sing his song and And I dont know The words

sing his song and.. . And I don’t know.” The words,

sing his song and.. . And I don’t know.” The words, so human, tasted bitter in her wolf-mouth.

Heard-by-Gaia sat back on his haunches and his silver and light fur began to swim. Shoulders and arms grew as his snout retracted. His eyes shifted and his ears slipped down to the sides of his head as he changed to Homid form before his daughter’s eyes. His fur slipped under his skin, and long black and gray hair cascaded down from his head. He braided it as he spoke, and shrugged on aheavycoat.

“Have you heard the story of the great standing stones, daughter?”

Storm-Eye cocked her head simply to say No, but couldn’t hide the anxiety seeing her father in human skin caused her. He was the grandest moonsinger of these lands and he was using human voice to tell a story? It didn’t seem right at all.

He closed his eyes for a second and began the tale. “In a time long before there were cities on this land, before the Impergium and the War of Rage, before the Weaver cast her webs so widely, many things were different. Among these things were the stones.” He waved his arm as if to take in the whole horizon. “YOU have seen the great stones that stand in the northern plains.”

Indeed she had. Great boulders, thirty or forty feet around, that sat far from any water or other stone in the midst of the sub-arctic plains through which the northern wolves hunted. Some said they had been carried there long ago by the glaciers, but others told other tales. Including, it seemed, her father.

“In the old days, the stones were like the wolves or the bears, great hunters. They were fearsome and mighty and whole herds of caribou were their food. They strode across the plains and the land trembled. No wolf could pierce their stone skin and they hunted as they wished. Even the Garou had to bow before their might.

“But, like many great creatures, the stones suffered from pride.” Heard-by-Gaia lowered his gaze, genuinely sad. “They felt that it was beneath them to follow the caribou herds, always to be walking among mere grass-eaters. They grew tired, and looked to their grandfather mountains and said, ‘They do not follow the caribou herds, and if they do not, then neither shall we.’ And so they stopped. (‘They all sat where they were and rested. And it felt wonderful to them. Had they not been walking with the caribou herds since Gaia called them forth? Had they not bested all other beasts and so earned their rest? And if they wished to, could they not always begin walking again? Who was to say they were doing wrong?”

He paused, as if expecting his daughter to answer, but she did not know what to say. “Exactly,” he continued. ‘There was no one. The caribou continued on their migrations and the wolves hunted them.

The stones were hungry at first, but their strength was such that they could even forget hunger. And so they sat. And sat. And sat.

“Until one day, one of the stones saw an eagle soar and wished to move again, The eagle flew fast and true and the stone realized he missed seeing new things and running across the plains. And so he tried to move again.” The Galliard paused for dramatic effect. “But how did one move, he wondered. It seemed like such a complicated thing, and it had been so long since he had done it. He scoured his memory but could not remember how.

He knew he had once moved, knew he was capable of it, but could not remember the way to do it. He tried for many years to remember, but he never did. Soon enough he forgot about the eagle, too, and decided he had never wanted to move in the first place.

“And so the stones sit still. Forever.” Heardby-Gaia smiled at his daughter and stood up. He walked off to tend to the moot’s business and left Storm-Eye with her thoughts.

She spent the next few hours watching the moot gather. The Uktena woman who had spoken to her was obviously a high-ranking Theurge.

She had a large role to play in the summonings and entreaties that accompany any gathering of the Garou. As the moon crept over the horizon and the sun dipped below it, she led the other crescent-moons in a grand Rite of the Opened Bridge, calling to the Lunes to open a shimmering gateway to another holy site. Storm-Eye was many things, but a mistress of spirit calling was not one of them. And yet, even she could recognize a great bridge when she saw one.

She concentrated, closing her one good eye and willing herself to see through the other, ruined one.

Deep inside her, an awareness opened and, as she reopened her good eye, the Gauntlet parted to allow her to peek into the Umbra. This far north, Wyrm and Weaver were far off and the cold Wyld was beautiful to see in its raw form. The shining stars were brighter than even in the physical darkness, and a great glimmering moon bridge was forming in the center of the caem. Lunes, maddened by the full moon, raced across the spirit-sky, forming a great, glowing bridge. The red omen-star shone far above and Storm-Eye thought it was noticeably brighter than when she had seen it last.

Storm-Eye let the wonder of the spirit world wash over her like a refreshing wind. It had been a long time since she had traveled in the other world, and even just peeking through the Gauntlet was a wonder. Looking down from the glory of the sky, she could see that the Umbral ground was marked by thousands of hoof prints, marks of the great herds of caribou spirits who gathered at this holy site. She could see a clutch of them some distance away, but knew the tales of the staggering numbers that gathered here on the summer solstice. She stared at the glory of Gaia until the bridge was solid and she could hear the moot beginning.

“Guardians of Gaia, guests at Caribou Crossing,” began the aging, white-coated Philodox Thomas Quiet-Eyes. “Welcome. We are the Garou Nation and we are undefeated!” The assembled werewolves, roughly thirty strong, cheered and howled in response, whooping to the sky.

“We are here because word has come from across the North that a concolation is being held in the Fenrir lands. There is a dispute between the Fenrir and the Children of Gaia, and some claim that Lord Arkady Who-Knows-the-Wyrm is to blame. Some say he will be brought to task for his crimes. We have been asked to send an envoy.”

“Excuse me,” came a strong, young and human voice, “but why do we care?” The speaker, voicing the question on many lips, was a young man with long black hair. He sat in Homid form on the ground, wearing nothing but tattered jeans. A large tattoo of a raven, done in the style of Native tribes from parts far from here, graced his chest. Spring was heading toward summer, but this was the high north and the nights were hardly warm. Yet he seemed perfectly comfortable in the cold air and his exposed flesh was still a healthy color, probably protected by some winter spirit. Or by sheer stubbornness.

Quiet-Eyes took a moment before answering.

“You have traveled here in order to learn some of the ways of your people the Wendigo, John North Wind’s Son, and questions are part of learning.

But so is listening.” He turned to address the crowd. “There is question of a blood-price to be paid in the matter, of a Gaian cliath to die because a Fenrir fell in his tribe’s care. The leader of this Fenrir caern is Karin Jarlsdottir.”

Storm-Eye saw recognition among many in the crowd and Quiet-Eyes noted it too. “Some of us befriended her several winters ago when she undertook a journey across the northern lands, a journey of learning much like John’s. Others may have heard of her accomplishments in taking her father’s place as alpha of the Sept of the Anvil-Klaiven. All should know that she is a wise woman with the task of being judge and mother to a difficult pack.”

“A bunch of cantankerous chauvinists is what you mean, old one,” added the Uktena Theurge with a laugh.

“That is one way to say it, Sarah River-Walker,” he answered with a smile. “But this matter is grave indeed. Garou killing Garou is nothing to be taken lightly, and neither are the charges against Lord Arkady, charges of coveting the Wyrm. Karin Jarlsdottir wishes there to be envoys at her judging so that wagging tongues and black hearts do not spread lies about her actions. This is a wise thing when dealing with the tribes of man.”

Storm-Eye couldn’t agree more. Rumor, scandal and lies were legacies Garou had learned from their human ancestors.

“And so Sarah River-Walker has opened a bridge to the Caern of the Anvil-Klaiven in the northland humans call Scandinavia. We need only choose an observer to watch in our name. One who can travel between our world and the world of the Get, one who can make use of the gifts of judgment and cunning. Who shall it be?”

Storm-Eye thought of the Umbral vistas she had seen and the long travels she had taken among the Garou. It had been so long, she had almost forgotten what it was like.. .like a stone that forgot how to walk.

She didn’t realize she had volunteered until she saw her father’s tail wagging.

The Catskills Protectorate was caught in that moment between summer and fall, when the forest is on the verge of turning into a fiery cacophony of oranges, reds and yellows, but the sun is still warm.

Some trees, early to turn, already wore coats of deep red, a swath of color standing out among the lush greens of the woods.

Storm-Eye could smell that these woods were alive with wildlife. Hare, squirrel and raccoon tracks stirred the hunger in her stomach, and a whiff of deer scent only made it worse. She knew the smaller game would be out in force, gathering stores for the winter months to come.

Another few turns of Luna, and these hills would be draped in icy white.

This was no pristine wilderness, however. There were scents of belching car engines on the winds as well and Storm-Eye knew a major road skirted to the east of the hills. And humans came here for their own amusement, as the occasional crushed metal can or weathered plastic bag underfoot attested. She hoped that some over-fat human would stumble through here now and see them. Seeing the terror as a two-legged sheep came face-to-face with five great wolves would be a joy indeed.

They had been on the hoof for most of the day, having left Little AI and the May Belle back at a small river port. From there it had been a quick run away from the human settlement and into the woods. Since then, they had been moving as wolves, cutting through woods and small farms, staying out of sight.

Storm-Eye remembered North Wind’s Son ti-om last spring at that northern sept. He was leading the way and Storm-Eye was right behind him.

The others trailed a little further back, less accustomed to such a long time as wolves. When did you kave Caribou Crossing?

“End of spring or so.” Even as a wolf, the young Garou was uncomfortable with wolf language and spoke in the Garou tongue instead. “Evan came for me and we went south.”

To Teardrop?

“Not immediately. I think he was still off at Anvil-Klaiven then. No, we hung with holierthan-thou Albrecht for a while and spent some time in the Southwest too. Going from the Arctic to Arizona was a hell of a shift.’’ You travel a great deal. Storm-Eye thought of her own recent globe-trotting. These woods were far from her home too, but at least they3melled of Gaia. Unlike the two filth-ridden cities she’d visited in the last few days. ‘Tell me about it. Evan keeps going on about how it’s good for me to see the big wide world. To see all the tribes and lots of different septs To ‘see what we’re fighting for,’ he says.” He bounded over a rotted wooden fence and Storm-Eye followed.

“For him, it’s all about.. .”

Heals-&-Past. The Wendigo Evan lived up to his name, apparently, doing everything he could to bring the tribes together. What do your alphas say of his?

“They ain’t too happy about it, I think. The Wendigo from back home ain’t really the sharing kind, I think. And I guess I can understand them.”

So why are you here? Why do they allow it?

“Well, I guess part of it is my Mom. She’s not.. .she doesn’t change, but she’s got some juice with the elders and Evan’s got some too, I think. They seem to think I’m special or something, or at least that I need to move around some more.” He turned his head back, presumably to check that the others were still following. “For my part, I figure, if I can see the world, why not? I mean, I was just a kid with a grudge before and mybe a shot at a football scholarship with the Beavers at Oregon State. Now, well, now I got more.”

This is no game, North Wind’s Son.

“Yeah, I know.” The Wendigo’s voice carried a human ambivalence to it that perplexed StormEye. No Garou reached even this cliath’s young age without tasting tragedy.

They ran the rest of the way in silence.

They arrived near nightfall, the low, red, westerly sun stretching the shadows between the trees into dark pools of night. Insects buzzed about in the cooling air and Storm-Eye could feel rain coming over the hills, building in the clouds above. She also knew she was in a special place.

In the last season, she had been at a wide variety of caems. From the simple wolf-homes of Sky Pines and Caribou Crossing, to the crowded home of the Get and the urban glade of the London Glass Walkers. And yet, it was here that she most noticed the purity of the land. Perhaps it was the contrast with the city they had left behind a few days ago, or even with the human tainted “wilderness” of the surrounding woods, but she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her back.

The wind pushed through the leaves with a melodic rustle and the air carried the fresh scent of pine and maple. Her ears perked to the far-off call of a jay and the closer gurgle of a rushing stream. The earth under her feet, rich with a summer of life and the first few falling leaves, had a delicious moistness to it. For the first time in weeks, Storm-Eye felt at peace.

“Wow,” Carlita said. All the others had slowed to a trot and looked about them with undisguised wonder.

“Yeah,” John North Wind’s Son said, “it’s pretty intense.”

They found Antonine Teardrop a few minutes later, by the stream they had heard. About thirty feet wide, it had a godly current that rushed around and over several large rocks. Teardrop was atop one of those rocks, standing in his silver-blond Crinos form.

Storm-Eye hesitated to think of it as a war-form because he didn’t seem to disturb the peace of the setting.

Instead, he stood in all his nine-foot glory, going through a series of slow and precise movements. Water rushed over his toes, but his balance seemed sure and he pivoted with one arm extended.

Storm-Eye had heard of the Stargazers and their strange ways, of a fighting art they called Kailindo that involved quick and precise movements in combat, and a suppression of rage, some said. But she had never seen it. Stargazers had always been rare in the north and they had only become scarcer since their tribal elders had withdrawn from the Garou Nation in the wake of the red star’s appearance.

“Well, hey there.” Teardrop had opened his eyes, a broad grin spreading around his lupine teeth. He stepped from stone to stone, and shrank to Homid once he reached dry land. In his man-form, he didn’t appear as a great warrior or sage, just a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face. His black hair was unkempt and peppered with the beginnings of gray.

He wore only a light loin-cloth and his torso showed some of the sagging and softness of age. But his movements were fluid and precise. He strode forward and hugged Cries Havoc, who took on the Homid form as well. “Thank Gaia you made it.”

The Gaian seemed a little taken aback by the warm welcome. “Um, thank you. It’s been a long journey.”

“Anvil-Klaiven was under attack when we left, Stargazer.” Storm-Eye stayed in her native Lupus form, but switched to the Garou tongue.

“DO you have any news?”

“Not much. The caern hasn’t fallen, but other than that I’m not sure. I’ve tried reaching Albrecht a few times, but haven’t been able to get in touch with him. Do you know where Mari is?”

“She, uh.. .” Cries Havoc choked on the words slightly. “She was hurt. In Bosnia, we think. Mephi Faster-than-Death was bringing her to Albrecht.”

Teardrop picked up a wad of clothing balled by a tree and pulled them on-faded jeans, a Syracuse Orangemen tee-shirt and a wool jacket. His movements lost their grace as worry built up in him.

“Albrecht would have brought her here. Or Evan would have sent word. Let’s go to the cabin.”

The Garou, all save Storm-Eye in Homid form, trotted after the Stargazer along the stream.

At the top of the rise was a smallish cabin in a clearing and, if anything, the air smelled clearer here. Storm-Eye noticed some sort of spyglass propped up a rooftop deck. The same concern Teardrop obviously felt for this land touched his voice when next he spoke, without looking back: “What exactly happened to Mari?”

Cries Havoc began to answer. “We don’t really know, she ... uh. ..”

Storm-Eye cut to the chase. “She battles a Wyrm spirit within her. It has paralyzed her, but she returned with a Wyrm-name.”

“Yes, and it’s no name I’ve ever heard,” put in Julia Spencer. “Jo’cllath‘mattric.”

As the last ancient syllable of the name escaped the young Theurge’s lips, Storm-Eye felt the air sour in her throat. An acrid smell of rot and death made her gag and a mad cackling rang in her ears as the fomori attacked.

Eel was the first. He stepped from behind a maple the color of rust and gold, his fishy stink spoiling the air around him. He crouched slightly before Julia, who was closest to him, and seemed to stare at her. But his milky face had only one feature: a great pink pucker that slowly bloomed into row upon row of barbed teeth.

The cry that came from John North Wind’s Son ripped the air like a saw through metal. It was not a formal war cry, not the ululating anthem of the Wendigo Storm-Eye knew from her days at Sky Pines. No, this was a howl of unleashed rage, of fury and disgust bubbling to the surface, overwhelming the young Garou’s conscious mind and launching him into a killing frenzy. He rose to his massive Crinos form as he cried, black hair giving way to dark gray fur that obscured the tattoo on his chest. He charged straight for the monstrosity, his eyes full of rage.

Naz and Boy came next, falling from a ripple in the night sky not fifteen feet in the air above.

The maggot-dog bounded straight for Teardrop, who watched it come with focussed calm. When the thing jumped for his chest and throat, the Stargazer ducked and pivoted as he assumed the bulky Glabro man-form. He pushed the dog away without making a sound.

Cries Havoc was less successful with Naz. The short woman landed near the metis, who flowed into his natural Crinos form without a moment’s pause. He charged, head down to hit her with his large ram’s horns, and never saw nor smelled the substance that glistened on her blistered skin. She moved like a slightly slow bullfighter and took a glancing blow, but that sent a stream of the venomous coating streaking off her and down the Gaian’s side. He screamed as the corrosive poison burned his fur and flesh.

In the fight against the wasp-winged fomor on the boat, the decisive blow had come when Julia wounded the Bane within it from the Penumbra.

And that these fomori had appeared out of the spirit world-something the elders said they were rarely capable of-indicated they had help there. So StormEye looked to the Glass Walker Theurge next to her.

Without being asked, Spencer produced a small mirror and the two stepped into the Umbra. Carlita did the same on the other side of the clearing.

The spirit world was so sharp a contrast it took the Garou a moment to adjust. Overall, the Penumbral reflection of Teardrop’s territory was a glorious symphony of colors and smells. The trees were either the brightest green Storm-Eye had ever seen or a wild bouquet of fiery shades that announced autumn like a clarion call. The stream was more of a raging river here, absolutely clear and shooting crystal spray when it hit mottled rocks. But high above, a storm was brewing. Not the kinetic hry of thunder spirits, but the dark rage of the spirit storm that had fallen on Anvil-Klaiven. Whereas that storm had been right there, though, this one seemed distant and o m i n o w a portent of the darkness that would envelope all. Storm-Eye had the distinct impression they were seeing the very storm that raged around Anvil-Klaiven, the Umbral vista somehow crossing the ocean.

The more immediate threat, however, was the black cloud bubbling from a point in the middle of the glade. It billowed like ink in water, forming eddies and swirls of darkness so complete it seemed to swallow the color around it.

“What the hell?“ Carlita, on the other side of the cloud, moved forward, her fang dagger extended.

“The wolf!’’ Storm-Eye knew what was coming next and leapt to her right, putting some distance between herself and Julia to protect the Glass Walker.

The cloud suddenly collapsed into the sleek, deadly Wyrm-wolf that had been stalking Storm-Eye since this all began. It was already in mid-leap when it reformed and sailed right at the Red Talon without hesitation. As she curled with the blow, Storm-Eye saw that the Dancer from New York City had appeared with the wolf. She barked a warning at Carlita and Julia, and then the wolf was on her.

It bit and clawed with the fury of a killing frenzy, but she managed to push it back before it could do more than scratch at her. The wolf leapt again, and again Storm-Eye pushed it away using her great Crinos arms. Confidence flowed through her at the small victory. She would beat this thing here and now! Then her foot hit rushing water.

She realized she had not so much been pushing the wolf back as backing away from its attacks.

She glanced back to confirm it had indeed hemmed her in against the river, just as an experienced wolf would with foolish prey.

As soon as she turned, she knew it was a fatal mistake. The wolf leapt with all of the control it had seemed to lack before and sank its long teeth high where her shoulder met her neck. The bulky flesh and fur of the Crinos form protected her somewhat, but she felt the daggers of darkness hook deep into her. The wolf began to thrash and Storm-Eye fell into the rushing shallows. Her blood made a scarlet ribbon through the crystal water.

The wolf had known. Had known she would look away. Known her confidence would swell and she’d become foolish. Known how she’d fight and flail. It was as if the thing knew her better than any enemy had the right to, like a friend, like a packmate. And then, as the wolf drove her into the cold mud and rocks, she remembered that first hunt as a wolf. And the bear her brother had killed. Just like this.

“Fights-the-Bear!” Her voice was a gurgle from between clenched teeth, but she felt the Wyrmwolf tense in recognition.

In recognition of its name.

Storm-Eye could picture it all happening as she drowned in the spirit river. Fights-the-Bear, her littermate, her alpha male, her favorite of all wolves, selling himself to the Wyrm. Fomor wolves were not entirely unknown-the Red Talon elders said that the Black Spiral Dancers used them for breeding stock, just as they did sick and demented humans.

But for Talon kin to surrender himself to the force of evil, it was unthinkable.

Yes, unthinkable.

It wasn’t a voice, really. It was wolf language, the mix of movement, vocalization and scent that was the signature of the true wolf. And it was a speaker she recognized. It was Fights-the-Bear.

Such communication should be impossible of course, especially if he was biting into her neck and shoulder. There was no way for Storm-Eye to see or hear him, and the spirit waters washed out all scents. But this was the Umbra, after all, a realm where the difference between thought and reality was much more fluid than in the physical world.

And she had heard tales of some Garou speaking without sound, movement or smell, thorough a link of minds and spirits. If that were possible, why not this telepathy in the Umbra itself?

Unthinkable, Fights-the-Bear’s “voice” said again. And Storm-Eye knew she had heard the same from another.

SarahRiver-Walker. TheUktenaThewge atcaribou Crossing had used that word. She’d been tallung about singing the dirge for Fights-the-Bear, no? She’d meant that true wolves, kin or no, did not act for glory.

They did not think in those terms. Ever.

Ever?

The voice was mocking and bitter, and it caused the enormity of her own crimes to blossom in Storm-Eye’s memory. She had made Fights-the-Bear kill the hunter of wolves. She had made him die a warrior’s death even though he had no idea what a warrior was. She had shown him, in his own final minutes, the terrible world of war and cause, or the quest for glory and hate of the enemy. She had made the unthinkable thinkable. Forced on him an awareness and a burden that was her birthright, not his.

And so other thoughts must have flooded into him. Sadness, perhaps. Hurt, certainly. Hurt that his sister and alpha female had cowed him into a death that was not his own. And with sadness and hurt, had comeHate.

Storm-Eye felt the river sucking her down, so deep and fast in the spirit world. The Wynn-wolfFights-the-Bear-bit and tore into her flesh and she knew that she had brought about his betrayal. His hatred of her had become a hatred of all, a desire to destroy everything and everyone. And that universal hate had a name. It was called the Wyrm.

A crushing sadness enveloped Storm-Eye and it too bloomed into hate and rage. She howled in the spirit waters and barely noticed that she wasn’t choking. Instead, she thrashed and turned, ripping her own flesh to get at the thing she had created out of the finest wolf in her pack. She tore at the darkness her brother had become, and despaired. She despaired at his terrible end. She despaired at the death of the Summer’s Sun pack two winters ago. She despaired at the missing Mephi Faster-than-Death, her only friend among the Garou. She despaired at her father, gently calling her “Two-World Daughter” even though he knew she was blind in both. Why had Gaia given her such a memory if it was only to catalog her pain? Why did the change have to come with this human hell of regret and sorrow? W h y couldn’t she be a true WOE and forget?

You can.

Furious that this black thing was privy to all her thoughts, Storm-Eye tore into it with renewed vigor.

She tore black oily chunks off it and with each one, she felt a burden lift from her. The pain of her First Change vanished like mist in the morning. No more loneliness as the pack rejected her and the Garou found her. Repulsion when she first saw the Wyrm’s traces in the spirit world-one.

The desire to be glorious for her father and the anger at never quite getting his full attention-one.

The maddening, bitter anxiety of betrayal when Limb-Jumper embraced the Wyrm-gone.

The terrible, crushing sorrow when the rest of the Summer’s Sun pack died at his hands-gone. The black, hateful need for vengeance-gone.

Even the thing she clawed into dark bits.

Some part of her knew it had been important to her, but now it was just a threat to be killed. Something that wanted to stop her from feeding. Something to kill.

The spirit-water flowed past, over and through her, and for all she knew this was what the entire world was like. This was the entire world-no past, no future, just an eternal present. No pain or regret. Just instinct. No more “why?”

Within, a new voice said. The answers lie within.

Storm-Eye felt she had heard this other voice before, in another place like this. And when she looked toward it, she saw that the river itself had a face. Made of swirling spirit eddies and wisps of Umbral flotsam, the face was part cougar and part deer. It had the body of a great snake and eyes that saw forever. what do you see? The question opened the river’s great mouth and from it, images flooded out. The first to wash over Storm-Eye was a dark red-brown wolf, running across frozen ground after a creature twisted and black. I see myself, she said.

Then came other images, scenes of other people and other wolves. Like the first wolf-herself-they were in a world more solid than this one, like a hard reflection of the loose, impressionistic world that was the only one she could remember. This was a world of pain and glory that she called, with a sudden shuddering memory, “physical.”

There were five of them. Five things like her, wolf-changers.

What do you see? One was huge and gray furred, a mass of muscle and fury who clutched a long spear and spat out rage. I see a warrior.

Another was smaller, his light fur short and scruffy and speckled with blond. He twisted and turned in graceful movements, keeping a maggotladen monster at bay. I see a teacher.

Another faced off against a monster that was all tooth and tongue. His gray and brown fur was marked by scars and burns, but he fought on. Two curled horns crowned his head and gave him the look of something strange and yet wonderful. I see a student.

Two more fought together against a blackfurred man. They were both women, but seemed polar opposites. One was sleek and deep brown, her movements dexterous and organized. Another was squat and scruffy, holding a massive curved dagger that she wielded with rage and precision.

And yet they worked together to hem in the monstrosity they fought. I see wise-women.

All of the wolf-people stood together against their enemies, holding them back, protecting one another. She could tell their situation was dire. It was only a matter of time before one of the monsters would get through their defenses, wear them down and come in for the kill. And yet, they controlled their fear and stood their ground. I see apack.

The spirit waters swirled again and she saw her reflection once more. That same dark red wolf was now in the river, with a black wolf on her, biting into her. It was herself again, but what was she? And what was the thing on her? She felt the question nagging at her, burning through her own desire to forget. If she let go of memory, then she let go of pleasure as well as pain, of honor as well as disgrace. And she could not do that. She could not betray those who fought now, or those who had fought with her in the past. Like Fights-the-Bear had.

She thought of the thing on her back and couldn’t forget. It was an enemy, a monster, but she could not reject the memories of the wolf who had been her brother, her alpha, her teacher, her partner. Had he betrayed Gaia in his rage and loneliness? She couldn’t know. She would fight this monster because that was her duty, but she would not forget her packmate. Never.

And the other memories flooded back. Of running with her pack and with Mephi Fasterthan-Death and with Fights-the-Bear. Of victories and defeats. Of crying victory over Bane and beast alike. Memories of joy and hope. Of friends fallen but remembered. She looked at her own reflection and said, I see a leader.

She looked at the thing on her back and remembered other things. The Black Spiral Dancer at Anvil-Klaiven who had uttered an incantation to her dark spirits and used a chain-fetish just before the Wyrm-wolf attacked. Of how the Wyrm-wolf had always come for her, as if it came from her. Of how it was a repository for the hate and anger that she felt.

Of how Fights-the-Bear had had none of those feelings even at the very end. I see my guilt, not his.

The image shifted and she saw its true shape: a black-winged Bane, its twisted tail wrapped around her own form. This was like the thing inside Mari Cabrah, like those Mephi had seen. This was her own memory made toxic. This was the Wyrm’s corruption of her feelings for Fights-theBear, its violation of that great wolf‘s memory. She would not have it. I see my enemy.

“To the river!” Storm-Eye’s call burst from her maw as soon as she broke the surface of the stream.

The other Garou responded without dropping their guard. John North Wind’s Son, his great spear at the ready, circled the short female fomor Naz and pushed her toward the water that now rushed in a torrent. Julia and Carlita made a coordinated rush at the Black Spiral Dancer and he flipped back to avoid them, plunging into the water that now overflowed its banks. Cries Havoc stood his ground as Eel charged, changing to his sleek wolf-form at the last second so that the fomor misjudged his attack and was submerged. Teardrop flipped the dog-thing Boy over his shoulder and into the current.

It would be a mere moment before the monsters emerged to strike back, but none considered fleeing. Instead, as one, they leapt into the floodwaters. Storm-Eye was there and they would not abandon her. In an instant all were swept under.

Under the surface, the Gauntlet between physical and spiritual faded to nothing and spirit waters melded with the physical ones. Soon they all saw the swirling spirits that formed a great totemic face.

They hung there, suspended by the impossible currents before their Wyrm-laden enemies. *** “Uktena,” Julia Spencer whispered. Carlim and Teardrop nodded, recognizing the great water spirit before them. Totem of an entire tribe, it was known for choosing the worthy and discarding the unworthy.

It believed in subtlety and cunning, in courage in all its forms. It faced the Wyrm in an eternal dance and expected its followers to do the same. To face it thus, to float before, or more precisely, ins& its own form, was a great honor but could also be a prelude to disaster. Only the deserving survived such an encounter.

The images came at them as they had at StormEye. They saw past the three fomori and the Black Spiral Dancer who floated before them in the here and now, andsawmanyotherenemies.TheragingwingedBanes sweeping in a great storm across the Penumh. The Dancers attachg Anvil-Given. The great corrupted Ttsza river spirit chewing at a massive Pattern cham, spawning more and more of this new breed of Banes.

And curled in the bloody soil they saw what was at the end ofthose chains, a Wyrmcthtng so massive it could swallow the Garou Nation whole. So vile it had been fargotten by all and learned to eat memory itself. Uktena the River asked, What do you see?

We see the enemy we must face, the Garou said as one. We see Jo’cllath’mattric.

A dark cacophony screeched its way out of the Black Spiral Dancer’s gullet at the sound of his unholy patron’s name. Like glass being digested in a great thresher, the dark song echoed through the spirit waters, infecting all. The spirit waters roiled and seethed at the dark reverberations and freed the Dancer from their iron grip.

Storm-Eye recognized the hellish cry from Anvil-Klaiven. The female Dancer had pushed away Weaverguard’s spirit protectors with the same black noise, and here it created a noxious bubble free of Uktena’s essence. The totem currents rushed around the malignant sphere whipping the Garou and fomori about like bits of driftwood in a storm, but the only effect was to drag them all toward the surface, leaving the Black Spiral Dancer alone in the heart of the great spirit.

No, not alone. The Bane that had plagued Storm-Eye since Anvil-Klaiven coiled around its master’s legs and settled on the silty riverbed. It was changing anew, returning to the usurped shape of a great black wolf.

No! Storm-Eye swam down, fighting the totem spirit’s raging current, while the rest of her pack and their prey shot toward the surface, blinded by the waters. She couldn’t let those things remain here. She had abandoned her duty too many times. Now was the time to act.

As if responding to her conviction, the currents around her shifted and she shot down toward the bubble of hate below her. She could hear the distorted song through the spirit waters and it tore at her heart. But she never wavered, riding the knife’s edge of her own rage until she fell into the bubble, fell right in front of the bellowing Dancer. She tensed for his attack, but it never came.

What do they see? It was Uktena the River’s voice.

Nothing, Storm-Eye reald. They don‘t see a thzng.

Uktena was reputed to be a subtle totem, hiding its charges from spirit enemies, and Storm-Eye seemed to benefit from that. The question was what to do with that stealth. She had no illusions that she could remain hidden for long, and certainly not past her first blow. And the Dancer was powerful-it had taken them all to fight him to a standstill in New York City and Storm-Eye was all alone here. She was outmatched, like a hare facing a wolf, or.. .or a wolf facing a bear.

She shrank to her sleek wolf-form and circled around the Dancer until she was behind it and the Bane was in front. And she jumped, just like Fightsthe-Bear had so many winters ago. And like her littermate, she bit deep into her prey’s shoulder and neck, causing ripples of pain and panic. The Dancer’s first reaction was to try to shake her off, but all that did was rend his oily flesh even more.

The Bane wasn’t immobilized though, and, still trying to assume Fights-the-kar’s form, it pounced at Storm-Eye. The Black Spiral Dancer was right on the edge of panic and seeing the big black wolf jumping toward him apparently pushed him right over.

He lashed out at everything and swiped at the Wyrmwolf with his barbed talons, drawing trails of black ichor from its flesh.

The Bane did not take kindly to the treatment. It hit the muck on the riverbed, but rose enraged. With a mighty shake it abandoned the form of the proud wolf it had stolen and devolved into the twirling winged black serpent it was damned to be. With a high-pitched screech it flew right at the Black Spiral Dancer who had dared harm it and coiled around his throat and head, cutting off his cacophonous song.

There was a terrible heartbeat of silence after the last note died and then Uktena exerted its power anew. The waters held back by the black melody rushed to fill and purify the bubble, hitting the three within like a freight train. There was no purchase to be had and they spun in the terrible current. Spirit eddies pulled at Storm-Eye, but she held on to her prey for several minutes.

He was thrashing against the Bane ripping into his brain and the wolf on his back, but to no avail.

She only let go when he went slack.

Then she was rising, from the bottom and from the spirit river itself. She passed through the paperthin Gauntlet somewhere before the surface and felt the cold water rush into her mouth. She gagged and fought for air but found instead a strong arm pulling her out of the current and onto the shore.

“Are you all right?“ asked John North Wind’s Son, her rescuer. She coughed and shook out her coat in reply.

“Sweet Gaia,” said Cries Havoc, standing nearby.

“Look!” He pointed back toward the river.

Storm-Eye turned and the other Garou did the same, and they were blessed. The sunlight came low from the western horizon and should by all rights have been a rosy amber, but instead it bounced from the water white and true. And the river, for just a few wonderful seconds, was silver.

“I still don’t like it.” Carlita picked up some the dried yellow leaves on the ground and crumpled them in her hand.

Cries Havocwassittingcross-leggedontheforestfloor and looked up at the petite Bone Gnawer as she paced back and forth. ‘Wha13 not to lie, Sis? We were face to hce withUktena itself, remember?

We defeated the fomori and Storm-Eye got rid of the Dancer and the Bane. You just need to settle down until the elders are ready.”

They were all on one of the hills overlooking the gorges around the Caem of the Hand of Gaia, near Lake Seneca. They had come here after the flood waters withdrew and they all had woken up on the moist ground outside Antonine Teardrop’s cabin.

Teardrop himself was off getting things ready.

“I’m with Big Sis.” John North Wind’s Son hadn’t sat still at all in the last hour, constantly going to the edge of the hill to see what the sept elders were up to.

Or pacing around, shifting between man and wolfform every few minutes. “I hate this waiting.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Carlita turned toward Julia Spencer, who was sitting on a stump a little away from the rest of them. Somehow she managed to look impeccably dressed. “What about you, chica?

You like being pulled around like this?”

“I don’t know about that. I still have a lot of questions. Did the river really turn to silver or was that just a trick of light? Either way, was that a good or bad omen?

But that was Uktena we were with, Carlita. A totem spirit not known for its up-front and forthright nature.”

“That’s just it, I hate being manipulated, and that thing used me.” ‘What are you dkmg abut?‘ John North Wind’s Son jumped down from the branch he had perched on for a recordsetting eight seconds. ‘Who manipulated you?” ‘The Bg U, for Gaia’s sake! I never woulda been in NYC if it wasn’t for some p d d r i v e r spirit waylaying our regular messenger. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Carlita turned to make sure to address them all. ‘TU bet a river or water spirit shows up in how you all ended up here too. That‘s how these t h g s work.”

Storm-Eye, who lay in her wolf-form, saw recognition dawn on their faces one by one. She didn’t yet know each of their tales but she could imagine. How many times had rivers and waters come up in her life over the last seasons?

“Damn, we’ve been used,” John said. “Teardrop and Evan are gonna hear about this!”

“And what will you tell them, North Wind’s Son?” Storm-Eye shifted into her woman-form to accommodate her homid companions. “That you will return to your human life?Give up the changing skin?“ “Uh, 1.. .” The young Wendigo looked around to his companions for support. “I just don’t like being made a fool of!”

“The river made a fool of you by sweeping you along? Or are you the fool for refusing to swim?”

“What ?”

Storm-Eye looked at them all. “Life would be much simpler if we had not changed, yes? You would live your humanlives. I wouldrunwithawolfpackfarfromhere.

We would do what others do and be content, yes?’ “I s’pose,” put in Carlita. “But we have changed.”

P&Jp && “Yes, we have, and we cannot return to the past, no matter how much we would like to. And we cannot ignore the river’s current.”

“But-”

“Rivers do not use, they carry. It has grabbed hold of us and we cannot turn our backs on that. It pushes us toward Jo’cllath’mattric and we can either rage against the current or use it to get us to our goal.” She strode down the hill and toward the heart of the cam, where the calls of the elders were rising to a fever pitch. “In the last few days, we have stood together against vicious enemies and our own fears. I have faced a Wyrm-thing that burned me with my own guilt, and mumphed because of the courage around me. If Uktena has chosen to call me, then so be it.”

She took a few more paces and rose into her great Crinos war-form. She raised her head to the night and howled in the war songs of the Garou. “I am Storm-Eye Two-World Daughter, moon-judge and Red Talon. I embrace my fate. Let this Wyrm-beast Jo’cllath’mattric tremble, for I am coming for it.” She turned back toward them. “And so is my pack!”

John was the first to join in the howl, followed by Julia, Carlita and finally Cries Havoc. From down below came the voice of Antonine Teardrop and the assembled Garou of the Sept of the Hand of Gaia.

Together they sang the great howls of celebration that mark the bonding of a pack. And deep below and far above that great call, Storm-Eye and the young Garou heard the liquid voice of the river. What do you see? it asked, and once again they answered together.

“Family.”

Heard-by-Gaia leapt high into the air and landed atop one of the great standing stones of the Canadian north. Where some saw just a large boulder, he heard the tales of once-great warriors brought low by their own pride. But tonight, with Luna barely a sliver in the night sky, the spirits of wind brought another tale. One he had to pass along. He threw his lupine head back and began a high, glorious howl.

Gaia, Mother of us all, hear me. Spirits of sky and earth, hear me. Griffin, father of our tribe, hear me. Wolves and Garou of all stripes, hear my tale and pass it on. I sing of the wisdom and glory of one of our own. I sing of Storm-Eye Two-World-Daughter, half-moon of the Red Talons, child of the Caem of Sky Pines and daughter of my own.

The rest of the Six Winters Pack, a scant hundred yards away, picked up the call, acting as a chorus to their great moon singer. Speaks-for-the-Trees recognized the joy the Galliard felt in singing the praise of his daughter, and it was her pleasure to add to that call.

Storm-Eye is blessed by Gaia’s wisdom and Luna’s courage. She strides toward the Wyrm with purpose and without fear, cutting at its heart. She has formed the Pack that Runs in the Silver River, under the eye of mysterious Uktena River-Man himself. She has brought Glass Walker and Wendigo together, Child of Gaia and Bone Gnawer. The spirits sing her praise to me and I sing them to all.

In the wisdom of her Mother, she has taken her errors and made them lessons. She has forged a pack from those she might once have scorned.

She has shaken off the shackles of sorrow and pride and strides forth in Gaia’s grace.

She is the Two-World Daughter, child of wolf and man, of spirit and stone. Let the Wyrm fear her teeth and the Garou seek her counsel!

Speaks-for-the-Trees peered deep into the world of spirits. She looked toward the great pines who were her charge and saw the spirit owls who nested there fly off. They carried the song north, toward Caribou Crossing and across the northlands. Soon Lunes and wind-dervishes would follow, and the Garou Nation, scattered and divided as it was, would hear of Storm-Eye as they had.

She only hoped Storm-Eye and her Silver Pack would survive to hear the songs themselves.

They hadn’t changed Mick‘s clothes yet. In the twenty-four hours since he awoke choking on the sludge that floats on the surface of the East River in September, not a single one of the people he’d seen had done a thing to help him. His Versace shirt and Gucci pants stuck to his clammy skin. His wallet, passport and charge cards were gone.

And he had forgotten something. Something important.

He’d realized it when the copper who found him at the docks asked him his name. He’d wanted to *** answer. Really. But he couldn’t. Speakmg just seemed like something he hadn’t done in so long.

Then, once that copper had called in other fools, he’d wanted nothing more than to tear them to shreds. But he couldn’t remember how to do that, either. How could he change?

At least once the paramedics got a look at the scars on his chest, put there so lovingly by the Lady long ago, he’d been transferred to people who could help. He’d been in a Megadon lab on Long Island ever since. They should be able to help him.

Or not. Instead of being useful, all these fools in lab coats had been doing was poking and prodding him. Mick knew he should be calling the shots here, not being probed and stuck like a glorified lab rat.

And he knew there was one word that would make him right again. If only he could remember it. He tried to say it, but all that came out of his throat was a croaking sound. “Ja.. . Jak.. .”

And so it went, for three full days. The men in lab coats eventually decided to strip him bare and strap him down to a large metal table. Then they started using knives. The pain was bitter and disgraceful, with none of the artfulness the Lady had shown him.

“Is this our mystery guest?“ Her voice was like a dark thunderbolt in h head. He turned to see her in all her glory, stand% at the lab entrance. Long raven-black har, draping abody of muscled flesh. T&t leatherbinding her two-meter h e so beautifully it was pamfJ. to see. Her eyes were as dark as the abyss and zeroed in on him. Yes, she was here at last. The Lady Zhyzhak, chosen one of the Black Spiral Danm, whose ferocity was matched only by Father Wyrm himself. She had groomed him from the time of his dark birth and she would save him now.

“Yes,” said one of the scientists. “He has scarring that’s slightly reminiscent of your hive, Milady, and we wondered if you might be able identify him. We’re actually quite baffled.”

She looked at Mick with all her vile intelligence and Mick looked back, searching for the approval that would tell him he was saved. Or the reprimand that would tell him she was condemning him as punishment for his failure. Instead, he saw no recognition at all.

“No, Doctor. I’ve never seen this man before.”

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White Wolf Publishing 735 Park North Boulevard, Suite 128 Clarkston, GA 30021 www.white-wolf.com First Edition:October 2001 Printed in Canada.

ISBN: 1-56504-884-9 For James, Against the day he finds himself, as all mendo, weary and uncertain of the way home.

Once as they rested from their chase, a debate arose among the Fianna as to what was the finest sound in the world. Each of the champions told of )us delight: the clash of spear on shield, the beuing of a stag across water, the baying of a tuneful pack, the laughter of a carefree girl, the whper ofa moved one.

“They are good sounds aU ,” said Fionn.

“Tell us, cluef,” Oisin ventured, “what do you think?”

“The music of what happens,” said great Fionn, “that is the finest sound in d the world.”

-The Fenian Cycle Stuart broke from the tree line like a bellowing stag, and skidded to a halt at the edge of the road, churning up a wave of dust and gravel. He was already shifting, his keen senses scanning the periphery for any sign of witnesses or oncoming traffic, not really expecting to find either. He Straiuht-rtpnprJ ch-rtpclrlinu hic iimlC’c rlnthinn ic ho the boy’s renrm. “Stunt,” he acknowledged.

“Dad, I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t see the truck and I was afraid you had gone down into town. I.. .”

“Ellen’s got the truck. Gone to the movies. She’ll I 9 1 1. r that he did not share this sentiment.

Stuart tried to wrap his mind around the idea of Ellen driving. When he’d left she’d been no older than.. . He searched his memory but couldn’t quite pin down the exact number. That bothered him. He hurried on to cover his embarrassment, “Dad, listen, I need your help.-neTe’s this.. .”

“Your mother’s fine, thanks for asking.” Colum’s tone was hard, unforgiving. “She misses you something terrible. She’s always going on about her son, the Journalist.”

“Great,” Stuart muttered uncomfortably. “But listen. I wish this were just a social call, but this is really important. I.. .”

“When a boy comes round here, he asks after his mother. Go on, now. Clear off.” Glum gestured with the flat of the shotgun.

“But Dad, I.. .forget it. Just f q e t it.” Stuart turned away and waved him off angrily. “I don’t know why I even came back here. It’s not like I need you, you know.

Damn it, I h e w it was going to be l i e thii. It’s always like this. Every time I try to-”

“Colum? Who’s that you’re talking to out there?

Keeping them standing in the drive! Why is that?“ “He’s just leaving, Margaret. Go on back inside, I’ll handle this.” There was a gleam of moonlight off gunmetal.

“Stuart!” Margaret erupted through the screen door and down the front steps in a flurry of long trailing skirts. “But why didn’t you call and tell us you were coming? I would have had something ready for you, dear. Colum, why didn’t you tell me Stuart was here? Well never mind, the important thing is that you’re here now and this is where you belong.

You just come right inside and I’ll whip you up something. You’re as thin as a rail. What do they feed you at that newspaper office of yours? You’ll have to excuse the mess. The place is an absolute wreck what with your father tracking through with those great oversized feet of his. But, Lord, it’s good to have you home! Come now, I’ll just ... Why, whatever’s wrong, child?” She had taken him by the arm and started back toward the house, pulling him along in her wake. He instinctively fell into step and was three or four paces along before he recalled himself and managed to dig his feet in.

“Mom, Dad. There’s somebody lost, probably hurt. I found the car a few miles back and it was in pretty bad shape. We’ve got to get--”

Colum’s voice brooked no objections. “Go inside, boy. Visit with your mother. There’s a Coca-Cola cake on the table. She made it special, so you’re going to sit down and eat it. Damn if I can figure how she always knows when you’re coming, but she does.

A touch of the Sight. They say it passes through the female line. Just hope your sister doesn’t come down with a case of it.”

“Colum, dear, why don’t you wander down to the Jennings’s and see if, between you, you can’t round up a few cousins to go look for this lost sheep?Thee’s a dear.”

Grumbling, he bent to kiss her cheek and, reluctantly, nodded to Stuart. “You take care of your mother.

Old Man Jennings was out shooting at something night before last. Said it looked something like a bear, but it hwed and moaned like his old tractor-crazy old SOB.

Back by morning.”

Glum shouldered his shotgun and confidently, unhurriedly, set off across the yard. Stuart watched the retreating figure all the way to the stile.

“Why don’t we sit out here, dear? It’s such a beautiful night.”

Stuart settled onto the front stoop. Absently, his fingers sought out and traced each of the familiar knots and cracks in the wooden steps. Routes on a map leading unvaryingly home, Without looking up, he said, “Mom, I can’t stay.

I’m just here for.. .”

“Shhh. Hush now. It’s all right. Worries for tomorrow. Tonight my boy’s home.” She pulled him close. He returned her embrace, awkward, out of practice. All the while he stared fixedly over her shoulder, far out over the stubble of the winter fields-pretending not to see the silver tears she hid in the hollow of his shoulder.

You sure you won’t stay?’ The screen door had barely whined shut behind Colum. The big man had been out all night and looked the part. Still, he had immediately taken in the situation playing itself out over the breakfast table. He’d seen it all before. Same thing, every time. You’d think she’d get used to it, but it hurt her every time.

“Colum!” Margaret scolded. “Your manners. And Stuart will stay just as long as he likes. As long as they can spare him from that newspaper office of his.” She fussed about her son, fidgeting with the remains of the breakfast dishes. “He’s a busy man now and has his man’s work waiting for him. It’s not every boy as would take the time off and haul all the way out here just to visit with his mother. And mind those great muddy boots of yours, you’re tracking up the kitchen already.”

Colum just snorted and shook his head. He knew how to pick his fights; he fell to unlacing his boots. “So, how long you down for then, son? Could use another set of hands along the fence line before the weather breaks. That is, assuming those hands of yours haven’t forgotten what little honest work was once in them.”

“Dad, I’ve got to go. I-”

“Don’t tell me, tell your mother.” He sounded even more weary than he looked. “I can find somebody to help shore up the fences. Your mother, she’s not so lucky. She’s just got the one son. You ever stop to think what it’s like for her? What this does to her? ’Course not. You won’t be here tomorrow to worry about it. She’ll be up all night tonight, but she won’t tell you that.”

“Colum, that’s enough. The boy has enough on his mind. He doesn’t need to go worrying over some old woman who can-now that you mention ittake care of herself, thank you very much.”

“Mom, I can’t stay. I’m sorry. My plane leaves from Dulles on Monday morning. I’m going to be out of the country for a while. I wanted to see you before I left. I didn’t want you to-”

“Out of the country! Did you hear that, Colum?

Our son, the foreign correspondent. I expect you’ll be rubbing elbows in London and Paris and making a name for your-”

She broke off suddenly, struck by a darker thought. Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Oh, Stuart! You’re not going to be one of those war correspondents are you? I couldn’t stand to think of you.. .”

“No! Nothing like that,” he interjected hurriedly.

“And nothing so romantic as London or Paris either, I’m afraid. I’m off to Norway.” He finished off with a half-embarrassed shrug.

“Norway?“ Colum burst in, incredulously. ‘What could they possibly have over there in Norway that we haven’t got right here? Well, ice and snow I imagine. But we’ll have that ourselves soon enough. To think a boy should have to haul himself halfway round the world just to avoid a few weeks‘ honest work.”

Margaret glared at him. ‘You don’t listen to a word that man says, Stuart. Dropped on his head as an infant and his dear mother never forgave herself. I am sure that Norway has plenty to recommend it to an up-and-coming young newspaperman. You’ll have a wonderful time. They’re not at war, Norway?“ Stuart laughed and her face lit up. She loved to listen to him laugh. “No ma’am. Least they weren’t last night.”

“Course they’re not at war.” Colum scowled.

“Who’d want to fight over a great block of ice like that? So what does send you over there? Seems a strange place to just up and take a fancy to all of a sudden.”

“Family trouble,” he said. “Our dear cousins in the Great Frozen North. Again.”

“Fen~ir,” Glum spat the word like an invective. ‘What is it this time? No, let me guess. They all got roaring drunk and sacked a fish hatchery or something.”

“Well that would hardly be news,” Stuart said.

“No, it seems they’ve convened some sort of ancestral High Court of Retributions and that they are actually threatening to execute some political prisoners from other tribes. There are a lot of people up in arms about a Gaian cub who is apparently on the chopping block. And you know how everything with the Gaians swells into some great intertribal incident.

But there’s a rumor,” Stuart said around a mouthful of bacon, “that they’re going to drag Arkady before this tribunal of theirs. And if they are, I’m going to be there. That’s the story of our generation.”

“Arkady? Arkady. Now that’s a name I’ve heard you use before,” Margaret mused aloud.

“This Arkady, he’s a Silver Fang, isn’t he?” Glum asked. “The bluebloods aren’t going to like that one bit.”

“Not a Silver Fang, the Silver Fang,” Stuart said. ‘The one they’re always going on about, holding up as the culmination of their centuries-long pedigrees. They say the bloodline bred truer in him than it has in a score of generations-that he’s got a pelt as pure as moonlight on sea foam. And there are those who have insisted, ever since he was a cub, that he’s the onethe one who will lead the tribes in the Last Battle.”

“That’s gonna be tough if the Get hand him his head first,” Colum said.

Stuart seemed alight with a restless energy. “I’ve got to be there.”

“Well, you can’t very well print that sort of thing in that newspaper of yours,” Colum prompted.

TJo,” Stuart admitted grudgingly. “I.. .I’m taking some time off.”

“Oh, Stuart,” Margaret turned away. She knew when he was lying, had always known.

“1 quit the job at the paper,” he admitted. ‘They said the Richmond Tmes didn’t really need a correspondent on the ground in Norway just now. Go figure. Hey, it’s no big deal. I can always talk my way back in when I get back. It’s not like they’re gonna forget who I am or anything.’’ He crossed the room and put his arm around his mother’s back.

Her voice, when it came was soft, subdued.

“’Course you can dear. Gift of gab. You get that from your father’s side of the-’’ She broke off abruptly and threw a worried glance toward her husband.

Colum had gone red. They didn’t talk about Stuart’s paternity under his roof. Time was when the very mention of the subject would have sent him into volatile rage. But that was years gone by now, back when Colum thought that the only thing that could keep the indignity that had been forced on them in check was to submerge it in bourbon, holding its head under the thick sweet syrup until it quit squirming.

Things were different now. The fire of resentment still roiled within his gut, but now he kept it banked with hard work instead of hard liquor. It was easier now that the boy was grown, out of the house, out from underfoot.

Glum said nothing, just glared at the boy A long, uncomfortable moment passed. At last Colum stirred and spoke, “Well, as I don’t imagine anyone’s gotten round to the morning’s chores yet, and since they aren’t likely to do themselves, you all will have to excuse me. Ellen will give you a ride back into town. And don’t even think about sneaking off before she gets up. She may forgive you after a while-she gets that from your mother.

I won’t. Nice seeing you, Stuart.”

Colum tromped back out onto the back porch, without either the sleep or the breakfast he had come in for. He left without ever telling Stuart that they had found the bodies of that young couple.

They couldn’t have been dragged more than a quarter mile from the wreck.

The scavengers had not yet gotten to the corpses and that was a small blessing, as Old Man Jennings was quick to point out. Glum wasn’t so sure. He’d far rather have found himself faced with some large predator staring him down across the kill than be left with the certainty of knowing it was no animal that had dragged these bodies this far, and through rough temin. Not even so much as a cloud of stinging insects marked the place where the young couple had at last come to rest. And that, too, was wrong.

As they had drawn closer, Colum’s vague sense of unease only became more focused. The bodies had been laid out precisely, formally. They looked almost peaceful, lying there in the center of the secluded moonlit clearing, their pale white hands steepled neatly upon their chests. Slight smiles played at the comer of bloodless lips, as if the pair shared some final secret. Only one jarring note gave the lie to the impression of a tranquil passing-ach of the sleepers bore a gaping wound in the center of the forehead.

A single perfect, piercing blow to the center of each creaseless, unworried brow. The force of each of those blows had crumpled brow ridge as if it were as insubstantial as eggshell, leaving in its wake a jagged hole, gaping like a single unblinking red eye.

Not that the boy cures, Devil take him Glum scuffed angrily at the dirt of the path. His bootlaces, still untied, lashed out at random as he walked. The boy never so much as asked if we’d found the bodies.

Not that the boy cares, Devil take him.

If Colum had known just how close he stood at that moment to a very ancient, a very brooding evil, he would have held his peace. In fact, it’s doubdul he would have left his family alone in the house at all that morning. No, he would have turned right back around and barricaded the door behind him, for all the good that would do them.

But Colum really had no way of knowing what was within earshot, and one could hardly fault him for his anger. As he stormed down toward the coop, he did note the darkening of the sky, the gathering thunderheads looming low on the horizon, swelling, marshalling their forces. He needed to get the animals in quickly. He really could have used a hand, but he would be damned if he would go back and ask that layabout boy for help a second time.

He had his pride. And he had work to do. And that was enough.

Not far from Colum’s path, across the yard and just on the far side of the stile, something dark came seeping, seething, bubbling up out of a hoary old crack in the rock. The moss-heavy lightning-split boulder had been called the Touchstone for as long as Colum could remember. The boundary stone had served the family for generations, marking the farthest reach of the ancestral plot long before Colum’s ambitious and systematic fencing projects had rendered the old marker stones nothing more than a quaint reminder of a bygone age. His father might have remembered a time, some fifty years past, when last the Touchstone had spoken.

The dark essence that now seeped forth from the broken grin of the Touchstone took little notice of the bull-necked man hurrying toward the chicken coops, hunched low against the impending downpour.

It heard him mutter something beneath his breath, and it seemed to swell. A tentative black tendril tested the air like a serpent’s tongue. Then an oily appendage, dark as the forgotten places that lie beneath mountains, snaked out of the cleft. The inky blackness stretched obscenely. There seemed no end to it.

Soon the sinuous ebon flow was the mocking trickle of a brook, and then a surging stream pouring from the Touchstone.

Glum was no longer anywhere in sight when, at last-with a wet, viscous slurp-the Touchstone disgorged the tail end of the monstrous afterbirth. It writhed, flopping from side to side in the thorny undergrowth that encroached from the edge of the surrounding wocds. Then the darkness seemed to curl in upon itself, a first awkward coiling. But whether it was nursing the wounds of its passage through the stony birth canal or already gathering itself, tensing to strike, it was impossible to say. The thick mucousy coils grated and slipped across one another as they wound ever tighter.

There, at the very heart of the dark spiral, something was taking form. A slight, dark, fragile, man-like form. It opened its mouth, gasping, choking down ragged gulps of the chill mountain air. At the sound of its birth-wail-r more precisely, its rebirth-wail-all the dogs across the farmyard threw back their heads and began to bay.

Hearing them, Father-of-Serpents shivered and fell silent, drawing the coils of his bunting closer about him.

He tugged at it, kicked it, stretched it, but it refused to cover him. Already he was the size of a boy of seven-old enough to leave behind the child’swork of the farmyard to learn the man’s-work of the fields. He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders like an ilI-fitting skin and stood erect in the uncertain light of the stormy morning. He was a young man of sixteen years now, with his full man-height already upon him, and still the constricting coils of the years fell away from him on all sides, sloughed wetly to the ground.

He kicked disdainfully at the shed skin and then stepped free of it, a single step carrying him free of the spreading puddle of ichor. He wore the skin of a man with a full forty years to his credit-a hard, lined, sun-ripened face. A balding pate.

Tday, he had his man’s-work ahead of him. That work brought him far afield. It had been years, decades maybe, since he had taken it into his head to stretch long-forgotten legs. To have a wander down pasture, to take in a bit of air, a drop of drink, and just overlook his holdings. The sight of the scrabbling man-things that eked out a living in the shadow of his mountain brought a smile to his face.

It had been too long, he thought, drinking deeply of the mountain air. He savored the warm animal smells-sheep and goats, pigs andchickens. He tasted the first moist hint of the looming thunderstorm. He rolled around on his tongue the delicate bouquet of human toil, of sweat, anxiety, poverty, sacrifice and silent suffering. It was sublime.

It was not that he took pleasure in the misfortune of others. That would be ungracious. But he had his work to do and he was good at it. None better, if the truth were known and he was not too shy to admit to it. And if taking pride in a job well done was a sin, well, then, you could just add that to the list of his faults. He had something of a running tab at this point.

He was close now. Although it had been many years since he had come this way, it was all starting to come back to him. There would be that blasted crag just to the right as he rounded the next bend, and beyond it, the first graceful hint of the valley. There.

For their part, the locals generally shunned this inaccessible stretch of the Appalachians. The old women, who ought to know, called the place the Devil’s Back Forty. But it wasn’t old women and dirt farmers that had brought him all this way. Before his eyes hung a vivid image of a young slip of a girl, skin paler than moonlight, hair deeper than midnight. A familiar tune began to pick at the corner of his mind.

Dierdre heard the whistling coming from far off across the field. The tune she knew, although it had been nigh fifiy years since she’d last heard it. She sat very still for a long while, just listening, knowing what *** must come next. And then finally, she shook herself as if waking from a long dream.

“There now, Eileen,” she said, turning loose the black ewe. She gathering up the shears and fallen fleece, making a pocket of her apron. “No fretting now. It’s only the master of the house, I should imagine, returned home again after these many years. Let us go down to the hedge gate and see what the Old Man is after.”

He was waiting for her there. Leaning against the gate, a ridiculously long piece of straw sticking from his teeth. Testing the breeze like a serpent’s tongue. He removed a floppy hat and held it over his heart. He smiled.

Lord, she hated that smile.

She was everything he had remembered. She stood there, radiant in the half-light of dusk, both darker and brighter than everything around her. All moonlight and midnight. How h g had it been? he found himself wondering.

“Fifty year or more since last you darked my door,” she replied to his all-too-audible thought.

“And I might have done with another fifty, thank you kindly for asking.”

“You haven’t aged a day,” he said, a breathless hiss. It was a simple statement of fact. No hint of flattery clung about his words.

“Small fear of that, as well you know. Now tell me, Old Wyrm, what brings you tramping across my field, raising racket enough to put the sheep to flight?

It’s well I didn’t take you for a pack of hoodlums and set the dogs on you.” i50 She knew he had a sore spot for dogs.

He ignored the dig. “I’ve come, my dearest,” he said, his smile drawing thinner, “to whistle myself up a witch.”

She turned her back on him then and pounded angrily back up the path, her shoulders set as if daring him to stop her.

He gazed after the retreating figure until she was nothing more than a dark mote in the cloud of dust she kicked up.

Of course, he was waiting for her there, back at the house, leaning against the porch rail. Same stupid piece of straw. Same stupid grin.

“I’ve got a special job for you,” he said as she approached. “Delicate. Requires a woman’s touch.”

Dierdre kept coming, head lowered slightly, eyes unwavering. She was a mere ten paces away now and closing. She showed no sign of either stopping or slowing. She was a force of nature, a storm cresting the mountain. Given half a chance, she would break over him and trample his remains underfoot. Five paces.

“And I’ve brought you something,” he said.

That put a hitch in her step. She recovered quickly, so quickly that most men would never have noted her hesitation. He was not most men. Angrily, she stalked up the three steps of the front stoop, each footfall thundering on the hewn planking.

She stomped straight up to him and leaned in close so that their faces were nearly touching. She smelled of warm wool and fresh milk, of living and growing things. Father-of-Serpents drank her in, his eyes falling half closed.

“I want nothing from you,” she said, her tone sharp as shears. “Nothing save what’s rightfully mine.

What you took from me!”

He sighed, having a hard time maintaining his half-dreaming adoration in the face of her obvious scorn. “What you gave freely,” he countered patiently. “It is a gift I treasure. I keep it always next to my heart.”

He neatly sidestepped her wild lunge, a movement as sudden and fluid as the strike of an asp.

“Except of course,” he said as she plowed past, “when I’m planning on paying a visit. There’s just no knowing what lengths a resourceful girl like yourself might go to in order to reclaim such a treasure. Why, even a cunning old serpent might find himself sorely pressed.”

She recovered her composure as best she could, straightening regally, smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. A wayward strand of hair tickled the comer of her mouth and she blew at it irritably without noticeable effect. Frowning, she smoothed it back behind one ear.

“Whatever it is that’s brought you,” she said coolly, “I want no part of it.”

“Come now,” he said with an ingratiating grin. “Be a sensible girl and hear at least what I have to offer.”

“I’ve had quite enough of your gifts, thank you.

Enough to-”

“To last a lifetime?” he interrupted. She choked back the reply that was on her lips and fumed.

“Come, let us not quarrel,” he coaxed. “It is such a little thing I have to ask, and I have come fully prepared for you to shame me in the bargaining. I know you do so enjoy our little negotiations. Yes?

There’s a clever girl. Reminds me at times of my own dear daughter.’’ “I’m listening,” she said. “You’ve got five minutes. Then I set the dogs on you.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s almost embarrassing, really, it’s such a trifle.. .” he began.

She rolled her eyes.

“I would see to it myself if my time were my own.

But you know how things are. I’m weeks behind now and you know how hard it is to find reliable help in this business. I mean, if these folks were trustworthy, they wouldn’t be showing up at my office in the first place, now would they?”

“Four minutes,” she said.

He extracted a gorgeous red-gold pocket watch, flipped its face open and regarded the dial skeptically.

“I put it at four and a half,” he said.

“You’re rambling. And you’re a poor liar. I charged you thirty seconds for that.”

He looked hurt as he replaced the watch. “There are some that would say I am the very Prince of.. .oh, never mind. You’ll only tell me that I’m a poor boaster as well. And that would, likely as not, cost me a full minute. Look, the job is very simple. Even a mere slip of girl could do it.’’ She shrugged. “Then get yourself a mere slip of a girl. I have other things to tend to. Thanks ever so much for stopping by. We’ll have to do this again real soon. Maybe in another f i i years or so.” She put two fingers to her lips to whistle for the dogs.

“Ah, ah,” he caught her hand and, stroking it gently as if it were a ruffled bird, smoothed it back down to her side. “I was promised three more minutes of your delightful company.”

“One minute,” she said. “And counting.”

“I will come to the point. All I need,” he said turning up his hands imploringly, “is someone to keep a little story for me. There, is that so much to ask?”

“What’s the catch?“ He clutched at his heart as if mortally wounded.

“Catch?There’s no catch. A story has been entrusted into my keeping. These things happen. In my role as Patron of Serpents, I have certain duties. Most of them are not unpleasant-the occasional garden party, that sort of thing. But my people spend a lot of time with an ear to the ground. They hear things.

I can’t help that. Occasionally, they hear something they probably should not, something that shouldn’t get out. You’re a discreet girl, you know the kind of thing I mean.. ..I’ She tapped one delicate foot. He hurried on.

“1 would like to be sure that this story does not fall into the wrong hands. Naturally my thoughtsas they so often do-immediately flew to you. You are such a resourceful girl and this is really such a small favor.. .” ‘“Tell me the story, then we’ll see,” she said.

He smiled. “Promise me first. That you’ll keep it “No promises. Once I’ve heard your story, I’ll safe for me.” know who’s likely to try to kill me for it.”

“What kind of fiend do you take me for?“ he cried indignantly. “I would never knowingly put you in peril.

Why, I would rather die first!”

“Well, we both know that’s not going to happen, now don’t we? So how about you stop with the long face and just tell me the story.”

“I can’t tell you the story,” he said.

“Then I can’t help you,” she said. “And I’m afraid your minute is up.”

“I can’t tell you,” he interjected hurriedly, “because I haven’t committed the tale to memory” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s a very long story.”

“I don’t believe this. You know, sometimes I wonder how you manage to get anything done. Do you have the story written down?”

“Yes,” he said, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Yes, but.. .I’ she prompted.

“Yes, but it’s not here.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. I’m going to ask, but only because I have the sneaking suspicion that you’re going to stand around on my porch day and night, grinning that idiot grin until you’ve told me. So, where is it?”

“It is written under a mountain,” he said.

“I see,” she said, but didn’t. “And have you actually seen this story?“ “Not so much me, personally. It’s like I told you, a little serpent told me.”

“A little serpent? No, never mind. I don’t want to know. So this little serpent, he told you the story, only you can’t remember the whole thing.”

“He didn’t actually tell me the story so much as tell me of the story.”

“You’ve got no idea what this story is about,” she accused. It was not a question. Her growing exasperation was beginning to peek through.

“This Wyrm ...” he began, and then checked himself, “this little serpent, he made it quite clear that this story was of some importance to my people.

And that it was of utmost importance that it be kept safe. If it were to fall into the wrong hands.. .”

“Yes? What if it were to fall into the wrong hands?” she asked pointedly.

“Well then, the story could be used to hurt my children. Among others,” he said with a smile. I? should not like for anyone to threaten my children.”

“You mean the serpents?”

“Of course,” said Father-of-Serpents. “Then you’ll do it?”

His voice was eager. “Hardly,” she replied. “I can’t say I much fancy the idea of crawling around on my belly under some mountain to help protect a few serpents who would just as likely poison me as look at me.”

“They would cherish you as I do,” he protested.

“They would make of you their queen!”

“You have never ‘made of me your queen,”’ she retorted.

“You are more precious to me than any queen.”

“That’s not at all the same thing, and well you know it. And I do not see why I should want to be some Queen of Serpents. I suppose next you will be offering me the honor of becoming Queen of Vermin.”

But he knew now he had her. “You will go to that far place, in the shadow of the mountain, on whose heart the story is graven. You will wear your name openly. Men will know you for what you are and they will despair before your terrible beauty”

“Perhaps,” said she. “And perhaps I will carry away with me the wages 1 have earned tending your estate this fifty year: Mastery of Growing Things, a Serpent’s Casting, Youth Without End.”

“Done,” he said quickly. “And I will set you on an onyx throne and give to you the key to a great kingdom. And I will send to you the most shining prince to be born in a score of generations, but you will suckle serpents at your breast.”

Well, that took her aback, but to her credit, the witch just squinted up at him hard then and drove home her bargain. “And when I have kept your story for a year and a day, then you will return to me what you have stolen. My little locket and the prize you have imprisoned there.”

“It is an awkward and embarrassing thing to have, a soul,” he said reflectively. “I, frankly, cannot understand what everyone sees in them. I have drawers-full of the damned things cluttering up the place, but I’ve yet to find any use for them.”

“I think I will take my chances,” she said bitterly.

“And a soul is a such a fickle thing. You realize of course, that it would never abide any of the other little presents I have brought for you over the yearsMastery of Growing Things, a Serpent’s Casting, Youth Without End.. .”

“Then I will renounce them.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You would go back to being what you were before? An ambitious girl like you? I find it hard to credit.” . “Is it a bargain or not?“ she snapped.

Father-of-Serpents just smiled. “Could I ever refuse you? It will be as you say.”

Without so much as asking leave, he turned and strolled through the front door and into the house.

She stood there, hands on hips, open-mouthed at his audacity.

The house was full of the smell of a good wood fire, of roasting meat, of biscuits baking. Smells the like of which he had not savored these fifty years.

“Be a good girl now,” he called over his shoulder, “and fetch me that fine black wool you sheared today. Card it well and spin me a coarse yarn. And do not tarry, for you must be on your way this very night.”

Dierdre bristled. She did not know how he knew about her morning’s shearing, but did as she was bidden. She was an ambitious girl. She forced herself to focus upon the priceless treasure that awaited her in only a brief year’s time. She could put up with even his unwelcome visits for so short a span. She was whistling softly to herself as she went to fetch the carding combs.

The moonbridges sang atop the HilLof Lamentations. It was a living, vibrant sound. The music did not arise from the bridges themselves; they were its conduit. The song thrummed along them, carrying the multiform and wondrous sounds of distant lands to the Sept of the Anvil-Klaiven.

Stuart listened, enrapt, trying to pick out the individual strains. He wondered when last the ice-hearted caem had heard the twilling of cicadas, the patter of scaled claws over desert sands, the laughter of falling water over sunbaked stones, the rustle of gentle rains settling through the canopy of the rainforest.

And now the night was alive with all these farflung sounds at once, woven seamlessly into the more familiar background music-the thrashings of the icechoked Hammerfell, the mournful wail of the shifting ice floe, the rustling of a dark wind through the pines.

Stuart’s very bones seemed to hum with the allpervasive music. The sound of things happening.

The sky glowed with the light of a dozen moons.

Sharp shafts of moonlight crisscrossed the heavens.

Each gleaming lunar pathway seemed to leap from the apex of the Hill, as if it might catch one of those dozen moonglobes within its jaws. A fanfare of lights that would shame the aurora borealis streaked outward into thenight sky, sounding its triumphant howl in denial of the vast impersonal interstellar distances.

Calling the people together, calling them home.

But it was not the play of lights that captivated the attention, but rather the song. The moonbridges sang, not to the ears, but to something more primal within each of the Garou. The music echoed within the secret chambers of the heart; it piped through the hollow of the bones; it snatched at the spirit like a strong wind catches an autumn leaf, sending it tumbling back skyward.

The song called to mystical side of the Garou, courted it, coaxed it out. It was a summons, a call to run, to leap, to dance. Those abandoning themselves to the communion of that song literally danced between the worlds. They chased over Umbral pathways, crossing the vast distances between the septs in a single evening.

Stuart stepped from the moonbridge, down onto the crest of the Hill of Lamentations. He thought that he could still vaguely make out the outline of the proud longship of the Old Jar1 that lay buried beneath the Hill. He closed his eyes and drew a long deep breath, savoring it. Yes, it was not hard to imagine that he could still feel its gentle rocking underfoot.

Seeing him, the old troll beneath the bridges shuffled forward, closing on him, grinning a sawtoothed grin. Stuart stood his ground, glancing nervously at the four hulking lupine forms that ringed the twisted man. Gratefully, they did not break ranks nor so much as look his way. Each of them wore the lumbering dire-wolf form. Their heads were thrown back in the attitude of a great soul-rending howl, but the only sound that escaped their throats was the multiform song of the moonbridges.

The twisted man jabbed Stuart ungently in the shoulder with a stick even more crooked than himself.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” he croaked.

“You’ve barely an hour’s moonlight left to you and there’s not a patch of roof left to lie under in all the sept. Leastways not one where they’re not already piled three deep like pups.”

“Thank you, Rite-master,” Stuart said. ‘(It was a glorious nip. And the song along the bridges tonight!

It was worth coming all this way even if I have to spend the rest of the night in a snowbank.”

The crooked man ground his teeth together, a sound like knives sharpening. Stuart took this as a sign of approval, but he was often given to wishful thinking.

“If it comes to that,” said the Rite-master, “there’s always dry ground among the pine needles. Treeline’s well within the bawn and safe and dry as any hall.”

“Again, my thanks. It does look like quite a crowd.” Stuart took in the firelight and raised voices streaming from the halls below. And the scuffle of hulking forms contending in the central square. And the restless shifting of countless shadows through the tree line. “Where to start?“ he mused aloud.

The stick rapped him twice sharply upon the shoulder and then shot out and down, sighting toward the hall at the center of the maelstrom of activity.

“House of the Spearsreach,” the Rite-master said.

“You’ll find the Jarlsdottir there. But keep your wits about you and your tongue civil. The warband is at its cups.” As if that explained everything.

“That I will,” Stuart said. ‘Thanks for the waming. Can I have them send you up anything?”

The Rite-master spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to encompass the entire Hill of Lamentations, the moonlight on the ice floe, the dazzling spectacle of the moonbridges, the fullness of the swelling song, the immensity of the night sky.

It was a gesture that clearly said, What more could I want?“ Or, perhaps more precisely, “What more is there?”

Stuart smiled and bowed his head in leave-taking. Then, the song of the world at his back, he set his steps toward the House of the Spearsreach.

Stuart shouldered open the door to the House of the Spearsreach. It resisted his efforts, as if the sheer weight of the riot of sensations beyond the door pushed against him. As the door gave way, his senses were immediately bombarded with the blaze of the roaring fire, the press of hulking figures, the animal tang of sweat, the aroma of roasting pork, the reek of spilled ale. There was a commotion of pigs and chickens underfoot and all around him voices were raised in boast and contention.

He thought he heard the musical thunk of a war axe biting heartwood.

It was too much to take in at once. A lesser man might have hovered in the doorway until the maelstrom of flesh and sinew had resolved itself into some semblance of comprehensibility. Until the shifting tides of light, shadow and clamor had resumed their individual and clearly defined forms. Stuart was no wallflower. He liked a crowd, liked its pulse, its shove, its intimacy, its anonymity. He smiled and pressed blindly forward into the mass of bodies.

There was something about a crowd, its shifting layers of veils, its raw potential. A face swimming toward him through the fray could be anyone-a kinsman, a lover, a rival, a prophet, a mark, a corpse.

Or perhaps all of these. It was really just a matter of perspective and of time. Given long enough, everyone would eventually get a chance to try on all the masks.

Anything was possible here. It was the place where the boundaries between people came crashing down.

Stuart moved with the surging of the tide of bodies and after a time he found himself tossed ashore upon a long rough-hewn wooden bench. The mountain of food and drink heaped upon the adjoining table recommended it highly to Stuart’s mind. The vantage point had the additional advantage of giving him a clearer view of an altercation that was heating up in the vicinity of the high table.

A huge Fenrir warrior, shoulders as broad as a hillside, stood before the board, head thrown back, eyes blazing. In one hand he clutched3 freshly bloodied battle standard. His sudden appearance had caused quite a commotion in the hall. The crowd instinctively shrank back before him, not so much from his obvious air of authority as from the dangerous fire that roiled just beneath the skin.

Stuart jogged his neighbor’s elbow to get his attention and nearly succeeded in overturning the cup that was already halfway to his lips. “Who’s that?“ “Hey, watch it! Damned fool.” He banged the cup down and tried to rise to his feet but there wasn’t really room enough to maneuver without overturning the entire bench.

Stuart shoved the nearest ewer toward him and repeated his question more loudly. “Sorry. I said, ‘Who is that?’ At the high table. With the bloody flag?“ His neighbor followed the line of Stuart’s gaze, then grunted and settled back into his seat. He glowered at Stuart a moment more, but finally accepted the proffered pitcher. “S’the Warder. Brand Gannson.

You know the Warder,” he insisted.

Stuart looked blank.

“The other fellow, the one he’s got by the scruff of the neck, that’s his packmate, Jom Gnaws-Steel.

I’d say it looks like there’s been some sort of scuffle out on the perimeter.”

Stuart thanked him, but the words were drowned out beneath the Warder’s bellowed command: ‘You tell them what you told me.” Garmson shoved the younger Garou forward.

Jorn recovered as gracefully as possible, dropping to one knee before the High Siege. “A party arrived at the perimeter shortly before sunset, Jarlsdottir,” he began uncertainly. “Under a flag of truce. They claimed to be a delegation from Lord Arkady.”

At that name a murmuring swept through the hall.

StuartstudiedtheyoungwomanperchedintheHigh Siege. The one Jom had identified as the Jarkdottk His first impression was that she seemed very young to have risen to a position of such authority over these grizzled veterans. She was in her mid-twenties at most But as Stuart watched her step forward and raise Jom to his feet withbothhands, hecouldseetheptitudeandmguaded admiition in the young warrior’s eyes. He would obey the gruff commands of the Wader without hesitation, leaping claws-first to certain death; but he would give his life for this Jarlsdottir without ever being bidden.

Karin‘s voice cut through the clamo~ There was no h t of softness about i t “A flag of truce? We are not at war with the House of the Crescent Moon. Here is Arkady‘s own lunsman, Victor Svorenko, seated at table with us.” Then the Jarlsdottir’s look b e suspicious. ‘‘Where is this delegation, Jom Gnaws-Steel, and why have you not brought them before us?“ lorn shifted uneasily under her scrutiny. “The three were not of House Crescent Moon, JarMottir.

They were Black Spiral Dancers.”

The hall erupted with cries and accusations.

“Wptaint! A black stain upon all his House.”

“What further proof is needed?“ “Did he not command the Knockerwyrm? His “Even the Spirals run his errands for him!”

The Jarlsdottir struck the butt of her great silver hammer thrice upon the ground to restore some semblance of order. Still there were isolated outbursts.

Stuart watched the unfolding pandemonium with an air of patient aloofness. He had watched similar scenes play themselves out among his own people time and time again. He had even-on occasion-taken a hand in encouraging some of those uproars. His kinsmen, the Fianna, had acquired something of a reputation for their fiery passions, for their love of strong words and stronger drink, and for the scuffles and challenges that invariably resulted from that volatile combination.

In a way, Stuart found this unfortunate reputation understandable. Certainly this boisterous minority was colorful and tended to make a lasting impression upon bystanders, inncent or otherwise. But for every hardfighting, hard-ddung, Irish nationaliit among them, there were at least a dozen others whose passions ran just as deep, but tended to follow a less obvious course. For every tale of a fearless young cattle-raider sung by the tribe‘s Gallmds-the finest storytellers to be found any where among the Garou-there were a myriad of other own kinsman has admitted as much.”