Frost Wolf (9 page)

“WELL, TOO BAD THE BLIZZARD slammed down on us. But it has eased now. So we might as well start here.” The Sark plunged into a mountainous drift.

“You can’t be serious, ma’am!” Gwynneth found herself addressing the scrawny butt of the Sark, who seemed to have been swallowed almost whole by the snowdrift.

The Sark surfaced a few seconds later in a soft explosion of powdery white.

“You were saying?” she asked.

“I was saying you can’t seriously be trying to find scent traces in all this!”

“One has to begin someplace,” the Sark replied tersely.

“Can you smell anything?”

“There are traces down there, but it’s difficult. I’m going to do a little digging now that I’ve at least made something of a dent. So far, the spoor is pointing us north and west.”

“Toward the Outermost?” Gwynneth’s voice quavered, but the Sark was so absorbed in her task of digging out the drift that she didn’t notice. Gwynneth couldn’t help but admire her tenacity.

“Oh, if there were only a Burrowing Owl around! They can dig with those long legs of theirs. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your talents will be used.”

It was not the first time the Sark and the Masked Owl had worked together. As the Sark often reminded Gwynneth, the two of them together were more than the sum of their parts. As the Sark put it, “With my sniffer and your ear slits, we’ve got it all.”

The Sark might not believe in scrooms, but she did believe in honor and duty. And it was Gwynneth’s duty to find her father’s helmet and visor and to try to restore his hero mark as best she could. Gwynneth could not be absolutely certain where this grave was, but if she could find his helmet, she knew in her gizzard that she would somehow be guided there.
I know it! I just know it!
But she
was startled at the idea that her father’s bones might rest in the Outermost.

The Sark had surfaced once again. She looked perplexed, or rather as perplexed as a creature could look with mismatched eyes, one of which was spinning crazily.

“Well?” Gwynneth said anxiously.

“It’s odd, but I do believe that somehow the effects of starvation are altering —”

“Oh, no!” Gwynneth gasped. “Your sniffer is off?”

“What? Are you
yoicks
? Of course my sniffer isn’t off!”

Gwynneth knew instantly that she had said the wrong thing. One never doubted the Sark — at least not out loud.

“It’s the scents that have changed,” the Sark huffed. “A wolf doesn’t smell quite the same when it’s starving. It alters something in them. I’m getting a little whiff of MacDuff, possibly MacAngus — I’m not sure, though — and maybe some old musk ox. Musk ox used to circle up around here.” She paused dramatically and managed to still her eye. “And, there’s something else!”

“What?” Gwynneth asked. She felt a small stitch in her gizzard.
Do I really want to hear this?

The Sark walked up to the Masked Owl and lifted a snowy paw to pat her shoulder. “Owl bones.”

“Da?”

“I don’t know, dear. A dead owl smells different from a living owl. I only knew your father when he was very much alive, ‘in full gizzard’ as he would often say when he had accomplished something masterful at his forge. I smelled traces from his forge when I first saw the wolf in that mask. I just didn’t realize it until I consulted my memory jugs. It makes sense, don’t you see?”

The Masked Owl blinked.

“Gwynneth, the wolf was wearing a helmet and visor made in your father’s forge. The helmet still carried traces of scent with it. Your father used an odd mixture of bonk embers and lower-grade coals. He also used some caribou scat.”

“You mean poop.”

“Yes, you owls call it ‘poop.’ So undignified! I call it ‘scat.’ No matter. It’s an unusual combination of fuels for fires. But who am I to judge? Each artist has his own formulas for heat.”

“So the wolf who wore the helmet carried scents left over from the forge of my father.”

“One might deduce.”

Gwynneth only vaguely knew the meaning of the word “deduce.” She sensed that the Sark did not want to
say for sure what animal had disturbed the hero mark. For all her confidence, the Sark often hedged her bets and exercised a certain amount of caution.

“What we have now,” the Sark continued, “is reliable spoor. More reliable, I might add, than the scent of a starving wolf. I think wolf scents in this time of famine are becoming mutable. There is an underlying acrid scent to a starving wolf that dilutes its base scent. It makes it quite confusing. But I can follow a scent trail of owl bones and forge smells. We can begin.”

But how?
Gwynneth wondered.
How can the Sark have the energy to track?
The Sark had hardly eaten anything save for the voles and some Slough tern eggs. Gwynneth knew that the Sark did not especially like rodents or any of the small creatures that comprised the owl’s basic diet. But she would have to learn to stomach them if they were going to track a scent trail through heavy snow.

And she did.

“I can’t say that I find snake exactly delicious — that would be an overstatement — but I think I prefer it to rat,” the Sark said.

It was their third day out, and the spoor trail was patchy at best. It went this way and it went that way. But the Sark was showing strength and energy and her usual persistence. When they holed up in an abandoned den or cave for rest, they often passed the hours in lengthy discussions about everything from the best fuels for fires to food.

“What about the snake eggs I found this morning?” Gwynneth asked.

“Definitely superior to Slough tern eggs. That of course is damning with faint praise. I can’t help but think my distaste for Slough tern has something to do with their obnoxious personalities. Although I suppose that’s something of a paradox — perhaps I should enjoy eating a creature that I find offensive in life.”

“I can’t believe you just said that, ma’am,” Gwynneth replied.

“Why ever not?” the Sark asked.

“You admire the caribou, don’t you? You consider them a noble breed.”

The Sark did not answer immediately. Her eye gave a skittish turn in its socket. “Ah! I see where this is going. Yes, I admire the caribou, I think they are noble. And so delicious! Point taken, Gwynneth. You are a clever owl.”

They were well into the Moon of the Mossflowers, perhaps one of the most beautiful of the summer moons. It was during this time that the harsh ground of the Beyond burst into flower with delicate white blossoms springing from the mossy expanse of the land. The blooms were no bigger than the dew claw of a pup and added a shimmer to the Beyond. Some wolves referred to this as the Moon of the Two Skies, for when darkness fell, it seemed as if both earth and sky were abloom with stars. This came in the middle of the summer moons and was normally the hottest time of the year. Soon after, the cooler ones blew through, beginning with the Caribou Moon. On its heels, like a point guard on prey in a
byrrgis
, came the Moon of the Frost Stars, the mildest of the three hunger moons. But this year, each moon brought only cold and want.

Nevertheless, this particular day dawned with a sudden heat, such as that of an early summer morning. The Sark stepped out of the cave, tipped her head up toward the ferocious sun, and bellowed, “Great Lupus! Enjoy it while it lasts — summer!” The Sark was not fool enough to think that a true summer had arrived, but the ever hopeful Gwynneth spread her wings and rose into the dazzling shafts of sunlight. She whooped
joyously. “Glaux almighty, do you think we’ll see mossflowers?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” the Sark shouted back. “Is it hot enough to melt all this?” She tossed her head toward the mountainous drifts of snow the blizzard had left behind. “Never. Let’s hope for a bit of mushiness.”

But she knew that was a fragile hope at best. She wanted to believe the warmth would last, but her nose told her it wouldn’t. She could smell the snow winds brewing. No other creature could pick up the elusive scent, but the Sark could open her mouth and almost taste snow in the dry, brittle air. She inhaled deeply to feel the warmth of the air, but on the back side it carried a coldness that flooded her nose. And then the scent went dead. It was hard to smell when all you felt was fear and sorrow. The world she and Gwynneth both loved was dying. Something salty flooded the Sark’s throat and nostrils, and she was shocked to realize it was her own tears.
I can’t let Gwynneth see me cry! I won’t cry!

She could already feel the ice forming in her marrow and the sunshine only taunted her.

The Sark was right. The warmth only lasted long enough for the immense drifts of snow and ice to grow slushy. But
with the softening came sharp new scents, including the scent of meat.

“This is a cache!” the Sark said, sniffing over chunks of caribou and marmot as Gwynneth hovered over her. “Can we eat it? What are the rules about caching?” the Sark asked.

Gwynneth blinked. “I should know?”

“Well, you hang around the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes more than I do. That’s where they make the rules, amend the
gaddernock
, and all that business.” She spoke with mild contempt.

“But you’re the wolf. I’m not,” Gwynneth said.

The Sark sighed. She rolled her eyes, and the bushy white tufts of fur that spouted above them sprang to life like two snow hares hopping up and down. “Honestly, Gwynneth. You know how I feel about so much of that wolf nonsense — the elaborate customs, the traditions — all those jangly bone necklaces they wear to symbolize the Great Chain. What a bunch of
racdrops
, as you owls would say. And I wouldn’t give a pinch of caribou scat for any of it. So you can hardly consider me a wolf. I’ve lived alone my entire life. What do I know?”

“Well, ma’am, I can tell you that the wolves of the Watch permit caching food within their own territory. And if a wolf comes across a cache, they can eat it.”

“Now, that’s helpful,” the Sark said encouragingly. “If the Watch wolves have that rule, then I would suppose other clans would as well. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, as they say.”

“What do they say!?” Gwynneth had never heard any creature say this. Not even geese who often flew over the Beyond.

“Oh, it’s just an old expression.”

Gwynneth had certainly never heard it, but she did not question the Sark. For the old wolf shared what she wanted to share and nothing more. The Sark was essentially a deep mystery — her origins, her history, her entire life. She was a country unknown.

The Sark had begun wriggling into the rather small hole where the meat had been cached. She was picking up all sorts of telltale scents from which she could deduce how long the animals had been dead and what they had eaten before they died. There were thus far no indications of the predator who had brought down the prey.

“It’s opening up a bit in the rear,” she shouted back to Gwynneth. And at that moment, an unexpected scent flooded her nostrils. Her skittish eye spun as it was wont to do on such occasions, and she slapped a paw over it so she could concentrate. Then, inhaling deeply, she began to sort out the odors that had infiltrated her nostrils.

“What’d you find? Anything? Anything at all?” Gwynneth kept up a steady stream of questions, which the Sark ignored while she concentrated on untangling the skein of smells. Then she backed out of the hole and turned around to face Gwynneth, who was hopping up and down, first on one foot, then the other.

“Well? The spoor?”

The Sark took a deep breath and finally spoke. “No, not the spoor. This is rather shocking, Gwynneth. There is a trace of ash and something slightly sulfurous. A wolf of the Watch has been caching here, and not only that —” The Sark’s voice jerked. “I can’t believe it!”

“Believe what?”

“There’s a bone here — a gnawed bone with … with …” she stammered.

“With what?” Gwynneth was nearly jumping out of her feathers.

“An incised design.”

“Of what?” Gwynneth screeched.

“A helmet and visor!”

THE FIVE WOLF COMPANIONS HAD emerged from their cave on the day following the blizzard, and reported to the Blood Watch. They had begun serving almost immediately. The Watch was primarily focused on preventing outclanners from slipping over the border, but had also now organized shifts to ambush the scavenger wolves who tried to pick off the fallen Skaars dancers.

“Edme, do you realize that none of the Blood Watch wolves have ever tried to break up a Skaars circle? Don’t you think that’s odd?” Faolan asked.

“Not exactly. They’re stretched. They can barely keep up with running off the scavenger wolves, not to mention chasing the outclanners back across the border,” Edme said.

“Yes, but that’s not everything, is it?” Faolan looked at her with narrowed eyes. He saw her withers bristle slightly.

He’s so perceptive,
Edme thought.
There’s no sense trying to evade the question.
“Well, you can see an outclanner. You can smell a scavenger — they reek from their very marrow. But this … this dancing, this prophet — it’s another kind of evil, isn’t it?”

A shiver passed through Faolan. “You’re right. But even so, don’t you think we should try to stop it?”

“Yes,” Edme replied. “I’m not sure how, but we should try. I have no doubt the Whistler would join us, but what about Dearlea and Mhairie?”

“They have more reason than any of us. The Skaars dancers stole Caila.”

Faolan was right. No one was more eager than his sisters. Soon the five friends had a plan, which they reviewed half a dozen times. The main part of the plan was food. They were bringing the Skaars dancers two snow hares. Tamsen, the captain of the Blood Watch, had given permission for this, although it was clear she didn’t have much faith in their endeavor.

“So, first we present them with the food, and as they eat we talk some sense into them,” Edme explained again.

“I think,” Mhairie said, “you need to explain that you are from the Watch — the Watch of the Sacred Ring, not just the Blood Watch.”

“Definitely,” the Whistler said. “Direct orders of the Fengo. You have to muster all the authority you can.”

“Good point,” Faolan said. “We remind them of the Great Chain — how Skaars dancing is a perversion of all they have learned. Whistler, you can howl the song of the Great Chain.” He then turned to Dearlea. “Dearlea, you know it, too, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I was training under Alastrine.”

“Good. Begin to howl it as soon as we present the food.”

And so they tried. The wind had stilled and the moon was steeped in thick clouds when they left to stalk a circle. They decided to seek out a small circle with no more than five or six wolves and one where the wolves did not appear too exhausted.

When they finally found what they felt to be the perfect test circle, they were able to slip through the shadows and come quite close. When Faolan gave the signal,
all five wolves advanced in their most submissive postures.

Faolan and Edme stepped forward and dropped the snow hares. “We are Wolves from the Watch at the Sacred Ring, and we bring you food.”

One wolf, a large gray, stopped and stared vacantly at them. The dancing slowed as the others seemed to finally catch the scent. They sniffed the meat, but seemed suspicious.

“Eat!” Edme urged, as the Whistler and Dearlea began howling the song of the Great Chain.

One dancer nibbled a bit but then stopped as another wolf stepped forward.

“Go on!” Edme urged. But the dancers would only take the smallest bite before immediately starting to dance again.

“No … no, you must eat, not dance!”

“Skaars!” a wolf gasped.

“Skaarsgard is in the heaven,” Faolan said. “In the sky, not on earth.”

“You drive him off with this meat. I shall not have blood on my muzzle when he descends for me!”

“No blood! No blood! Skaarsgard will not come down!” The cry went up from the dancing wolves and they twirled even faster. The very notion of Skaarsgard descending to earth was so revolting that Faolan’s and Edme’s ruffs rose stiffly.

“Skaarsgard does not descend,” Faolan insisted. “He will call you. You do not call him.”

Faolan head-butted a wolf who had been crying, “No blood!”

“Eat! Eat! We bring you good food,” Faolan insisted.

But the wolf looked at him dumbly. “You mislead us! The Prophet shall find us violated with blood. Skaarsgard will not touch us.”

“His brain is addled!” Faolan whispered.

Edme planted herself in front of the wolf’s wagging head. “Listen to me, wolf. Listen to the Song of the Great Chain. You remember the Great Chain, don’t you?”

“The Great Chain!” the wolf cried. He tried to leap up as if to catch a link and bring it right down to earth, but his paws had hardly left the ground when his body convulsed. He collapsed, his eyes rolling back into his head. He let out a strangled cry, then all was quiet.

“He’s dead,” Edme whispered. Dearlea and the Whistler stopped howling.

A dancer nearby stepped delicately over the dead wolf and began to move in a slow stumbling prance away … away. Others followed him, away from the meat of the two snow hares and into the moon-streaked night.