Page 58 of Blacktail

This trail led to the water hole. It was often used by the tasty morsels that lived nearby, but it had been quite a while since the pack had ambushed here. That had been Fang’s way of holding the trail in reserve for a hungry time.

Now the pack was very hungry.

The five of them—Fang, Quickfoot, Gray-Ear, Belly-Scar, and Little One—lined the sides of it, waiting as they had since the sun rose the day before. They hoped to take something—a few fat rabbits perhaps, or even a deer, what a feast that would be!—who had grown incautious in their absence. They had lain all through the heat of the day with nothing for company but the rumble of their stomachs and, along toward dusk, the burning thirst in their throats.

So far, nothing.

All of them were hungry, yes, all of them tired of the waiting and uncomfortable. But only Fang looked at the autumn leaves that fluttered down in the breeze and felt true fear. Winter would be on them soon. It would not be fair to say that they were starving, exactly—they had gone longer than five days without eating before, and likely would again. Wolves can go a long time without food. But to be this skinny, so late in the year, was dangerous. With no fat on their bones to keep them warm and draw on when the little prey hid, or slept, or died of cold—well, it could be bad.

Dying alone is one thing, Fang thought, but leading your pack to ruin is something else again.

Fang was a good lord, but his reign was plagued. He saw clearly that his dynasty was in decline. He could think of nothing he might do to stop it. There were three streams on his land, but only the one that sprang directly from bedrock was still fit to drink. The creek that trickled in from the east valley would give you a bellyache. The one from the west, the larger one, had come to stink so bad that no one even bothered to taste it.

Every year men ate another patch of forest, at the south or the east. Sometimes they built new dens. Sometimes they just cut down the trees. Either way, that was one less place to hunt. No one had seen an elk all summer. Goats were scarce. Only the oldest of them remembered the taste of moose. They could still find a deer or two if the wind was right, but mostly they subsisted on the smaller animals: rabbit, opossum, squirrel. Anything, really. But that wasn’t much meat when shared five ways. Also, the little bastards were hard to catch. Worse, now they had Fatberry to contend with. There had been many hungry nights since she took up hunting on their mountain. Now the winter was upon them.

Most nights Fang lay awake a long time, wondering what might come next.

jingle

Fang’s sharp ears perked up, and he turned his eyes toward the creek. What the hell?

jingle-jingle

At last, he thought, dinner’s coming.

A stupor takes hold after a long time watching the trail. Fang blinked a few times to clear away the mist in his head. He glanced at the trailhead to fix its position in his mind, then looked away as his father had taught him. Prey beasts sometimes feel the gaze of hunters upon them. So Fang looked instead at a spruce tree that grew across the way, watching out of the corner of his eye.

Sure enough, a few moments later a fluffy gray house cat strolled into view. Even though this was wild country, she made no real effort to conceal herself. Silence was impossible when wearing a jingle collar.

His pack lay still, waiting for his signal. Fang breathed softly, trying to make no sound, trying to be a part of the hill. Quickfoot and Belly-Scar lay off to his left. Fang trusted them. He waited until the cat was just past him, then sprang out onto the trail, followed a bare instant later by the rest of the pack.

The cat was clearly a slave of the men—not likely used to the ways of the forest. Even so, it was not especially fat. It might still be quick, Fang thought. He expected it to hesitate a moment in surprise, then break for a tree, probably the thick oak on the right. So strong was his expectation that when the cat sat back on her haunches, Fang leapt to cut off an escape it was not attempting. Crap, he thought. I hope no one saw that.

When the pack had moved in close and there was no escape, Fang strode in to make the kill, a thick rope of saliva dangling at the corner of his mouth. He opened his jaws to bite, and—

“Are you Fang, son of Swift Fang?” the cat asked.

Fang hesitated a moment, then snapped his jaws shut with a click. He cocked his head and looked at the cat. “I am. And your name is Supper, I think.”

“No. I am called Miss Prissy Pants. I am an acolyte in the coven of the Old Kitty Mother, and in the matters of these lands I am her voice and eye. You know of the Old Kitty Mother?”

Fang narrowed his eyes, then took a half pace back to a more respectful distance. The Old Kitty Mother was much feared. Fang sighed. Tonight they would sleep again with empty stomachs.

“I know her name,” he said. Then he grudgingly continued. “You shall have safe passage from my domain, but I advise you to move quickly. That rumbling you hear is my stomach arguing with my brain. Which shall conquer is not a certain thing.”

“The Old Kitty Mother is grateful for your restraint. As am I. I will leave, and shortly, but first I have a message to deliver. You are lord of these lands?”

“I am.” If you don’t count Fatberry, that is.

“Your domain is in the path of a traveler called Blacktail. He is of wolf blood, like yourselves, but he is not a wolf. The Old Kitty Mother begs your indulgence, Lord Fang, that this one may travel through your lands, and hunt here if he chooses. His journey is of the utmost importance, and—”

“Utmost importance? Utmost importance to whom?”

“To the Old Kitty Mother, for one,” the small cat said and stepped forward, meeting the eyes of the starving wolf. “Yourself, for another.”

Fang was more amazed than truly offended. Even so, it took him a moment to respond. He loomed over the gray cat. “You dare to threaten me? In my own land, you dare to threaten?”

“I threaten no one. The Old Kitty Mother threatens no one. As you say, these are your lands. You may use them as you will. But I am charged to offer a warning. These are the words of the Old Kitty Mother herself: The traveler is a death god, as has not been seen since the old age. None may stand against him. Should you or your pack challenge him for hunting, or water, or passage…all will be destroyed.”