by Erin Hunter
Pistol. Storm tried not to let her tail sink between her legs. Storm was so much bigger than she’d been last time they had met, and Pistol’s fur was scruffy and thin. But still, Storm’s ears tried to pin themselves back, as if they still belonged to the pup who had cowered from this dog’s snapping teeth and mean words.
Pistol crouched, her lips drawn back to reveal fangs that were a little yellower but no less deadly. Storm tensed, ready to dodge if the other dog sprang at her throat.
“What are you doing in our territory, pup?” Pistol snarled.
“Our territory”? So there are at least two of them . . . how many more?
Storm flicked her tail in what she hoped was a dismissive way. “I’m not a pup anymore, Pistol. And I didn’t know this was your territory,” she said. “I was just passing through.”
“You expect us to believe that?” growled another dog, this time from behind the thicket. The twigs parted as a dog crawled through a thin gap, and Storm had to take a few pawsteps closer to Pistol so that he wouldn’t be right on top of her.
It was Dagger. He wriggled himself up and out of the bush and took a few more lopsided pawsteps toward Storm. Was he injured? He was limping, avoiding putting too much weight on his back right paw. But Storm couldn’t see a fresh wound, only an old scar.
Is that from the battle on the ice? Did Lucky or I do that?
She couldn’t remember which dogs she had fought that day and which she hadn’t.
“Sniffing around right outside our den doesn’t sound like ‘passing through’ to me,” Dagger barked. He had seen her staring at his leg, and his hackles were raised. “Don’t lie to us, little Lick.”
Storm felt a shudder run all the way down her back as she looked from Dagger’s angry face to Pistol’s. They were flanking her, and the slope of the valley in front and behind would make it hard for her to escape.
“I was just passing by,” she insisted. “I caught your scent while I was hunting, and I came to find out who was here. Now I know. I’ll leave you alone.”
“No,” said Pistol. “You won’t.” She padded toward Storm, her steps silent in the mud. Her haunches were still taut, and Storm knew that Pistol might spring for her neck at any moment. Storm’s heart pounded and she backed up the slope behind her, not letting the two dogs out of her sight—until her back legs bumped up against a large rock.
She was trapped. These dogs didn’t want to run her off . . . they wanted to hurt her.
“What’s the matter? Your precious Pack not coming to save you?” Dagger said, his tongue lolling in satisfaction. “Or have you come all this way by yourself? Still struggling to find a Pack that will accept a Fierce Dog outcast?”
“No dog likes a traitor, do they?” Pistol whined.
Storm felt the blood rising to her head, her vision blurring as she fought not to spring at Pistol.
How did she . . . ?
What? How did she know? She doesn’t! They’re just trying to get under your fur. . . .
She had to keep hold of her temper.
“It seems to me that it’s more traitorous to follow an insane Alpha and kill your own Pack’s innocent pups,” she growled. Pistol and Dagger both growled back, baring their teeth, tensing to spring.
Pistol’s only as big as me. Dagger’s bigger, but he’s injured.
If it had only been one of them, either one, Storm knew she could have won that fight.
But can I take them both? Can I fight off two full-grown Fierce Dogs?
I’m afraid I’m about to find out. . . .
CHAPTER SIX
Storm took a deep breath and pulled herself up as straight and strong as she could. The sharp eyes of Pistol and Dagger seemed to see right through her, but she kept herself still.
“I have no quarrel with you two,” she said. “Blade was my enemy. She was the one who killed my litter-brothers, and she’s gone. I don’t need to fight you.”
“Oh, but you do,” snarled Pistol. “You killed our Alpha and broke our Pack apart. You and that filthy traitor Arrow. You are the enemies of all true Fierce Dogs!”
Storm tried not to react to Pistol’s mention of Arrow, but a stab of panic had struck through her heart.
Please, Spirit Dogs, let Arrow and Bella have traveled far away, somewhere safe! If these dogs ever found them . . . or the pups Bella had been expecting . . .
Something told Storm that these dogs would not take the idea of Arrow having half-Fierce pups very well.
“The Earth-Dog must favor us,” Dagger added, in a low and dangerous voice. “To bring you here alone and unprotected by those Leashed Dogs. Now, at last, Blade will be avenged.”
They’re talking as if nothing has changed at all, Storm realized. These two must have been chewing over the memory of the Storm of Dogs ever since, not really beginning new lives at all, even though they had traveled far away from the Wild Pack.
“We aren’t at war anymore,” Storm insisted. “The Storm of Dogs is over, and the world didn’t end like Blade said it would! Why would you still want me as your enemy?”
I have a lot more reason to pick a fight than you do, she thought. Your Pack abandoned us as helpless pups, killed our Mother-Dog, and then stood by while Blade tried to kill us all to fulfill some horrible prophecy that didn’t even come true!
But she didn’t want to fight them. Storm tried to keep her voice from wavering with fear. “I would never have killed Blade if she hadn’t tried to kill me first,” she said. “Any dog would have done the same.”
The dogs’ expressions didn’t change. All her words seemed to roll off their backs like raindrops. Storm’s pelt prickled.
There’s no way I can win this.
“And now you’re in the same situation again,” Dagger huffed. “Except that this time, there’s no Leashed Pack to fight us for you while you sneak up on our leader like a coward—this time you have to face both of us!”
He lunged forward, snapping his teeth close to her throat, so close she could feel his breath on her fur. Storm winced but forced herself to hold still, even though her tail was quivering.
I will not show them that I’m afraid.
Pistol let out a volley of snapping barks right in Storm’s ear, and Dagger paced back and forth, raking the muddy earth with his claws. Still, Storm held her ground. She stared back at them, hoping that they could not scent her fear.
They’re trying to be like Blade, to make me dread the moment when they attack me. Like Terror, too.
I wonder if Blade ever heard of the Fear-Dog.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Storm said one more time, through her clenched teeth. Her legs felt soft now, useless in a fight, useless for running. “You don’t have to keep doing Blade’s work. We can make peace.”
She didn’t expect them to change their minds, but she felt that she had to try once more. Pistol and Dagger looked at each other and snarled, as if her suggestion had offended them.
“No peace!” Pistol barked.
“We will never have peace until we have vengeance!” Dagger roared, and launched himself at Storm.
It was real, this time, but Storm was ready. She ducked her head and leaped into a low dive. She heard Dagger hit the rock behind her with a thump and a yelp as the hard top of her skull collided with Pistol’s chest.
Pain throbbed in Storm’s head but Pistol fell back, snapping at Storm.
I hope that hurt you as much as it hurt me!
Storm rolled over on the ground and got up, backing away from both Fierce Dogs. Dagger was stumbling around to face her now, his good legs almost as wobbly as the bad one. He howled and fixed Storm with a mad stare.
Pistol shook herself and charged at Storm, and this time Storm couldn’t dodge quickly enough. Pistol’s jaws came down on her side, one fang tearing a long wound in Storm’s fur. Pistol reared up, her front paws prepared to rake down across Storm’s flank, but Storm twisted while Pistol was unbalanced on her back legs and managed to sink her teeth into one of th
em. Pistol convulsed and fell back, and Storm struck her across the jaw with one wild paw, cutting open her lip.
“Traitor!” Dagger snarled. Storm looked up—too late. Dagger bowled into her side, knocking her over. Mud and cold water splashed up in her face, and Storm tried to shake her head to clear her vision, but Dagger was on her, scratching at her sides.
She tried to ignore the pain and get up, but yelped and fell back as Pistol’s weight joined Dagger’s, both of them standing on her legs and raking her with their claws. Storm howled and snapped at the two Fierce Dogs, but they kept out of her reach. Panic filled Storm—she couldn’t move and she couldn’t think; there was mud in her eyes, and the Fierce Dogs’ claws were like insects biting at her skin.
They didn’t sink their teeth into her throat, though they could have. A shiver of fear crawled underneath Storm’s fur. They were enjoying themselves too much to kill her yet.
They’re toying with me . . . but I can use that.
She just had to figure out how.
“Does this hurt, traitor pup?” Dagger snarled, right into Storm’s ear. “Pistol, I think little Lick doesn’t like being scratched. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Pistol huffed, as if he’d said something funny. Then Storm twitched as she felt jaws close on the back of her neck—but they still didn’t tear at her. It was as if she was a tiny pup and they were picking her up. A horrible shiver ran down her spine.
I’m trapped!
They dragged her to her paws. She tried to shake the dogs off, but she couldn’t get her balance fast enough to stop them—with a twist of Pistol’s jaws and a hard shove of Dagger’s shoulder, they threw her backward, into the thicket.
Now she understood.
The thorn twigs caught in her fur and dug into her skin. Storm yowled, high and pup-like even to her own ears. The Fierce Dogs stood back and watched, licking their wounds, their tongues hanging out in savage amusement. She wriggled, trying to free herself. With every movement the thorns bit deeper, but she couldn’t stop—she wouldn’t just hang there and wait for Pistol and Dagger to tire of watching.
She pulled herself, one stinging paw at a time, through the bush. Finally a tangle of twigs gave way and she fell from the thorns’ grasp, landing in a clumsy heap on grass. By the scent, this must be where Pistol and Dagger slept. It was a sheltered grassy circle, protected by the thornbush and surrounded by trees and rocks and the steep sides of the small valley. A perfect camp . . . but small.
And there was no way out.
She shook her head, trying to finally clear the mud from her face, and staggered around to face her fate as she heard the rustling of the two Fierce Dogs picking their way through the bush behind her.
“Are you ready to die, little Lick?” Dagger howled.
“At last, you will join your litter-brothers, and Blade’s prophecy will be fulfilled!” panted Pistol as she pushed out of the thicket, her teeth bared in a snarl of intent—and pain, Storm figured, for the two attackers had also been scratched by the thorns, though not as badly as she had.
Storm planted her stinging paws as firmly as she could in the soft grass. If this is really where it all ends, I’ll meet Wiggle in the Forests Beyond. . . .
But then Storm remembered the time she had imagined she saw him, playing with Lucky and Sweet’s pups in the Wild Pack, and fury flooded her chest. The edges of her vision flashed red.
No! I defeated Blade, and her false prophecy should have died with her. I won’t be taken down by these lesser Fierce Dogs! I am a Fierce Dog too, and I’ll fight for my own life!
A surge of energy coursed through her. She didn’t wait for Pistol to attack. Instead she leaped, darting to the side and snapping at Pistol’s neck. The other Fierce Dog reared back, caught off guard, and scratched herself against the thorns. Dagger squeezed out into the clearing with a growl of anger.
Justice for Wiggle! Storm thought, throwing herself at Dagger, jaws open and slathering. She bowled him over and caught one of his ears in her fangs, and jerked her head back. His ear tore, and he howled in pain and anger. She snapped at him again, but he managed to roll away. Now, though, he was lying on his weak leg, and he struggled to get back upright. He looked at her with disgust, but there was something tired in his eyes.
“I’m going to kill you, pup!” Pistol barked, pulling herself free from the thorns.
Storm spun to face her, looking at the furious Fierce Dog . . . and at the hole in the bushes behind her.
I can’t finish them both off. I don’t want to. But if I can distract them . . .
Pistol was more cautious this time, circling Storm, snapping at her and trying to catch her ears and her forelegs without putting herself in range of Storm’s own jaws. Storm turned carefully, watching, but always keeping herself between Pistol and Dagger. Finally, Pistol tried to duck under Storm’s chin to sink her teeth into her throat, but Storm reared and twisted.
This was her chance. As she came down again, Storm kicked out her back legs and fell, clumsily, onto the grass, her body tangling with Dagger’s. She slipped onto her back, stretching out her legs, and let out a whimper—it wasn’t hard to fake a hurt whine, since the wet grass was rubbing over the scratches across her back, making them sting. She twitched her back leg, as if she was struggling to get it under control. Dagger struggled beneath her, snarling.
Pistol took the bait. She lunged for Storm’s leg, her jaws open wide.
Storm pulled away, exposing what was behind her.
Dagger’s weak leg.
Pistol couldn’t stop herself in time. Her jaws snapped shut with the full force that she had wanted to use on Storm, force that she’d probably hoped would break Storm’s leg. Dagger howled. Pistol tore her fangs back from him and cowered, her ears pinned back in shock as she looked at the bleeding wound she had inflicted on her Packmate.
Storm shot under the thorns, through the bushes, out into the valley and away up the steep slope toward the forest. Her paws and her back still stung from the thorns and the Fierce Dogs’ claws, but she focused on the top of the hill and pushed herself on. Behind her, Dagger’s and Pistol’s pained and furious howling echoed down the valley, but soon Storm was back among the trees. She looked back once, triumph and guilt fighting in her heart, but there was no sign of the Fierce Dogs. They weren’t following her.
She turned into the forest and ran.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Where am I?
Storm’s paws ached, and she sat down to lick at them, pulling pine needles from between her pads and trying to soothe away the places where the thorns had caught in her skin. The cuts had been bleeding, though they’d stopped now—she could feel the sharp taste on her tongue as she cleaned them.
It had started raining, a slight drizzle that sank into Storm’s fur and made her feel shivery and cold. She hadn’t dared go back to the territory she had made her own, now she knew that it was right between the Fierce Dogs’ camp and the wolf Pack’s strange longpaw-built valley. She had just run and run in the direction she had been facing when she escaped Dagger and Pistol, and now she was in another part of the forest, where the hills were fewer and the streams ran deeper and slower.
Storm sniffed the air carefully. The scents here were strange—the trees and the earth smelled the same, and she had scented the same prey creatures as in the other part of the forest. But here, there was something new . . . and something missing.
The salt is gone. She must have run farther than ever before from the Endless Lake, so far that its scent was no longer carried on the breeze. But what else can I smell?
There was wood in it, but dead wood, not growing trees. And also . . . something like smoke? But if the forest had been on fire, she would know about it. She had only seen fire before when Lightning had sprinted out of the sky and hit a tree in the Wild Pack’s old territory, but if that had happened anywhere nearby, she was sure she would be able to smell it.
After she had soothed her paws for a little while,
she got up and walked on, hoping that the flatter land might mean more fields where there might be rabbit holes. Sure enough, at one point she came to the edge of a line of trees and saw a wide grassy meadow in front of her—but it wasn’t rabbits that she saw and scented when she looked across the field.
There was a longpaw den!
She froze on the edge of the open space, scenting the air. Now she knew that smokelike smell—it was like the one that came from the place where the longpaws were building their new structures, back near the Wild Pack camp. She took in an extra-deep sniff and tilted her head as she thought: the scent wasn’t as strong here, but that made sense, because the den was much smaller than any she had seen before. It seemed like instead of hardstone, it had been made out of trees—she supposed that explained how she had scented wood and smoke, but hadn’t seen a fire.
Even through the rain, she could tell that longpaw scent was all over this place. This was obviously their territory—but how far did it go? She looked around, wondering how long she would have to walk to be sure she was safe from the strange creatures. She would rather deal with the wolves than with longpaws—at least she knew where she stood with the wolves. Who knew what a longpaw would do? One might throw fire from a loudstick or trap her in a cage and make her drink poisoned water, while another might ignore her altogether, or bark at her in that strange, soft way, as if she were a Leashed Dog.
Then her stomach rumbled again, and she remembered what Lucky had said—where there are longpaws, there’s food. Perhaps they had a spoil-box she could get into, if she was very careful.
She crept a little closer, across the wet grass, circling the small wooden den carefully. There was a hard-packed dirt road that led across the meadow, and a loudcage was sleeping on it, up close to the den. Storm spotted a box up against the wall that she thought might be a spoil-box and padded toward it, drooling. She could definitely smell longpaw food now. But there was something else too. . . .