by Erin Hunter
DEDICATION
Special thanks to Gillian Philip
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Excerpt from Survivors: Moon’s Choice
Excerpt from Survivors #6: Storm of Dogs
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About the Author
Books by Erin Hunter
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Not my eyes, Callie! Not my eyes . . .
Sweet ducked and twisted out of reach just as the Beta lashed out her claws, the tip of one catching Sweet’s cheekbone. Knocked off-balance, Sweet fell and rolled, then sprang back to her paws, snarling defiance, her fur and hackles prickling. She could feel blood beading on her face. If Callie’s claw had found my eyeball . . . She shuddered.
Sweet gave her pelt a firm shake as the two of them circled each other warily, but she couldn’t lose the tingling rage and frustration. In a challenge like this one—a challenge between dogs of the same Pack—aiming for a dog’s eyes was forbidden. It wasn’t just a vicious move, it was a stupid one. No dog wanted a Pack member maimed! And for swift-dogs like them, eyesight mattered even more. They were so fleet, so quick on their paws, they all needed their keen vision intact in a chase.
That didn’t seem to matter to Callie. The Beta wanted to win at all costs, Sweet realized.
But there was another Pack rule Sweet didn’t intend to break: no dog whined and cowered and complained about their opponent’s tactics in a challenge. The whole Pack was watching this fight.
Sweet curled the skin back from her muzzle, revealing her teeth. Callie was not going to get the better of her, and that meant the Beta wasn’t going to send Sweet whining to their Alpha, either. . . .
Callie bunched her muscles and sprang again. Sweet lunged to meet her in midair.
Although it went against all her instincts, she closed her eyes, letting her other senses guide her. She could feel Callie’s body right there, and the stir of her hot breath as the Beta snapped and bit at Sweet’s face. Sweet spun and twisted, then sank her teeth into fur and flesh.
Yes! Opening her eyes, she realized her jaws were clamped on the side of Callie’s neck. Taking advantage of the other dog’s flinch, she flung her whole slender weight against Callie, and the Beta slipped and fell with Sweet on top, pinned to the ground.
I won, Sweet thought, panting through her mouthful of fur as she straddled Callie’s flank. I finally beat her!
But Callie wasn’t finished yet. She writhed and heaved, sending Sweet tumbling aside, and in moments Sweet was sprawled on the damp earth, the breath knocked out of her lungs. This time Callie was the dog on top, and her jaws were clamped on Sweet’s scruff, holding her down. There was a light of hate in the Beta’s eyes, and a chill swept through Sweet’s blood along with the fury. Curse Callie!
But the awful chill that immobilized her didn’t drain away. It filled Sweet’s body, and seemed to seep out into the air around the two fighting dogs. It was instinct, warning her. . . .
Sweet shuddered. She remembered what happened next. And the fight wasn’t the worst thing that had happened that day . . . the day of the Big Growl. . . .
The longpaws came from nowhere, and everywhere. They were all around the Pack, as if they’d been hiding inside the very trees. Instantly Callie released Sweet, and they both lined up with their Packmates, growling their defiance at the longpaws.
Every muscle and bone in her body urged Sweet to run. Turn! Run! Go! They were swift-dogs, weren’t they? The longpaws were slow and clumsy. The dogs could all flee, right now, and if the rest wouldn’t—Sweet could! She could run far away, faster than any longpaw—
But the Pack was snarling and eyeing the longpaws that closed in from all sides. The Pack wanted to fight, to meet the longpaws’ challenge and defeat them.
Madness! But if Sweet bolted—if she made a run for it—surely the others would follow. . . .
She couldn’t battle the urge any longer. Spinning, Sweet fled, her speed carrying her away from the sticks and nets and the long flailing paws of the creatures looking to capture the dogs.
A moment later, Sweet skidded to a brief halt to look back. Her Pack . . . they weren’t following! They stood their ground against the longpaws, and panic flooded through Sweet’s belly. Raising her voice, she howled to them in dismay and grief.
Follow me! Follow me! Run with me now—
Her own broken howl jolted her out of sleep. Dazed, Sweet shook away the fuzziness of waking and hauled herself onto her forepaws. Her heart thrashed in her narrow chest and her fur was on end all over her body, but there were no longpaws here. No longpaws, no swift-dogs, no Pack. It had been a dream, that was all.
No, not a dream: a memory. A terrible memory.
Why? she thought miserably. Why do I always have to dream about the day I ran?
Slowly Sweet got to her paws, sniffing the strange air. The grass and earth were soft beneath her paw pads, and there was no metal wire caging her in, no walls to stop her from running. This meadow was so much better than the Trap House, yet it wasn’t a truly wild place. All around her, Sweet could feel the work of longpaws. The trees stood in ordered ranks, like dogs lined up for a battle. The grass was clipped and smooth, and the glinting river was channeled under a stone bridge that had been built with long, hairless paws. The air itself made Sweet’s fur prickle.
It was a good enough place to sleep for one night, but it was no place for a wild swift-dog to live—especially a dog with no Pack. Remembering that she was alone now sent a shiver through Sweet’s bones. She’d move on at once, she thought, a whine of sadness rising in her throat.
She missed Lucky already. How could he have let her go? How could he want to be alone, in this new world of all worlds? The kind, smart, golden-furred dog she’d met in the Trap House had insisted all along that he was a Lone Dog, but she hadn’t quite believed him—not till he’d refused to come with her on her journey away from the destroyed city.
Sweet clenched her fangs in angry bewilderment. Lucky’s attitude was madness; it was something she’d never understand, not till the day she went to the Earth-Dog. How could a dog not want to find a Pack? And Sweet knew she would find one: if not today, then tomorrow, or the next day. How could Lucky refuse to come with her to the forest? Ridiculous! There would be dogs there. There would be a Pack she could join to find new strength, a Pack she could help by adding her own strength to theirs. That was the way of dogs; it was what dogs were for!
A little tremor of fear went through her belly. Maybe she shouldn’t even have paused to rest in this strange longpaw meadow. Perhaps any dogs who had left the city would have trekked too far by now; perhaps she would never catch up with them. The very thought made Sweet shiver.
No, she reassured herself. A Pack needed a camp, and once dogs found a safe place to make their territory, they’d stay there. As long as her nose didn’t let her down, she’d find them; she was sure of it.
Sweet couldn’t resist breaking into a steady, swift lope as she headed for the forest. Already she could smell it: the rich scent of pine needles and rotting leaves and damp, cool hollows. No clear dog-scents yet, but she was confident those would come. She had only to reach those dense trees that stretched for countless chases, and she’d find a Pack.
She had to find a Pack.
At the edge of the forest she didn’t even hesitate, but leaped over a fallen log and ran into its darkn
ess, darting and dodging through the thick ranks of pine and aspen. Her heart beat harder and faster as she plunged deeper into the trees, and not just because of her swift-dog pace. There were dog-scents here, and lots of them.
Hopelessly confused and jumbled dog-scents.
Each time Sweet lowered her slender nose to catch a whiff of a dog and follow its trail, she would lose it, distracted and misled by other trails that overlaid it. She would follow the stronger scent, only to lose it again among other scent-markers. Many dogs had passed through the forest—perhaps too many, she realized with a quiver of panic. How would she ever find and follow a clear trail in this maze of smells?
The whole world was tangled and turned upside down, that was the problem. But as soon as she thought that, Sweet felt oddly reassured. The Big Growl had turned the world into a place of madness and confusion, and of course things would not be as easy as they’d once been. What mattered, she told herself confidently, was that there were dogs. At any moment she’d find a strong trail and follow it, and she’d find a new Pack that needed her contribution. And as soon as she had a Pack, the craziness of the world wouldn’t matter. Pack was everything.
There were other scents to distract her, Sweet realized as she paused to sniff at a pine’s exposed roots. Smaller, darker, sharper trails, made by scurrying prey. Her empty belly rumbled, and hunger nipped at her.
I’ll think better with a full belly.
Making her decision, she reluctantly abandoned the dog-scents for the moment and began to nose her way along one of the stronger prey-trails. Slowing, placing her paws with care, she scanned the undergrowth, her ears pricked forward. Be silent, Sweet. You’re hunting alone . . . for now. . . .
There! A movement in the undergrowth. A vole; Sweet caught a glimpse of its russet back and its short tail. It saw her, and darted for the shelter of the forest litter, but Sweet was fast, and she was hungry. She shot forward and snatched it up in her jaws, crunching and gulping it down, bones, tail and all.
It was small, she thought as she licked her jaws, but big enough to take the edge off her hunger.
A new sense of urgency drove her on now, her trotting stride rapid, and she hadn’t gone many rabbit-chases before she broke once more into a loping run. Her nose searched every hint of breeze, every stir of the dank forest air, and her heart clenched tight. What if I never find those dogs?
The scent hit her quite suddenly, filling her nostrils, and she came to a halt, head raised.
It was a scent she recognized from earlier in the day, but it seemed clearer and stronger now; perhaps it was just that she had had the sense to fill her belly. Sweet focused hard on the messages it brought her, and she drew in a sudden, hopeful breath.
That’s a swift-dog! I’m sure of it!
In an instant, visions of her life with the swift-dog Pack flitted across the eye of her mind, sending pangs of regret through her. Callie the Beta had bullied and intimidated her, it was true, but Sweet had been loyal to her Pack; she had loved them. The memory of her Packmates being rounded up for the Trap House, the echoes of their howls as they were captured, filled her head with chaos and misery, and Sweet had to crouch down in the dry fallen leaves, pressing herself close against the ground and flattening her ears.
She and Lucky had been the only dogs to make it out of that Trap House alive when the Big Growl struck. She had been certain of it. . . .
But now, she wasn’t so sure.
Is every one of my Packmates truly dead? Sweet realized she didn’t know, and she didn’t even want to believe it. Maybe some of them escaped the longpaws. Maybe some of them were never captured at all. . . .
There was no choice to be made; she had to follow this scent. Sweet sprang to her feet, and set off at a run again. If any of her Packmates were still alive, she had to track them down. The recognition was followed instantly by a horrible bolt of shame.
I ran.
Of course I ran. I’m a swift-dog, it’s what I was born for. . . .
But I ran when my Pack was in trouble, and the longpaws caught me on my own.
If she hadn’t fled like a coward, Sweet realized, she’d know what had happened; she’d know whether any of her Pack had escaped the longpaws’ attack. She’d have shared their fate. Maybe they’d have all died, been crushed in the collapse of the Trap House, but at least they’d have been together.
My Pack.
Desperately she raced on, following the scent almost blindly, so when the trees ended suddenly in a bright expanse of meadow, she skidded, shocked. The sun was bright overhead, dazzling her eyes after the shadows of the forest, and she could hear the sound of running water.
Flanks heaving, Sweet sniffed the air. The river! She was so thirsty . . . and she remembered how her Pack had loved to swim. They’d splashed and swum in the cool, clear stream sent by the River-Dog, the stream that washed grit and grime from a dog’s fur and soothed aching paw pads. . . .
Sweet trotted eagerly toward the bank, but within a rabbit-chase of the water’s edge she halted. The delicate scent of the river was overlaid with something stronger, something unpleasant. As she drew closer it stung her nostrils, making her wrinkle her muzzle and back away.
Her stomach churned as she stared at the rippling stream, flecked now with yellow foam. Was the river sick?
Uncertainly she began to pace along the bank, angling her head away from the water to avoid the increasing stench. Even the dry tightness in her throat couldn’t persuade her to lap at that sickly scum. But if I want to go farther, I’ll need to cross the water. Is it safe to swim in it?
With a rush of relief, she saw ahead of her one of the longpaw bridges that crossed stretches of water. It didn’t look as new and solid as the one she’d seen that morning. The timber was damp in places, dark with rot, and the whole thing swayed alarmingly as the torrent beat against it—but it was at least in one piece.
Sweet glanced back at her flanks. She’d never been a heavy or even a sturdy sort of dog, and now her ribs showed clearly through her hide. Even so, she wasn’t sure the fragile bridge would hold her weight.
But what choice do I have? Sweet sighed inwardly.
I need a Pack so badly. I have to try. . . .
After all, hadn’t that swift-dog—the one whose scent she’d caught—made it over the bridge? She could smell its scent, leading her across. If she wanted to reach that dog, Sweet had to follow. Catching her breath, she placed a tentative paw on the first shaky planks.
It seemed to sag under her slender weight, but as she set another paw beside the first, the bridge settled and steadied. One by one, she brought her hindpaws onto the surface too, and stood still for a moment, trembling.
Every muscle in her body tensed as she edged forward, ready to leap back at the first sign of collapse. One glance at the rushing water below her, scum-flecked and oddly yellowish, made Sweet more certain than ever that she didn’t want to fall in.
Beneath her creeping paws, the bridge groaned, and she stopped, one paw in the air. Don’t startle it, she told herself.
One more step, and she heard a terrible screeching creak behind her. Hardly daring to look back, she stopped again, heart slamming against her ribs. It’s going to fall. . . .
Slowly she craned her head around, pricking her ears with anxiety, and she felt a sinking sensation like a stone in her belly.
I’ve come too far across! I can’t go back.
There was only one thing for it: go forward. Panting, Sweet bunched her muscles, her whole body quivering. Briefly she shut her eyes, then snapped them open.
Springing forward, Sweet bolted, running as she’d never run before. She could barely feel the rotting wood beneath her paws; she could only hear the creak and rumble and splash as chunks of the bridge fell away behind and beneath her. She was sure she was running on nothing but thin air, her claws scrabbling for purchase, her panting breath stabbing like teeth in her chest. As the roar of collapse filled her ears, she leaped for the bank.
; Sweet crashed to the solid ground on her flank, legs still flailing, but she’d made it. And only just in time. Rolling over and stumbling to her paws, she saw the foaming water engulf the shattered bridge as the River-Dog gulped it greedily down.
Oh, River-Dog, you must have been hungry. . . .
Still panting for breath, her chest aching, Sweet dipped her head and closed her eyes. Thank you, River-Dog, for letting me cross before you ate the bridge.
As the shock faded, a whine of unhappiness built inside her, escaping at last in a choked whimper.
And River-Dog? If my friend Lucky comes to you? Please, please find a way to let him cross too. . . .
CHAPTER TWO
The Sun-Dog was slinking alarmingly close to the horizon behind her as Sweet padded on, her paws aching with every step. The sky ahead had darkened to a grayish blue, but there was still enough light for her to make out the terrible wounds in the earth.
She skirted them widely whenever she caught sight of one, her fur bristling, her heart pounding. The scars were scratched deep in the ground, and some plunged so far down into blackness, Sweet couldn’t make out where they ended. They were jagged and horrible, as if some monster had dug its claws into the land and torn out its insides.
And a monster had done just that, Sweet realized in horror. The Big Growl had inflicted these dreadful wounds.
Poor Earth-Dog. She must be in such pain. . . .
Sweet’s nostrils twitched. Ahead of her there was the smell of old and dead fires, like the cold remnants of a forest blaze, but fainter. She could only press on, but she moved with much more caution now, her eyes peering ahead into the dimming twilight. Old cinders and ashes were not the only scent that reached her. There was a frightening tang, strong but fading, of longpaws.
Every sense alert, every muscle tensed to run, Sweet crept closer to the source of the odors. I have to go through this place. There’s no other way to find that swift-dog.
She jerked back, hackles rising, as she nearly trod in a shallow pit. Wrinkling her muzzle, she sniffed at it. Blackened ash and charred logs, but they were cold and dead. Glancing around, she noticed more small pits, and planks of wood raised up on legs. The kind of place a longpaw would sit. But why would longpaws make small fires in the forest?