Mogweed’s teeth chattered, and his swollen ankle throbbed in his soggy boot. “We need at least a fire,” he said.
Fardale turned his eyes to Mogweed, their amber glow more cold than warm. An image coalesced, a warning: An eagle’s eye spies the wagging tail of a foolish squirrel.
Mogweed pulled farther under the rocky overhang. “Do you really think the og’res would spy our fire? Surely this storm has driven them deep within their caves.”
Fardale scanned the rocky terrain silently.
Mogweed did not press his brother. The cold was much less a threat than a band of og’res. Mogweed slipped his bag from his shoulder and plopped it on the floor of their shelter. He crouched down in an alcove farthest from the wind and the rain and hugged his knees to his chest, trying to offer the smallest target to the bitter gusts. For the thousandth time this day, he wished for even an iota of his former skills.
If only I could change into a bear form, he thought, then this rain and cold would be nothing but an inconvenience. He stared at his brother’s shaggy figure and grimaced. Fardale had always been the luckier of the twin brothers. Life had smiled on him with even his first breath. Born first, Fardale had been declared heir to their family’s properties. To match this position, Fardale was gifted with the tongue of an orator, knowing the exact thing to say when it needed saying. Whispers of his potential to become elder’root of the tribe were soon bandied about. But Mogweed always seemed to say the wrong thing at the worst time and chafed his clansfolk with each movement of his tongue. Few sought his company or council.
All this, while grating, was not what had truly bothered Mogweed about his brother. What drove Mogweed to shaking rages was Fardale’s simple acceptance of their cursed birth.
Born as identical twins in a world of shape-shifters, their birth had been a cause of excitement and celebration. Twins had been born to the si’lura before, but never identical ones. Mogweed and Fardale were the first. No one was able to tell them apart, not even their parents. Each brother was the exact twin of the other.
Among the clan, the brothers were initially a novelty and a delight. But the brothers had soon learned that whenever one twin altered his form, his brother’s body would spontaneously warp to match and maintain their identical natures, whether this change was welcome or not. This led to an ongoing war of control. If one twin should let his concentration weaken, his form was open to unexpected shifts by the other brother’s will. In a world where freedom of form was simply a matter of life, Mogweed and Fardale were chained together by birth.
Where this burden in life was simply accepted by Fardale, Mogweed had grown bitter, never content to stomach their fate. He had devoured old texts of their people, searching for a way to sunder the chains that tied brother to brother. And eventually he had discovered a way, a secret known only to the ancient si’lura of the deep forest.
Mogweed sighed aloud. If only I had been more cautious—
From an ancient worm-eaten text, he had discovered a little-known fact of si’lura nature: When two si’lura lovers were entwined in mating, neither partner could shift at the peak of their passionate fire. Mogweed had pondered this revelation for many moons. He sensed that a key to freeing himself from Fardale’s yoke might lie in this small fact. Then a plan began to swell in his mind.
He knew that his brother had been courting a young female, the third daughter of the elder’root. Most si’lura over time developed a predilection for a certain form, and she had a preference for the shape and speed of the wolf. This young she-wolf, with her long legs and snow-white fur, had caught Fardale’s eye. Soon talk of a union was in the mouths of many gossips.
As his brother’s romance bloomed, Mogweed clung to shadows. Here, perhaps, lay a chance. He studied, plotted, and waited.
One night, under a full moon, his patience won out. Mogweed crept after his brother and from the cover of a nearby bush watched Fardale’s dalliance with the lithe she-wolf. His brother nuzzled and coaxed the young female, her white fur aglow in the moonlight. She returned Fardale’s affection and soon stood for him. As Mogweed spied, Fardale mounted her, at first tenderly, with sweet nips at her ears and throat, then with rising passion.
Mogweed waited until a characteristic howl escaped his brother’s throat—then acted. Mogweed willed his own body to shift into that of a man, praying that his brother would be locked by his throes of passion into his present wolf form.
His plan succeeded . . .
Under the rocky overhang in the land of the og’res, Mogweed stared at the pale skin of his hands.
His plan had succeeded too well!
That cursed night, Mogweed had shifted into the form of a man, while Fardale had remained a wolf. But Mogweed soon learned that the cost of breaking their identical natures came with a price—a steep price.
Neither brother could shift again. Both brothers were eternally trapped in these separate shells.
If only he had been more cautious . . .
Nearby, Fardale growled in threat, drawing Mogweed’s attention fully back to the present. His brother’s hackles were raised, and his ears were pulled flat to his lowered head. The rumbling growl again flowed from Fardale’s throat.
Mogweed scooted closer to his brother. “What is it? Og’res?” Even bringing the name to his lips caused a tremble to shiver through him.
Suddenly a black-skinned creature stalked from out of the sheets of rain directly in front of them. An iron muzzle hung loose around its neck, and a broken chain dragged behind it. It lowered its head to match Fardale’s stance, its claws dug into the rock.
A sniffer!
It must have escaped the hunters and continued its own hunt. Mogweed backed behind Fardale, but the wolf offered little protection. Fardale weighed only a fraction of the snarling predator’s massive bulk, a mewling pup before a bear.
The beast’s shoulders bunched with thick muscle. Free of the iron muzzle, the sniffer opened its jaws, exposing rows of jagged teeth. It howled at them, its cry challenging the thunder among the mountain peaks.
Then it lunged.
17
TOL’CHUK PUSHED THE heartstone clutched in his hand toward the closest of the ancient og’res. His own heart felt as heavy in his chest as the rock in his hand. “I don’t know what you ask. How can I possibly destroy the Bane?”
The trio stood stone-still and silent. Three pairs of eyes studied him. He felt as if his very bones were being read and judged. Finally, words droned toward him. “You are the one.”
Tol’chuk did not want to dishonor his tribe’s elders, but surely they were mad with age. “Who? Who do you think I am?”
He received no answer, just their unblinking stare.
The leagues of rock over Tol’chuk’s head seemed to press down at him. “Please. I am only half og’re. The task you ask should be given to one of the warriors, a full-blood. Why me?”
Words again flowed to him. “You are the last descendant of the Oathbreaker, he who betrayed the land and cursed our people with the Bane.”
Tol’chuk felt his arms weaken. Would his shame never end? Not only was he cursed as a half-breed, but if the Triad spoke true, he was also the offspring of the corrupt og’re who had damned his people. He found no words to answer this accusation, only denial, his voice a whisper. “This . . . this cannot be true.”
The granite of the mountains edged the Triad’s tone. “You, son of Len’chuk, are the end of an ancient lineage. The last of the Oathbreaker’s seed.”
“But . . . what do you mean I am the last of his seed?”
“At your naming, an old healer examined you. Your mixed blood has corrupted your seed. You cannot father og’re offspring.”
Tears threatened to well; so many secrets. “Why was I not told all this?”
His question was ignored. Their next words had the bite of command in them. “You are the last. You must restore the honor to your blood by correcting your ancestor’s betrayal.”
Tol’chuk closed
his eyes and clutched the black-hearted stone in his hand. His tongue caught in his throat. “What did this Oathbreaker do?”
The Triad withdrew inward again, necks bent, conferring among themselves. After several silent heartbeats, a whisper of words passed to him. “We do not know.”
“Then how am I to correct it?”
The words repeated. “We do not know.”
Tol’chuk’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “Then how am I to find out?”
“You must leave our lands with the Heart. Seek your answers beyond the Spirit Gate.”
Tol’chuk heard nothing past the word leave. His shoulders shuddered at the thought. This was what he had most dreaded when he killed Fen’shwa: banishment. To be forced to leave his homelands for the larger world, a world that hated and feared his people. Tol’chuk shrank under their stares. “Where do I go?”
Three arms raised and pointed fingers to the massive arch of ruby heartstone. “Through the Spirit Gate.”
Tol’chuk’s brows bunched. It was solid rock. How could he pass through there?
“Come.” Two of the ancient og’res crossed to the arch. One took up a post by the left foot of the arch, while another crossed slowly to the right foot. The third member of the Triad took Tol’chuk by the wrist and guided him toward the open arch.
“What am I supposed to do?” Tol’chuk asked in a tremulous voice.
The og’re beside him spoke. Broken from the others, his voice had a trace of warmth, more like a stern father. “Before the Bane appeared, the Gate collected the spirits from the Heart and carried them to the next world. Like the spirits, you must hold your desire firm, and the Gate will take you where you need to be. It is foretold that when the last descendant of the Oathbreaker crosses through the Spirit Gate, he will find the path to free our spirits.”
Tol’chuk nodded to the arch. “But I’m not a spirit. I can’t pass through solid rock.”
“You need not be a spirit.”
“Then how?”
No answer was given, but a low intoning arose from the og’res bowed at each foot of the sweeping stone arch. The thrumming of their voices seemed to sweep to Tol’chuk’s marrow. He felt a slightly giddy sensation. His ears buzzed, and the heartstone in his hand resonated to the og’res’ humming. As he watched, wide-eyed, the wall of rock contained within the heartstone arch changed. It still appeared outwardly the same—hard granite—but Tol’chuk knew it was now an illusion, like the phantom reflection of a cliff in still water. It had the appearance of rock but was no more substantial than the thin film that watersprites skimmed across on a calm pond.
As the throbbing hum grew, the heartstone in his hands drew toward the Spirit Gate like a mate seeking the warmth of a touch on a cold night. The stone’s gentle tugging urged his feet to follow. Tol’chuk found his legs obeying. With his ears still pounding to the intonations and hum, Tol’chuk barely noticed the old og’re leave his side. Tol’chuk proceeded alone toward the arch.
But words trailed to him from the lone member of the Triad behind him. “Listen to the heartstone. Though blackened, it is still our Heart. Listen, and it will guide you when it can.”
The words wormed through to his fogged mind, but meaning failed to penetrate. He ignored the words. As he stepped close to the Gate, the vibrations swept all thoughts aside. He opened himself to its touch, trusting the Gate to take him where he needed to be. Blind now, he took the next step—the first step on his journey to free his people—on faith.
As he passed through the veil of the Gate, the thrumming in his ears vanished in a heartbeat to be replaced with the earsplitting howl of a hunter seeking blood.
MOGWEED SCUTTLED BACKWARD as the sniffer screamed and lunged. Fardale burst from under the shelf of rock, his fangs bared. A roaring howl exploded from the wolf’s throat. Mogweed had never heard such a noise from his brother. The howl iced the blood and froze the heart. Even the sniffer balked in midcharge.
Wolf and sniffer now stood only a span apart. Each beast, head lowered, sought a weakness in the other.
Mogweed crouched motionless in his hiding place. A bolt of lightning struck a scraggled pine a league up the mountain, splitting the air with thunder. Rain swamped both combatants. The sniffer towered over Fardale, its bulk twice that of the wolf. The razor-edged teeth, daggered claws, and sheer ferocity of the beast left little doubt of who would walk away from this fight. The only unanswered question was if Mogweed could escape while the sniffer sated its hunger on Fardale’s corpse. Mogweed searched for a way to slip unseen from the overhang.
Suddenly, without warning, as if obeying some instinctual signal, both combatants flew at each other. The snapping of jaws and spurts of furious growls escaped the blur of black fur and bruise-colored skin. Claws and teeth ripped flesh.
Mogweed sought to escape his hole, but as he neared the edge of the overhang, he was forced to dance back as the fighters tumbled near. With the combatants so close, Mogweed saw gouts of blood matting down Fardale’s fur. How much of it was Fardale’s own was impossible to judge. But it was clear the fight could not last much longer.
Like the ebbing of a tide, the growling battle rolled away from Mogweed’s hiding place, freeing a route of escape. Mogweed edged from the security of the overhang, meaning to make his run. The cold rain again attacked the skin of his face with its rough affection. Mogweed ignored its bite. He kept one eye focused on the fight and the other on the dark path that led away among the rocks. Just as he began to turn his back on his brother, motion hooked his eye.
A large boulder tumbled from above to crash near the two fighters. Its cracking impact startled the combatants. Wolf and sniffer paused in midfight, bloody teeth poised at throat and belly.
Suddenly the boulder reached out and grabbed the sniffer.
It wasn’t a boulder but an og’re! Mogweed dashed back under the overhang and crammed himself into the darkest corner. Fardale scrambled in retreat, hindered by a broken forelimb that hung crooked and limp. Standing on three legs, the wolf stood guard at the entrance to the shelter, protecting Mogweed from this new threat.
From his hole, Mogweed watched the sniffer, one of the most savage predators of the Western Reaches, torn to raw-edged pieces at the hands of the og’re.
Once finished, still tangled in the entrails of the sniffer, the creature twisted toward them, its blunt face scarred by splashes of black blood, its yellowed fangs bared. Steam plumed from its wide, squashed nostrils. It boomed, in a crude approximation of the common tongue shared by many of the land’s peoples, “Who be you trespassers?”
TOL’CHUK SHOOK AS he crouched among the shredded remains of the woodland beast, fighting his blood lust. His claws ached to rend the wolf who still stood near, and his tongue ran thick with saliva. The odor of blood, with its hint of iron like freshly mined ore, tinged his thoughts. He had heard warriors of his tribe speak of the fer’engata, the fire of the heart, during battles, of how the scent of an enemy’s blood could ignite an og’re to further savagery, until all control was lost.
Tol’chuk felt his heart thundering in his chest, the real thunder crashing around him only a pale imitation of his blood’s booming. Blood called for blood.
He fought the instinct. Now was not the time for blind actions. Such a path he had followed earlier in the day, and now Fen’shwa lay dead in the chamber of the spirits. His shoulders trembled, but he had control of his mind.
Since he had seen the small man-thing crawl under the shelf of rock, his wolf guarding him, Tol’chuk spoke in the common tongue used in trading with other mountain races. Tol’chuk struggled with his words. An og’re’s throat was not built for the subtleties of common speech. The og’re language was more gesture, posture, and a guttural grunting. Still, Tol’chuk knew that there must be some reason for the Spirit Gate sending him here. He remembered the Triad’s words: The Gate would send him where he needed to be. The appearance of a man in the lands of his people had to be significant. Humans had not ventured into this
territory in ages. The skulls of the last still adorned the warriors’ drum chamber. So Tol’chuk fought his tongue to form the words needed. “Who be you?” he repeated. “What seek you in our lands?”
The only answer he got to his questions was a low growl from the wolf—not a threat or challenge, but a tentative warning.
Tol’chuk sensed from the wolf’s answer that the pair meant him no harm, only wished to be left alone. But he also knew that their meeting here was not mere chance. This encounter was meant to be.
“Do not fear,” he said calmly and slowly. “Come. Speak.”
His soft words seemed to confuse the wolf. Tol’chuk saw the wolf glance back into the shadowed hole under the overhang. When the wolf’s eyes settled on his own again, Tol’chuk noticed something strange. The wolf’s eyes, glowing a soft amber, had pupils slitted like his own—as unnatural for a wolf as his own eyes were for an og’re. Tol’chuk also sensed an intelligence behind those bright eyes equal to his own.
All at once, strange images formed in Tol’chuk’s head like suddenly remembered dreams.
A wolf greets another wolf nose to nose. Welcome to the pack.
18
MOGWEED STAYED CROUCHED deep under the overhang. Fardale must have struck his head on a rock during the battle with the sniffer. The creature out there was not si’lura! He refused to risk moving any closer to get a better look at the og’re’s eyes as Fardale insisted. He was not about to put himself within arm’s reach of the beast. He was determined to stay hidden until he died of starvation, rather than have his limbs rended as the dead sniffer’s had been.
But the og’re’s next words gave him pause. “How be it that your wolf’s thoughts are in my head?” the og’re said in a voice that sounded as if he had a throat packed with grating stones. “What trick be this?”