Page 60 of Blacktail

“Perhaps,” said Quickfoot. “But she’d not likely bargain with the name of the Old Kitty Mother if there were no truth to it. No one’s that crazy.”

Fang wagged agreement. “Fair point. We’ll need to find this traveler a meal. Another deer, perhaps? I thought I smelled one when last I stood by the little waterfall.”

“Which, the north or the south?”

“The north.”

“No, Fatberry ate that one,” Gray-Ear said glumly. “I saw the carcass yesterday afternoon. Oh—wait. It was the day before. Anyway, it’s dead.”

“Bleeding farts! Is there no end to her appetite? Next she’ll be eating the trees!”

There was a murmur of nervous laughter, but it was mostly reflex. Wolves sometimes joke that winter is the greatest hunter of all, with its teeth of hunger and claws of ice. Even if the first snows saw a pack plump and their forest brimming with squirrel and rabbit, it was still anyone’s guess who among them might live to see the spring. None of Fang’s pack were plump, and the woods were nearly barren. They might catch a few mice and rabbit, but Fatberry got all the large game.

These were desperate times.

“My mum used to say that the morning is the most dangerous time to be alive,” Little One said quietly. “We might find Fatberry’s den and…” He trailed off as the others swung their heads around to stare at him.

“And what, then?” Quickfoot asked. “Get your leg clawed off like Blue-Eye? Get your guts spilled across the snow like the Great-Mother? Which is your choice, little dog-child? Hmm? Which would you prefer?”

“Wolves are slow for a time when they wake,” Little One said quietly. “Perhaps the same is true of Fatberry.”

“Farts! Is there no end to your—”

Fang, who had been dozing, cocked one eye open. “Be still, Quickfoot. Little One’s idea is strong. I will chew on it.”

“What of the traveler?” Quickfoot asked.

“What of him?”

“The cat believed he was something special, that much is certain. She said that none might stand against him.” Quickfoot eyed him slyly. “We might set him against Fatberry.”

“The cat also said he would chew us up and spit out the bones if we trifled with him. I don’t know about you, Quickfoot, but I have enough fleas in my fur without adding a death god to the mix.”

“You’re so eager to face Fatberry again, is that it?” she asked, nuzzling the long parallel scars in his flank.

Fang clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to nip at her. Before he took her as mate, her manipulation was not so brazen. Truth be told, these days she had come to irritate him mightily. But on this point she was entirely correct. Fang remembered the burning swipe of Fatberry’s claw, how the pain of it had dazed him for a breath. He looked up from the rock where he had fallen and saw Blue-Eye wobbling on three legs, the blood gushing from the stump of the fourth as if he were prey….

Quickfoot looked at him with wide, puppylike eyes. “He might end all our troubles, lord,” she said.

He might end us along with our troubles, Fang thought.

He turned away from his charges for a moment, looking up to the moon. The sight of it soothed him. Ever since he was a pup, looking to the sky helped him think. As he watched, a flurry of autumn leaves was blown down by a cold north wind. Even here, the breeze carried a hint of Fatberry’s scat. Set the traveler against Fatberry? He was mindful of the cat’s warning. Quickfoot’s idea felt…brash. But brash choices may be all that I have time for.

Fang turned back to his pack. “Little One, I need a service.”

“Yes, lord?”

“Sleep all day. When the moon rises, I want you to journey into the dens of men. Take what time you need, but don’t dawdle. Ask among the slave beasts what word they hear of this traveler. Sometimes the word of a thing grows larger than the thing itself, if many are involved in the telling.”

“What shall I ask?”

“Is he truly all that they say? Find if anyone has smelled him with their own nose—not rumor, not tales. Ask among the cats especially—they seem to be well-informed—but don’t bargain with the name of the Old Kitty Mother. Just be charming. Sing them songs of the wild forest and tell them how pretty their coats look. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Good enough. Now sleep.”

iii