So that’s why they met here, Mercy thought. One of the clauses in the peace treaty called for the wolf clans to return a train that they had seized after the occupation failed. It would most likely run through here. Besides, the wolves preferred to host their meetings in these monuments to the human age. At least one of the ken-ras had taken place at the remains of a mall, another on an airport runway. Dregger always said that the wolves with too much time on their hands enjoyed the symbolism of it all, the conquest and the destruction. Like dragging an enemy’s carcass through the grass.
Towering over everyone else, three pack leaders on horseback awaited the intruders. Only the most powerful clans could afford to keep these slaves. The clans that complained the loudest about the practice always ended up adopting it themselves when given the chance. The Mournfuls, represented by their leader, Grieve, wore the most elaborate face paint and trinkets. Red, blue, green, and gold paint coated Grieve’s snout and eyes, while bones and skulls—including the barely knitted scalp of a human child—dangled from his chest. To his left, Harrek the White of the Earthblood pack yanked on his horse’s bridle, his face covered in powdered chalk. To Grieve’s right, a young wolf named Streak represented the Bounty clan. He had recently taken over for his father and wore green paint, with red lines that streamed down his cheekbones like bloody tears.
More marauders on horseback lined the wall of the station. On the roof, soldiers dangled their feet off the gutter like spectators at a zagga match. And off to the side, yet another abomination awaited: a pair of deer, two powerful stags. The larger one smiled at Mercy, baring sharpened teeth with a hint of red to them. So that’s how it was. No outsiders allowed ever, save for these diplomats sent to broker a treaty with the most powerful wolves at the expense of everyone else. The deer were always expelling their weakest and their oldest, as well as those who disobeyed—all of whom could be banished to wolf country as a peace offering. Mercy could not know for sure if these were the same deer who killed Wex. They all looked the same, and their blank eyes gave away nothing. Regardless, Grieve and his allies needed the deer’s blessing to work out a ceasefire with Hosanna. And no pack would benefit more from this power grab than the Mournfuls.
The crowd urged Mercy and her comrades to stand before the three mounted wolves. On the way, Urna nearly tripped over a loose rock. Mercy grabbed her sister by the shoulders and straightened her. Mercy made sure to dig her nails into Urna’s skin. An unmistakable message: Know who you are. Or, for Urna, know who you once were. Do it for me, and I won’t ask anything of you again.
A few of the onlookers sneered at Urna, knowing that she had been infected with the rot that destroyed the Mudfoot. Mercy felt their hatred like a mist surrounding her. For so long, it had made her feel weak, but here, she drew strength from it. Every one of these people would pay for what they had done. On this day, she would explain it to them and watch their faces fall when the cold reality flooded their hearts.
Grieve raised his hand, and the shouting stopped.
“The Damnables have arrived,” he said, in his smooth, humanlike way.
“No Damnable,” Mercy said, cursing her inability to speak more clearly. “You talk at me with respect.”
Grieve feigned surprise, which only amused his sycophants more. Harrek laughed so hard that his horse needed to readjust his stance.
“Pack leaders are equals at ken-ra,” Mercy said, quoting something Dregger told her one night. She had rehearsed it in her head hundreds of times on the way here.
“You are no pack leader,” Grieve said.
“I am Mercy of the Mudfoot.” The wolves erupted in laughter again. For a female to proudly call herself a mercy dog was unthinkable. Still, she pressed on. “You have wronged us. I demand to be heard.”
“You demand nothing, you dried up breeder. You stand for nothing. You lead nothing. The ken-ra is for pack elders. You are merely a survivor.”
“Merely,” she said. The pup, fully awake, crawled from his pouch and mounted his front paws on her shoulder.
“And this,” Grieve said, pointing to the child. “The Damnable left you all sterile. But out of nowhere, you produce a male heir at the very moment your patriarch dies. How convenient.”
“This is patriarch now. This is the future.”
“He barely even looks like a wolf. Did you breed him with that human lover of yours?”
“This Dregger’s son.”
“Saying it does not make it so.”
“No,” she said. “But you are the talker. We act.”
“Yes, you act. By inciting a war with your army of misfits. Look at you. Diseased wolves. Outcast humans. Refugee dogs, like this . . .” He gestured toward the wet nurse. And when he did, his hand hung in the air for a moment, his eyes narrowed. He recognized this dog.
Mercy would have to deal with it later. She pointed at the stags, who both blinked at the same time. “What kind of wolf brings deer to ken-ra?”
“A wolf who sees the real future,” Grieve said. “We cannot survive hunting other people as food. Those days are over for all of us.”
“And who tells you to give up the old ways?” she said.
“We did! We decided it together at the last ken-ra. The one Dregger was too good to attend.”
“Did you agree—together—to destroy our land?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Damnable. Humans did it. With your help.”
Grieve waved it off. “The attack on Hosanna triggered the flood. If you have a problem with what happened, swim out to sea about fifty miles and take it up with the Sarcops.”
“We ask you for help,” Mercy said. “And you leave us to die.”
“You wanted to be left alone,” Grieve said. “Dregger himself said that if a Mournful ever set foot on his territory, he’d be treated as food. Your people were proud of that stance once. You called us gonneys. Fake wolves. And now you’re sad about the consequences.”
“Consequences were good . . . for you.”
“Because we adapted. You didn’t.”
This was going nowhere. Mercy needed to appeal to those in the audience who had no choice but to go along with the Mournfuls’ plan.
“All of us can be one pack.” She interlaced her fingers to illustrate. “A pack that works with humans who are worthy. This Mournful wants you to take orders from bad humans. The ones who hate us.”
They were not ready to hear the next part. She decided to say it anyway.
“I forgive what you have done to Mudfoot. If you join us.”
This elicited the loudest laughter so far. Amid the jeers and shouting, Grieve jerked the bridle and stepped closer. Urna made a move to run. Mercy steadied her with a pinch to her ribs.
“I don’t expect you to forgive us,” Grieve said. “But I don’t care, either. Your rebellion won’t survive the winter. We are making peace with Hosanna on our terms. By the fall, no one will remember your name.”
“You still think bears will help you,” Mercy said. “They will not. Not this time.”
This killed the last bits of laughter.
“I have never worked with the bears,” Grieve said. “You come here, a traitor, and you accuse me of treason?”
Mercy opened the backpack that Augur gave her. She upended it, and a hunk of flesh dropped out. As soon as it landed, she kicked it toward Grieve. The object came to rest at the horse’s hooves. The gift that Augur promised was a severed bear’s claw, cut off at the forearm so that the two bones protruded from the wound. A ring made of steel glinted on one of the digits, indicating that this bear enjoyed wealth and power, much like the Mournfuls. Hence their secret alliance. For as long as it lasted.
“Those outcast humans,” Mercy said. “You will call them the Toqwa. They are a pack. Like us.”
A light murmuring from the audience. Grieve remained perfectly st
ill, though his horse lowered his head and sniffed at the claw.
“They find where the bears sleep,” Mercy said. “They wake them. Females and cubs they let go. But the males . . .” She nodded toward the severed limb. Earlier that day, Augur described it for her, how the bears emerged dazed from hibernation, like drunkards stumbling about. They slept with their backs facing the entrance, where their thick hides would protect them from the elements. When the slaughter began, a few of them asked why. A few of them asked how—how could the humans have known where the bears hid for the winter when no one else did? The Toqwa would not tell them. They merely went about the quiet, brutal work of avenging their kin.
Mercy raised her voice for all to hear. “You can sign phony peace treaty with Hosanna. Or you can join us. All of you.” She fixed her gaze on Grieve’s horse, a brown beast with a giant white stripe bisecting his long face. The horse blinked.
“Join what?” Grieve said. “An army of thieves and half-breeds? You think you can—”
The horse reared onto his hind legs, going nearly vertical, while his brown eyes remained glassy and dead. With his hooves raised, he must have rose to fifteen feet in the air. Veins puffed out from his muscular neck. Grieve tumbled from the saddle and landed hard. The horse spun around, ready to bring the full weight of his hooves on his master, who lay cowering on the ground.
Gunshots echoed off the ancient walls of the station. Mercy and her party crouched, putting their hands over their heads. Urna hugged her from the front. Behind her, pressing against the pup, the wet nurse shielded the young one with her body. She cooed in the child’s ear. “It’s okay, shhhhh.”
The horse lay dead. A final breath lifted his ribs, then exited in a sad groan. Most likely, the wolves captured him as a colt and trained him for years. The dull claw marks on his hide told his story.
The rest of the horses remained still, their expressions blank as usual. Their riders, on the other hand, appeared ready to leap from their saddles at the first sign of trouble. Every one of them placed his hand near a blade or a gun.
A team of bodyguards rushed to Grieve and helped him to his feet. “Get off me,” he said, shoving them away. He glanced at the dead horse and shook his head. A cloud of gun smoke ascended behind him.
Mercy willed herself to stand again. Her companions joined her.
“You did this,” Grieve said.
“No,” Mercy said. “You did.”
She stepped away from the protection of her friends so that they could all get a good look at her. And her son.
“We return tomorrow. Make your choice. Join us, or live as slaves to these gonneys.”
Grieve tried to stare her down. But it was no use. She saw the fear in his eyes. Smelled it in his breath. He would not sleep well again for the rest of his life, knowing that at any minute even the lowliest of his subjects could turn against him.
She turned to her friends. “We go now,” she whispered.
“That’s it?” Carsa asked.
“Yes. Let them argue.”
They stayed within the narrow train tracks as they made their way out of the station. The crowd split to make room. And as they did, the wolves descended into mad barking, sounding much like a zagga game. The noise startled the horses while Grieve and his fellow nobles tried to maintain order. When Mag tried to steal a glance at the mayhem, Mercy told him to keep moving. The ken-ra would sort things out, separating the strong from the weak as it always did.
The guards were more agreeable on the way out. They placed their rifle butts on the ground and lowered their heads as the Mudfoot passed. The pup cooed at them, and then let out a little sneeze.
Augur waited for them on the other side of the wall of rubble. The guards mumbled something about humans and their stink. He ignored it.
“Preeta has a camp ready for us,” he said. “Follow me.”
Walking on all fours again came as a relief for Mercy. The pup agreed. He fell asleep as soon as he went horizontal. His fist gripped a handful of her fur and would not let go.
“Grieve is afraid,” Mercy said.
“Good. And you?”
“Not afraid.”
They veered away from the tracks, into the woods. While the wolves that attended the ken-ra typically stayed close by, Mercy had decided against it. Too risky with the child. Besides, staying in the hills distinguished them as true wolves, another slap in the face for Grieve and his allies.
The path ahead grew steeper. With the short day coming to a rapid close, Mercy wanted nothing more than to curl beside Augur and the pup and drift off to sleep. Ever since the child arrived, her dreams carried her far away from the Damnable and the horrors it created. Sometimes, if she slept in the right position, or ate the right amount of food, she would smell the river before it became cursed, along with the scent of all the wolves who were lost.
As she imagined laying her head on the soft earth, she heard Urna whining behind her.
Mercy tilted her head and sighed. What is it?
“We can go home,” Urna said. “Before it’s too late.”
Mercy stopped. The wet nurse, trailing behind them, nearly bumped into her. Mercy gave her a stern growl, and the dog understood to continue without them.
“Before what’s too late?” Mercy said.
Urna nodded toward the sleeping pup. “They know.”
“Know what?”
“They know.”
Mercy growled: Say it!
Urna barked at the pup—a warning shout normally saved for an outright attack. “He is . . . no Mudfoot—”
Mercy rose to her hind legs, grabbed her sister by the scruff of the neck, and pinned her against the trunk of a fallen tree. Urna yelped but did not resist. When the pup awakened and began to cry out, the wet nurse turned and looked.
“Wex killed my children,” Mercy said into Urna’s ear. “Remember? Killed our blood. The forest gives it back.”
“Please,” Urna said. “We can go home.”
“This child is our home! This is our future.”
“The human lied—”
Mercy squeezed on her sister’s neck.
“Go ahead and beat me,” Urna said. “Like Wex did.”
Mercy let go. Urna grabbed her hand and pressed it to her neck again. “Do it. You are leader. I am omega.”
Mercy yanked her hand away. “Tomorrow, you will understand.”
“What about day after?” Urna said. “And day after that?”
“We do this. Or there will be no days to come.”
She gave Urna one last shove and walked away. The wet nurse remained on the trail, frozen in place. Mercy trudged past her without a word, daring her to speak.
Chapter 13
Migration
Nikaya did not smell the badgers until it was too late.
She should have known better. With Gaunt on her back, she made her way through the pine trees to the base of the mountain, where the flock of geese prepared for their journey to the other side. The winds rattled the trees, drumming the twigs against the branches. They needed to go faster. If they missed the flock, they would have to climb instead of fly. The bat, having clung to her for so long, could tell when she grew pessimistic. He would prod her along. Wind! he would say, as if she could fly like he once could.
Partly inspired, partly delirious, and mostly pissed off, Nikaya went faster. Which was exactly how mistakes were made. When she stumbled into the camp, she thought for a moment that she had gone in a massive circle and somehow arrived at the garrison. A badger emerged from a lodge constructed from sticks and leaves. Another appeared from behind a tree trunk, his long white snout twitching at the presence of intruders. A third approached from behind, cutting off their escape. Like the badgers that guarded the garrison, they had shaved the fur from their arms and carved menacing tattoos into the skin.
But these lean, angry creatures were better trained, more disciplined than the ones she left behind. Better equipped as well, judging from their supplies. Next to their lodge, a trio of rifles leaned against one another in a pyramid. A pot of stew smoldered in a fire pit filled with orange embers. Each badger wore a belt with a long hunting knife fastened to the hip.
The flock needed these mercenaries for protection. Whereas the bats earned a reputation as skinflints, the migratory birds could always bring exotic goods from warmer climates, like nutmeg, coconuts, oranges, and rum. Even better, they required the badgers’ services for only a few weeks a year during the last leg of their journey, when they were the most vulnerable. A lovely business arrangement. Ah yes, behold the civilized world we have created in the wake of endless war! Nikaya could neither bribe them nor threaten them, nor make grand pronouncements about her status as the founder of Lodge City.
Without a word, the badgers pounced on her, separating her from Gaunt. The bat whined like a baby torn from its mother. Nikaya could not say if he merely acted, or if he meant it. For her part, she refused to give them the pleasure of seeing her beg. “We are here to speak to the birds,” she said calmly, before one of the badgers sealed her mouth with the palm of his hand.
“You will,” he said.
They trussed her to a log. When they finished, she lay on her side, hugging the wood, her wrists and ankles wrapped around it and bound. These badgers were smart. The log, about six feet tall and over a foot in diameter, was eastern hemlock, a flavor that would make Nikaya vomit if she tried to chew her way out. They tied Gaunt to the other side, once again cocooning his wings around her. His hideous face pressed into hers. They tore his goggles off to blind him. The badgers finished by tying a rope to each of their necks. If one of them struggled, the other would choke.
They loaded the prisoners onto a large wheelbarrow and rolled them deeper into the valley. Nikaya tried to speak gently. “We are not thieves,” she said. “We did not resist you. We have a deal to make with the birds.”
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