Frost Wolf (11 page)

“Yes, I suppose so,” said the Sark. She was thinking, however, that the imagination of the
cag mag
wolf who
wore the helmet and visor of Gwyndor was becoming absolutely lethal. She recalled that faint tinge of death on the wind when it had come down from the ice cliffs. Outclanners, she had thought at the time — outclanners who would not hesitate to feed on a dead or dying wolf.

For some reason, the Sark did not believe that the wolf who wore Gwyndor’s helmet was an outclanner. She was not sure why she felt this way, but she was certain. And perhaps the most frightening thing of all was that this prophet might not have any idea of the real harm he — or she — was doing. Innocence with a core of evil — could there be such a thing? Did this make the Prophet pitiable, or benighted? Did he perhaps think that he was delivering his followers from the pain of a slow death?

The Sark tossed her head. And why dancing? Dancing was for celebration and not for dying. But then again, the final act of dying known as
cleave hwlyn
, the separation at the time of death from the clan, the pack, and finally a wolf’s body from its soul, was a kind of celebration, a dance of sorts, although one did not move but remained as still as possible so the soul could gently separate itself from the failing body. But was it honorable to confuse the two and divert the ritual of one to another?
It is wrong! Utterly wrong!
she thought.
Cleave hwlyn
was a
deeply private act, done alone in the most solitary manner possible. It was one unique soul parting from one unique body to find its way up the star ladder with only the guidance of Skaarsgard.
It’s not a
frinking byrrgis
!
the Sark silently cursed.

Did this wolf realize, the Sark wondered, that he was depraved? Well, truth be told, evil had many guises — it could seem quite ordinary, even sleep in your pack and run shoulder to shoulder with you in a
byrrgis
.

When the dawn broke, the landscape had been transformed once again. The Obea tree was clothed in a drapery of ice that sparkled so fiercely they could hardly look up into those twisted branches that writhed in glaring brightness toward the sky. Every black limb and twig was sheathed in a crystal armor of ice. But soon, as the sun rose above the horizon, it was as if a thousand rainbows had shattered in the tree, for every ice bead became a prism. When the wind blew, the colors shivered and the air flashed with pinks, reds, blues, purples, and greens in eruptions of dazzling beauty. The morning was jeweled in a phantasmagoric display of light and color.

THE LAST OF THE SUMMER MOONS was waning, and if this was summer, what would autumn bring? The last blizzard had been the worst. Faolan could not help but wonder how many sick or dying wolves were buried beneath the mountainous drifts. The wind had stopped for the moment and the swirls of snow had stilled. The Beyond had been transformed into an undulating whiteness with no separation between sky and earth. The two spheres were continuous. It was an eerie and disorienting feeling as the five wolves made their way back toward the cairns, for it seemed as if all borders had dissolved. Although they were not blind like Beezar and did not stumble, they felt as if any moment they might.

Faolan could not help but wonder if the Beyond would ever look as it once had. Would this featureless
white world ever sort itself out, would the snowy blanket pull itself apart from the pale sky?

As the five friends drew closer to the Blood Watch, they spotted wolves topping the cairns. But more impressive was the sound of
skreeleens
howling. Since the five travelers had first arrived at the border between the Beyond and the Outermost, they’d heard the howlings of many
skreeleens
— many more than they would hear staying with a clan. But they quickly realized that
skreeleens
were needed at the Watch, for they were fluent in the code needed to report anything from the sighting of a caribou herd to the trespassing of territorial boundaries. On the Blood Watch boundary, they were especially valued, as it was crucial to report any outclanner movement immediately.

But now it wasn’t trespassing outclanners that had the
skreeleens
howling, their marrow aquiver. Low in the milky sky, the
skreeleens
had spotted dozens of spheres of different lights in vibrant colors they had never seen. Sizzling, acid-hued globes bobbed lazily on the horizon. This spectral phenomenon had followed the ice storm of the previous night, and the
skreeleens
, who had a wealth of tales to help them interpret the sky fire of a lightning storm, were bereft of any narration for these queer orbs.
So they howled in confusion, asking the Great Star Wolf the meaning of it all.

Faolan, Edme, the Whistler, and the sisters continued to serve on the Blood Watch. Tamsen had been right about the futility of attempting to break up a Skaars circle. When the five wolves had returned, she said what they had already concluded — unless the Prophet himself could be caught, there was little hope of stopping the deadly dancing. The Whistler had quickly made himself invaluable as a
skreeleen
, howling out to alert blooders to any outclanners who had slipped across the border. Tamsen was therefore very open to the notion of sending out scouts to collect other gnaw wolves, such as Creakle and Streak.

The strange bobbing lights that had appeared so mysteriously on the horizon were having a profoundly damaging effect. Skaars dancers across the Beyond had seen these lights as a sign of the imminent arrival of Skaarsgard. They began to dance even more intensely, particularly since the Caribou Moon would soon be upon them and the star ladder would disappear from the sky, taking Skaarsgard and the heavenly constellation known
as the Cave of Souls far beyond them. It was never good to die when the star ladder had vanished. Spirits were left marooned on earth and could not hope to ascend to the Cave of Souls until the constellation returned in the spring.

From the top of the cairn where Faolan was perched, he had an unparalleled view out into the night. Above the bobbing lights, the star ladder was just forming, and he could see the wolves in their palsied dance circles desperately attempting to jump for the lowest rungs. But they were too weak to make it. The Skaars dancers became more hysterical with each passing hour of the night, as the strange and luminous lights floated above them on the dark purple line of the horizon.

Below Faolan, several wolves had just collapsed, and the skulking shadows of outclanners were drawing nearer.
Have heaven and hell ever come so close together?
Faolan wondered.
Or is it all just hell?

A cohort of blooders rushed in, but they were too late for one wolf. In a shaft of moonlight, a stain of blood spread slowly over the snow.

As Dearlea and Mhairie approached the top of the cairn, Faolan’s attention was momentarily distracted.

“You’re not on duty yet,” he commented.

“Oh, we just thought we’d come keep you company,” Dearlea said.

“Some blooders who went out hunting found two ptarmigan. So we’ve saved some for you when your watch is done.”

“We thought it might make you happy just thinking about the ptarmigan,” Dearlea said.

“Yes, it does, thanks,” Faolan answered. He knew the bird was just an excuse for the sisters to come up and see him.

When they were not on watch, Dearlea and Mhairie tended to stay close to Faolan. Yet Faolan was still uncertain how they felt about what he had revealed to them.

Faolan’s feelings, however, were clear. He was a member of a family. He had living sisters, he had blood kin! Ever since he could remember, there had been a small void inside him that could not be filled, not even by Thunderheart, his second Milk Giver. He had learned to ignore it, get on with life. But now that void had been filled by his sisters, and it was as if an ember burned inside him, glowing with warmth. His very marrow seemed to shimmer with this new knowledge that he was a brother — a brother to Mhairie and Dearlea. For Faolan, nothing would ever be the same again.

The Blood Watch was not as diminished as Faolan and Edme had originally thought. This was largely due to the arrival of several wolves from the renowned MacNamara clan from the northeast, the only female-led clan of the Beyond. Four nights after the strange lights appeared in the sky, two more MacNamara wolves arrived for duty on the Blood Watch. As they came up the trail toward the jagged ridge that was spiked with watch cairns, Edme recognized them almost immediately.

“Airmead! Katria!” she howled. The other Blood Watch wolves were more than pleased to see these new arrivals, for they knew the two she-wolves were highly regarded lieutenants in the MacNamara clan.

A few minutes after Katria and Airmead’s arrival, a group of wolves had crowded into the rather small
gadderheal
of the Blood Watch. Tamsen, the captain of the watch, greeted them.

“Welcome. Words can’t express how happy we are to see you. We are stretched thin, and if it had not been for the Namara’s generosity in sending us wolves, we would truly be in trouble.” She nodded her thanks to Brygeen and Oona, two stalwart MacNamara lieutenants.

“We are here to serve,” Katria said. Then she turned to Brygeen and Oona and spoke. “You can go back now. More of us are coming, and I’m sure your families will be happy to see you.”

Oona stepped forward. “We have not been here as long as some. Tamsen, how long has it been since you last saw your mate in the Blue Rock Pack?”

“Not since the Moon of New Antlers,” Tamsen answered.

“Then you should go back, Tamsen,” Brygeen said quickly. “We have two more MacNamara wolves on their way.”

“You are too generous.”

“No, not at all,” Oona said. “Your pack needs you. This terrible thing — this Skaars dancing — is spreading. It’s more deadly than any famine, and only strong pack leadership can stop it.”

Despite her thinness, Oona was a strikingly beautiful black wolf. Faolan and Edme both noticed that she did not use the words “clan leadership.” The Blue Rock Pack was only a pack in the MacDuncan clan, and Tamsen was only an outflanker. Not a clan chieftain. Had Liam gone
by-lang
yet again? Was the clan truly without a commander? Then it struck Faolan: Was it possible that Liam,
who had never been a natural leader like his father, had been seduced by the Skaars dancing?

It was decided that Tamsen and Greer, a
skreeleen
whose voice was nearly raw from howling alerts about trespassing outclanners and wolf eaters, should be relieved of their duties after the additional MacNamara wolves arrived. Tamsen and Greer were strong MacDuncan wolves, and the MacDuncans — the Clan of Clans — was tottering on the brink of collapse and needed every good wolf it could get.

HIS NAME WAS TULLY, AND HE was a double-chawed Great Snowy Owl dispatched from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree on direct orders. His mission was to assess the condition of the wolves of the Beyond and to see if support from the Great Tree could be of use. He was also supposed to figure out where in hagsmire Gwynneth was, as she seemed to have vanished.

Tully did not feel up to the job at all and hoped against hope that he would find that frinking Masked Owl. He knew he could never equal Gwynneth’s knowledge of the Beyond and its wolves. Wolves were just plain weird.

Tully had started regretting his mission from the moment of takeoff. The weather was completely miserable. He thought he had outflown an ice storm that had been forming over the Sea of Hoolemere, but it had caught up
with him. His wings had begun to ice up just as he left the Shadow Forest, and he was forced to light down on some Glaux-awful icy cliff that his talons could barely grip. Then, on the next leg of his flight, there was no place to land but the ground, on top of a drift. At least with his hollow bones and the spread of his talons, he didn’t sink in.

The only good thing was that there seemed to be a few snow hares about, and, listening carefully, he could detect the pitter of deer mice. If wolves weren’t so picky about what they ate — all that ridiculous big game — they might not be starving now. Rodents and snakes were perfectly good food. Did everything have to be so big and bloody and so hard to bring down?
Wolves must
, Tully thought,
expend more energy than they consume.
Or so it seemed to him. But then again, what did he know about the ways of wolves?

So far, there had been no sign of Gwynneth, nor could he spot any trees. Tully wasn’t sure which he regretted more. Another night roosting in some un-owlish spot was not appealing. Alighting in a drift was hardly inviting. Snow was pretty from the air, but sleeping in it, on it, beside it, or whatever was not fun. It was cold. How did Gwynneth stand this place? Tully wondered. Well, she was a curious bird, that one.

Tully was high and skimming some cirrus clouds that stretched out across the night sky when a draft carried another noise to his ears. It was almost as if the wind ached with the sound. He banked steeply to begin a fast spiral down and was soon hovering over a bizarre sight. There was a circle of wolves flat on their backs. Their legs were extended and they were pawing the air, no, not the air, the sky — as if they were … were what? Searching? Reaching for something?

The words they were howling in their thick wolf brogue were almost unrecognizable, but they were begging, begging for someone to come back.
Skaars? Skaarsgard? Who in hagsmire is Skaarsgard?
thought Tully.

These wolves were in trouble, Tully realized, even close to death. The thought of them dying in this Glaux-forsaken country stirred his gizzard.

The wolves lay with their eyes rolled so far back in their heads that only green crescents showed. They were muttering unintelligibly, but every now and then Tully caught a word or two — “Skaars … Skaars …” It was a guttural cry.

“Skaars? Who is Skaars?” Tully asked repeatedly. But none of the wolves had the strength to answer. There were perhaps eight wolves in all, and one had died the moment Tully alighted. The other seven seemed to be
very close to catching their last breaths. Tully was suddenly aware of a slight ticking sound beneath the snow. Pure instinct surged through him, and he plunged deep into the white drift. Great Glaux! These starving wolves had collapsed on top of a virtual treasure trove of snow mice! Half a wingspan down or less was a maze of tiny tunnels used by snow mice and most likely shrews. Very shortly, Tully had killed two rather plump snow mice and was diving down again for the clutch of babies.
No use leaving orphans!
Tully thought.

Tully was careful in his butchering. He gave each rodent a quick stab to its cranium to kill it and was careful to make sure that as little blood escaped as possible. Then he surveyed the surviving wolves. It made sense to try and feed the least weak of the wolves first in case the others were too far gone to help. So, taking the biggest of the mice in his talons, he settled next to a large gray male. First he fanned the gray with his wings, trying to stir him into some sort of consciousness.

When the gray’s eyes fluttered a bit so that the green became more than just a thin crescent, Tully spoke. “I’ve got something here for you to eat, mate. Now, don’t you go refusing it.” He gave a quick stab to the life-giving artery at the base of the mouse’s neck. Tully pressed the small
furry creature to the wolf’s mouth as the blood spurted, and squeezed the mouse.

“Drink!” Tully snapped. “I’ll hear none of this nonsense about rodents. Rodents are perfectly good nutrition.”

The eyes of the wolf flickered open. A shadow of consciousness glimmered in the green.

Tully chattered on in a calm, cheerful voice. “Come on, old fellow. Drink up now and I’ll strip the meat for you, just the way we do for the little owlets at home. Tender to the bone, this critter is. And I’ll gut him for you as well. Might have a bit of summer grass left in him. Then again, it wasn’t much of a summer, was it?”

The wolf took in a bit of meat.

“Skaars …” rasped the wolf.

“Skaars? No. Tully’s the name, fella.”

“I … I … I know you’re not Skaars, but did he come? The Prophet said so.”

“The Prophet? What are you talking about?” Tully asked.

“The Prophet, the dear Prophet? He was here a moment ago before … before …”

“Before you passed out?” asked Tully.

“Passed out? Oh, never! I was merely in a Skaars
trance. He will find me and bring the ladder here to earth and the Cave of Souls as well.”

I’ve pulled myself a real nutter on this one
, Tully thought. What in the name of Glaux was this wolf talking about? He was completely
yoicks
. “Have another sip of blood, old fellow,” Tully said amiably. He squeezed the last drops into the wolf’s mouth. “Now I’m going to tend to your mates, but I’ll set this mouse here. Try to eat it if you have the strength. But if you don’t, I’ll come back and strip some more meat from him for you.”

“But what about the Prophet?”

“The Prophet. Uh …” Tully hesitated. Should he say he didn’t know
racdrops
about any frinking prophet or should he play along? “Uh … I’m sure he’ll be here in a jiff.”