They had been following Hannah’s scent to a nearby village when Markhi noticed the wolf-dog smell again and the smell of human. His ears pricked up, and he paused when he could see two boulders rising high above the earth. Two small voices, arguing in hushed tones, carried across the wind.
Markhi ordered his dogs to stand down.
As Markhi trotted to the boulders, he was not sure what to do with the creature he expected to find. A half-blood dog could never be accepted into the pack and would even be a danger to a human village. But he doubted he could kill one so young, especially when he suspected the animal was all that was left of his friend Hannah.
Pietre caught sight of the great dog first and sucked in his breath. The mighty dog was a good bit taller than Humphrey’s mother had been and almost twice as broad. His face and legs were a dark sandy color, which faded into black along his back like a dark robe. The dog and his pack were what Pietre had been both hoping for and dreading.
Pietre wanted nothing more than for Humphrey to stay—nothing in all the world, except to get his father back. But to keep the dog with him, to convince the young animal that there was nothing outside of the rotting walls of his village, well, that may have been true for Pietre, where only death waited for him every sunset outside the gates. But for Humphrey there was a life of freedom and song, of friendship and family. And of food—all the food he could think to need or want. Pietre knew his friend should not have to suffer because he did. And yet he hated to give him up.
“Good day, younglings,” the large dog said, dipping his head in greeting.
Humphrey stared at the great dog as though the God of the White Sun had just descended in front of him. Neither boy nor pup could find their voices to reply and the dog came closer, walking a half circle around the two before Pietre finally spoke. “Good day, great one.” At that, the big dog seemed to smile and stopped his pacing.
“My name is Markhi,” the dog said. “I don’t suppose that either of you could lead us to a town with some victuals.”
“No, sir,” Pietre said. “I hope you will forgive my honesty, but I really don’t suppose we could.”
“Honesty is nothing to forgive,” Markhi said, staring now at the sunken cheeks and thin frame of the fair-haired boy.
“Victuals,” Humphrey whispered, as though in awe of the enormous word just as much as he was in awe of the enormous dog. Slowly the pup had inched forward until he was close. And then, without thinking—in an impetuousness that the young of his kind were inclined to—he touched his paw to the great dog’s neck and gave him a playful push.
Markhi pulled away.
Humphrey tucked his tail and sat down.
“Pup,” the large dog asked abruptly. “Where is your pack?”
“I am Hannahszon and live, for now, in the human village.”
“You are Hannahszon indeed,” the great dog said, and the tone of his voice made the fur on Humphrey’s back prickle with pride.
“You know her,” Pietre asked, surprised.
“I did,” the dog said simply. “I was sent here to seek her.”
“You needn’t seek her more,” Pietre said with a sad bow of his head.
Markhi sighed. “I suspected that as well, child. I know—unfortunately—many things that I do not wish to know.”
“Do you know my father?” Humphrey asked, his tail beating the earth.
For a long, uncomfortable moment the dog looked at Humphrey. “I did not know your father, although I know much of his kind.”
Humphrey’s tail slowed, and finally in the silence that followed, it stopped. Pietre looked at the pup as though seeing him for the first time; he looked at him the way his mother had that first evening he had arrived. Pietre saw it then, the way Humphrey’s ears rose to a point, the way the fur on his chest had already begun to come in thick and course.
“No,” Pietre whispered softly.
Humphrey did not seem to understand. He turned to dog, then boy, then—looking confused—he curled into a heap and lay as though scolded.
“It is not of your doing,” Markhi began.
“What’s not?” the pup asked.
“Humphrey,” Pietre said, kneeling gently by the dog and putting a small hand between his ears. “I think your father may have been a wolf.”
Humphrey jerked his head back. “No,” he said. “She hated wolves. She hated that wolf who came and—” Suddenly, Humphrey was quiet. Pietre knew that Humphrey understood it too—the way his mother had growled, They are mine. Why would she need to claim them? Unless another had come who also felt he had claim on them, another whose claim would have been to destroy, not protect.
Humphrey put a paw over his snout and closed his eyes and stayed there, barely breathing. Markhi and Pietre let him sit until finally he said, “There is no room for me then.”
Pietre looked away from Humphrey and avoided Markhi’s eyes. He did not want to see that the pup did not, in fact, have a place. He would be killed by the wolves or Veranderen if they found him. He would be shunned by most of the dogs and an embarrassment more than a comfort to his grandparents. He would be a danger to any humans who sheltered him. And yet, when Pietre finally glanced down at Humphrey, catching his eye, Pietre knew that he could not abandon the pup.
“Room can be made, Humphrey,” Pietre said. “Room can always be made.”
As he said it, an odd breeze caught some of the leaves at their feet. In the breeze, Pietre thought he heard a whisper and in the whisper a word—unusual in its tone, old and forgotten. “Rotherem,” the wind seemed to say. Pietre looked around as he was sure the word had been spoken, but saw no one.
Markhi stopped and his ears stood upright. Even Humphrey raised his head.
“Markhi,” Pietre said softly. “Did you hear that?”
Markhi did not answer. Instead he looked through the boulders to the light outside. A shadow danced over a spot where sunlight had dappled the ground just moments ago. “I have just been reminded of an herb,” Markhi said, glancing sideways at Pietre. “An herb that was once shown to me with a warning, for it can mask the scent of even the most foul-smelling wolf. You must find this herb. It consists of a stalk of tender green with five small leaves that grow out of it. Even dried, the herb can be crushed and used to disguise a wolfish scent.”
Markhi stepped from the cave and Pietre followed. “A stalk of tender green?” Pietre asked.
Markhi nodded.
“With five leaves, somewhat dark and mostly round with just a bit of a point?”
Again, Markhi dipped his head, this time more inquisitively. “Do you know this herb?”
“When you break the stalk, a milky white comes out, but just a bit. And the smell is almost sweet like anise?” Pietre continued.
“But with something just sour underneath,” the dog replied. “You do know this herb. But how? Its use is not common, especially among the humans.”
For several moments Pietre did not speak. Of course he knew this herb. He had gathered it every morning at his mother’s request. Since Hannah had come to their hut to die, his mother had insisted Pietre harvest it every day, even when it rained. And every day, his mother had combed a bit into Humphrey’s thick coat. She had told Pietre that this was to keep the fleas away. Ever since Hannah’s death, his mother had become obsessed with fleas. Now Pietre understood. His mother had known who Humphrey was.
“My mother has been using this herb for Humphrey,” Pietre said simply. “Only recently, since my father was taken, she has been forgetful. That’s why you could smell Humphrey at all.”
“This herb?” Markhi asked. “It can be found in these parts?”
Pietre nodded.
“Find this herb,” Markhi said. “Collect as much as you can. Crush the leaves gently and use it on the pup every day. Every time you come across it growing, take it all. Dry any you do not use and keep it safe. No matter the cost. If the wolves find him, he will be killed. Not only that, he will be a danger to your village and e
specially your kin. As for the dogs, I’m not sure that even I could convince them to rescue one who is not fully our own.”
Pietre nodded gravely.
Markhi turned back to the cave and spoke to Humphrey. “As for you, growing one. When my duties bring me to these parts, I will come to you and teach you some of the ways of our kind. You have a strong heart. And a soft one as well. These are traits your mother shared. You must value and use them as I trust she did.”
Humphrey looked up at the great dog, holding himself straight and tall and asked, “So I cannot come with you?”
“Even if you wished to—and I don’t really think you do—your place, Hannahszon, is not among our kind. Fate has taken you to the realm of man. Strangely, it is the place your mother often wished to go. Perhaps there is some piece of destiny in this.”
“But if I wanted to come with you?” Humphrey asked again, as though needing to hear something he knew he wouldn’t like.
Markhi raised his head, the coppery eyes kind but firm. “The pack cannot hold you. It cannot protect you from others, or even, in some cases, from its own. There are those who have been hurt by wolves, those who cannot—or do not—forgive.” Looking to the pup, Markhi bent down so he could speak to the young dog face to face. “Do not look so low. It could not even hold your mother, though she was fully of our kind. There are some with missions beyond the pack. It is up to you to find yours.”
Ahead of them a shadow again fell across a place where sun had been. They heard a rustle in the leaves, a sound so slight it could have been the wind. Markhi’s ears stood tall and he sniffed the air.
Humphrey sniffed as well, and then shrugged. He turned to Markhi, but the dog was already running back to his pack. “What was it?” he asked Pietre.
Pietre looked to the place Markhi had sniffed. “The shadow,” he murmured. “It was strange. It looked just like a cat.” His voice sparked like a small light, just lit.
“And what is a…cat?” Humphrey asked, his young tongue clicking against the sharp, new word.
Pietre looked away suddenly and shook his head. “Something that doesn’t exist,” he said, all the light in his voice snuffed out.
Humphrey didn’t ask more questions. Pietre put a hand to the dog’s strong back.
“I won’t eat too much,” Humphrey promised.
“You’ll eat every bit as much as you need,” Pietre said. “Moecka wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides,” Pietre said, smiling slyly, “bloodied lizard tails are not my favorite supper.”
“That’s because you don’t know a delicacy when you see it,” Humphrey said.
“Delicacy, huh? How’d you learn that word?” Pietre asked, starting to jog.
“My mother said it,” Humphrey answered, “when she couldn’t hunt and we saw her eating slugs.” Humphrey began to run too and the two of them bounded toward the village—to the place they would both call home.
Chapter 9
The king was adorned in robes of fiery red and held a staff nearly as large as a man. He sat in an immense chair fashioned from iron and wood, which extended up into a carving of a wolf’s head—mouth open, teeth exposed, the grains of wood spiraling across the face like a combination of fur and flame. Behind Crespin stood two Veranderen guards while Crespin’s newly appointed wolf general waited at attention—forepaw tucked to his chest. The general, Wolrijk, was the most marred, gruesome, deformed wolf the king had ever known. His entire snout was a mass of mottled gray scar tissue so thick that his left nostril was only apparent when the wolf inhaled. Under Wolrijk’s chin ran a crude line of pink as though his entire face had been torn off and then sewn back on. Even so, his most disconcerting features were his eyes. One drooped, yellow puss filling the recess while the other was half-covered with a torn, hairless eyelid that could never fully close. Crespin hated that eye. Which is one of the reasons he had selected Wolrijk. The truth was that his face was so malformed it was difficult to look at without turning away.
The general’s paws and legs were not much better. The front legs were more muscled than any normal wolf and the fur of his front quarters was patchy with dark tufts of fur mixed with smooth stretches of exposed skin. The yellow nails that grew from those deformed paws looked like they had been grafted in—claws that would shred his own mother to pieces if that was the king’s command.
After the handsome Grender, an ugly, vicious general was just what Crespin needed, but that didn’t mean he wanted him hovering next to him all day long. Especially on such an unpleasant day as the first of the month. The king struck his staff to the floor and the ugly wolf moved back two paces.
Jager was escorted to the judgment hall by two of the Königsvaren—wolves with fur so dark it was nearly black except at their chests where it faded to a dull charcoal. Tucking their right paws, they each bowed to the king before stepping several paces back and leaving the prisoner to stand alone before their monarch.
Wittendon sat on a tall wooden chair to the king’s right—as far away from the general Wolrijk as possible.
The prisoner looked thin and smelled like mold. They’d been holding him for nearly two months in a small cell as he awaited judgment day, which came on the first day of every third month.
One of the wolves stepped forward a pace and began reciting the crime for which this trial was taking place. Had he been holding a scroll, it would have dangled to the floor with the fussy language of judgment. Finally, as Wittendon covered a yawn, the wolf concluded, “Thus, he who herefore stands is to be held responsible for the murder in cold blood of the great wolf, Grender, general of the king’s forces. The human is charged, also, with providing an asylum for the guilty she-hound and an honorable burial for said dog.”
King Crespin stood then, as he had for every trial that morning, and said, “Do you, Jager Wilhelmszon, admit to harboring a dog and providing for her burial?”
“Yes, my liege,” the man said.
“And in this,” Crespin continued, stepping down from his great chair, “did you expect to escape judgment?”
“I did not expect to experience judgment at all, my lord,” Jager said.
“You did not?” the king said.
“The dog came to us at the brink of death. We did what any human of good upbringing and merciful heart would have done.” The more he spoke, the steadier Jager’s words became.
“And you did not ask how she had gotten to such a point?” the king inquired, staring down at the human.
“I did not,” Jager said so clearly and calmly that one of the wolf captains began to fidget.
The king, just as calm, raised an eyebrow. “Your ignorance will cost you, human. Surely you know the price for such a crime. Do you not regret it?”
“No, my lord,” Jager whispered firmly.
Wittendon could feel his father grow hot. Even Jager must have seen it in in the way the king’s staff began to glow with embers smoldering inside the round crystal.
“Well, perhaps you will feel it more keenly when, one week hence, you are escorted to the gallows, and there granted the privilege of crossing into the great beyond to greet your much-honored canine friend.”
Jager was wise enough to remain silent, though he did not bow his head or make any other gesture of penitence.
The king met Jager’s gaze and after several seconds, he said, “You will want your family, I presume, to be notified.”
“My family?” Jager asked, his voice stumbling finally.
“Of course. I make a point to send a messenger to the families of those executed. We are not barbarians, human, though your kind persists in imagining us as such.” The king sat down and Wittendon looked at his father’s solid profile and then over the prisoner’s head. The prince did not wish to meet Jager’s eyes.
Jager said, “I am sure my family will be notified sufficiently by my continued absence, Lord King. No messenger wolf will be necessary.”
“Truly?” the king asked. “You wish to leave them ever wondering what has
become of you—whether you are slave or free or dead. Whether you have not been released and simply failed to make your way home, having found other pastures in which to sow your precious human oats.”
“Lord Father,” Wittendon suddenly injected, looking to the human. “If you wish, I will tell those who remain of this one’s fate.”
Wolrijk did not move, but Wittendon could see that he was sneering at him as the king turned.
“I wish no such thing,” Crespin said sharply. “It is not the duty of princes to wander about giving their condolences to the families of the human dead.”
Wittendon lifted his head in acknowledgment and then looked away.
The prisoner spoke again. “If a messenger is to be sent,” Jager said, “and if it would please the king, I would ask that the messenger leave my many precious tools as they are. They are fashioned, good king, of the best metals—metals I have mined and crafted with my own hands in a manner passed down through my family for five generations.”
The king blinked. Wittendon noticed it, surprised. His father never blinked.
Jager took a breath, and waited.
“You fancy yourself mighty in the making of tools?” the king asked.
“I do not fancy anything,” Jager said. “Not only am I an expert at my craft, but I am skilled in the finding and mining of the ores as well. Forgive the boast, good king, but there are none who know metal as well as I. My grandfather fashioned the pattern for the chain mail you wear upon your breast. My father fashioned the tips of your boar-killers—those mighty spears used to tame and domesticate the race of pigs. And you need not explain the Shining Grey to me because there is lore of it told in generations of my family. I know that it cannot be mined more than two moon cycles before the Motteral Mal tournament. I know that it is scarce and, under the glare of the great sun, volatile. I know that if mined too early, it will weaken and corrode, sometimes becoming so unstable that it will glow in the heat of a battle, leaking a slow venom into its handler. I know that because of this, the Grey cannot be saved from tournament to tournament and re-used. Instead, an expert smith must be employed to make the blades quickly and well in the weeks before the competition. I know much,” Jager said, his chin thrusting forward.
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