Page 61 of Blacktail

Three days later Quickfoot wakened Fang just after dusk, licking at his ear. He thought at first that she wanted to play. He growled, but did not stir.

“Wake up,” Quickfoot said. Her tone was strange. “You need to see this.”

Fang lifted one eyelid. The moon was up. Tonight was cold enough that Quickfoot’s breath made a mist in the night air. “What is it?”

“He is come. He is nearly upon us.”

“What? The traveler? Blacktail?”

“Aye. Looking on him, I could almost believe the things they say.”

Fang started at this. The cat had told them some things, and Little One had told them more. When he returned from the dens of men, Little One was a changed creature. Fang had thought him half mad. No one, it seemed, had scented the traveler with their own nose, but the news of him was everywhere….

—

“All along the road, I saw small piles of the food-rocks,” Little One said. “It seemed strange that they just lay there, with so many squirrel and the like about, but no one would eat them. The slave dogs brought the food in their mouth from the dens of man. They laid it as an offering. In case the traveler passed in the night, you see. One old yellow dog had made a pile fit for a feast. When I asked, she said she had lain next to it all day and all night, every night since the full moon. She would not be moved. She said if she could catch a glimpse of the traveler she would die happy.”

Little One paused to snatch a breath. Fang was mildly alarmed to realize that the half-breed had taken these wild tales into him, had embraced them as his own. Quickfoot saw the traveler as a tool of her schemes. Fang himself still wasn’t sure he was any more than a myth. But Little One…he was a true believer.

“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,