever seen. But never go near them; never touch them." Faolan and Edme grew very quiet, alarmingly quiet.

"Come on now, young'uns, the question isn't that hard. Which owl has no feathers on its legs?"

Faolan broke the silence. "Can you give us a hint?"

"Well, if you insist. I know you haven't seen that many owls because the volcanoes aren't very active yet, but which one did I tell you is the worst flyer?"

"The Burrowing Owl because a because a" Edme started to speak but was distracted by the thoughts of bear cubs. Why did I play with that cub?

"Because they're good at walking," Faolan said in a tentative voice.

"Exactly!" Malachy boomed. "Who needs feathers for walking or running?" He paused. "Anything wrong, young'uns?" He peered at them curiously. Their enthusiasm, their wonderful keenness, had suddenly vanished. Just then, a strange whining seeped into the den where Malachy tutored new Watch wolves in the habits and customs of owls. He tipped his head. Could it be? It was strange it would come so early, but if that wasn't the peevish complaint of the She-Winds, well, he didn't have crooked hips.

"Hear that, young'uns?" he said softly but with great excitement.

At just that moment, a wolf came skidding down the chute into the den. "Hear that, Malachy?" It was Padraigh, wind scout for the Watch.

"Is it what I think it is?"

"It is, indeed. I've been as far south as the border of the Shadow Forest. It's the She-Winds. They're a-coming!"

"But it's not the season!" Malachy swayed a bit on his crooked hips, as if the very idea had unhinged him.

"She-Winds don't seem to mind none. They're back, and you know the owls can't be far behind them." He looked directly at Faolan and Edme. "Now your real larnin' begins, young'uns. No more jump bones. Real live owls on the wing!"

The She-Winds were unique to the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. They seemed to arrive out of nowhere and go nowhere, but when they blew, they stirred the hot fluids in the deepest parts of the craters of all five volcanoes, and every Rogue smith and collier flocked to the Ring.

In the excitement of the moment, Faolan and Edme forgot their anxieties and followed Malachy and Padraigh out of the den. Twist and Winks came rushing up to them. "Your shifts are about to start. Get to your cairns."

The gusts were so strong that Faolan and Edme had trouble even standing straight at first. The ground beneath their paws shook as the first quaking belches of the volcanoes rumbled up from deep inside the earth. Faolan couldn't imagine how he was supposed to stay upright on his cairn, let alone perform the repertoire of scanning jumps they'd learned.

"Hang on to your fur, young'uns." Padraigh laughed raucously as he trotted away, angling himself to the winds that were lashing about them.

"Don't worry, we'll stay with you through your shifts," Twist said. "But regard Paddy a" Padraigh a" see how he is angling himself across the gusts." But Paddy always walked oddly. Of all the wolves of the Watch, his deformities were possibly the most curious. On one side, he was missing an ear, an eye, and a paw. It was as if he had been born lopsided, and yet despite his odd gait, he was effectively cutting through the maze of gusting winds that seemed to blow w.i.l.l.y-nilly across the Ring, first from one direction and then another.

"The thing is, Faolan," Twist said as they reached the top of Stormfast's cairn, "I know these winds seem very confusing. But there's a peculiar order to them, which you'll see."

Faolan didn't see any order in the least. The air swirled not only with embers but with the grit scooped up from broken lava flows.

"Do you notice anything?" Twist asked eagerly.

"Yes, I notice that I'm having trouble standing upright."

"Tuck in your dewclaw and dig in with your others. Look. There are four nice femurs on the cairn, placed just so. Wrap your claws around them. We didn't place them that way just for the fun of it. Good gripping. Especially the bear femur."

"Bear?"

"Yes, there's a grizzly femur. Can't beat it for gripping."

Faolan's splayed paw was drawn to it by an invisible force. He knew that the bones in the cairns sometimes shifted, but why had he never seen this one before?

"Has this bone always been here?" Faolan cried out over the screech of the She-Winds.

"Oh, yes. It's what we call a keybone. It locks the whole cairn together. It never shifts."

"How come I never noticed it before?"

"Maybe you never really needed it before. But you'll see that it puts a spring in your leaps. Draw a bead on that bone. Fix it in your mind and it will keep you steady and your jumps true. Just feel it and picture it in your mind's eye."

And how he did feel that bone! It was as if he were experiencing a completely new way of seeing, as if his mind's eye were in his splayed paw. His first jump was not the best. He landed fine but didn't do the double inverted twist that would allow him to scan the entire rim of the crater and the sky above for graymalkins.

"I'm sorry," he said upon landing. "I didn't do that very well."