Métis shrank back, his ears flattened. But his voice carried authority. “We must cross the open tundra and hope they don’t discover our tracks. It’s the only way we’ll get to your Bishar in time.”
Farraclaw gasped in astonishment. “Are you crazy? They’ll see us.”
“Not if we slimmer.” Métis turned his green eyes on me. “Come, Foxling. Your work isn’t over. Together, we must cross a great distance with this ungrateful wolf between us. You will need your maa now more than ever.”
I struggled to my paws.
“Hurt me, Wolf, and you hurt yourself.” Gingerly, Métis stepped around Farraclaw so we flanked him on either side. “Isla, when I say the word, we will both start chanting. We will weave our thoughts together, carrying the wolf within the slimmer.”
“I can’t make it that far!” I spluttered in amazement.
Métis spoke over me. “We’ll go as far as the spruce in the distance. There you can rest, but only briefly. Then we’ll start again, over and over, day and night. Do you want to help the wolf or don’t you?”
I glanced at Farraclaw. His troubled eyes glowed like the moon.
“Of course I do,” I said quietly.
“Good,” said Métis. He drew in his breath. “What was seen is unseen …”
I began to chant.
* * *
We drifted through the night, three bodies melded into one, passing invisibly through the heart of the tundra. At the edge of my awareness ran parties of wolves, howling in fury and searching for Farraclaw. Deep within the safety of the slimmer, I did not dwell upon their presence. If I felt my awareness shifting, Métis called me back, his voice in my head, repeating the chant.
What was sensed becomes senseless …
Only when we stopped to rest between stout bushes or outcrops of rocks did the audacity of our escape strike me. We passed the wolves with no effort to hide. Our slimmer was the only disguise we needed. Farraclaw dissolved beneath the pelt we wove around him.
In the mist of the slimmer were claw-pricks of white. Canista’s Lights stood between the colorful display, illuminating the forest of my mind.
No, that wasn’t right: it wasn’t of my mind.
Métis had created a world of safety, his own pelt of slimmer. His own forest. I stepped through it, flanked by Farraclaw. Hidden between the trees, the hostile wolves couldn’t touch us.
Still they howled.
Moonrise.
Moonset.
Their voices drifted away.
While the slimmering drew no maa from Farraclaw, the journey was also taking its toll on the injured wolf. He limped between us, favoring his front paw. We paused less and less. Only when the breath rose at my throat—when I knew I could hold the slimmer no longer—did Métis allow us to rest.
As another night gave way to a gray sky, we slipped between some rocks. I gasped for breath, rolling onto my side. My limbs were quivering with exhaustion. Farraclaw stood over me, licking my muzzle while raising his gaze above the rocks. The slim light of dawn hung over the tundra. I could make out the patches of blood on his silver-flecked coat.
Métis was quiet, breathing more slowly.
When my breath calmed down, I finally managed to speak. “I’m not sure I can do this much longer,” I confessed.
“You won’t have to,” said Farraclaw. I followed his gaze, rising to my paws on quivering legs. I saw the spiky willow that marked the border of the Bishar of Claw.
A volley of howls rose over the tundra. I wheeled around. The wolves of Fang weren’t here yet but they were moving fast, storming toward the Bishar of Claw. The three of us broke cover to scramble toward Farraclaw’s home. No sooner had we entered than Cattisclaw and Norralclaw hurtled toward us. The rest of the Bishar were standing in formation, heads lowered in threat, prepared for battle.
Cattisclaw covered Farraclaw’s muzzle with laps of her tongue. “Sire, you’re hurt!” she whined. “Little Isla, what happened? Lop got here last night almost dead from running. He warned us of the attack.”
“We have gathered the Bishar, Prince Farraclaw,” said Norralclaw. “Is it true?”
“He did well,” said Farraclaw. “It is true.” The prince stood boldly, despite his injuries. “The wolves of Fang know the king is ailing. They are coming to claim our realms. I need Mirraclaw here immediately. Where is he?”
I looked along the rows of wolves. The warriors’ jaws were set to snarls, their tails straight behind them. Among them was Amarog, whose face was somber. Métis cringed against me, but the wolves weren’t interested in him.
“Mirraclaw’s not here,” I murmured.
Farraclaw stiffened.
“Sire, I dread speak,” said Norralclaw, lowering his muzzle. “He left after you did. We hoped he’d gone to aid you, yet he sent no word.”
“It can’t be …” The Bishar of Fang were close now, too many wolves to count. Farraclaw swallowed hard. “Prepare to defend the realm!” he barked.
The wolves of Claw strode forward. Lords and lordesses led the Bishar, followed by the warriors. Even the pups were there, watching in fear and fascination behind the queen.
In the distance I spotted Lop. He was pounding toward us.
But another wolf was missing.
“Where is my fa?” barked Farraclaw urgently.
Lop collapsed before Farraclaw. His flanks were heaving. “Sire, I have failed you. I could not rouse King Birronclaw Valiant-Oolf. I have been with him since moonrise. He hardly moves, he does not speak.”
“It is not Lop’s fault,” said Amarog, stepping closer. “I have communed with the ancestors. I have waited at the entrance to his cave. The king cannot be saved. He yearns only for peace.”
Farraclaw turned back toward the tundra. Shapes were gliding over the snow. At their lead came a great white wolf with a stripe of black along his snout. He slammed to a halt in the snow, and the rest of his Bishar lined up behind him.
“I am King Orrùfang Valiant-Raa,” he howled, “Son of Noble King Garrùfang Valiant-Snee, who was felled by King Birronclaw Valiant-Oolf. In the name of the lords of Fang who have passed to the shadowlands, I have come to take my vengeance. I shall fight your king, or I shall have your lands.”
Farraclaw drew in his breath. I looked around sharply. King Birronclaw wasn’t there—and neither was Métis.
Silence fell among the wolves. The Bishar of Fang and the Bishar of Claw faced each other with less than a clear run between them. Standing just behind King Orrùfang, Lordess Bezilfang glared at me. She must have wondered what a fox was doing beside the prince of Claw.
Next to her was Mirraclaw.
His hard eyes stared ahead, unrepentant. I shuffled closer to the prince, thinking of Haiki.
Farraclaw locked eyes with King Orrùfang.
A sly look crossed the king’s face. “I see you escaped,” he snarled. “Well, young prince, that makes no difference. Your lord has been of great assistance to us—from now on, you may call him Lord Mirrafang, for he has rejected your failing Bishar in favor of the many rewards we can offer. His loyalty to Fang will not be forgotten.”
Farraclaw’s eyes shot to his old friend. The handsome white wolf raised his muzzle boldly.
“I will call him Mirra the Deserter,” spat Farraclaw. “The tundra will run with his traitor blood.” Suddenly, he sprang forward, charging toward the Bishar of Fang. Ignoring their king, he made straight for Mirraclaw. Farraclaw’s lips were pulled so far back that his gums were bared above his long teeth. The surrounding wolves retreated at the site of him, and Mirraclaw gasped, caught off guard.
Farraclaw crashed into the white wolf, throwing him onto the ground before King Orrùfang. But Mirraclaw recovered quickly, twisting out of Farraclaw’s grip to scramble onto his paws. The two great wolves faced each other, snarling.
The wolves of Fang and Claw started barking. They pressed forward to circle the prince and the lord. I wanted to beg them to stop. Deep wounds stained Farraclaw’s fur, blotche
s of red that hadn’t healed. He was already exhausted, but I knew he wouldn’t stop.
Farraclaw was stalking toward Mirraclaw again, his ears pointing out at the sides, his face contorted in rage. “Traitor!” he growled. “Despicable rat!” He lunged but Mirraclaw ducked. Only the edge of Farraclaw’s paw clipped the white wolf’s flank. Mirraclaw spun around and landed a deep bite on Farraclaw’s shoulder. With a roar of pain, Farraclaw threw his weight at Mirraclaw and they started rolling. Red spots smeared the snow.
The wolves of both Bishars were chanting and howling. The tannin whiff of blood sent them wild.
Standing a few paces away, King Orrùfang alone watched with cool eyes. Had the king seen the exhaustion etched on Farraclaw’s body? He must have guessed this brutal fight could not last long.
He doesn’t care what happens to them. He’ll claim the Bishar anyway.
The wolves were growing frenzied, just as the coyotes had on the rocky plain in the Wildlands. They reminded me of dogs, wild eyed and bent on violence. “Kill him!” barked the wolves of Claw. “Fight back! Make the prince sorry!” yelped the Bishar of Fang.
I backed away, my heart drumming. I couldn’t look at them—not even my friends. Norralclaw, Cattislaw … the whites of their eyes glowed with the lust for blood.
“Stop!” I yowled. “Farraclaw, please! It won’t help, can’t you see?” My words were lost beneath the furious barks.
The wolves of Claw pressed closer to the fight and I hung behind Lop, catching only glimpses of fur and teeth. Mirraclaw was springing at Farraclaw, aiming for the open wounds at the back of the prince’s neck. Searching for his weak spots, as the Bishar had tested the bison. The white wolf fought cruelly, biting and ripping. To my horror, he pinned the prince to the ground.
Mirraclaw will kill him!
If I could only share my maa … If there was something I could do. Heart jolting, I pressed between the wolves of Claw.
“You were always so superior!” snarled Mirraclaw. “But look at you now! You’re no better than anyone else! You’re nothing.”
The white wolf launched his fangs at Farraclaw’s throat. I started to shove between the Bishar of Claw. But as I grew closer, Lyrinclaw spotted me and forced me back with a forepaw. “Are you crazy? They’ll kill you just for being a fox!”
“Please,” I begged. “Let me go!”
A shrill cry and we both turned back to the fighting wolves. Mirraclaw grasped for Farraclaw’s throat but the prince shoved him away. Quick as a flash, Farraclaw snapped his teeth on a glossy white ear. Eyes squeezed shut, he clamped down. The tussle of paws, a flurry of fur.
A scream of pain.
Farraclaw rolled onto his paws with a snarl of victory.
Mirraclaw collapsed onto the ground, exposing his belly. I realized with a snap of dread that his right ear was missing. “Mercy!” he barked. “Mercy, Sire, mercy!”
Farraclaw’s eyes shone with hatred. He spat out the long white ear.
I looked away, giddy with horror. All around me, the wolves of Claw were howling. “Kill him, Prince Farraclaw! Kill! Kill!”
No … I silently begged. No more … Please …
When I dared to look, Farraclaw was in the same place, standing bloodied but proud in a circle of wolves. Mirraclaw was creeping backward, mumbling in terror. “Forgive me, Sire …” He spun around and bolted over the tundra.
Cattisclaw hurried to Farraclaw’s side. “Prince Farraclaw, shall we hunt down the coward?” Norralclaw and Rattisclaw ran up behind her, champing to chase, to capture and kill.
The prince gave the smallest movement of the muzzle. “Let him go. His disfigurement will forever stand as a mark of his treachery. Mirra the Deserter. He will roam the Snowlands a lone wolf, spurned and despised till the end of his days.”
Snarls and howls still filled the tundra.
“Enough!” roared King Orrùfang. Instantly, his Bishar fell to attention, gathering behind him stiffly.
Farraclaw turned to face him.
King Orrùfang took a step closer to Farraclaw. “I hope the fight gave the wolves of Claw some sport. It is the last they shall enjoy. What becomes of your Lord Mirra is no longer our concern. He has served his purpose.” I noticed that he’d dropped the “fang” from Mirraclaw’s name. The king’s teeth glinted. “You cannot save your Bishar. Only a king may fight me, by the ancient laws that bind our lands. Laws etched in our ancestors’ blood.”
“Like the Custom of Serren?” growled Farraclaw.
“A custom is not a law,” replied the king easily. “We are not obliged to follow it.”
“Wolves have done so for generations.”
“Even so.” King Orrùfang’s lip rose over his teeth. “We were not bound. But you are. Both our Bishars are witness to this. Our truthsayers can speak to the ancient laws.”
From the edge of my vision, I saw Amarog’s ears twist forward. She didn’t argue.
The wolves of Fang licked their chops. The fight between Farraclaw and Mirraclaw had awakened their bloodlust. The whimpering pups huddled closer to the queen.
King Orrùfang smelled victory. His tone was taunting. “I ask you now, once and for all: Where is your king?”
Farraclaw opened his mouth but did not speak. He looked over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping across the anxious wolves of Claw. Standing by Lyrinclaw’s side, I caught his sharp intake of breath.
One after another, the wolves of Claw were turning. They dropped onto their bellies. A giant figure stalked among them.
It took me a moment to recognize the wolf. The last time I’d seen him he was raving. Gone was the filth and the reek of decay. The beast that strode among his Bishar was brilliant white. His massive paws kicked up puffs of snow. His pointed ears were alert.
I had never seen a wolf of such power and size.
King Birronclaw trod between me and Lyrinclaw. His muscles strained with brooding tension. His long fangs glinted. Despite my friendship with the wolves of Claw, fear of their king overwhelmed me. I cringed as he passed.
Farraclaw’s head tilted. I saw a moment of confusion cross his face. Then he lowered himself as his fa approached.
King Birronclaw stopped in front of the prince, facing off against the king of Fang.
King Orrùfang was no longer standing tall. The arrogant snarl fell from his muzzle. The slightest tremor touched his forepaws. Gasps escaped from the watching wolves of Fang.
“King Orrùfang Valiant-Raa, you have called me, and I have come. I am King Birronclaw Valiant-Oolf, Lord Protector of the Bishar of Claw, High Commander of the Snowlands. You have crossed into our lands and you have dared to challenge me.” King Birronclaw’s voice boomed over the tundra. Yet to my ears, it sounded strange. It made me think of crows, of thunderclaps for storms that didn’t come.
Karakking, of course!
I craned to look closer at the king. His body was perfectly still as he stared at his challenger but his pointed ears swiveled forward and back. Briefly, he looked over his Bishar. In the morning light, his huge eyes glowed.
Green, not yellow.
The centers were slits.
Métis.
The Black Fox had seen the king before his decline. He was able to shift into what the great wolf had once been.
But the king is desperately sick.
I remembered the danger Siffrin faced when he’d mimicked the dying coyote back in the Wildlands. I stared at Métis in the shape of King Birronclaw. If the real king died, he would die too. The Black Fox knew the risk he took. I was impressed by his courage.
The kings stood off against each other. The wolves of Fang faced the Bishar of Claw.
No one moved.
King Orrùfang spoke. “King Birronclaw Valiant-Oolf, I revere you. Lord Mirra told us of your coming demise. Wicked rumors—nothing but a pack of lies.” He swallowed hard. “Please forgive us, Noble King. We came to protect your Bishar from ruin. We feared that, without your wise guardianship, the bison would run wild, destroying
the grasses and trampling the brooks. We did not wish to see such a glorious realm fall to harm.”
King Orrùfang dropped to the ground, bowing deeply to Métis in the form of King Birronclaw. His Bishar did the same, lowering their forepaws and dipping their heads.
“Go in peace, My Lord of Claw,” said the king of Fang. “May you reign long in your beautiful realms.”
King Birronclaw bowed graciously in response. “Go in peace, My Lord of Fang.”
The wolves of Fang watched their king avidly. He raised his black-striped muzzle, backed away a few paces, then turned and fled back over the tundra. His Bishar ran after him, tails tucked between their legs. No howls of triumph accompanied their departure. Only the thump of their paws on the snow caught the air. I watched as their pale coats swept over the snow-mottled grass. They rounded a peak and disappeared from view.
The wolves of Claw still bowed. Even Farraclaw kept his head low. I wondered what he thought was going on—how much he suspected.
The great white wolf took a couple of paces forward. I heard him mumbling beneath his breath. “I am King Birronclaw. I am changing. I am the Black Fox.” Then he dropped to his belly, the last of his energy spent.
His broad limbs shrank, his short tail grew. The head that lolled back in the snow was no longer a wolf’s.
“Métis?” I yelped, running to him. “Métis, can you hear me?”
The Black Fox stirred very slightly. His mouth opened, but I didn’t catch his words. I crouched by his side, my ear near his muzzle. “The gloaming,” he rasped. “That is the key.”
“The longest day?”
“The maa,” he rasped irritably. His eyes opened a crack. “We must return to the Elder Rock by the gloaming.”
Excitement was breaking out among the wolves. The attack had been averted. The Bishar was safe. Cattisclaw bounded to Farraclaw, licking his wounds. Other wolves circled Métis.
“Where did King Birronclaw go?” whined Jaspin.
“That wasn’t the king. It was foxcraft!”
“Did Isla do something?”
“Not Isla—that black-furred fox over there.”
I stared at Métis. When was the gloaming? Wasn’t it soon? “I’m not sure we can make it back in time,” I told him. Was the Black Fox listening anymore? His eyes had closed and he no longer spoke.
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