“To the Marrow!”
The two packs raced off to the north.
There were always two flanks in a byrrgis formation, either east and west or north and south. If there was just one gnaw wolf, that wolf was required to cover both flanks. With two, Faolan had been assigned the eastern flank, considered the inferior flank because of an old superstition. Heep was the sweeper on the west, and together they were the very last in the line of the thirty-two wolves that comprised the byrrgis.
The byrrgis stretched out over half a league as it climbed a steep incline. They were traveling at an exasperatingly slow speed. But Faolan knew he must stay in position. The first pile of droppings appeared and he diligently sniffed it. He was making his way up to report the scent to the sublieutenant, a large male named Donegal, when Heep appeared. “I’ll be obliged to report that.”
“But why? I got the scent.” And before Faolan spoke next, he eyed Heep carefully. “Although I am even lower than you as a new gnaw wolf, I think that if you reported this, it would be considered most…most un-humble for the scent finder to have another report from the western flank.”
Heep raised his yellow eyes. There seemed barely a trace of the luminous green that suffused the eyes of the wolves of the Beyond.
“You don’t say,” he replied softly.
“I do say. You might provoke the sublieutenant, for your nose is dry, and not damp with the steam of moose dung.”
The yellow wolf began to walk away but turned once and gave Faolan a baleful look.
After Faolan reported to the sublieutenant, he and Heep were the last to reach the top of a rise. This gave them a good view of the byrrgis on the flats as it accelerated from what was known as press-paw speed to attack speed. It was as if a wave passed through the byrrgis at the moment of acceleration. The nearly three dozen wolves worked as one, their minds, their spirits, and their muscles merged. They didn’t need to think, they didn’t need to bark, for they belonged together, pressed between earth and sky like streaking clouds racing low on the horizon.
Faolan blinked as he saw the young tawny she-wolf flash out from behind an outflanker. Until prey came into closing range, the outflankers hung back. Once the point wolf thought the prey was beginning to tire, the outflankers streaked out to run.
How Faolan envied the young wolf from the Carreg Gaer. He could almost feel her muscles as her tawny body stretched. Her neck seemed endlessly long. Threads of saliva spun from her mouth as she ran, and yet it appeared so effortless. Faolan wanted to be a part of this. He could do this. He knew he could. He had picked off a caribou from a herd by himself just moons before.
Faolan saw Heep scurrying ahead. He must have found some droppings or perhaps a pool of urine. Well, let him have the “honor” of reporting to the sublieutenant.
The image of those streaking wolves spurred Faolan to charge ahead. He kicked up a whirlwind of dust with his hind legs as he sprang forward. The entire eastern flank had contracted into one tight unit that suddenly increased its speed. Faolan was not sure exactly why they were doing this, but he wanted to be a part of it. No one would notice if he sped up and packed in with them.
Seconds later, some sort of signal passed, and he felt the pressure of the wolves compacting around him. He was becoming one of them! He felt it in his marrow. Like metal in the heat of the forge, he was changing. His pace melded with theirs, his muscle became part of a larger one, his heart pumped, joining the single rhythm of all the hearts of all these wolves. He was a member of the byrrgis! A deep thrill coursed through him.
But what is happening now? he wondered as he sensed a change in direction. The bull moose was turning sharply to the north. This could not be right, for it seemed as if they might be driving the moose into rocky terrain that held a maze of gullies through which he could escape. Faolan put on a new burst of speed. The time might be coming, he thought with overwhelming excitement, for him to rise up on his hind legs. He could stop this bull in seconds! He cut out from the press of wolves and blasted forward so he could get ahead of the moose.
At the moment Faolan decided to break out, Heep noticed a whirlwind of rising dust. What in the name of Lupus? he thought, and purposely lagged just a bit behind in his position so he could edge over for a better view of the eastern flank. He blinked. He simply could not believe what he was seeing. Obviously, Faolan had no idea that the byrrgis was executing a crimping maneuver, designed to turn the moose. With his silvery tail floating out behind him like a plume, Faolan was streaking ahead and actually crimping the crimpers. This was an unimaginable violation of the byrrgnock laws—a first-degree offense.
A deep thrill coursed through the yellow wolf. By the Moon of the Singing Grass, this wolf would be out of the pack, out of the clan, and heading for the Dim World! The yellow wolf did not have to utter a word. Didn’t have to do a thing. The gnaw wolf Faolan was stripping his own bones!
Faolan was running full throttle. He stretched out, feeling the wind through his fur and the ground so light beneath his feet. He knew that this was what he was made for—to catch the wind, to bite the sun that was dropping behind the horizon. The tawny haunches of the young female were drawing into view. It surprised him that he had devoured so much distance so fast. He felt the power in his muscles.
As Faolan closed in on the front-runners, he began to pick up signals that were flying back and forth between the corporals and the captains. Subtle motions, gestures—a flick of an ear, a sudden up-tip of a tail. He saw the signals but did not know their meaning. So when Faolan streaked out ahead of the pack, ahead of the outflankers, ahead of the point wolves, he did not hear the muffled dissonance as the pace was broken, nor the baffled, low growls of the two packs behind him. He was thinking of what was ahead—the huge bull moose he was going to stop. Faolan pulled ahead of the moose, out far enough in front to spin around and rise up on his back legs. He felt the spirit of the grizzly bear Thunderheart flow through him as he lifted up. He held his forepaws just like Thunderheart held hers, and it was as if he could feel his claws growing longer, sharper. I am a wolf and a bear—a grizzly bear. His howl crashed like thunder.
The moose skidded to a halt. A wild light filled his dark eyes as he took in the confounding sight before him. Then the moose bellowed and wheeled about—to charge the byrrgis! It was as if a mountain tore through the thirty-one wolves. There was a clamorous burst of howls and shrieks.
Great Ursus, what have I done?
But Faolan knew without being told. He had disturbed the order. A gnaw wolf had dared to cut out of the byrrgis and run beyond the outflankers! Beyond the point wolves! The byrrgis had been broken, and the bull moose had escaped.
CHAPTER THREE
THE OUTFLANKER’S RAGE
HE EXPECTED PUNISHMENT. AFTER all, that was what gnaw wolves were made for. They got random nips if they came too close to a carcass before the appropriate time, shunnings, often a wallop on their muzzles, and of course they served as the butt of all jokes and pranks. This he could have endured and did endure. But when he was told that Heep would be called to gnaw the bone recording Faolan’s breach of conduct as well as deliver the gnaw bite, Faolan felt nausea rise up in him.
He had spoiled the hunt. He was guilty of one of the most serious infractions of the code of laws that governed so many aspects of the wolves’ lives. He had cracked the byrrgis, and even if the wolves had been able to reassemble, they would not chase the moose. Meat gotten through a disturbance of the order was not considered morrin. Indeed, it was declared cag mag, an old wolf word for tainted meat, and since tainted meat was thought to make one insane, the expression also meant “going crazy.”
But it was not just the meat that was cag mag. From the malevolent looks the wolves were giving him, Faolan knew they thought he was tainted, too. He heard their whispers. “He’s more bear than wolf,” one male said to his mate.
“And we,” the mate replied, “have to go hungry because of him!”
But their words were noth
ing compared to what was coming. Faolan felt his marrow freeze when he saw the tawny wolf, the young outflanker called Mhairie, approaching. He sank to the ground. And oddly enough, the dirt hit his belly faster than it ever had before. He shoved his face into the grit, but before he could utter the first sound of an apology, her words were upon him like a swarm of stinging bees.
“What were you thinking? You wrecked my chance. Do you know how many she-wolves my age are ever asked to run as an outflanker?” She did not wait for an answer. “Of course not. You know nothing. You are an absolute idiot!”
“I know, I know,” he said, his voice hoarse with desperation.
“We’re going hungry and that’s the least of it. We’re lucky no wolves were killed when that moose charged.”
“Look—I think I should just go away. They’ll out-clan me for sure and then—”
But Mhairie cut him off. “Duncan MacDuncan decides that, not you!” she spat.
“Well, why stay around?”
“Why stay around? Look, you mealy-marrowed piece of scat. You have to go to the Carreg Gaer and have a hearing by the raghnaid. You can stand up to a moose on your stupid hind legs and prance about like a bear, but you can’t face our court of justice? And just where were you thinking of going?”
“Um…” He hesitated.
“Where? Ga’Hoole, I suppose?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Faolan muttered.
There was complete silence, a stunned silence. Slowly, Mhairie began to speak. “Are you blazed? Moon blinked? Have your brains gone cag mag?”
“It was just an idea,” Faolan said, trying to drive his face farther into the dirt while rolling back his eyes so he could see her.
“Great Lupus, you are pathetic! You don’t even know how to do the third-stage submission roll, which, incidently, you are supposed to be doing right now after the initial belly scrape. You don’t know that, let alone anything else about our world. You think you’re just going to churrlulu your way through this.”
“I don’t know what churrlulu means,” Faolan admitted.
“My point exactly! Churrlulu is the owl word for laughing something off, taking it lightly. Go to Ga’Hoole. You don’t speak the language. You don’t fly.”
“I know some owl words. I had a friend, an owl, a Rogue smith.”
“Oh, fantastic. You had a friend, a Rogue smith,” Mhairie sneered, then cocked her head. “Forget Ga’Hoole. You don’t belong there.”
“Well, I don’t belong here!” Faolan answered. He tried to keep his ears laid flat as was proper, but they kept twitching up.
Mhairie sighed. “I still can’t believe what you did on that byrrgis. I mean, for the love of Lupus, this was supposed to be my…my…” Mhairie began to stammer. “My big moment. I could have finished the crimp if it hadn’t been for you.
“Look, I don’t know what the raghnaid will do. I’m not sure when they’ll call you. Not with Duncan…” She started again. “Not with Duncan MacDuncan so…so sick.” Her voice dwindled to an aching whisper. But within seconds, the sting was back.
“And one more thing—that tone of yours! You don’t use that tone with me or with any other wolf. You are a gnaw wolf. Everyone knows that you have incredible strength. They saw you jump the fire trap. Wolves are superstitious. There are a lot who think you challenged the order when you jumped that wall of flames. Fractured the Great Chain. But that was survival. Mere survival. Just don’t go around mouthing off and asking insolent questions!”
Why would she say “mere” survival? Faolan wondered. There was nothing small about being hunted down by a byrrgis and jumping over a wall of towering flames.
“What you did in the moose hunt confirms what a lot of these wolves thought back then when you jumped the fire trap. They want you out. They think you’ll bring moon rot. No, not just bring it—that you are it. You are walking moon rot.”
“They really believe that?” Faolan was bewildered. Moon rot was the shadow cast during the day by the previous night’s moon. It was believed to be an ill omen.
“It’s no excuse that you were a lone wolf and don’t know the ways of the pack, of the clan. You show no inclination for learning them. Absolutely none whatsoever!”
“But what’s the sense of it all? Lupus gave me strong legs. I learned to jump, to run, and it’s all wasted here. I can’t do any of what I learned—why not?”
“You think it’s all about you, Faolan, just you. Well, it isn’t. The pack is not a single wolf. The clan is not a single pack.” Mhairie flashed him a last angry glance. “As you’ll learn when you face the raghnaid.”
Faolan’s tail instinctively twitched between his legs. The raghnaid was awaiting him, and his biggest humiliation yet.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE PRINT IN THE MUD
THE GNAW BITE WAS A PUNISHMENT seldom administered. But the high-ranking members of the pack agreed that the infraction of the laws of the byrrgis was so serious that Faolan must be bitten. To add insult to injury, Heep was chosen to inflict the bite. Lord Claren, head of the River Pack, and Lord Bhreac of the Pack of the Eastern Scree, both wearing their necklaces of bones, led Heep forth. Heep kept his yellow eyes lowered, but Faolan could see the smile on his muzzle.
A drizzle had started and was quickly turning the dust into a fine, slippery mud. Heep stepped forward to deliver the gnaw bite. The yellow wolf would tear a piece from Faolan’s pelt and possibly his flesh. Faolan would be marked by Heep, cut right to his bone if the bite was deep enough. The idea was appalling to him.
Faolan stared at the ground, not daring to look up. His heart was beating so hard in his chest, it seemed as loud as Thunderheart’s. Indeed, it was as if thunder rolled through him. He pawed the ground nervously with his splayed foot. Faolan could smell Heep’s hot breath as he stepped closer. He would not give Heep the satisfaction of running or even flinching. He braced himself for the first tearing of his flesh. I must not waver. I must stand here. I will do this, for Thunderheart. And it was as if the great grizzly’s heart invaded him, not simply the booming sound, but the lifeblood pumping through him. Faolan shifted slightly and planted his feet, prepared to endure the pain of the bite.
He was not sure how long he had stood when he noticed a silence had fallen on the wolves gathered around. What was happening? Nothing. What was wrong? He could feel the other wolves shrinking back in disappointment, as if the drama they had anticipated was fading. He lifted his eyes and saw Heep quivering with fear, those two yellow eyes riveted on the print Faolan’s splayed forepaw had made in the mud. It was a perfect spiral like that of a swirling star. Faolan blinked. He had never left such a deep track before, and the spiraling lines on the pad of his paw were so dim that they had never left a trace. Had he pressed that hard in his determination not to move? But why was Heep quivering? Everything was turned around. Faolan was supposed to be the one trembling in fear.
“Get on with it, lad!” Lord Claren gave Heep a cuff.
“Oh, Lord Claren,” Heep said as he sank to his knees and began to screw his face into the mud, carefully avoiding the paw print. “I am not worthy of this honor. Thank you. It is very kind of you to offer. There are wolves enough to tread on me in my lowly rankless condition. That I should bite this wolf without doing outrage to the other gnaw wolves’ feelings is…is…is…”
“Is what, by Lupus?” The lord of the pack leaped upon Heep’s quaking head and slammed it farther into the mud. Snarling, he made a grab for Heep’s face and violently shook his muzzle for several seconds before finally flinging him away.
Faolan was mystified. He was the one supposed to be bitten, and yet Heep’s blood scrawled the air like a tracer of red lightning while Faolan stood unbloodied and unbowed. He quickly corrected his erect posture as Lord Claren approached with Lord Bhreac. Faolan arched his back and started the first of his submission postures. He quickly sank onto his knees, but before he could even begin to roll over to expose his belly, both lords slammed on top of
him and clamped him firmly to the ground with their forepaws.
The weight of the two wolves was crushing, and once again, Faolan braced himself for a mauling. He could barely breathe. He heard the lords begin to talk in low whispers. “Positively unspeakable,” Lord Claren said.
“Yes, but that is just the point. That’s why he must be taken immediately to the Carreg Gaer so the chieftain can talk to him.”
“But the chieftain is dying! The raghnaid can deal with this gnaw wolf later. There is no rush.”
“He must go while the chieftain still lives.”
Something within Faolan wilted. Although he was nearly numb from the crushing weight of the two lords, he could still feel shame. Duncan MacDuncan had treated him with patience and respect when Faolan had jumped the wall of fire. To face the chieftain again, disgraced, would be worse than any gnaw bite.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE LAST WORDS OF A CHIEFTAIN
THE CAMP OF THE CARREG GAER was smaller than Faolan had anticipated but situated in a region of lovely soaring cliffs with a creek running right through the middle. Some young pups were chasing one another across the shallows, their hind paws furiously splashing up water and flinging mud.
Along the banks, elder wolves were playing a game called biliboo with pebbles from the creek and knuckle-bones. The game was one of strategy and required great mental concentration. Played by four wolves in teams of two, the pieces were moved from one side of a complicated pattern scratched in the dirt to another. The paths through which they moved were intricate and governed by a rigid set of rules. Faolan had often tried to watch in his own pack and understand the intricacies of the moves. The players never spoke a word during the game, and it seemed as if their pieces flowed across the pattern, almost as if they were never even touched by the wolves’ muzzles or paws.
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