by Forthright
She licked his fingertips and scooted forward to lay her head upon his knee.
“You deserve a name.” He gazed thoughtfully into her eyes, and at length, he said, “I’ll call you Generous, since your gifts are good. I will treasure them.”
The only answer he received was the wag of her tail.
“I’ll find a good place,” he promised.
That night, he searched the sky and found his star, burning faithfully over the village’s center. He could not leave, and so he looked for a den within its boundaries. Up and down the beaten tracks, he considered his options, which were few. In the end, he chose a disused animal barn at the edge of a fallow field belonging to the headman. Snug against an embankment, it would be spared the worst of winter’s winds, and it wasn’t readily visible from any road. With careful warding, the village would soon forget it ever existed.
Generous only carried one pup, and she carried the little one well past the usual season for birthing. More waiting. At least now, Loor could fill the hours. He reinforced the shed, shoring up its foundations and digging into its dirt floor. Adding a fire pit took days, and he spent weeks filling the loft with fragrant branches and harvesting grasses for bedding.
Loor’s first wards had been hastily drawn in the dirt, but he needed something that would withstand the curiosity of critters and the whims of weather. He couldn’t pull anything complex out of midair, so he needed an anchor—wood, stone, paper. Crystals were ideal, but scarce. Inspiration struck, and he sifted through the meager contents of his pack, coming up with his neglected sewing kit.
Working sigils into fabric couldn’t be any more complicated than stitching a crest. He was on his third attempt at anchoring wards into embroidery when Generous finally showed signs of delivering her pup.
His son.
Loor named him Path, because every step of his journey had brought him to this place. He spent hours curled around the pup, whose baby fuzz was decidedly red. “Will you favor your sire?” he crooned, tugging at one tiny drooping ear.
Path’s answering whine was not a sound, but a thought.
Loor’s hand shook, and his eyes misted. “Do you have a voice, Path?”
Within days, there was no doubt, for the pup’s burbling and babbling was a constant in Loor’s mind. He was a Kith-sire. He was no longer alone.
Embroidery proved an excellent medium for sigilcraft, especially when Loor twined his own hair with the threads. While not as potent as the illusions of the trickster clans, he was able to deflect notice and deter pests. As Path grew, Loor expanded his holdings to include the entire pasture. Room to romp and tussle and laze in the sun.
Generous bore him a second son, and Loor called the pup Soon, because he still chose to believe that Soriel’s promise would find its fulfillment.
Her last pup, another male, he called Trio, because now there were three voices in Loor’s head, and his loneliness was at a low ebb.
Was this part of the Maker’s purpose, setting him apart from his pack in order to live as a dex? While Loor hadn’t been born tenth, he’d shared an equal place in his mother’s tenth pregnancy. Where the Highwind pack had quibbled and divided, perhaps the Maker was asserting a prior claim. It was a comforting thought.
This mountain, this village, this den—he knew they must be his, for his star never strayed. But even knowing he was in the right place, Loor grew restless. Ranging through the human community, he searched for a way to add to his pack.
Finding a young sled dog with eyes the color of a winter sky, he took her for his own. He called her Restless.
She gave birth to another Kith, a son he named Pace, to remind himself that the seasons were not his to direct. And before her brief life ended, she bore a second pup. This son he named Rile, because a piece of his soul howled against heaven.
Thus far, all his sons resembled their sire, with shaggy red-brown fur. The variances they inherited from their mothers. Generous’ pups had drooping ears, and Path had inherited the lively brown eyes Loor had found so lovely. Restless’ pups were stockier, with curling tails and blue eyes.
He took them on hunts, taught them the woodland trails, and showed them the heavenly star that blazed above their home. They ranged over the whole of the mountain, which he urged them to protect—both it and its human community. And the villagers added to their store of tales. His pack had become the Demon Dogs of Denholm.
A newcomer to the mountain brought a new breed of dogs. Loor quietly absconded with a pup, who quickly grew into a gentle-natured companion. Beauty had a lavish coat of golden hair, which he never tired of brushing, and in due course, he needed that same comb to keep his first daughter’s red-gold fur in order.
She became Dawn, because this was a new beginning.
His Kith were the first Amaranthine dogs, and he took the name “First of Dogs.” His children never learned the name Loor-ket Highwind, nor did he hand down any wolf lore. When he sang, it was of the descent of an angel and the rise of a star.
Though they had no crest, and their den was little more than a shed, they were a clan unto themselves. He took the name Starmark, and his children knew him as Glint.
Boy
“Why do you keep taking mates?”
Glint turned to face his eldest son. “What kind of question is that?”
“Your mate is barely cold, and your eye is already wandering over the village bitches. Does full blood run hotter than half? Or are you just a greedy rutter?”
There was a bitter edge to Path’s voice, and Glint could feel the depths of his disdain. But he couldn’t bring himself to be upset with his son. “Is that what you think of me?”
Path’s tail tucked. “Sometimes.”
He grabbed his son by his considerable ruff, hauling until the dog’s bowed head butted into his breastbone, making it easier to lavish affection on his four-footed child. Path and his siblings were tall as moose and burly as bears, but little more than pups in the eyes of their sire.
“I take no pleasure in watching a mate’s life wink out after so brief a bonding,” said Glint. “Have you ever seen me handle a bitch in an unworthy manner?”
The answer came soft and earnest. “Never.”
Glint had taken many mates over the decades, and most had borne him a pup or two. “Your mothers have each been dear to me.” Glint searched for a way to explain his choices. “Their deaths do break my heart, but I’ve resolved to endure the losses. These bitches are both your heritage and our future.”
Path grumbled, “You want more pups.”
“Naturally.”
“Why?”
“For your sake. For the sake of our pack.” Glint asked, “Would you banish any of your younger brothers or sisters from this world? Would you deny Trio his newfound bond with Dawn? Would you turn down the chance at an equal match, should one of your half-sisters or future nieces welcome your pursuit?”
“I don’t want a mate.”
“Why not?”
“I have you.” More softly, “That’s enough … for me.”
“Path.” Glint threaded his fingers through shaggy fur. “Please don’t think I added to our pack because I found my firstborn lacking.”
His son whined and nosed the shining star left behind by an angel’s kiss.
Glint rested his forehead against Path’s. “I came to this mountain alone, but your birth ended my solitude. Your steadfastness has been my support, and your happiness is my only wish.”
“We are not the same.” Path’s voice turned stern. “Stop asking me to find your version of happiness, when I have chosen my own.”
“When did my son learn wisdom?”
Taking the question literally, Path earnestly answered, “A little at a time. Mostly on clear nights, when a soft wind blows from the east.”
Glint chuckled. “And why are those considered favorable conditions.”
Path’s tail wagged. “They are the only times you can hear our star singing.”
Weeks passed
before the winds took a favorable turn. Gentle gusts carried a piercingly sweet song Glint hadn’t even realized he should be listening for. For two centuries and more, the star had kept its distance from him, but its lyric promised that hope was near. And drawing nearer.
Dawn’s first litter arrived in springtime, two females—Hope and Help—and a scrappy male he called Romp.
Glint had wondered why the domesticated dogs he’d claimed only ever bore one pup at a time. Highwind Kith often had litters of three or four wolf cubs. Dawn’s litter meant that their pack could transition from addition to multiplication.
If only he could bring in a few Kith from other packs. Would wolves willingly mingle with his sons? Or would that mean losing their distinction as dogs?
He was muddling through different approaches to the problem when the shed door opened with a violent creak. Since he and his children generally made use of a convenient gap in the back wall, those hinges hadn’t budged in more than a century. And there on the threshold stood a human child.
Small and brown and barefoot, he had straight black hair hanging around his shoulders. His pants seemed to have been sewn from skins, but his shirt was the homespun typical of the humans in this village. But Glint guessed he wasn’t one of the village brats. Any of them would have taken one look and run screaming. If not from him, then from Path, whose flank currently served as his backrest.
But this boy took a step forward, babbling in an unintelligible language.
Glint grunted. “You have a lot to say, but your language is strange. It’s no use, boy. I can’t respond in kind.”
The boy pursed his lips in frustration, intelligence shining in black eyes. He came two steps further into the den and spoke again, slower. Tugging at his own ear, he gestured at Glint’s. Pointed ears were one way in which humans could be distinguished from Amaranthine in speaking form.
To acknowledge their difference, Glint touched the tip of an ear. “Yes, boy. I’m different from you, and we both know it.”
Again, the boy spoke, and this time, he enunciated each syllable. The word was strangely accented, but clear enough—Amaranthine.
“You know the word for me?” Glint chuckled and offered the correct pronunciation.
The boy muttered it under his breath a few times, practicing the syllables.
“What is he saying?” asked Path. “What is that word?”
“He knows what we are. This human child is somehow familiar with our race.”
“We are Starmark.”
“Starmark is our clan name. We are the first of the dog clans, but every creature has its Kindred, and all those clans together have one beginning, one Maker, one purpose, and one name. We are Amaranthine.”
“Amaranthine,” echoed the boy, his pronunciation correct.
Nodding, he tapped his chest. “Glint Starmark.”
The boy shuffled closer, hands outstretched, tone questioning.
Glint gestured him forward. “It’s your good fortune to be correct, but whoever taught you the form for greetings should be reprimanded for his accent.”
The boy wriggled his toes and tried a different word.
“Peace,” Glint said clearly. “Peace, little fool. My son and I mean you no harm.”
Glint was rewarded with a gap-toothed grin, and the boy closed the distance with a skip in his step. Without a trace of concern for Glint’s claws, he met palms.
“Brave little thing,” remarked Glint.
“What do we call him?”
“Let’s find out.” Glint tapped his own shoulder and repeated his name. Then he tapped the boy’s scrawny chest and arched his brows inquiringly.
The grin widened, and the boy mimicked Glint, tapping his own shoulder. “Waaseyaa.” And without a trace of shyness, Waaseyaa reached up to touch Glint’s thick hair.
He huffed and bowed his head, inviting the boy’s curiosity.
Suddenly, fingers grazed his forehead.
Glint didn’t move, but he lifted his gaze to find the boy’s face inches from his. Excitement added a sparkle to his eyes, but his tone was entirely serious. “Glint Starmark,” he said.
“Waaseyaa,” he replied dutifully.
With a laugh, the boy threw his arms around Glint’s neck and babbled nonsense, then kissed his cheek. The touch sent an unanticipated thrill through Glint’s soul—dazzling in its brightness, fainter but familiar nonetheless.
Here was something he hadn’t tasted in many long years. Not since an angel kissed his forehead.
Peace
Path asked, “Is this bad?”
“It might be,” Glint muttered. The boy had gone away, only to return leading a burly man with pale eyes, whose frizzled beard looked in need of a good brushing.
“I don’t know his scent. Where did he come from?” Trio was understandably antsy with strangers so near his pups. “How did he find us?”
Soon asked, “Did they break your wards?”
“I’ll check them later,” promised Glint. “Calm your hackles. I think they’re simply curious about us.”
This new stranger was armed, but he never once reached for the weapons at his belt. And he listened more than he spoke. After Waaseyaa finished telling his side of a story that seemed unnecessarily long, the man nodded and turned to Glint with palms extended.
To Glint’s surprise, the man addressed him in heavily-accented Amaranthine. “This village fears demon dogs.”
Glint snorted. “My Kith and I aren’t demons.”
“I see. I know.” The man grimaced apologetically. “This village is gone. Empty. This village is ours. We will stay.”
Things had been quieter lately. But Glint’s only thought had been for Dawn’s litter. How much had he missed? He shook his head and firmly declared, “I’m staying.”
With a sign for peace, the man said, “Good. Stay. Good. Welcome you. Welcome us?”
His Amaranthine was an old hinge, rusty from disuse. Glint chose simple words. “As long as you leave me and my pack in peace, you can do as you please.”
The man gestured a helpless apology. His words were too few for much understanding.
Waaseyaa spoke again, waving between himself and Glint.
“Learn.” The man indicated the boy and searched his vocabulary. “Learn. Speak. Teach?”
“You want me to teach the boy?” Glint considered Waaseyaa, whose hopeful gaze needed no translation. “He seems quick enough, and I can rid him of your wretched accent.”
Another hesitant headshake.
Glint sighed and said, “Good. Teach Waaseyaa. Good. Peace.”
Relief and happiness shifted into the humans’ scents.
The man said, “Good. Glad. Grateful.” With a wince, he added, “Too long ago Gerard learn. Mother-kin from enclave. Silverprong.”
“That explains the accent.” Glint chuckled and explained to his sons, “The deer clans speak with an adorable lisp.”
“What’s an enclave?” asked Path.
“I have no idea. Once the boy has the words, we can ask him.” Glint stepped forward to cover the man’s palms, carefully enunciating his name and going so far to introduce his Kith as well.
The man nodded to each in turn, then offered his own name. “Gerard Reaver.”
Glint searched for and found the gap in his wards and reinforced his boundary, etching some additional sigils into the dirt for good measure. While he was at it, he watched to see what his new neighbors were doing. The air hung thick with strange smoke and the stringent odors of bruised herbs. He recognized salt and wax and the tang of ore, but there was a musk he’d never encountered.
Reaver’s men were a strange bunch. On the surface, they behaved as the previous villagers had—herding and tilling and making improvements to houses and barns. But they also razed three houses in order to expand the village center, and weeks of back-breaking labor went into the construction of a low stone wall that encircled all the occupied homes.
Most unusual was the way their presence app
ealed to him. With the former villagers, once he’d grown accustomed to their scents and noises, he hadn’t given them much thought. But these people appealed to him. “They make my blood rise,” Glint murmured. An unsettling thought occurred to him. “They make me hungry.”
To varying degrees, all of Reaver’s men piqued his interest, but none more than Waaseyaa.
Path was the only one to voice similar inclinations. “Would they taste good?”
“I pledged peace,” Glint reminded. “Would you make your father a liar?”
“I don’t want to eat them. I want to understand why they steal into my thoughts.” Path cocked his head to one side. “Our boy is best. I want him near because I am gladder, lighter, stronger when he is near.”
Glint grunted, for Path’s words echoed the feelings that had been growing in his own heart. “We used to guard the villagers. Now we must guard ourselves around them.”
Path’s tail beat the ground. “Can we keep him?”
“Waaseyaa?”
“He’s the brightest. He’s the best.”
“We can’t claim him without consent,” said Glint. “But we have our own allure. He seems fascinated by our differences, our language, our customs.”
“We should keep him.”
Glint slipped his arm around Path’s thick neck, leaning into his bulk. “While they live longer than a common dog, humans have short lives.”
Path whined.
“I’ll do my best to encourage his interest.”
But wooing Waaseyaa was far from difficult. The boy was not only enamored of Glint and his pack, he was lonely. He lingered in their den after their lessons were done. Many evenings he stayed long after the humans’ usual dinner hour, nestled between Path’s forepaws, playing with Dawn’s pups.
On such nights, Gerard came looking for him. “You should not impose!” he chided.
Glint hastily assured, “My den is brighter for his presence. He’s welcome.”