The Sight (3 page)

‘I’m glad of one thing at least,’ said Bran mournfully, promising himself that tomorrow he would take the very fattest snow rabbit he could find, ‘that the humans are always fighting each other.  Just think if they really turned their attention on the Lera.’

‘Coward,’ muttered Khaz under his breath.  He didn’t have much time for the Sikla.

‘Hush, Khaz,’ said Huttser.

The Dragga turned to Bran and his expression was meant to make up for his anger earlier.

‘Which is why the wolf should walk as a shadow when Man is about,’ he said softly, ‘and why he should remember the oldest law, never to meddle in human affairs.’

Bran suddenly thought of what Kipcha had said of a legend, but Huttser laid his head gratefully on Palla’s paws.  He was desperately thankful that they had reached warmth and safety at last.  Palla could give birth any sun now and the last thing he wanted was his pack out in the open.  Outside, the snowfall was already beginning to stop.  The winter had been unusually long, for it was late February, but it had almost run its course.  Now the secret earth that lay hidden beneath its snowy shroud had sensed the coming thaw and was preparing to throw forth new life.

But Huttser was mistaken if he thought their arrival had gone unnoticed.  Something had seen the wolves enter the cave.  Its trail in the snow led back through the forest to the castle on the mountain above the village and its eyes were watching the cave mouth intently.  In their glittering gaze lurked the flames of longing and of hate and above its head hovered two black wings.

A small red-deer herd was grazing in the grass on the edge of the forest at the valley bottom, munching happily on the lush spring stems.  It was fifteen suns since the pack had returned to Palla’s birthplace beneath the gloomy castle and most of the snow had already thawed.

‘Now,’ snarled Huttser in the wood, ‘now is the time of the Putnar.’

The fur on the Dragga’s back seemed to quiver as he dropped down like a cat and began to edge forward through the grass, scenting the air as though tasting it, his ears cocked forward, his eyes suddenly full of a sly cunning.  The wolf’s instincts were fully engaged, and though his awareness of the deer was not held in his conscious mind, all his senses were at work, reading the patterns of the herd.

But suddenly one of the deer lifted its head and the whole herd bolted.  The wind had changed.

From the darkling cover of the wood, three sleek grey shapes came shooting towards them.  The wolves moved as fast as darting swallows, but springing in a clear, straight line across the grass, covering the space between the trees and the deer in a matter of seconds.

One deer, with a back leg that was slightly deformed, began to trail behind the rest as they fled and as the wolves closed they swerved towards it.  But Bran leapt forward on his own, making towards a stag that carried a full head of antlers.

‘No, Bran,’ cried Huttser angrily, ‘not that one!’

But Bran was far too excited to listen and his jaws were almost within biting distance.  His heart was racing as the wind raked his ears and the scent swamped his nostrils.  But the stag had the measure of him.  It waited for Bran’s head to come a little closer and let out a vicious kick, catching Bran full in the muzzle.  Bran shied away, yelping in pain, as both his front legs buckled and he spun helplessly in the grass.

‘Don’t let them get into the trees, ‘cried Huttser frantically.  Kipcha hardly needed to be told as the she-wolf raced after the rest of the deer.  She was coming from the left and she made straight for the slower deer, trying to split it from the herd.  Huttser was with her, the two wolves working together instinctively, seamlessly, as they had done on so many hunts before, closing in steadily and swerving to shadow the living contours of the herd.

Closer the wolves came, and closer, to the crippled deer and, just as Kipcha snapped at its right hind leg, Huttser pounced.  He was round its neck and, as the deer rolled, his huge mouth closed.  The wolf bit deep, drinking the hot, sweet blood as it flowed between his teeth, his jaws snapping like a trap around the warm fur.  The bite was fatally accurate and, as the young stag tumbled in the grass, it was dead before it even stopped moving.

Huttser held on to make sure of his quarry though, shaking the deer’s neck back and forth like a broken twig.  Its body went limp but still Huttser worried the dead stag, proud of the kill and feeling the power and guiltless glory of the wild hunter.  Only when he was certain it was dead did the wolf raise his head and howl with pleasure.  But as soon as he saw Bran coming towards him Huttser’s eyes narrowed angrily.

‘A pack works together, Bran,’ he cried, ‘don’t ever forget that.  If we don’t have that, what by Tor and Fenris do we have?’

Bran drew his tail between his legs.

‘Besides, Bran, this was the weakest Herla,’ said Huttser using the formal word for deer.

Huttser and Kipcha stared accusingly at Bran, and now embarrassment drove the Sikla to speak.

‘The weakest,’ Bran snorted, ‘I could take any one of them, Huttser.’
Huttser snarled and took a swipe at Bran.

‘You could take nothing of the kind, fool.  Besides, we hunt the weakest not just for the ease of the kill, but so that the Herla may go on too and feed us in the future.  That is the law of the Putnar.’

Bran knew the law as well as any, though his own thoughtlessness, his desperate excitement and the smell of the deer had made him suddenly forget it.

‘Very well, then,’ snapped Huttser, ‘let that be an end to it.  Now let’s eat, we’ve earned the Putnar’s right.’

Bran edged forward, but as Kipcha came up he slunk back again.  In the pecking order of the pack Kipcha had the right to try the kill before the Sikla.  The deer hovered by the trees beyond as the sounds of the ravening wolves came to them across the grass, their own senses almost frozen in impotent horror.  But they all knew that this was the law and at least for another sun the danger had passed.  It was a law as old as the rocks that littered the giant mountains, and a law just as hard.

The wolves’ hunger began to abate.  Kipcha was licking her paws like a giant kitten as Bran cracked and crunched on bits of bone to get to the delicious marrow and suck out the last bit of goodness, when Huttser lifted his muzzle.

‘Now we must take meat for Palla.’

Although its ribs were open to the sky, nearly a third of the deer carcass remained intact next to the feeding wolves.

‘Shouldn’t we bury the rest?’ asked Kipcha.

‘No, Kipcha.  Listen.’

They lifted their ears to the south and a familiar sound filled the air.  Soon they saw wings flapping towards them across the forest and Kipcha growled and dipped her head in defence of the carcass.

‘Kipcha,’ said Huttser quietly, but with little rancour this time, ‘today we all seem to be forgetting the law.  Let the birds scavenge it, with a free heart.’

As the birds flapped towards them though, Bran growled.

‘They look like Wolfbane’s Helpers,’ he shivered.  Huttser smiled and shook his head indulgently.

In wolf lore Wolfbane was a demon spirit, in human terms almost the equivalent of Satan himself.  It was said that long ago he had made a blood pact with the scavengers of the air.  Like the Sight, the cult of Wolfbane had been a cornerstone of the old beliefs, when spectres and demons had haunted the land beyond the forests and the wolves had lived in fear and ignorance.  Before the time when the wolves had begun to talk of Tor and Fenris, who they said had really made the world and who had brought the light of truth into the Varg’s lives.

Wolfbane was also known as the Evil One and the Shape Changer, since some thought he was a giant wolf, with terrible yellow-black eyes and teeth the size of trees, while others thought that he could take on the shape of anything that ate meat, a lynx, a bear or very occasionally a man.  Parts of the old superstitions had mingled with their religion, and some wolves still believed that Tor and Fenris would send Wolfbane to stalk the earth whenever the wolves betrayed them, until the courage and strength of the wolves could drive him back into the shadows.  It was said that he walked with the dead and, even now, if young wolves misbehaved, their parents would warn them that Wolfbane was coming to gobble them up, for Wolfbane was said to love to feed on the flesh of cubs.

Huttser left the carcass to the birds and led the others back in the direction of the den.  But as they crested a high slope, Kipcha’s muzzle began to quiver.  At the top of the hill, the wolves looked out in amazement.  After his talk of the Evil One Bran began to tremble violently.

They had visited the plain below them already, and seen game here – deer and sheep and even water buffalo.  But now as the wolves looked down they could hardly believe their eyes.  There, before them, were humans.  Some were on horseback, while others marched wearily through the grass.  There were nearly a hundred of them.  They were moving in columns, their sweating horses snorting and pawing the earth.  Several of them carried long branches in their hands, from the top of which fluttered brightly coloured skins.

Huttser noticed that the sharp sticks at their sides glinted like teeth in the sunlight and that the men riding the horses were clothed in the strangest way.  Their chests and heads sparked and glittered brilliantly, as if they were made of the same hard material as their shining sticks.

‘Man,’ growled Huttser.

‘What are they doing here?’ whispered Kipcha nervously.

‘They have the look of Putnar.  I think they’re hunting.’

‘For wolves?’ shivered Bran, and he suddenly thought of Kipcha’s words in the forest about a legend of a man and the wolf.

A twinge of fear gripped Huttser’s stomach too.

‘No, Bran.  They seem to be travelling south.’

The wolves watched them warily until Bran began to growl again.

‘Huttser.  What Brassa said about Tor and Fenris making Man’s mind stronger than the animals,’ he whispered.  ‘They are wolf gods.  Why would they do such a thing?’

Huttser shook his head.  ‘The stories have an answer for that, Bran,’ said Kipcha at his side, as they watched the columns sweating below them.  ‘Some believe that Tor and Fenris put evil in the world so that the wolves would have a choice.  Others that they lost power over the predators, over their own creation.’

Bran found the idea very strange.

‘Some even say that Tor and Fenris made Man because even they did not understand where they themselves had come from and longed to see further.’

The wolves slunk away at this talk of evil and Huttser was suddenly filled with worry for his pack.  He quickened the pace and, as they neared the den, led Bran and Kipcha hurriedly up the hill towards the cave, a good part of the kill dangling from his mouth.  He only paused at the stream to drink, lapping his tongue in the sparkling mountain water, his stomach rippling as it filled the wolf’s belly.  Despite what they had just seen of the humans, Huttser felt strong and alive and free.

He could see Brassa sitting on the slope above, her head up and alert, looking out across the valley in the coming evening.  But Huttser suddenly felt the strangest sensation.  It was a sense carried to him from somewhere he could not fathom, but as real to a Lera as the evidence of any eyes.

Huttser leapt up the slope, leaving the other two to drink and as soon as he padded into the cave he heard a snarl.  Palla was trembling in the shadows and the she-wolf’s bold eyes glittered dangerously in the semi-darkness.

‘What’s wrong, Palla?’ cried Huttser anxiously, as he dropped the meat.  ‘Has anyone—’

‘No, Huttser.  But you may not come in here.’

Huttser was startled.  First by the hardness in Palla’s voice and secondly because he’d come to protect her.

‘But, Palla—’

‘It is my time,’ snapped Palla.  ‘You may not see this.’ Huttser bridled, for though they had never actually fought each other their strong temperaments were well-matched and they often argued.  But Huttser resisted the temptation to growl at Palla.  Her belly was very heavy and every now and then her pupils would dilate, as twinges of pain gripped her stomach and her body shook involuntarily.

‘I’ve brought you food, Palla,’ said Huttser, nudging the kill in front of him towards her.  ‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘No, Huttser.’ Palla’s tone softened as she sniffed the venison.  ‘I’ll call you when it’s time.’

Huttser turned sullenly and padded back outside.  He stretched himself out next to the old nurse on the hill.  Huttser did not try to disguise his worry and irritation.  They all trusted Brassa implicitly and rarely hid their feelings from the nurse.

‘She won’t let me into the cave, Brassa.’

‘Into the den, you mean,’ said the nurse kindly.  ‘She’s ready, Huttser, and she must do this alone.  The law allows no Varg into the den during birthing.  Don’t worry.  Palla will summon you when she’s ready.’

Huttser knew she was right, but he was not used to feeling so useless.  The two wolves lay there for a while, Huttser scratching himself and nibbling at fleas, gazing about him irritably.  But after a time he noticed that Brassa was looking at the large boulder, on the slope above the den.

‘What is it, Brassa?’

For a moment Huttser fancied he saw something almost secretive enter Brassa’s eyes.

‘Nothing really,’ she answered after awhile.  ‘It’s just that’s where they passed judgement on Morgra.’

Huttser had never met Morgra and he only knew the story vaguely, but as he caught Brassa’s scent next to him, he realized that she had begun to sweat and he could suddenly scent fear on the air.

‘Why did she kill the cub, Brassa?’

Brassa swung her head away and as she spoke her voice was shaking slightly.

‘Morgra always longed for pups of her own, Huttser, but even as a youngster there was something odd about her.  Many said she had the evil eye and it made it hard for her to find a mate.  One night she stole into the den and carried off a cub.  It may just have been the way she carried it, or it may have been her own bitterness, but when they found her there were tooth marks on the little one’s neck.  She’d killed it.’