Chapter 5 Fatberry #3
“They say he is the vengeance of the dead,” Little One continued, speaking fast, tripping over his words.
“They say he is the hate of all the little beasts who have been massacred by the two-legs, who lie rotting and unconsumed. His strength is such that he will be the one to wake the Forest God. Even now his might is beyond anything ever known, even in the old age, but with each step of his hunt he grows larger. He is almost upon us, lord, almost upon us.” His eyes shone.
“A day’s travel. Two at the most. We might see him, lord! We might scent him!”
“Really?” Fang asked. His tone was mild. “Did you hear where he is bound from? Any other details? Anything might help.”
“He comes from the north, many-many longruns to the north. He is like a wolf, but very large. They say he is a half-breed.” Little One looked at Quickfoot with a cold, fanatic intensity. “Only a half-breed. Like me.”
Fang stood and shook himself fully awake.
He and Quickfoot trotted a few paces from their den to the cliff that overlooked the trail.
The rest of the pack had gathered there, looking out over the bluff.
The moon was full tonight. They could see the traveler quite clearly, walking alone, moving from the north.
“Bleeding hell,” Fang whispered softly. “Look at the size of him. He’s huge.”
“Yes,” Quickfoot agreed thoughtfully. “Everything the cat said he was. A bit more besides.”
Even though they had been careful to speak softly and could barely make out their own voices, the traveler heard them. Down below, he stopped and sat back on his haunches. He lifted his head to the moon and howled, saying,
I am a pack of one
and without lands.
May I wander unchallenged,
oh gracious hosts?
“Oh, dung,” Fang whispered. His pack looked to him, waited for guidance. After a moment’s thought, he wagged his tail. “I guess there’s no help for it,” he said. “He knows we’re here. Everybody ready?” They grunted in agreement, then sang:
We are a pack of five
under Fang, son of Swift Fang.
These are our lands.
Wander as you like,
drink at our streams
(though perhaps not the west one, for it tastes of piss),
hunt also, if it is your will.
The traveler was silent for a long time. Then he sang,
Your hospitality is uncommon,
Fang, son of Swift Fang.
I am grateful.
Might we meet on the trail
to exchange scents?
Fang hesitated. He was sorely tempted—it is a rare thing to meet a traveler from such distant lands, holy or otherwise.
But Miss Prissy Pants had said that Blacktail was dangerous to wolves as well as the two-legs…
and Fang had his pack to think of. So he remained silent.
That might have been the end of it. Wolves are territorial and clannish creatures.
Ignoring an invitation to meet is not the discourtesy it might seem to others.
“Why don’t you answer? Do you think it’s a trap?” Quickfoot asked.
“No…” Fang said at length. “No.” He was thinking of the cat’s warning. You would not be safe.
“What, then, exactly?” Quickfoot asked in an exasperated what-a-fool-I’ve-mated tone of voice that made his blood boil. “Our guest has called your name, Fang. It would be rude not to answer, don’t you think?”
“Getting myself killed before I’ve brought you through the winter would be an equal folly, don’t you think?” He took two steps forward, his fur high on his neck. “I would consider it a great mercy if you would cease your yapping for even a single breath.”
Quickfoot’s eyes flashed. Fang wondered for a moment if she might fight him now—they were of almost equal size.
He knew she had considered the prospect of usurping him on more than one occasion.
That sort of thing did happen from time to time.
But he also thought that she would wait until he had either solved the problems of winter or died trying.
In that, he was completely correct. After a moment, Quickfoot lowered her eyes and answered him in a tight, controlled voice. “As you will, lord.”
Fang glared at her a moment longer, then turned his attention to the trail.
The traveler sat there patiently. He was absolutely enormous.
And, Fang thought, more than usually fearsome.
Those jaws…he could bite through a tree trunk.
But in the long silence that followed their invitation, the traveler’s head had slumped.
It was just a small slump. But Fang’s eyes were sharp, and he was sure of it.
The lone wolf with slumping shoulders unearthed a memory Fang would have preferred to remain buried.
Fang had grown quickly, but he was strong long before he was wise.
The first time he challenged his father for the lordship, the old wolf defeated him easily.
By tradition, Father drove him from the pack.
Fang wandered alone and penitent for two winters.
In a different age he might have thrown in with a nearby pack, or joined with a female and started one of his own.
But the pack of his birth was the last wolves of these lands.
All through his penitence he hunted alone.
Fang remembered well what it was to hear the howls of a pack on the other side of a hill and know that you were not welcome, and to feel your head slump, just a bit. He lifted his head and howled again, surprising everyone, even himself:
Great traveler,
it would be an honor to taste your scent.
I will meet with you
as soon as I can find my way.
Fang trotted down the steep hill and onto the trail.
At first he ran swiftly, as he had promised.
But as he drew closer he thought of the last time he had met a large hunter.
The ambush of Fatberry had been a disaster that nearly ruined them all.
Fang rounded the final curve cautiously: nostrils flaring, ears high, eyes sharp.
The traveler sat on his haunches, visible only in silhouette against the moon. He smelled of blood.
“I am Fang,” he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “Welcome.” Fang was not small, even as gray wolves go, but the stranger towered over him as if he were a puppy. Enormous. By the time Fang was close enough to exchange scents, he was entirely in the stranger’s shadow.
“I am called Blacktail,” the traveler said. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
When two wolves meet it is the burden of the smaller to remain still as the greater takes in the scent.
So Fang, who was the lord of these lands, remained frozen and still.
Blacktail sniffed first at his neck. I probably smell like I’ve pissed myself, Fang thought with a twinge of embarrassment. If he did, Blacktail said nothing.
With such a great discrepancy in their sizes, Fang thought it possible that Blacktail would disregard etiquette.
He might have moved down to scent his hindquarters without first offering Fang a chance to take his own sniff.
This was sometimes done with puppies, or in situations where no challenge of dominance was possible…
or as a deliberate insult. But when he had taken the scent of Fang, Blacktail froze in his turn.
Fang craned his neck up and breathed in the rich, dark aroma of the traveler.
This exchange of small courtesies diminished Fang’s sense of awe.
Blacktail was a huge beast, true enough, but standing this close it was difficult to see him as, well…
magic. His feet smelled of the northern mud, for one thing.
Also there were a couple of briars stuck in the fur of his hindquarters.
“Is it true what they say about you?”
“Probably not,” Blacktail rumbled. “What do they say?”
“I have heard that you are a prophet of the old age, consecrated to…well, something. I have heard that you are a fury. They say you can break the magic of the two-legs.”
Blacktail was silent for a long time, and Fang feared that he had given offense. He was about to apologize when the wolf barked out a laugh.
“Ahh. Now I see,” the traveler said. “You’ve been talking to one of those idiot cats, haven’t you?”
After a moment, Fang laughed as well. “Perhaps.”
“It is true that I have hunted men,” Blacktail said.
“But there is no special trick to it. And if I were holy or something like that, I promise you I would not be here now. I would ride the thunder for the remainder of my journey, for my paws do ache from all this walking. No, Fang,” he said. “I am a wolf on a hunt. Nothing more.”
“Ah.” Fang was silent a moment, thinking. “Did I hear you correctly? You hunt them? For meat?”
“Yes. For meat and for sport, and sometimes for the pleasure of smelling their death-piss. I can teach you the trick of it if you like.”
“Steaming poop,” Fang said softly.
“Anyway, in most lands there’s precious little else to hunt,” Blacktail pointed out, not unreasonably.
“Does this…does it not anger them?”
“Does that matter?”
Fang looked away, ashamed.
Blacktail continued speaking as if he had not noticed.
“If a carcass is seen, the land around it fairly swarms with the little beasts. They ride Car and his smaller cousins here and there and call down gunshots on every little thing. They are not the hunters they think they are, though. The trick of it is to eat less than your fill and be gone swiftly, as soon as you’re done with your meal. ”
“That sounds like a waste of meat.”
“True enough,” Blacktail said. His grin was sharp and yellow in the moonlight. “But I don’t let it concern me. There’s always more where that came from.”
Wow, Fang thought. “My pack would hear your stories,” he said. “Hear what it is to hunt men. Would you join us?”
Blacktail seemed surprised at this, but he did not hesitate. “Certainly,” he said. “Thank you, gracious lord.”
Fang wagged his tail. “Well met, Blacktail.”
“Well met, Lord Fang.”
Fang led him up the trail to their den.
iv