Being a Lone Dog is almost like being a wolf, she thought. I don’t have to wait for anyone! But it wasn’t, really. She didn’t have other dogs snuffling beside her, sharing her space and her prey. And she hadn’t called out to the Great Wolf to thank her for the hunt, either.
“Thank you, Forest-Dog,” she muttered, through a mouthful of food. “For this tasty squirrel, and for not letting me starve even though I tried quite hard. . . .”
It wasn’t a very funny joke, but that was fine, because there was no dog there to laugh at it either way. Sunshine would have laughed. So would Whisper. Lucky and Twitch would both have shaken their heads and rolled their eyes.
Thoughts of the Wild Pack were like predators, following her—hunting her, wherever she went. Lurking in the shadows until it was time to strike, and easily able to take her down.
She imagined them stepping up to eat—Sweet first, and then the pups and Lucky. Twitch, Mickey, Snap, Daisy, Breeze . . . they paraded in front of her mind’s eye. But it wasn’t a soothing memory. As each dog passed before Storm, she had to wonder . . .
Are you the bad dog? Twitch, Snap, Chase? Mickey, Sunshine?
Have you been killing your Packmates?
And have you stopped now that I’ve left you alone—or are they all still in terrible danger?
Storm jerked awake into darkness. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—she was lying in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by the smells of the forest, and there was no sign of the other hunters who should be in the den with her, no scent and no warmth coming from their sleeping bodies.
Then she remembered that she was alone in her new den, under the hanging rock, just as she heard another plaintive howl cut through the quiet night air.
The wolves! Something’s happening!
She had been back to the valley a few times now. However much she watched them, it never seemed to sate her curiosity completely. She would be hunting some prey in the part of the forest she thought of as “hers,” when suddenly she would be overcome with the desire to know what was happening down in the wolf camp. She just liked to watch them go about their tasks as a Pack, working together, playing, sometimes arguing. Their huge Alpha would settle disputes quickly—no wolf wanted to be on the receiving end of those enormous jaws—and everything would settle back to a peaceful, ordinary existence. It was so unlike the Wild Pack way of doing things . . . and so much like it, at the same time.
They had never howled in the middle of the night before.
She padded through the dark undergrowth and past the Dead Tree, until she came to her favorite vantage point. When she looked down, her breath caught in her chest.
The wolf Pack was on the move. All of them, from the youngest, still barely out of puphood with oversized paws and huge dark eyes, to the very old wolf she had seen Thoughtful and his friend feeding several times. They walked slowly, not at all like a hunt setting out. Storm followed them, staying carefully downwind and up on the lip of the valley, while the Pack moved in a slow procession away from the lake and toward the wider, shallower end of the valley.
The wild bushes and trees gave way to a wide grassy plain, and Storm’s path along the top sloped sharply down to meet it. She moved more carefully, aware that soon she would lose the safety of the cliff and be truly trespassing on the wolves’ territory. The plain was silvery in the strong light of the Moon-Dog, and in the middle of it, a large slab of white stone stood all by itself. The wolves, who had been marching slowly but unstoppably, suddenly paused. They seemed reluctant to approach the white stone at first, spreading out into a circle around it. Then one wolf stepped forward—the elderly wolf Storm had seen before, walking at the head of the Pack with the Alpha by his side.
His limbs trembled as, with some difficulty, he clambered up onto the white stone and flopped down with his muzzle on his forepaws.
The Wolf Alpha also stepped forward, but she didn’t go too near the stone. Instead she turned and faced the circle of wolves with another piercing, melancholy howl.
“Great Wolf, the time has come for our Packmate to return to you. He brings his loyalty, his honor, and the boundless love of his pups and of their pups. Please, welcome him home to the caverns of the moon, where he will forever be with the wolves of the past.”
Storm’s breath caught in her throat, a great wave of sadness making her choke.
The elderly wolf was dying. That was what Thoughtful had told her, wasn’t it—that dead wolves went to the moon to be with the Great Wolf and their ancestors?
In turn, more wolves stepped forward and howled—they howled to the Great Wolf, and to the elderly wolf on the white stone, and to one another. One told a story about the elderly wolf bringing down a bear all by himself, and another mentioned the Big Growl, and his heroism when the ground crumbled and the sky turned black.
But something was wrong. The wolf on the white stone was still alive! How could they stand there and talk about him as if he had already died, when he was still moving, his muzzle raised to the pale moon?
Finally, every wolf that was going to howl seemed to have done so, and as one, they turned and began to walk slowly back toward the lake and their camp. The elderly wolf stayed up on the rock, leaning his muzzle on his front paws.
But he’s alive! Storm wanted to growl after them. Are you just going to leave him here?
It seemed that was exactly what they were going to do.
What about scavengers? Storm thought, her mind racing. I’ve seen those huge birds circling near here, and I think I smelled foxes once! Even if they don’t believe in Earth-Dog, it feels wrong to leave him there.
It just seemed cruel.
The wolves were gone now, and Storm hesitated for a long moment, before making her decision. Slowly, keeping her eyes and nose alert for any wolves coming back, she walked out into the plain and crossed to stand beneath the tall white stone.
“Hmmf?” the old wolf huffed, one eye opening and turning on her as she approached. There was a milky film over it, and Storm was sure the wolf was mostly blind.
“It’s all right,” Storm said softly. “I’ll make sure you’re buried properly.”
“Have a heart, young . . . dog,” croaked the old wolf. “I’m already dying. Find somewhere else to scavenge your next meal.”
“I’m not going to eat you!” Storm whined, shuddering at the idea. She might have killed dogs and foxes before, but she was certain it would be wrong to eat something that was so much like her. “I want to make sure nothing else does eat you. I was watching, and I . . . I just didn’t think you should have to do this by yourself. . . .” But Storm trailed off as the old wolf lifted his head, with some difficulty, and stared down at her. After a moment he let it fall back onto his paws with a sigh.
“Dogs,” he muttered. “In my final hour, Great Wolf, you send me dogs?” He took a deep breath, and Storm could see his shoulder bones moving under his loose skin. “This is the way of the wolf Pack, dog. Can’t you see? When the Pack have said their good-byes, a wolf must walk to the moon alone.”
Storm sat back on her haunches, a wave of sadness washing over her again. These wolves were so much like dogs, but so different at the same time. Could she really do nothing to help this poor old wolf?
“I can’t just leave you here,” she said quietly. “That’s not the way of the wild—well, it’s not my way. There are scavengers around, and you . . . you might not have finished your walk to the Great Wolf, before they come.”
The old wolf growled, a sound like gravel rattling in his throat.
“Well . . . stay downwind, then,” he said finally. “I don’t wish to die with the scent of Longpaw Fang in my nose, thank you.”
“Longpaw Fang?” Storm whimpered. “I knew a dog who used to call my kind that. But I’m not anybody’s fang!”
The wolf’s ears twitched, but he didn’t reply.
Storm turned to walk a few paces away, though it made her sad to leave the wolf all alone. Then she paused and
looked back.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The old wolf sighed. “I have no name,” he said. “I have already gifted it back to my Pack.” He looked at Storm, and for a moment there was a glint in his eyes—they were yellow again, and almost glowing as the moonlight shifted over his face. “One day soon, the name that was mine will belong to a cub. Now, I go by the name of all dying wolves. I am Fading.”
“Fading,” Storm murmured. “It was nice to meet you, Fading. And I . . . I’m sorry.”
“Go away, dog,” said Fading, but there was a hint of humor in his voice. “I must set out soon, and I believe it is quite a long walk.” He looked up at the Moon-Dog, and the light faded from his eyes, turning them pale and silver once again.
Storm settled down a few pawsteps away, feeling like a great dog had hooked a freezing claw right through her chest. Was this really how wolves died? And what would the other dogs say if they could see Storm now, standing guard over a not-dog who didn’t even really want her to?
She wasn’t sure why it felt so important—but it was something she had to do. She thought back to the fox, the one that Sweet had told her to injure to send a message back to the other foxes.
Storm had refused. It had caused her all sorts of trouble, but she had seen that the fox was expecting cubs, and she couldn’t do anything that would hurt an animal so defenseless, even if it was her enemy.
What would the Wild Pack say, if they could see her now, watching over a wolf?
She hoped they would see that she was a good dog—at least that she was trying to be.
Fading stopped breathing just before the Sun-Dog rose to begin his morning run. Fighting the urge to lie down and fall asleep, Storm wondered if she ought to bury the wolf after all—but if he really had to walk all the way to the Great Wolf in the moon, surely covering him with earth would be very unhelpful.
She padded closer to Fading’s body already scenting the faint smell of death in the air around him as she reared up on her back paws, putting her front paws on the edge of the white stone.
“Hey!” barked a loud voice, and Storm half fell backward into the grass. She spun around and saw three large wolves pounding across the grass, their teeth bared. “Hey, scavenger dog! Get away from Fading!”
“I didn’t—I’m not—” Storm began, but the wolves were closing in, and from the looks on their faces, she didn’t think they would stop and listen to her tell them why she was here on their territory, intruding on their death ritual. She turned and ran, racing across the grass with her heart thumping in her ears.
“Get her!” another of the wolves cried. Their pawsteps were loud as they thudded across the grass behind Storm, and she tried to put on another burst of speed, keeping her head low and her ears pinned back. She felt like she was almost flying by the time she came to a copse of trees and slipped underneath a thornbush and through a tangled mess of vines. The thorns scratched at her short fur but couldn’t get a grip. Behind her, she heard a crash of splintering wood and crunching leaves, and then a howl of pain and annoyance.
She dared to pause, hiding herself behind the huge trunk of a tree, and look back. The three wolves were all bigger than her, and they all had long, fluffy gray fur. Two of them had gotten stuck in the undergrowth when they’d tried to follow her through, and the third was pacing up and down in front of them, trying to nip at the thorns to untangle her Packmates. She stopped and turned, and for a moment Storm thought she would come after her—but then she just howled into the woods.
“Stay out of our territory, Longpaw Fang! We’ve scented you here before. Don’t think we don’t know about you!”
“Yeah, you and the others of your kind,” growled one of the wolves who was stuck in the thornbush. “We know you’re here. This is your first warning! If we catch you, you’ll be sorry!”
Storm slunk away, as quickly and quietly as she could, until she was certain she was off the wolf Pack’s territory. Then she sat down by the side of a trickling stream and took a long, cool drink.
What did they mean? she thought. “The others of your kind”?
Could they mean there are other dogs here? But they said Longpaw Fang . . .
That means there are other Fierce Dogs nearby!
CHAPTER FIVE
Storm was sniffing around the edge of a tangled thicket, trying to work out how she could catch the vole she was sure was living inside, when she picked up the scent.
It was a Fierce Dog scent.
The wolves’ words had lodged in her mind, and she had spent a few days circling their territory, never getting too close, but searching for those other dog-scents they had mentioned. She knew they might have been mistaken, thinking that Storm’s repeated visits to the edge of their camp meant there was more than one Fierce Dog around. Would wolves even know the difference between two Fierce Dogs’ scents anyway? And what if Longpaw Fang meant something different to these wolves than it had to the old half wolf?
But here it was—a scent that wasn’t Storm’s own, but definitely belonged to another Fierce Dog.
Arrow?
Storm’s heart leaped. Could it be? Arrow and Bella had headed in this direction when they had left the Wild Pack’s territory. And they had even asked her to come with them.
I should have said yes. I should have just gone with them, two dogs I know mean me no harm and don’t hate me just because I’m a Fierce Dog.
But as she investigated the scent, her nose skimming the forest floor, she realized she had been wrong to get her hopes up. This scent wasn’t Arrow’s. It was stronger, as if there were more than one Fierce Dog here, and there was no sign of Bella’s scent, which had been fully intertwined with Arrow’s by the time the two mates had left the Wild Pack territory.
This was a Fierce Dog Pack.
They had come into Storm’s half-stolen territory, presumably hunting the same fat voles and weasels she had found between the tree roots.
I don’t want to meet them.
After the battle on the ice and the death of Blade, the other Fierce Dogs had scattered, running for their lives. She tried to remember which of the dogs had died and which had run, but she couldn’t. That day was a blur of snow, ice, and blood. She had been too exhausted from fighting to notice much else.
She had been lucky not to run into the Fierce Dogs before, when she was weaker. She didn’t think hey would be particularly pleased to see her.
Storm hesitated, sniffing the air and getting her bearings. The pine trees rose high and dark all around her. If she continued the way she was going, following a ridge and the scent of prey, she would be going the same way that the Fierce Dogs had passed. She didn’t want to go that way—but she had only two other options. She could retrace her steps along the ridge and almost certainly catch no more prey that day, or she could pick her way down between the trees . . . and back onto the wolf Pack’s territory.
Her last encounter with the wolves had left her warier than before. Their furious snarling echoed in her mind long after she had escaped. If she truly thought of them as enemies, she would’ve been able to brave it, even knowing that it might come to a fight—but she didn’t want to fight the wolves. They weren’t her enemies, even if they didn’t know that.
She would stay on her path. Perhaps she had missed the Fierce Dogs, and if not, it would be better to find out how many of them there were, so she could avoid them better in the future.
Satisfied with her conclusion, she padded on along the ridge, stopping every few pawsteps to scent the air. If she could stay downwind of the Fierce Dog scent, she might be able to see them before they knew she was there.
Storm moved through the trees a few quiet pawsteps at a time, as if she was tracking a particularly tricky piece of prey. She kept herself still and steady, pausing often to scent and listen for other dogs.
The trail led her down a slope and along the bottom of a gully, where a steady trickle of rainwater formed a tiny stream. The ground was muddy here, and t
he scent of both Fierce Dogs and prey was stronger—this was probably one of the places they came to hunt. Sure enough, Storm started to see tracks in the mud. Paw prints, the same size as her own, not the large and heavy pads of the wolves.
They led toward a patch of thick undergrowth where the valley widened out and the ground grew flatter.
Storm approached the bushes, the scent of other dogs rising all around her, hardly daring to breathe it in, in case her snuffling alerted the Fierce Dogs to her presence. One of them was here right now, just the other side of this thick tangle of twigs and leaves. . . . She would be very lucky to get past undetected.
For a moment the scent blinded Storm, not just with smells, but with memories. She still wasn’t sure which dog this was, but they smelled of home, in a way that made Storm’s gut twist with confusion and anger.
The Fierce Dogs were never my Pack! I never lived in the Dog-Garden with the longpaws, and I never followed Blade.
But still, being so close to another Fierce Dog made Storm think of her litter-brothers, Wiggle and Grunt, of their scents when the three pups had huddled together for warmth and comfort in the Wild Pack’s dens.
This dog isn’t Wiggle. Storm shook herself. She couldn’t let herself get distracted now. She needed to sneak past, as planned. The scent grew even stronger, and Storm felt panic rising, even as she tried to remain calm. Had she been scented? Should she break cover and run for it now?
Then another thought struck her:
This Fierce Dog is not Blade either. . . . Perhaps they would be willing to call a truce. She could explain that she was passing through, and they might not even care. No dog knew what the Fierce Dogs were like without their crazy Alpha.
There was another option. She could attack. Not to kill, but to scare them, to show that she was the dog to be avoided, not them.
“You!”
Storm spun around clumsily, one of her paws slipping on the mud.
A Fierce Dog stood behind her—downwind, she realized, just like she had been. It was a large female with black fur broken by a stripe of light brown down the center of her chest.