Lone Wolf Read online

  KATHRYN LASKY

  WOLVES OF THE BEYOND

  SHADOW WOLF

  SCHOLASTIC PRESS / NEW YORK

  For Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle—

  The Fengos of my Watch

  K.L.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Dedication

  Map

  The Darkest of the Dark

  1 Caribou Moon

  2 Challenging the Order

  3 The Outflanker’s Rage

  4 The Print in the Mud

  5 The Last Words of a Chieftain

  6 Mhairie’s Den

  7 The Paw of Thunderheart

  8 The Trail of Shame

  9 The Mist of MacDuncan

  10 The Sark of the Slough

  11 “She’ll Know Me!”

  12 An Abomination!

  13 The Dark Vale Descends

  14 The Red Deer of the Yellow Springs

  15 One Tiny Bone

  16 The Haze of Morag

  17 The Gizzard of Gwynneth

  18 A Standoff at the Scrape

  19 The Bone Turns

  20 The Sark’s Visitor

  21 The Stranger

  22 The Gaddergnaw Games Begin!

  23 Gwynneth’s Advice

  24 The Byrrgis of the Gnaw Wolves

  25 Last Place

  26 To Gnaw a Bone

  27 Ghost Wolf

  28 Testimony

  29 A Wolf of the Bone

  30 A Churning Gizzard

  A Prayer

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Map

  THE DARKEST OF THE DARK

  IT WAS THE SMELL OF GRASS—late summer grass, clover water, and bitterroot with a faint trace of ash. The vivid scents flowed through Faolan like a river, stirring lost memories. This is my pack, the Pack of the Eastern Scree. This is my clan, the clan of the MacDuncans. Each smell seemed to reassure Faolan that at last he was home.

  A pack wolf’s scent varied slightly depending upon the season or what the wolf had eaten. But beneath these small differences was an elemental scent, the essence of them all. In his sleep, Faolan was wrapped safe and secure in a blanket of these familiar and longed-for smells. He was bound tight by the scent of the clan.

  And yet Faolan was not in a pack den surrounded by the warm, moist breathing of slumbering wolves. He was alone. As a gnaw wolf, he was banished to sleep on the edges of the pack’s territory. He must find whatever shelter he could. The rest of the pack had divided itself between two roomy dens they had excavated the previous summer on the Crooked Back Ridge, far from Faolan. But their scent lingered.

  Faolan quivered. There were tiny cracks in his sleep through which horrors darker than this moonless night slid. The blackness suddenly was scored with flames. Wake up! Wake up! he shouted in his dream. But this was no dream; it was a memory. Even though he was asleep, Faolan could feel half a dozen packs from several clans hard on him, determined to run him into flames all because of his splayed paw. He could feel the heat of the flames as he leaped the wall of fire and jumped for the sun. Faolan thumped his paw on the ground he had dug for a den, and it was the noise and the small rain of dirt sifting down from the roof that finally woke him.

  He rose up as far as he could in the tight confines of the hole. It was only in the darkest of the dark, on nights when the moon disappeared, that these terrors found their form. At those times, wolves seldom howled and it seemed to Faolan that the silence left spaces through which fear could slip.

  He sniffed the air. There was not a trace of smoke or fire, only the lovely redolence of the pack’s scent wafting through the dark. My nose tells me I am home, I belong, this is my kin, my clan, and yet… There was an ache deep inside Faolan that no scent could touch.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CARIBOU MOON

  THERE WAS A TIME IN EARLY autumn when the moon cut the night like the thin curve of a caribou antler. It was at this time that the herds began to move south, first the cows with their calves and then the males. The wolves would track the beginnings of this great migration to seek out any old females or weak youngsters, but the hunting code of the clans forbade the killing of healthy calves. And the real hunting did not begin until the males came.

  On this morning as the sun broke on the horizon, a howl curled into the air. It was the summoning howl of Greer, the she-wolf skreeleen of the MacDuncan River Pack. But it was not for caribou, it was for moose. The tracks of a bull moose had been discovered near the river. Scouts had been sent out to find the trail, and while they were gone, a byrrgis, the hunting formation, was gathering.

  Bull moose could be unpredictable and, despite their staggering bulk, quite nimble. Therefore, it required a good-size byrrgis to bring them down. It was dangerous work, especially at this time of year, the moose mating season. Even Faolan’s second milk mother, a grizzly bear, gave moose a wide margin during the time of the Caribou Moon. Faolan tried to keep calm as the packs gathered and waited for the scouts’ return. He could hear the din of the gaddergludder, the pack rally that preceded the hunt of big game like moose. He felt a rush deep in his chest and pawed the ground.

  This was his chance at last, he thought. He would hunt with the pack and he would get it right. There were so many rules and customs. The wolves had special words for so many things—pack words, clan words—and Faolan had been a packless, clanless wolf for the first year of his life. Because of his strangely splayed paw, he had been declared at birth a malcadh, a cursed pup. According to the rigid codes that governed the wolf clans of the Beyond, all malcadhs were cast out, taken by the Obea of a clan to be left to die or be devoured by other predators. The parents of the malcadh were also banished from the clan’s territory and forbidden ever to mate with each other again. In this way, the bloodlines of the packs were kept healthy. In the very rare event a malcadh survived, he could return to the clan but only as a gnaw wolf, the lowest-ranking wolf of all.

  Faolan had not died. He had been saved, rescued from the river by a grizzly bear, Thunderheart. For almost a year that he and the grizzly, his second Milk Giver, had stayed together. Then at the end of winter, she had died in the earthquake. Through the spring and most of the summer, Faolan had lived as a lone wolf. But less than a moon cycle ago, driven by loneliness, he had returned to the wolves. “Returned”—an odd word, for he had never lived long enough with the wolves to truly belong. And now, every minute of every day, he was reminded of that fact. Even the young pups in the pack constantly made fun of him. “Say ‘caribou,’ Faolan!” they would demand. Then when he said it, they yipped gleefully. “Sounds like a bear! Doesn’t he?” They could tease him all they wanted because he was a gnaw wolf.

  Lord Bhreac, leader of the Eastern Scree Pack, was approaching with his lieutenants. Quickly, Faolan tried to assume the posture of submission that was required whenever a pack member approached, particularly high-ranking wolves such as the pack lord. Before his belly had touched the ground, Faolan felt a sharp blow to his flank. Not quick enough, he thought.

  It was Flint, a lieutenant, who had hit him and sent him sprawling. Flint was now coming back for a muzzle grab, one of the most humiliating and painful chops that could be delivered to a gnaw wolf.

  “Don’t waste your energy, Flint,” Bhreac barked. “Let him be. You need your strength for the byrrgis.”

  What about me? Faolan thought. Don’t I need my strength as well? He consoled himself with the thought that he would no longer be invisible when they saw him run in the byrrgis.

  Bhreac paused and turned to look back at Faolan to make sure that he was following with his tail tucked between his legs in the slouching posture of a low-ranking wolf. “And remember. The bones will be big so we’ll see how well you have le
arned your gnawing!”

  Yes, the gnawing, but what about hunting? Faolan wondered. He could do so much more than simply gnaw a bone from which higher-ranking wolves had already stripped the meat. They would see what he could do on this byrrgis. They would see him run. The females of the pack were said to be the fastest runners, faster than males. But they’re not as fast as I am, Faolan thought. And what wolf could walk on its hind legs? Thunderheart had taught him to do that. They hadn’t seen it yet. Faolan wasn’t sure if this peculiar talent would be necessary in a byrrgis, but if so—well, that would stop the other wolves in their tracks!

  It was a fact that gnaw wolves were objects of general abuse. Marked by deformity, they became living symbols of the threat of bad blood, and it was as if the clan was somehow cleansing itself of taint through maltreatment of the gnaw wolves. Much was required of these gnaw wolves beyond serving as scapegoats. They were expected to learn to gnaw bones with a proficiency and delicacy that no ordinary wolf could match, keeping the chronicles of the wolf packs and clans of the Beyond on the bones they carved.

  As he was being led away by Lord Bhreac, Faolan caught sight of a she-wolf full-bellied with pup.

  “She’s rather late in the season to be with a pup, is she not, Flint?” commented Bhreac.

  “Indeed. And so often those wolves who carry late give birth too early. Let’s hope she doesn’t go by-lang with fear that it’s a cursed one.”

  Faolan lagged a bit behind and turned to look at the she-wolf. There was a nervous light in her eyes, and he saw another she-wolf with two pups diverge from her path to give the expectant mother a wide margin. One of the pups started to veer back, but his mother gave him a sharp cuff and growled, “Get away from her!”

  Faolan’s heart went out to the she-wolf. He hoped she hadn’t heard, but he could tell from the way her head drooped that she had. It would be a wonder if she did not go by-lang. A cursed one, they called the unborn pup, Faolan thought. As I was. As I am! A malcadh. Had his first Milk Giver gone by-lang? Had she run off into the deep away to keep him safe from the laws of the clan?

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHALLENGING THE ORDER

  AS THEY APPROACHED THE BURN, the site of the gaddergludder, where two dozen or more members of the combined packs were gathering, Faolan felt the stares of the other wolves. He heard murmurs of astonishment as well. “He’s too big for a gnaw wolf.” “Too well fed.” “He must be sneaking meat at kills and not waiting.” “No pack wolf would permit…” “He’s just large….”

  “Take a lesson from Heep over there,” Lord Bhreac said. “A model gnaw wolf!” Faolan had not yet met any of the other gnaw wolves. Perhaps he could learn something from Heep; the humility expected of a gnaw wolf did not come easily to him. Faolan made his way to the top of the Burn. Amid the tail wagging, bowing, and howling, he spotted a tailless yellow wolf writhing in the dirt.

  Faolan’s submission postures left something to be desired. It was as if his knees simply could not bend enough; his shoulders seemed unready to flex so that he could drop to his belly; and he hated twisting his neck to press his face into the ground.

  So this was what was considered a model gnaw wolf! Faolan felt sick. He had never seen a wolf grind himself so deeply into the ground. Heep’s muzzle had disappeared into the dusty earth, and Faolan wondered how he could even breathe. Heep’s eyes—more yellow than green—slid back into his head so that only the whites showed, but Faolan caught him glimpsing around every few seconds to see who was watching him. And all the while, Faolan noticed that the yellow wolf’s hindquarters twitched, as if he were trying to shove his tail between his legs. But he had no tail to tuck in submission, wag in happiness, or hold out rigid in a display of dominance.

  Heep wore this humility like a second pelt, and it gave Faolan a queasy feeling in his stomach. But Heep was supposed to be a model gnaw wolf, and perhaps he would tell Faolan something about the byrrgis and the hunt.

  Faolan sank to his knees near Heep. “So when do we get to join in the howling?”

  “What?” the yellow wolf rasped.

  “I said, when do we—”

  “I know what you said, gnaw wolf. I am simply astonished by the question! You know nothing, do you?”

  “It was just a question. I don’t know all the ways yet.”

  “At this rate, you never will,” muttered Heep. “Gnaw wolves do not howl at gaddergludders. They do not howl at any pack or clan rallies.”

  Faolan was tempted to ask why but felt perhaps it was better not to. He did, however, want to know about the actual byrrgis. Forget howling about it. What was the hunt like?

  “Can you tell me about the byrrgis? I can run…” He hesitated. He would not say he could run as fast as the females, since that might be inviting trouble. Instead, he said, “I have a lot of strength. I can run long and hard.”

  Heep raised his muzzle from the dirt and gave him a withering glance. “It really won’t matter.”

  “What do you mean, it won’t matter?”

  At just that moment, Lord Claren walked by. He briefly paused in front of Heep and observed his writhings of submission, which seemed to stimulate Heep to even more frantic displays.

  “So pleased to serve in my most humble way. Let the more noble wolves, the captain and the corporals of the byrrgis, be aided by my most humble efforts as a sweeper as I sniff the scat and urine of the prey. To accurately report on the condition of their droppings is a glory unto me if it serves the greater glory of the byrrgis.”

  Droppings! What was Heep talking about? That was their job, to sniff the droppings? Faolan was astonished. He had thought that, even though they were gnaw wolves and not permitted the first, second, or even tenth bite of prey after it had been brought down, they would not be relegated to sniffing droppings. Like a guttering flame, the anticipation Faolan had felt now flared and extinguished.

  Heep slid his eyes toward Faolan and whispered, “That is indeed our task, gnaw wolf—to sniff the scat of the prey. No more. No running to speak of, nor are we part of the kill rush at the end. We sniff scat,” he said, turning to Lord Claren, who nodded approvingly at Heep’s explanation.

  “And I would not deem you too proud, Lord Claren,” Heep continued, “if you chose to avoid me for some time after this most magnificent hunt because of the stench I shall have acquired in the performance of my task.” He paused in this fawning litany of self-abasement and added a small, delicate writhe. “Know that I am filled with humility at the mere chance of serving thus, and I shall wear the stench as a badge of my most humble service.”

  Lord Claren walked away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Faolan said, “Heep.”

  “What is it now, gnaw wolf?” Heep replied.

  “Can’t you call me by my name—Faolan?”

  “You haven’t earned that name.” Heep’s nostrils pinched together and he spoke with obvious disdain.

  “It is the name given to me by my second Milk Giver.”

  “Oh!” Heep said. “That bear.”

  “Yes, that bear, the grizzly Thunderheart!”

  Heep took a step closer. “Let me explain something to you, gnaw wolf. There is no such thing as a Milk Giver, first, second, or third, for a malcadh. Whoever this so-called Milk Giver was, she is no better than an impostor. And you show only stupidity and arrogance in thinking otherwise.”

  Faolan growled and stepped closer, which seemed to surprise Heep. As a longer-serving gnaw wolf in a pack, Heep had seniority and had not expected to be approached in such a manner.

  “Urskadamus!” Faolan muttered the old bear curse he had learned from Thunderheart. He heard some she-wolves snicker, but he didn’t pay any attention and turned away from the gnaw wolf.

  Faolan realized that a wolf had been observing him from across the way. She was young, tawny colored, about his age, he thought, but smaller and certainly not a gnaw wolf. Not when she was so well fed and had no trace of a deformity.

  She was looking at him curiously.
He could not return her gaze. It would be considered an affront for a gnaw wolf to look directly at another wolf, even if that wolf were the same age. But out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was approaching him cautiously. He must sink lower, lay back his ears, and try as best he could to twist his neck and shove his face into the ground. Her words came softly and surprised him.

  “It’s hard for you, isn’t it?” Somehow he knew immediately what she meant. “You can’t pretend, can you? Not like Heep.”

  “Not like Heep. No wolf could be like him. He hardly seems a wolf to me.”

  “Maybe not, but sometimes you have to pretend. This is easy compared to—”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Shhh! Here he comes.”

  Heep came slithering on his belly back toward them. “Oh, my, that such a proud and noble young wolf should speak to humble creatures as ourselves. Such a gifted young she-wolf from the noble Carreg Gaer of our chieftain Duncan MacDuncan deigns to speak with the likes of us!”

  Carreg Gaer! So she was not from the River Pack, Faolan thought. Carreg Gaer was the term used for the pack of the chieftain. But why was she here? It seemed as if she was embarrassed by Heep’s lavish display of humiliation, and she turned away to join the gaddergludder. Soon the skreeleen’s voice rose to a high pitch as she howled the final summoning call.