The Rise of the Fire Moon

  31.

  Fire Scatters

  Tir stood still as the world around him exploded into chaos. His vision was misting over like a pane of cold glass. The sounds of the battle surrounding him were distant and muted to his ears.

  This is my pack—My name is Misari—

  The words were repeating in a loop in Tir’s mind. It was impossible. It couldn’t be true. His father and his pack were dead, long dead. The renegade had told him so herself. But oh, how strange—Misari and his pack were now the renegade’s allies. Could it be true? Had the renegade done it all on purpose?

  The renegade was here, Tir was sure of it. She had not been among the assembled wolves of Misari’s pack, but Tir had spied a flash of white that shot into the hollow the moment the battle had begun. And then she had disappeared into the froth and roils of the fighting wolves.

  Tir watched the battle breaking around him with dull eyes. He knew he should be fighting for his pack. But which pack was his pack? He was surrounded by wolves he had known as a pup, wolves he had admired at his young age, wolves that were now fighting to the death with his new friends.

  He looked around. A few feet away, Nerasa was snarling and darting at a silvery she-wolf Tir remembered to be called Azida, who appeared tiny in comparison, but was weaving and wrestling with the fluidity of a snake. Two identical smoky-grey wolves with yellow eyes were fighting side-by-side against Captain Leron. Tir watched numbly as the massive Captain lashed out with a paw and knocked one of them away as though swatting at a fly.

  Across the hollow, Tir could see Misari and Simetra circling each other, growls issuing through bared fangs. But where was Alpha Liyra? Tir scanned the roaring hollow, but was unable to see the silver alpha. The renegade, also, was missing.

  A chill ran up Tir’s spine. The renegade would not care about the other packwolves. She had her own allies to take care of them for her. She would be hunting for Alpha Liyra. Tir had never much cared for alpha, but he wouldn’t wish for her to die.

  Just as he was deciding what to do, something barreled into him from his right. Tir fell to the side, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Before he could rise, his attacker was upon him in a flurry of black fur and snarling fangs, lunging for his throat and crushing his lungs beneath a thin, but very strong shoulder.

  Tir automatically twisted, rolling to the side and catching the other wolf’s shaggy fur in his teeth. He pulled back, tearing away matted clumps of fur and blood and catching the other wolf around the head. Kicking out hard with his hind legs, he flung his attacker off to the side with all his might. The wolf flew through the air and landed with a yelping thump a few feet away. Tir rose, panting, amazed at what he’d just done.

  But before he could spare any time for thought, his opponent flew back up from the snow with a snarl, and Tir ducked, barreling forward and into the other wolf with a sickening crack. The wolf groaned and crumpled into the snow, a thin trickle of blood seeping out his mouth. Tir snarled and rose above his fallen opponent, preparing to come crashing down—when his attacker raised his head, glaring him in the face. Tir jumped backwards, stunned, and the other wolf’s eyes grew huge.

  “Tir?”

  The hard, black face was unmistakable, and Tir grew hot with shame that he hadn’t recognized him sooner.

  “Avrok!” he gasped, rushing to help him to his feet. Avrok was one of his father’s most trusted advisors. When Tir was young, he had been one of the few packwolves who had not turned against Arwena. It was Kiala, Avrok’s daughter, who had intervened at the yew tree.

  Avrok groaned, struggling, but managed to stand. His leg was twisted at an awkward angle—Tir had wounded him. “I—I’m sorry,” Tir said. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I could say the same,” Avrok muttered, wincing. He gave Tir a curious sidelong glance. “You’ve gotten stronger.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tir said again. “I’ve never fought before; I didn’t know what I would do.”

  “That’s enough.” Avrok spat blood into the snow. “Your father would be proud. And I’d sooner be attacked by you than someone who would bother to kill me.” He grinned. “But perhaps I am dead, now, if I’m talking to you. Didn’t last very long in the battle, did I? Well, I’m getting old.”

  Tir stared. “What are you talking about?”

  Avrok was looking at him strangely.

  “I’m wondering if I’m seeing things,” he said. His voice dropped to a low growl. “You’re dead, Tir. You died in the fire a long time ago.”

  “No!” Tir said, surprised. “I only got separated from the pack—and …and then I fell. Over a ridge, I suppose, but it was all so confusing. I didn’t know there was a drop-off.”

  Avrok was nodding. “Yes, the ridge,” he said. “We didn’t know it was there until a moon-passing ago. A field patrol found it first—it sloped down after awhile, the fall growing gentler until it was no more than a hill. We followed it all the way into this accursed forest.”

  “But when did you meet the renegade? We thought you were her pack this whole time, which is why we came to fight you.”

  Avrok spat in anger.

  “That manipulative vixen,” he said. “So that’s what you call her, the renegade? Fitting. She tricked us. She came and told us some tale about how her pack is coming to drive us out.”

  “That’s what she told us.”

  “Well, I know what she wanted now. She wanted both of our packs to destroy each other in battle, yes? Bloody renegade. I never trusted her. Damned if I know why Misari still does.”

  “So,” Tir said, his pulse beginning to quicken as he realized what this meant. “Is she here fighting against you? Or against everyone?”

  “Oh, no,” Avrok said. He gave a short, bitter laugh. “She had a moment of weakness and felt guilty, I suppose. Came running back to us and admitted everything. Misari forgave her; you know how he is. Now she’s supposed to be our ally, though I haven’t seen her since the battle’s begun.”

  “She’s here,” Tir said. “I’ve seen her.”

  “Well, then, I suppose she is living up to her promise,” Avrok said. “I just hope she doesn’t leave when it gets too bloody for her. A tiny little thing, your renegade; I couldn’t see her lasting long.”

  Tir said nothing. Avrok turned around to survey the raging battle.

  “Arwena came,” he said quietly, and Tir started.

  “She’s here?”

  Avrok nodded. “Misari didn’t want her to come, you know—she’s not doing so well these days. I’ve been fighting her away from yew trees, tooth and claw, for the past season.”

  Dread tightened around Tir’s throat. “What’s happened?”

  Avrok gave him a long look. “She didn’t take your death well. She’s even worse than before. Now, she seems to think that you and your sister are still alive, and she talks to you often, as if you were there.”

  Tir swallowed. Something hot and burning like tears was rising in his throat. He was relieved to hear that his mother was still alive; in fact, he had dully assumed, seasons ago, that she must have perished in the fire. But now he was faced with an uncomfortable image: Arwena, dragging herself along for the past few seasons, growing more ragged and detached from reality with each passing day. Who had shielded her from the pack’s hostilities? She was his mother. She had needed him, and he hadn’t been there.

  “I…I have to go,” he said to Avrok. His voice sounded hoarse and distant. “Arwena…my mother shouldn’t be here; she’s going to get killed. I—I’m going to go find her.”

  Tir turned and ran off without another word; he heard Avrok shout something behind him, but his mind had already fled to terrible images: Arwena, broken in the red snow, the battle raging on over her corpse. He didn’t think that any of Liyra’s packwolves would waste time attacking a harmless and beaten old she-wolf, but he had to find his mother; this was no place for her.

  But Tir did not make it very far. Distracted and slowly giving way to panic, he
did not see the large brown shape crouching in the undergrowth at the edge of the hollow. It snapped out at him as he passed, jaws latching around the scruff of his neck and hauling him backwards into the bushes. Tir growled and fought, taken by surprise, but by the time he realized what had happened he couldn’t do more than twist on the ground. Captain Leron was hunched over him, one heavy paw pressing down on his throat.

  “I saw that, outsider,” he breathed, grey eyes glowing in the shade of the undergrowth. A few feet away, the sounds and snarls of the battle came as muted and distant. Tir strained to see through the screen of snow-covered leaves, but he couldn’t catch more than a few flashes of fur and feet. Nobody could see him.

  “I saw that,” the Captain repeated. “I’m no fool—oh, you may have thought you could let down your guard now that the battle’s begun, but I’ve been watching. I saw you talking to that renegade packwolf, and I know what you’ve been doing.”

  “What do you mean?” Tir stopped twisting beneath Leron’s paw; it was no use. Strangely, his fear had not yet begun to set in—he was familiar with this situation. Last time, it was the white renegade who had held him. But Leron looked more frightening.

  “You think you can play with me the way you play with the others?” Leron said, his face convulsing oddly. His smooth composure seemed to be disintegrating; his voice was breaking into rough syllables and the rage behind his mask was clearly fighting through. “I’ve never fallen for those things, oh no; I’ve been watching you from the beginning, outsider, and—”

  “You can’t call me that anymore,” Tir said. He knew he should be panicking; he knew Leron was going to kill him, but all he felt was a sting of mild annoyance. “I’ve made my place in the pack. Why am I an outsider any more than you? Or the others?”

  “This is not your pack! I’m not your Gatherer, outsider; there’s no use pretending—I know you met with the white renegade in the forest; I know you summoned her at the second deer hunt, so you could bring her to my redoubt; I know—”

  “What? I never—she tried to kill me! She was going to—”

  “You’re no warrior. If she had meant to kill you, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Tir closed his mouth on his defense. It wouldn’t make a difference, whatever he told Leron—the Captain’s teeth were bared in the dark, and his dark fur bristled so that he seemed to fill the shadows and become a part of the surrounding undergrowth. Tir remembered what Palva had said to him, nights ago, about how he, Tir, alone had met with the renegade and escaped with his life. How strange it was, she had told him; there must be a reason. It was true. And Tir had been foolish to think that the Gatherer would be the only wolf to notice it.

  His heart began to pound.

  “She…she didn’t kill me, then,” he said to Leron. His voice was hoarse; it hurt to talk. “You’re right. But I don’t know why, I swear, I don’t.”

  “Enough. I’m not a fool Alpha. I don’t take wolves on their word alone.”

  “No! I never—”

  “Be quiet! I didn’t bring you here to listen to your half-formed protests. The only reason I haven’t killed you yet is because I want to know how many more renegade wolves there are. Where did these ones come from, and how many more are waiting outside the forest?”

  “Wha—what?”

  “You will answer me,” Leron said, almost calmly. It seemed that he had regained control of himself, although Tir could feel his suppressed rage burning in the air like low smoke. “I intend to kill you no matter what. You’ve committed too many treacheries as it is, and it is only just. However, if you cooperate and tell me what I need to know, then I will make a clean job of it. Now, how many packwolves are there?”

  Tir stared at him. It was strange; Tir knew he had done nothing wrong, and he certainly hadn’t brought the renegade upon his new pack. But he did know the answers to Leron’s questions. And the strange pack was his own—at least, it had been, once upon a time.

  “This is all,” he said. Leron’s grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I promise, it is. They came from the burned forest above the ridge, and they…they heard the renegade’s call, and that’s it. The forest doesn’t have enough prey to hold more wolves—you saw how hungry they all were. There are no others. That’s all I know.”

  For awhile, there was silence. Leron examined him carefully, leaden eyes piercing his skull and confusing his thoughts. Tir could not meet them directly; it was as though his head were filling with cold, sapping water. All at once, the fight was drained from him—he felt vulnerable and weak-limbed as a rabbit, prey, beneath the Captain’s paw and steel-rimmed eyes.

  “I believe you,” Leron decided at last, relaxing his grip on Tir only slightly. Some of the anger was gone from his voice. He sounded almost fatherly. “Thank you for your information. I feared that these ragged wolves were nothing more than a distraction, but now I see that the battle should not be as much trouble as I originally believed. It should be over before midnight.”

  Tir said nothing. He wriggled a bit to the side, finding that he had more room to move than before. Leron obviously did not fear him.

  “…I will admit to some curiosity, though, outsider; this little puzzle of yours has been plaguing me for seasons now. You must think us terribly sloppy,” Leron said. “And perhaps you wouldn’t be far wrong; the Council has grown lax and in need of purging. Many of those fools would believe any word that drips from the Gatherer’s mouth. But I’ve been watching you from the beginning, from the fire over the ridge.”

  “The fire?” Tir said. He was genuinely surprised, and hearing it spoken of in Leron’s voice brought back visceral memories of a head filled with harsh smoke and the charred taste that lingered in his mouth for days.

  Leron looked at him. “Yes, the fire,” he said impatiently. Almost all signs of hostility were gone. If anything, the captain seemed mildly annoyed that Tir was feigning ignorance. “Your miserable state when the Gatherer dragged you in. The burn scars that are still visible in your pelt now, the burn scars that match the ugly marks borne by many of these renegade wolves. My only confusion is that the renegade herself seems unscathed.”

  “Well, yes, she would be,” Tir said. His head was bent in a gesture of submission, but he was watching Leron from the corner of his eye. He remembered the force with which Leron had snatched him from the battle, and instead began to focus on the gap in the leaves that led back to the clearing. “She wasn’t in the fire. The renegade pack isn’t really her pack.”

  “But it’s yours.”

  “…Yes.”

  “And she summoned them.”

  “I…suppose so.”

  Leron shook his head. “You know, outsider, in a way I understand you,” he said. For the first time, his voice held no scorn for Tir; he sounded almost sad. “Some of these wolves will go on about honor, but they are ignorant. They have never faced death. There is no honor in simple survival. You and I both know that. So I feel obliged to tell you that I do not detest you for your methods. You did what you thought was best, to ensure the survival of your pack. In your place, I would’ve done the same. Regretfully, your efforts to prepare this land for your fire-beaten pack conflicts with my desire to conserve it for mine. You understand, then, why I must do this.”

  Tir was not listening. “It’s a shame,” he said absently, watching the tangle of fangs and blood through the gap in the undergrowth. There was a reason Leron had pulled him out of sight, he decided.

  “It is,” Leron agreed. “And I’ve already puzzled out most of your plan; however, the only thing that confounds me is how you were able to control the Gatherer.”

  Tir’s eyes refocused on Leron, temporarily forgetting his situation. “What?” he said, startled.

  “I know Palva,” Leron said, unsmiling. “I do not care for her, but I know she is not a fool. Yet somehow you pulled her to act in your defense. Since your arrival, she and her alpha have refused to hear a word against you. Why?”

  “There’s a reason?
But you’re in the Council—”

  “They refuse to tell me,” Leron said, eyes growing dark and hungry. “Liyra was a strong leader once, and I did not begrudge following her through the marsh. In the marsh, she would have killed a strange wolf like you without a thought; your potential to be a threat outweighs your limited usefulness. However, since our arrival in this land she has been decaying, and she no longer listens to sense. There is some dark secret that drives her and the Gatherer to protect you as if you were their own child. What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything,” Tir said, dumbfounded. He hadn’t understood Leron’s accusations before, but here was a question he had truly been asking himself. “I don’t know why they insisted I stay. I would think you’d know, being in the Council, but Palva won’t tell me anything, either.”

  There was a long silence. Leron examined him through narrowed eyes, but Tir could see that the captain had heard the baffled honesty in his voice. At last, Leron straightened himself and flexed his paws in the snow. “There’s no use threatening you with death, obviously,” he said. “It’s clear you know nothing. I suppose I’ll have to draw the answer from the Gatherer herself, one day. As for now, I’m afraid this conversation must—”

  Tir twisted to his paws in a flash and bolted for the gap in the leaves. Blood was rushing in his ears and he cried out in a last, desperate effort as he felt Leron fall upon him like a deadweight from behind; his spine seemed to crumple as if it were made of dead leaves, and the air was sucked from his lungs—the captain had lighting-fast reflexes. Tir had known he couldn’t hope to fight his way through Leron; his only hope had been to break free to the battle clearing where someone could see him and Leron would be forced to commit his murder surrounded by witnesses.

  Writhing, Tir was dragged backwards into the undergrowth, his fur snagging on icy brambles and blood rising in his throat. Leron’s jaws were clamped about the back of his neck. In the panic of his attempted escape, the gap in the leaves had been torn open, but no one in the battle hollow was at an angle to see him. Each wolf was intent on defending his own skin.

  “Very…very clever, outsider,” Leron panted, his dark face swimming into view. He had shifted his weight to his front paw, which was now pressing Tir’s skull into the ground. Blood trickled out of his mouth, and a murderous light had risen in his eyes. “Very clever,” he said, “but I don’t care about the rest of them anymore. I’ll kill you here whether they see it happen or not, and no, not even your Alpha will punish me later.”

  Tir’s breath faded to a series of rapid, searing gasps; his eyes widened with fear and he felt his vision begin to blur. He could not move. He was paralyzed.

  “When this battle is done,” Leron hissed in his ear. “I’ll line up your corpse side-by-side with your renegade’s, and then they’ll see it. Then they’ll believe me; they’ll see what I’ve seen for seasons—but oh, no, am I too observant? Because I only rarely see wolves with such green eyes, outsider, and I’ve never believed in coincidences.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “Enough. I have talked far too much already. You understand why I must kill you. You’ve plotted against my pack and, more than that, you’ve made me angry. I can only—” Leron paused, his eyes focusing on something beyond Tir’s shoulder. He looked suddenly surprised. “Xelind,” he said.

  Tir twisted on the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood and saliva; Leron’s grip had relaxed in shock.

  The skinny white Sentinel was standing in the gap in the undergrowth, his pelt spattered with blood that was not his own. Leron said nothing; Tir got the impression that he had, for the first time, been taken entirely aback. Xelind, too, seemed frozen—his blue eyes were wide and one paw was extended forward, but he did not move. He flattened his ears and averted his eyes, as though embarrassed for intruding.

  “I thought I’d find the renegade here,” he said, but Tir could hear the lie in his voice. So did Leron.

  “She has not passed this way,” Leron said, narrowing his eyes. “Now, take your search elsewhere. I am busy.”

  Xelind hesitated, and then lowered his suspended paw to step through the undergrowth. He was behaving as though Leron hadn’t spoken. Tir could see the fear in his eyes and the stiffness of his legs; above him, he heard a low growl rising in Leron’s throat.

  “Xelind,” Tir whispered, but Xelind did not look at him.

  “Xelind,” Leron echoed, his voice rumbling in warning. “I have no need of you here. Leave, and I will speak with you later.”

  “My apologies, Captain, sir,” Xelind said, his face stiff and unreadable. He still refused to look at Tir. “But I cannot let you kill him.”

  “Did you hear me? I have no need of you. Leave.”

  Xelind raised his eyes from the bloodied snow. “I owe the outsider my life,” he said. “I cannot let you kill him.”

  Leron only stared. For a moment, Tir thought the captain was going to explode with rage—his face twisted, as if he were fighting something back—but instead he was silent and wordless. A look of sudden shock flitted across his face. Tir tasted blood in his mouth as he watched it slowly harden into anger.

  “Come now,” Leron said after a silence. His voice was hoarse. “You don’t want to do this, Xelind. This—”

  “You don’t know what I want.”

  “Don’t I?” The captain’s voice dropped to a low growl, his lips pulling back from his teeth. “You are being rash. The battle is going to your head. It happens to us all, I understand, and I am willing to forget that this has happened. Now. Leave.”

  “You’ve never forgotten anything. It doesn’t matter now if I don’t leave.”

  Leron was beginning to shake. He took a slow step backwards from Tir; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten about Tir entirely. The captain’s steely eyes skewered Xelind in the dark and his muscles tightened, like the clenching of a fist. But Xelind remained where he was, as unresponsive as ever.

  “Be careful, Captain,” he said, as though unaware of Leron’s climbing rage. “I have heard things. The renegade is here tonight, you know. In truth, I haven’t been foolish enough to search for her.”

  “What does that—?”

  “Be careful,” Xelind repeated calmly. “You will not kill her, either. She refuses to die—I have heard things. It would be better for you to leave this forest now.”

  “Enough!” Leron said. “There has been quite enough talking going on here. Better for you if you had stayed as silent as always, sentinel. Are you a prophet? What—where have you gotten such ideas?”

  Xelind’s lip twisted into a gruesome mimicry of a smile. “The Gatherer requested I tell you.”

  Leron sprang. Tir had time enough to roll out of the way, scattering dirt and blood and snow. Xelind sidestepped the attack as though he had known exactly what Leron was going to do, but he did not retaliate; instead, he dashed over to where Tir was lying, prone, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

  “Get up,” he growled through his clenched jaws, and Tir’s legs scrabbled beneath him as he fought his way to a standing position.

  “Xelind,” he said, still swaying in shock. “Xelind, you should go. This isn’t your—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, outsider. I’ll decide what is and isn’t my fight. Pay attention, now, and let me show you the advantage of numbers.”

  “The advantage of what?”

  Behind them, Leron lunged again, this time moving almost without a sound. His head spinning, Tir bent to duck, but—

  “GET BACK!” Xelind roared, and shoved him out of Leron’s path just as the captain’s jaws snapped in empty air. Tir flinched, panting. Leron spun to leap again, but Tir and Xelind twisted out of his reach.

  “Xelind,” Tir stammered. “I can’t—”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” Xelind hissed, speaking as fast as possible as Captain Leron advanced. “Do not go near him. Stay out of his range, and do as I do—you take his left side. Do not get
trapped under his shoulders.”

  Tir had no time to question Xelind’s order as Leron flew at them, his grey eyes narrow and furious. They both turned and whipped away; beside him, Tir saw Xelind’s fangs slash, quick as an adder’s strike, and he did the same. Sharp teeth tore into the skin on Leron’s back and bright beads of blood spotted the snow. Tir realized that he had never seen Leron bleed before, and it awoke a spark of revelation within him. Captain Leron was not invincible.

  Thus far, the captain’s advantage had been his immense size and brutal strength—but Tir and Xelind fought just out of his reach, quick to snap in and quick to withdraw, weakening the much larger wolf by sheer agility. The fur along Tir’s back and neck was bristling and he growled as he fought. But his mind was not behind it, and, strangely, he felt no rage. He did not quite know why. Xelind, however, was a different story. Icy currents of energy were emanating from the skinny white Sentinel, the total opposite of the volcanic fury of the renegade. It chilled Tir’s blood.

  “There is nothing you know,” Leron said, dropping low to avoid Tir’s feinted lunge. “that I haven’t taught you, Xelind. Still, I expected more. I am disappointed that this must happen.”

  Tir growled, but Xelind ignored him, continuing his attack with cold, emotionless eyes.

  “You’ve betrayed me, after all I did for you.” Leron’s voice had dropped to an eerie, pained whine—Tir couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or not. “I guarded you. I raised you. And I’ll flay you, I swear it—you’ll get away with nothing. It is only just.”

  Still Xelind said nothing.

  “But does it matter where this fight takes us?” Leron asked, and he broke off into a sudden laugh that almost immediately sank back to a growl. “Neither of you will kill me. The outsider is not strong enough for physical confrontations and you, Xelind, were always the foolish, squeamish type. I should’ve taken that as a warning from the start and disposed of you while you were young. As it was, your sister died a season too late.”

  From the corner of his eye, Tir saw Xelind stumble. It was hardly more than a startled blink of an eye, but the rhythm of their defense was broken; Leron lunged at Xelind in the chance he had created, bowling Tir aside as if he weren’t there. The captain’s snarls were tearing ragged holes in the thin air, but Xelind did not make a sound; he twisted to regain his footing and slipped out of the way. From the side, Xelind made a sudden and unexpected dive for Leron’s throat, but was smashed aside as the captain turned on the spot, his solid shoulder crushing against the white Sentinel’s side. Xelind gasped with pain but did not falter, his back colliding with Leron’s legs and making the captain stumble.

  Seeing his chance, Tir dove from behind and sank his fangs into Leron’s shoulder, feeling them grind against bone—warm blood seeped into his mouth as Leron snarled, the torn muscles twisting and jerking in his jaws. Tir tore his teeth away and rolled to the side, his mouth filled with fur and blood. He spat in the snow with disgust. In the moment he had paused, there was a sudden rush of air over his head and an explosion of pain in his side—and, as if from far off, he heard the splintering collision of Leron’s shoulder crushing his ribs.

  Tir went reeling backwards as though thrown, every bone in his body feeling as though it had been shattered, black clouds rising up before his vision. Xelind was still twisting and weaving. The white sentinel evaded Leron’s blows with a swiftness Tir knew he could never match, no matter how many fighting lessons he had.

  Leron jumped backward, breaking out of the lock of fangs. Tir shouted a feeble warning as Leron unexpectedly rose up and twisted just as Xelind lunged, catching the wiry Sentinel about the ribs and slamming him against the frozen ground with a dull thud.

  “That,” Leron panted “…is quite enough.”

  Xelind only gave an empty stare in reply, as though he did not feel the pain. He tried to struggle back up to his paws. Leron shoved him down.

  “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” the captain said. “I want you to know that. You could have been Captain one day, when I was Alpha, but you threw it away.”

  “I owe the outsider my life,” Xelind repeated in a hoarse voice. “I cannot—”

  “—Let me kill him, I know.” Leron’s voice rattled with what may have been a laugh. “You have nothing more to say. A handful of rote phrases and responses; that’s all you’ve ever had. Poor, sad little pup that you were—you were so easy to teach, to mold like wet snow.”

  In the heat of the fight, the captain’s veneer of control had crumbled away as if dissolved in the bloodshed. Leron made no effort to hide his rage now; his eyes had dilated and shimmered like disks of razor-edged steel that burned white spots into Tir’s retinas even when he looked away. In the darkness of the undergrowth, his face was almost black with blood and his tongue rolled obscenely from his gaping, grinning fangs, slick and dripping red into the snow. His dark fur bristled and his form spread to fill the shadows; he breathed, and the forest surrounding them breathed with him. Tir didn’t think any wolf who saw the captain in this state ever survived to remember it.

  “I should have known,” Leron whispered, bearing down over the skinny white Sentinel. “You were deteriorating, falling apart—you failed again and again to accept the opportunities I placed before you, and I was blind.”

  “You expected too much,” Xelind said. His voice was so quiet that it was almost lost in the snarls and cries of the nearby battle. “I wasn’t going to stand and watch her die.”

  “Who? The chief Hunter? You are always most amusing when you are most serious, Xelind. Did you think that by saving her you could repent the way you murdered your poor, sickly sister?”

  A look of shock flitted across Xelind’s face. His ears flattened and he reverted his gaze to the ground, silent.

  Leron laughed.

  “See how I play with his mind, outsider!” he said, turning suddenly to Tir as if to invite him in on some clever joke. “Watch him; see how he cringes when I bring up the topic—it couldn’t be more perfect. Was your mother proud of you, Xelind? Did she smile at you from the heavens when you were standing in your sister’s blood?”

  “Stop it!” Tir snarled, frightened and sickened by the pain he saw on Xelind’s face. It would be terrible in any wolf, but on Xelind it looked alien and wrong

  “He used to tell me about his poor sister, you know,” Leron said, clearly enjoying himself. “How he protected her from the pack, hunted for her as though she was a pup. But she was so weak, so useless, wasn’t she, Xelind?”

  “She wasn’t,” Xelind said, not looking up. “She wasn’t weak.”

  Leron laughed again, spattering droplets of thick blood into the snow. “Listen to him talk! Almost as if he cares! But you care about nothing, Xelind, do you? Nothing and no one.” He spat on the ground and grinned. “So you once told me. She held you back, Xelind. She held us all back. The marsh was a hard, cruel place, but it made us strong. It culled the weak and taught us how to survive. You should be proud.”

  Xelind looked away, and Leron straightened, his fangs curling up his face as he peeled back his lips in a crocodile-smile. “Don’t you remember, Xelind?” he said. “How it felt to shed her like an old skin? Her eyes when the light had faded from them and you at last could see them for what they were—hollow, temporary lumps of color and blood?”

  “Prey,” Xelind said hollowly. “You told me we’re nothing more than prey ourselves.”

  “True, and wise,” Leron agreed. “But incomplete. We are not prey any longer. We are not prey because deer and rabbits haven’t the strength to kill to survive, and we do. It is what we are for.”

  “It didn’t change anything. It didn’t make anything better.”

  “Then I should have forced you to be there,” Leron snarled, leaning forward. “I should’ve made you watch her as she died. You needed to see her limbs fall still, to appreciate the beauty in how one small creature’s death makes living that much easier for the rest of us. I should have made you
watch when the blood broke free. I should’ve made you do it yourself.”

  “Do…do it?”

  “I killed her!” Leron snapped, his fur rising in a rush of sudden anger. “Her senses were so dulled, she never felt me approach. A terrible waste. I knew I should have brought you along, but I thought you could grow to understand. I was wrong. It seems you haven’t grown at all.”

  “What?”

  “I should have seen it in your weakness, in the way you lowered your head and bore their accusations without protest, as if it was natural that you should take the blame. You even began to believe it yourself after awhile, didn’t you? You had lost your patience with her that day and left her alone.” Leron paused, as if in thought, and then lowered his voice. “By all accounts,” he said, “You should have known it was me. My scent was in the undergrowth and the blood filled my tracks in the dirt. But you wouldn’t have wanted to believe that, would you? I was the only thing protecting you from the others.”

  Xelind had risen to his feet. He swayed under the force of Leron’s glare, ears flat against his skull. “No,” he said, shaking his head with short, jerky motions. “Never, you didn’t. You—you wouldn’t do that…to me.”

  “Oh, yes, Xelind. The weak aren’t meant to live. And I thought you were strong.”

  “I—I…” Xelind stammered, his eyes huge and hazed. His shoulders shook and he drew a rasping, broken breath, as if his pelt was as thin as the snow melting beneath their paws and a cold wind was rattling through his chest cavity. There was a moment of silence. Tir could see the hard block of ice melting with frightening speed, and for one terrifying moment he thought Xelind was actually going to burst into tears. But there was rage.

  “No,” Xelind said, and then louder: “NO.”

  “Come now, is this a surprise? Does this not fit the pattern of—”

  “That was murder,” Xelind said, his voice shaking and breaking into hoarse, bitter syllables. His eyes filled with poison and the fur along his back rose in spiky clumps of dirt and blood. “THAT WASN’T SURVIVAL, YOU BLOODY VULTURE; THAT WAS MURDER.”

  “Xelind, have we learned nothing? I thought I told you—”

  Leron’s words were cut off as Xelind lunged for him with a wordless roar. He jumped backwards, looking surprised, but one of Xelind’s dull claws snagged in his dark fur, tearing out a great clump of hair and flesh.

  “Xelind!” Tir shouted, horrified and sickened at what he had just heard. He leaped forward to grab him, to pull this fight back into some semblance of controlled attack and defense, but Xelind whipped around. He snarled into Tir’s face, his fangs snapping just an inch before Tir’s eye. Xelind’s face was contorted with wrath. The fur around his muzzle was red with blood and his eyes were dilated and black with hatred, rage—and hunger. The frenzied, rampant hunger of a starved animal.

  Tir stumbled backwards as fast as he could and, without further thought, turned and ran.