The byrrgis — no matter how many wolves — always moved as one. Individuals were absorbed into a fluid whole. Pelts blended into a subtly hued wave of fur curling across the vastness of the waterless sea known as the Beyond. And in a night of boisterous winds, with the sky torn by racing clouds, the moon might shine down to cast a devilish brilliance upon their pelts. The shadow of the byrrgis slid across the hard land like a ghost ship. The wolves’ lungs merged into one immense pumping bellows. Separate hearts became one huge beating organ. The wolves’ marrows fused into a single mighty river. There was a splendid unity to it all. It was a sight that greatly amazed the Sark, and there was nothing like it in the Beyond. No other animals could do what wolf packs did when they ran together on a hunt.
After Liam MacDuncan’s byrrgis had fallen apart, the Sark heard nothing but snarling wolves tackling one another and barking recriminations. The Sark’s skittering eye had twirled in mad disbelief. Driven by sheer hunger, these wolves had become absolutely despicable. In her long life, the Sark had observed more byrrgises than perhaps any other wolf in the Beyond. What she saw that day almost shattered her. She understood — better than any wolf — that a byrrgis was a microcosm of the whole wolf world and its clan system. The wolves depended on decisive communication. A leader, whether a clan chieftain or a turning guard, had to have strength of conviction to make decisions. That’s what the byrrgis needed and that’s what a clan needed. It was how a leader earned respect and could command. Without respect, discipline dissolved like morning fog in a noon sun. And that was precisely what had happened with the byrrgis that the Sark had joined a half moon before. The Sark would never forget the image of Liam MacDuncan slinking off after the humiliating failure of the hunt.
Normally, the Sark, known for her extraordinary sense of smell, would sniff out herds before she could spot them. But with the baffling weather of late, the winds had switched and she would never catch a whiff of caribou with the way it was blowing. Indeed, it was more likely that the herd would catch her scent — the stench of the two rotten Slough tern eggs — before she could smell them. However, she could see something glinting enigmatically in the distance. It wasn’t a low-setting sun, for the sky was shrouded in thick dark clouds. But from close to the ground came a metallic shimmer. Then she caught sight of some animals. Although they were blurry, they looked like wolves. Her sight was not as good as her sense of smell. “Calm down,” she quietly ordered her skittish eye. “For Lupus’ sake, let me see. Got to draw a bead on this.” They look like wolves but they don’t move like wolves, she thought. She decided to creep down the escarpment. It wasn’t far to another ridge where she could get a better look.
Despite the wind carrying their howls away, she could hear the wolves distinctly now. But their wailing made no sense. “The Prophet … the Prophet … and in my sacred pelt I shall dance to the place of warmth and meat and everlasting game….”
Sacred pelt! she thought. They look more like bags of bones. There were a dozen or more wolves dancing in a circle and crying out for a prophet. They appeared weak, and exhausted to the point that some of them were collapsing.
Suddenly, the glint that the Sark had spied from afar flashed from the center of the circle. A creature rose up wearing a mask, a visor of metal that was fixed to a helmet. The creature was the size of a wolf. It had the legs of a wolf but was like no wolf the Sark had ever seen.
She caught the glint of the visor straight in her bad eye, which set it spinning again. She clapped a paw over it for several seconds, as if the eye were a naughty pup trying to escape the whelping den. “Behave yourself,” she growled. Then slowly she removed her paw. She could see clearly now and she could hear clearly. In another few seconds, the wind shifted and she could smell as well.
“A MacDuff, at least two MacNabs,” she whispered to herself. But the thing that shocked the Sark the most was the creature in the metal visor. The wind had shifted and brought a scent, but it was indecipherable, for mingled with it was more than a trace of owl. Corrupt! the Sark thought. But it was not simply the smell that was corrupt. It was the dance and what these wolves were howling. The wind blew harder and a new scent came to her. Dream marks! How could they? Dream marks were special scent signs left to indicate a place where a mate had died or a pup was lost. Were the wolves dancing on someone’s grave? It might as well be their own, thought the Sark as she watched them limp off into the distance.
“This is most foul!” she muttered. And with that, the Sark vomited up the eggs she had eaten that morning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRAYED TEMPERS
AN OWL MESSENGER HAD BEEN sent from the Ring to the Carreg Gaer of the MacDuncan clan to inform them that two Watch wolves would be arriving. This was not good news for Liam MacDuncan. Word of the disastrous two-pack byrrgis must have reached the Fengo. For emissaries to be sent to interfere with the business of the Carreg Gaer was one more threat to his authority. This never would have happened in his father’s time, and his raghnaid would be the first to remind him of that. Now he was going to have to break the news to the raghnaid and other high-ranking wolves of the clan who had assembled in the gadderheal. How would he put it? More important, how would his mother, Cathmor, have put it? Liam’s eyes began to fill with tears. Don’t cry! he admonished himself. Whatever you do, don’t cry.
Liam MacDuncan realized that it was silly of him to try to guess what his mother might say in this situation, because had she not died, agents from the Ring would never be coming. She would have managed to govern the clan through these terrible times.
Why? Why did she have to die and leave me with this mess? If his parents had only let him do more when he was younger, be more independent, he’d know what to do now. No … no! he scolded himself. He shouldn’t blame his parents; they had tried their best. His eyes filled again with tears. Liam MacDuncan, young chieftain of the MacDuncan clan, was caught in an endless cycle of shame and rage.
He looked into the dim light of the gadderheal. Perhaps he would delay sharing the news for one more day. Yes, that’s it! I’ll call for the skreeleen.
“Uh … uh …” he began nervously. “Is Alastrine here?” he asked tentatively.
“Alastrine?!” asked Lord Adair. “Whatcha want with her, Li — I mean, honorable chieftain?” He nearly choked on the last two words.
Liam MacDuncan squared his shoulders and tried to assume an authoritative posture. “It might interest you to know, Lord Adair, that I would like her to consult with the wind scouts.”
“Wind scouts!” someone shouted. “Why in the name of Lupus would you call for the wind scouts?”
“For any storms,” Liam snapped.
“Ain’t we got enough?” someone barked from the back. There was an explosion of laughter.
“I wasn’t … talking about bl … bl …” he stammered. “Blizzards! I was talking about rainstorms, ceilidh fyre, sky fire. We have the best skreeleen in the Beyond. She can read the sky fire of summer storms as no one else and give us guidance.”
“It might be summer, but these ain’t summer storms,” howled the wolf in the back.
“Don’t talk to our chieftain in that manner!” someone else snarled.
Outside, Mhairie the young outflanker and her sister Dearlea tried their best to hear what was going on inside the gadderheal cave.
“They’re fighting again,” Dearlea said.
“What else is new?” Mhairie replied with a sigh. “Everything is wrong, just plain wrong. Upside down and backward.”
“That fool chieftain!” Mhairie muttered. “Lord Adair is absolutely bamboozling him. Nobody understands it, not even the raghnaid.”
“There are rumors that the Watch is sending some wolves to see what is happening,” Dearlea said grimly.
“Nothing is happening. That is the problem. How long has it been since the last rotation for the Blood Watch? How long has Mum been gone on the Blood Watch — two moons? She should have been back by now.” Mhairie paused, her t
ail drooping. “Maybe she feels that she has nothing to come back to since Da died.”
“She has the pups.”
“The pups aren’t pups anymore. They’re almost as grown up as we are.”
“Well, then she has us and the almost grown-up pups.”
Mhairie sighed. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dearlea asked.
“I think Mum doesn’t like an empty den. Ever since I can remember, she had a litter every spring. She gave birth to more pups than any female in the clan.”
“But the pups are still here even if they aren’t pups anymore. We’re still here,” Dearlea replied stubbornly.
“Sometimes I wonder if she felt the same way about us as she did the pups,” Mhairie whispered.
“Have you gone cag mag? Of course she did. She appreciated how much we helped her with the pups since we were the oldest. And tell me who in the world would choose to go on the Blood Watch if they didn’t have to? I don’t think she’s staying out there just for her own amusement, Mhairie.”
“Maybe she found a new mate. Someone else to have pups with.”
“I’m not going to listen to another thing you say. You’re just being completely foolish.” And to emphasize her point, Dearlea gave her sister a quick body slam.
“Ouch!” Mhairie yelped. “Neither one of us has enough meat on our bones for that.” Indeed, the impact had jolted both their bones. This struck them as oddly funny, and they began to laugh and tussle. They were both laughing hard when they heard a familiar voice.
“Well, I’m glad someone around here has found something to laugh about.”
The two she-wolves disentangled themselves and leaped up from the ground. “Faolan! Edme!”
“So it’s true?” Dearlea said.
“What’s true?” Edme asked.
“There were rumors that the Fengo was sending wolves to check on us.”
“Yes, and from the sound of it, something is going on inside.” Edme tipped her head toward the gadderheal.
“It’s always like that,” Mhairie sighed. “They fight all the time.”
“Is the chieftain in there?” Faolan asked.
“Yes,” Dearlea said.
“Is it true that the chieftain wanders off?” Edme asked.
“Yes, every now and then. And then he wanders back,” Mhairie answered.
Faolan took a step closer to Mhairie. He had not seen either one of the sister wolves for a while. There was always something that fascinated him about their eyes, especially now. And oddly enough, as the two she-wolves stared back at him, each felt a slight stirring in their marrow. What was it about him? Why had they wanted to protect him when he was still a gnaw wolf?
“So what’s going on in there?” Edme asked. “What are they arguing about?”
“They seem to be arguing about finding Alastrine,” Mhairie said.
“Alastrine — your skreeleen? Why?” Faolan asked.
Wearily, Mhairie began to explain. “Liam wants her to consult with wind scouts. He’s hoping for a storm, not a blizzard.”
“He wants her to read the ceilidh fyre?” Faolan asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” Mhairie answered. “He can’t make up his own mind what to do. His mum isn’t around anymore to do it for him. So he looks to the sky. But he’d do a better job looking to the Blood Watch.”
“What do you mean?” Edme asked.
“The Blood Watch hasn’t changed in over a moon,” Dearlea explained.
Edme and Faolan exchanged glances. So what the Fengo had told them was true. The Blood Watch was unstable.
Dearlea continued. “The same blooders are still at the border. No new wolves have been sent.”
“Our mum’s been gone since the end of the Moon of New Antlers.” Mhairie paused. Her voice cracked a bit when she began to speak. “We miss her.”
“How long has it been this way? The disorder, the arguing?” Edme asked, nodding toward the gadderheal.
“Since Cathmor died. First, Liam sank into this ter rible grief. It was after that, I think, that he started wandering off. As if he didn’t care anymore. And he just wasn’t able to make decisions about anything. When he’s here, it’s not exactly like he’s still grieving, but he’s not himself. That’s the best way I can put it,” Dearlea said.
“I think we need to find Caila. We need to find your mum,” Faolan said grimly. “And I think we need to find the rest of your clan’s blooders.”
Faolan and Edme turned toward the cave opening. The tumult inside had grown louder. The two wolves looked at each other. Resolutely they entered the din and darkness of the gadderheal, their tails high, their ears shoved forward.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A RAGHNAID IN SHAMBLES
AS THEY ENTERED THE CAVE, FAOLAN looked around. Why are the enormous caribou antlers slightly askew? he wondered. Beneath the antlers, the chieftain sat on a pile of pelts, his own ceremonial headdress tipped at an odd angle. These were two slight irregularities that should not mean anything, and yet they were the first things that Faolan noticed. How different everything seemed now that Cathmor was gone. The fire in the center pit was sputtering because no one had bothered to tend it. Many of the raghnaid members were not wearing the headdresses or bone necklaces that were required when a session was called. But was this a session? Some wolves seemed to be sleeping, oblivious to the din around them. All of them looked extremely thin, and their pelts were far from lustrous. But then again, the Watch wolves had grown thinner as well, their coats duller. Yet, thought Faolan, we still hold ourselves with dignity.
That was it, he realized — the decorum, the dignity, and the solemnity of the gadderheal had vanished. The props were still there. The beautifully carved bones that generations of gnaw wolves had incised still gleamed with their intricate designs. The pelts of animals brought down in byrrgises still hung from stone pegs, many turned inside out and decorated with designs etched from charred wood. But the artifacts of death seemed more expressive of this venerable clan’s majesty than the clan wolves themselves. There was nothing noble, nothing dignified, and not a trace of majesty left in this gadderheal that had once inspired a gnaw wolf to seek a righteous life and honor bones with his finest carving.
Even the beautifully incised bones seemed to mutter with despair. Deep in his marrow, Faolan felt an ache for what had been. He looked over at Liam MacDuncan, who seemed confused by the squabbling among the lords of the raghnaid. Occasionally, he got up from his special pelts beneath the massive caribou antlers and circled nervously. His eyes glistened with anxiety, as if he were on the brink of tears. As he circled, he lifted each paw high and hesitated, almost as though he were testing the firmness of this sovereign ground.
It took several seconds for the wolves in the gadderheal to realize that Faolan and Edme had entered. But when they did, an immediate hush fell in the cave.
“What are you doing here?” Lord Jarne roared. His ears had not lain back or even twitched. Such insolence to a Watch wolf from the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes was unheard of.
Faolan and Edme shoved their ears up and walked forward on stiff legs with their tails raised and their hackles bristling. Faolan came so close to the insolent Lord Jarne that their noses almost touched.
“I come by direct command of the Fengo of the Watch of the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes.” It was as if every wolf in the cave were holding its breath. “We have come to inquire about the rotations of the Blood Watch.”
Liam felt his knees grow weak.
“Why didn’t you tell us that the Fengo was sending Watch wolves, Liam?” someone barked from the back. Edme and Faolan were shocked. The wolves were not even using the proper form of address for their chieftain. This was another appalling breach of etiquette.
“Yes, why not?”
“Why not?”
Soon there was a chorus of howling wolves, and the cave teetered on the brink of chaos. Edme shot Faolan a desperate glance.
As if
lifted up by his own anger, Faolan rose on his hind legs and began to walk above the crowd. Thunderheart had taught him to do this. When Faolan had jumped the wall of fire as a yearling, wolves had been stunned, but this was entirely different. Jumping, even jumping high, was in the range of moves of a wolf, but walking on hind legs was an extraordinary endeavor, a feat. The light from the small fire burning in the pit in the middle of the gadderheal cast Faolan’s shadow against the rock walls of the cave, and his dark profile seemed to stretch endlessly. All the wolves began to cower, and even Jarne and Adair assumed the most extreme of submission postures. Good! Faolan always knew those two lords were idiots and decided not to waste another second with them. But then another wolf rose and began to snarl.
“You know nothing! And how do we know you have been officially sent by the Fengo? If our chieftain didn’t tell us, perhaps it was because your visit is not sanctioned at all.”
The two lords whom Faolan had just decided not to waste time on began to rise up. Faolan’s and Edme’s instincts were perfectly in sync. In tandem, they leaped forward, Edme body-checking the wolf who had snarled, and Faolan kicking down Jarne and Adair. But it was the cold hard look in Faolan’s eyes more than anything else that vanquished the two lords. Their marrow froze.
“It matters not what the chieftain did or did not tell you,” Faolan roared. He turned again to Liam. “What matters now is for you to stand forward, Liam MacDuncan, son of Duncan MacDuncan, great chieftain of the MacDuncan clan, and son of Cathmor, noble she-wolf, renowned turning guard. You are the grandson of Dunforth MacDuncan, great-grandson of the first Liam MacDuncan, and descended from MacDuncans stretching back to the time of the first Fengo of the Beyond!”
With each name that was called out, Liam shrank farther into his pelt until he seemed as small, insubstantial, and frail as a wolf four times his age. An immutable silence suffused the cave. Every wolf had its eyes fastened on their chieftain as if trying to imagine his illustrious predecessors. Yes, thought Faolan, think of your history. Think of the honor of this clan since the time the first Fengo arrived in the Beyond. If we forget, we shall fall, and if we fall, then the whole Beyond will fall as well, and we shall sink into an abyss of darkness.