Through Wolf's Eyes

JANE LINDSKOLD

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and
events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously.

THROUGH WOLF'S EYES

Copyright © 2001 by Jane Lindskold

Edited by Teresa Nielsen Hayden

Map by Mark Stein Studios, based on original drawing by James Moore

Family tree art by Tim Hall

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010

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®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Cover art by Julie Bell

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001027197

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Jim,
with Love

I'd like to thank several people for their help
during the development of this book. Christie Golden's eloquent
discussion of some aspects of characterization remained with me as I
developed certain characters. Phyllis White of Flying Coyote Books
supplied numerous valuable references on wolves. Jim Moore was once
again my priceless first reader and constant sounding board. Kay
McCauley, Jan and Steve Stirling, David Weber and Sharon Rice-Weber
never let me give up. Sally Gwylan helped me to conquer time and error.
Last, but not at all least, Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden provided
thoughtful encouragement and cogent editorial comments.

Special thanks go to Dr. Mark Anthony for fixing my
shoulder and to Candy Kitchen Wolf Ranch for giving me a chance to meet
several wolves up close and personal.

Feel free to contact me through my website, janelindskold.com.

A
AA-ROOO! AAA-ROOO!

Distant, yet carrying, the wolf's howl broke the late-afternoon stillness.

In the depths of the forest, a young woman, as strong
and supple as the sound, rose noiselessly to her feet. With
bloodstained fingers, she pushed her short, dark brown hair away from
her ears to better hear the call.

Aaa-rooo! Aaa-rooo!

It was a sentry howl, relayed from a great distance
to the east. The young woman understood its message more easily than
she would have understood any form of human speech.

"Strangers! Strangers! Strangers! Strange!"

The last lilt of inflection clarified the previous
howls. Whatever was coming from the east was not merely a
trespasser—perhaps a young wolf dispersing from his birth pack—but an
unknown quantity. But from the relay signal that preceded the call, the
strangers were far away.

The young woman felt a momentary flicker of
curiosity. Hunger, however, was more pressing. The cold times were not
long past and her memories of dark, freezing days, when even the stupid
fish were unreachable beneath the ice, were sharp.

She squatted again and continued skinning a still
warm rabbit, musing, not for the first time, how much more convenient
it would be if she could eat it as her kinfolk did: fur, bone, flesh,
and guts all in one luxurious mouthful.

A
AA-ROOO! AAA-ROOO!

Derian Carter, the youngest member of Earl Kestrel's
expedition, felt his shoulder jerked nearly out of its socket when the
wolf howl pierced the late-afternoon peace. The haunting sound startled
the sensitive chestnut mare he was unbridling nearly out of her highly
bred stockings.

"Easy, easy, Roanne," he murmured mechanically, all too aware that his own heart was racing. That wolf sounded
close
!

As Derian eased the mare's headstall over ears that
couldn't seem to decide whether to prick in alarm or flatten in
annoyance, he said in a voice he was pleased to discover remained calm,
almost nonchalant:

"That sounds like a big wolf out there, Race."

Race Forester, the guide for Earl Kestrel's
expedition, looked down his long nose at the younger man and chuckled.
He was a lean fellow with a strong, steady tread that spoke of long
distances traveled afoot and blond hair bleached so white by constant
exposure to the sun that he would look much the same at sixty as he did
at thirty.

"That it does, Derian." Race stroked his short but
full beard as he glanced around their sheltered forest camp,
systematically noting the areas that would need to be secured now that
big predators were about. "Wolves always sound bigger when you're on
their turf, rather than safe behind a city wall."

Derian swallowed a retort. In the weeks since Earl
Kestrel's expedition had departed the capital of Hawk Haven, Race had
rarely missed an opportunity to remind the members (other than the earl
himself) that Race himself was the woodsman, while they were mere city
folk. Only the fact that Race's contempt was so generally administered
had kept
Derian from calling him out and showing him that a city-bred man could know a thing or two.

Only that, Derian admitted honestly (though only to
himself), and the fact that Race would probably turn Derian into a
smear on the turf. Though Derian Carter was tall enough to need to duck
his head going through low doorways, muscular enough to handle the most
spirited horse or work from dawn to dusk loading and unloading wagons
at his father's warehouses, there was something about Race Forester's
sinewy form, about the way he carried his slighter build, that made
Derian doubt who would be the winner in a hand-to-hand fight.

And, with another surge of honesty, Derian admitted
that the woodsman had earned the right to express his contempt. Race
was good at what he did—many said the best in both Hawk Haven and their
rival kingdom of Bright Bay. What was Derian Carter in comparison? Well
trained, but untried.

Derian would never have admitted that before they set
out—knowing himself good with a horse or an account book or even with
his fists—but a few things had been hammered into his red head since
they left the capital, things that hadn't been all that much fun to
learn, and Derian didn't plan on forgetting them now.

So Derian swallowed his retort and continued removing
the tack from the six riding horses. To his right, burly Ox, his
road-grown beard incongruously black against pink, round cheeks, was
heaving the packs from the four mules. When another long, eerie wolf's
howl caused the nearest mule to kick back at the imagined danger, Ox
blocked the kick rather than dodging.

That block neatly summed up why Ox was a member of
the expedition. Even-tempered, like most big men who have never been
forced to fight, Ox had made his recent living in the Hawk Haven
military. During the current lull in hostilities, however, he had left
the military to serve as Earl Kestrel's bodyguard.

Ox's birth name, Derian had learned to his surprise, was Malvin Hogge.

"But no one's called me that since long before my hair
started
receding," he'd told Derian, rubbing ruefully where his curly hairline
was making an undignified and premature retreat. "But I prefer the name
that my buddies in Kestrel Company gave me long ago and, strangely
enough, no one ever calls me 'Malvin' twice."