The Mage

by Inbali Iserles

  My belly rumbled in response.

  He glanced at Amarog and dropped his voice. “We’re all hoping we’ll have permission to hunt. It isn’t really for us—we can go without food if we have to. But the pups are struggling.”

  I thought of Dorrel. The day was drifting by. How would she be coping? It struck me that the pups were Farraclaw’s younger brothers and sisters. It must have hurt him to see them suffer. “Is there …” I struggled not to insult the wolves’ beliefs. “Is there nothing that can be done? Maybe a small hunt?”

  Norralclaw’s jaw gaped in shock.

  “No!” said Cattisclaw. “Of course not, not unless it is willed by the ancestors.”

  Your ancestors don’t seem very caring, I thought, but I didn’t say so.

  Norralclaw puffed up his chest. “When the time is right, we will do our duty. In the name of the Bishar, with the courage of our ancestors.”

  I remembered the first time I’d slimmered to catch a mouse in the Great Snarl. It had been a thrill, and a tasty catch, but it seemed strange to speak of duty and courage. “Does every wolf in the Bishar hunt?”

  Cattisclaw stretched herself out. “Not if they’re sick. And the queen is too busy nursing the pups—though she was the best hunter in the Bishar once.”

  “Of course Amarog doesn’t hunt,” added Norralclaw with a respectful dip of the head. “She has taken a vow not to kill.”

  “But she eats the kill?” I asked.

  Norralclaw gave me a disapproving look. “That’s hardly the point.”

  It seemed like the point to me. “Do you always hunt together?” The idea was so strange. Foxes in a skulk shared their kill with the cubs, but they always hunted alone.

  Cattisclaw snorted. “We couldn’t hunt the bison without one another.”

  “How fast is a fox?” barked Lyrinclaw, the gray wolf. “Do you think you can outrun me?” She looped around me, Norralclaw, and Cattisclaw, wagging her tail.

  My tail twitched. “That’s all right.” I stayed where I was.

  Lyrinclaw turned to Cattisclaw. “I guess it’s true what they say.”

  My ears pricked. “What do you mean?”

  Lyrinclaw’s eyes glinted. “That foxes are lazy.”

  I sprang to my paws. “We are not!”

  “Prove it!” She looped around me again, her tail almost close enough to brush my whiskers.

  I reached out a forepaw and licked it casually, like a cat. “I don’t have anything to prove.” But as Lyrinclaw circled around again, I broke forward and snapped at her tail, yanking out a few hairs.

  Lyrinclaw woofed excitedly and burst out of the den. I sprang after her, with Norralclaw and Cattisclaw at my sides. The gray wolf bounded through the snow, pausing to let me catch up, then lunging forward. The wolves stopped to watch us. Some started yelping my name.

  “Catch her, Isla! You can do it!”

  It was like a jolt of maa. My paws felt surer in the snow and I ran faster, gaining on the gray wolf. I knew I could never catch her over long distances—I remembered the tireless path that the wolves had beaten across the tundra. I had to be focused and quick. To play to my advantage.

  Foxcraft, Isla.

  I gathered my breath and karakked, throwing my voice ahead of Lyrinclaw, screeching like an angry cat. She slammed to a halt in a billow of snow, her fur on end.

  The other wolves were barking my name. “Isla! Isla!”

  “What was that?” gasped Lyrinclaw. She started forward again but I ran at her with a surge of pace and dived at her tail. I grasped it for a moment, swinging through the air, then released it to land at her side.

  The wolves exploded into yelps and howls.

  “Isla did it! She caught Lyrinclaw!”

  “She tricked me!” yelped the gray wolf, but she turned to me with a bow. “I’m impressed, Fox.”

  The wolves crowded around us, nudging us with their snouts. It was all I could do to keep my paws on the ground. I had to admit it felt good. Their playful vigor gave me energy; I had almost forgotten my empty belly. As they stepped back I sat on the flattened snow.

  “Not so fast,” said Lyrinclaw. “Now it’s my turn!”

  The wolves yipped in agreement, tails thrashing. Lyrinclaw’s ear twisted in question. Could I outrun a wolf? I doubted it. But then, I knew something they didn’t. I stretched my legs, felt my tail drifting over the snow. Although I hadn’t eaten, my maa felt strong.

  “All right,” I said. “You can chase me.”

  But you’ll have to find me first.

  I drew in my breath, reached for the quiet beyond my thoughts.

  What was seen is unseen; what was sensed becomes senseless. What was bone is bending; what was fur is air.

  My paw pads faded out of view. I knew how it would seem to the wolves: as though I’d disappeared before their eyes. I heard a collective gasp of amazement.

  “Last one back at the den is a rat’s foot,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Mischevious foxling!” cried Lyrinclaw.

  “Where is she?” said Cattisclaw.

  Norralclaw was padding around her. “She’s gone!” he yelped.

  I started along the snow as quickly as I could. Drawing in my maa, I karakked a fox yelp between two looming spruce trees. Through the blur of my slimmer, I watched the wolves whip around. Lyrinclaw hurried to the trees, the others in pursuit. While their backs were turned, I withdrew several paces, then split off onto another path toward a cluster of bushes.

  The wolves were barking, sniffing frantically. “She’s not this way!”

  “Don’t let her beat you back to the den, Lyrinclaw!”

  I picked up my pace, weaving between the bushes.

  “Run for it,” Cattisclaw advised the gray wolf. “She can’t beat you on speed. Cut her off before she gets there!”

  From the edge of my vision, I saw Lyrinclaw bounding toward the den. Frustration flickered through my fur. I had hoped she would try to sniff me out, but the wolf was losing no time.

  “This way,” whispered a voice. My ears flicked back. Still holding the slimmer, I tilted my head. Through the blur, I could make out the shape of a wolf. He had floppy ears. “I saw your paw prints in the snow. Follow me. It’s a shortcut.”

  Lop turned and scrambled beneath a bush. I followed him. On the other side of the bush, the snow dipped down into a kind of tunnel. Lop stalked along it as it cut between two silvery boulders. A moment later, we were back at the den.

  “You’re invisible. They couldn’t see you!” Lop panted.

  Breaking the slimmer, I turned to him. “It’s a kind of foxcraft. They didn’t see you either!”

  Lop’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe I have foxcraft of my own.”

  I realized what he meant: no one sees the under-wolf.

  Lyrinclaw burst into the den to find me reclined on one side, casually washing my forepaws.

  “Impossible!” she yelped. “How did you manage it?”

  The other wolves gathered around her, panting. Lop hung back, his tail wagging.

  “Tell us, Isla!” the wolves begged.

  “Please tell us, we’re desperate to know!”

  A howl cut over their voices. The wolves fell silent, dropping low with their heads dipped. Amarog was rising to her paws on the knoll. The sun sank low, flooding the horizon in a pink glow.

  Against it, Amarog looked black. “I call upon the Bishar of Claw. I call upon Prince Farraclaw Valiant-Jowl.”

  Farraclaw strode toward her, bounding up the steep mount to the knoll. She bowed to him, and he bowed in return. The other wolves watched in silence. The air was charged. If felt like a storm was rising from their fur.

  Farralaw dipped his head. “What say you, Amarog the Wise?”

  “I have walked the Taku Grounds and communed with the ancestors. I have offered thanks.” Amarog lowered her muzzle. From this distance, it was hard to know what she was looking at, but I sensed her eyes on me. A shiver ran through me. “Night laps
at the edges of the tundra. The snow melts as it falls. The bison are on White Peak.”

  I looked up. She was right: the snow had turned to sleet. I’d been too busy playing with the wolves to notice.

  “You mean …” Farraclaw’s tail rose with a flick.

  “Look to the sky!”

  We all looked up. Although it wasn’t yet dark, the moon was rising, a sliver of white.

  No blood may be claimed until the moon is an icicle in a river sky!

  “The time has come,” said Amarog. “The ancestors watch over the Bishar.”

  “Thank you, revered Amarog,” said Farraclaw with a bow. He squared his shoulders and drew in his breath. “One Bishar, united.”

  “One Bishar, united!” echoed the wolves.

  I caught the fire in Farraclaw’s eyes. “Together we stand, together we fall!”

  “The Bishar of Claw is the strongest of all!” The wolves replied in unison, their voices booming.

  “Let the Snowlands tremble with what we are made!” said Farraclaw.

  “The wolves of Claw are never afraid.”

  The prince raised his muzzle proudly. “For friendship. For honor. Forever.”

  “For friendship. For honor. Forever!” The wolves barked back. Their tails were wagging, their ears pointed forward. Their gazes were on Farraclaw up on the knoll.

  He threw back his head with a rumbling howl. The wolves howled back, a harmony of excited calls. Light leaped through me, a shot of maa.

  They didn’t explain why they were howling—they didn’t have to. I had seen enough to understand.

  The hunt was on.

  A volley of howls rose over the tundra.

  The wolves surrounded me, their heads thrown back, their muzzles angled to the rising moon. I looked to Farraclaw up on the knoll. The tip of his fur was golden in the fading light. He broke off and sprang down the knoll, wending his way to the den. Most of the wolves fell silent. They watched intently, poised to follow. Their tails rose behind them, their ears alert. A couple still howled, falling out of harmony into random whoops and cries.

  Farraclaw trotted past the waiting Bishar, leading the way through the snow. He looped around a cluster of rocks and started a steady sweep uphill. Mirraclaw and Cattisclaw fell into step behind him. The other wolves took their positions behind them.

  All the wolves take part.

  Even Lop, who brought up the rear.

  Only the queen and her pups were absent, and the mad king in his cave. Perhaps the queen would hunt again when her pups were stronger. I watched the rest of the Bishar curve an arch through the snow. Their huffing barks rose over the tundra, the occasional howl hanging in the air.

  Curiosity pricked my whiskers. I started to follow.

  At the rock cluster, I paused. I’d forgotten someone. Amarog still stood on the knoll, perfectly still, as though she was carved of stone.

  The wolves moved at a trot, cutting a path through the aspens. Even at this pace, I worked hard to keep up with them. Somehow, their broken howls kept me going as they wove between the trees, making for the hills. Ravens rose from the branches, their black wings clapping against the wind. I remembered my time as the great bird soaring over the Raging River. The surge of excitement as I looked over the Wildlands, the Mage banked in a yellow fog. The horror as the wa’akkir failed, and the dizzying drop.

  I was in no hurry to try wa’akkir again.

  The aspens stretched before us, reminding me of what Farraclaw had told me. Claw Weald was larger than it seemed. The white trunks ran in all directions as far as the eye could see. The wolves passed between them, their ears pointed forward. In the lead, I spotted Farraclaw. Determination rose off his broad shoulders. I wondered for the first time what the wolves were hunting—what kind of creature was a bison? I’d only seen them as distant blobs. I knew it wasn’t a squirrel or mouse, it had to be something larger. What could be so big that it needed a Bishar of wolves to catch it?

  Eventually, the aspens thinned. The howls and yelps of the wolves faded into the quiet of the night. I looked over my shoulder. The last trail of red glowed over the tundra. Stars glinted in a flinty sky.

  The wolves slowed down. They started pacing, their tails low. Far from the den or the friendly pups, I was starkly aware of being different—a fox surrounded by deadly cousins. Wolves kill foxes for sport. Fa had told me that once. The thought stopped me in my tracks. At the rear of the Bishar, Lop padded toward me, shaking his floppy ears. He gave me a lick on the nose. I glanced at him gratefully, my moment of dread seeping away. I was one of them now; I was safe. I watched the wolves scratch at the snow, their nostrils pulsing. Seeking their quarry.

  Farraclaw wheeled around, maw to the snow-coated earth, and caught sight of me. He held my gaze, then raised his head. “This way.”

  The wolves prowled uphill, over sharp rocks that peaked through the snow. It wasn’t easy to follow. I couldn’t vault over the rocks the way they did. Lop dropped behind to nudge me on.

  We rose over a hill. The air high up was sharp and clean. I stopped to catch my breath as the wolves stalked close to clusters of spiky black twigs.

  Lop leaned over to me. “Sagebrush. The bison like it.”

  I could sense a change among the wolves. Tails gave small wags. Ears rotated, hackles rose.

  I sniffed the snow. It was harder to catch scents in the chill, but I was starting to get used to my environment. Up ahead, I snatched at an unfamiliar odor: peppery, rich, with a hint of earth. My belly groaned and I ran my tongue over my muzzle. Lop looked at me with meaning. “That’s right,” he whispered.

  Farraclaw stopped at the sagebrush, his muzzle poking between the twiglike stems. The other wolves lined up alongside him, quiet as shadows. I peered between the brush, catching a glimpse of huge black boulders. I frowned. What were the wolves staring at?

  Then one of the boulders moved.

  Farraclaw turned and caught my eye. “Stay back,” he cautioned.

  I dipped my head in agreement.

  He craned forward, rising, his shoulder blades pointed. He shunted between the center of the brush. Without a word, the wolves divided. Rattisclaw, Briarclaw, and Lyrinclaw broke to one side of the brush. Thistleclaw and several other warriors streamed along the other side, while Mirraclaw, Cattisclaw, and Norralclaw followed Farraclaw. Lop hung back, waiting for his turn.

  A stout white wolf with one gray paw hurried after Lyrinclaw. Lop followed. “Keep behind us,” he told me.

  The brush appeared in dark bursts between the snow, perhaps a fox tail’s distance apart. The wolves zigzagged through it, keeping low. Excitement hissed in the air, clung to their fur. But their steps were cautious. A stream of wolves looped one way, another circled the other. I realized they were closing around the bison. The huge creatures that I’d mistaken for boulders were huddled together. There were dozens of them—they outnumbered the wolves two or three to one.

  As I hurried after Lop, they finally came into full view. They were the largest beasts I had ever seen. Their enormous bodies were covered in shaggy fur. Their heads were so heavy it was a wonder they could lift them. They tugged at the sagebrush, chewing in a lazy sort of way. One looked up, startled. Long grass dangled from its mouth. Its dark eye shone, wide and wild. On its head stood two curved horns. The sharp points glinted.

  I couldn’t imagine how any creature could bring down a bison—even a wolf.

  But it wasn’t a wolf hunting the bison. It was the Bishar.

  As the bison raised their heads and snorted, the wolves stopped circling. They stood still, keeping a wary distance from their prey. One of the bison made as though to run at Rattisclaw but stopped midstep. Another let out a long groan, billows of mist rising from its snout. The bison reared into one another, their tails pointing to the center of the circle, creating a wall of broad heads and sharp horns.

  I hung back as I’d promised. Farraclaw was the closest wolf to the herd. He stood facing one of the largest beasts, his ears
pressed flat and his tail straight behind him. For a while, no one moved. The wolves and the bison were frozen to the snowy ground. Cattisclaw broke position slightly, scraping her claws against the snow. Tremors of fear ran among the bison. Somehow, they knew to hold their nerve—to keep their great heads angled toward the wolves.

  Farraclaw’s paws were fixed to the ground, but I could see his eyes working, running along the herd. He seemed to spot something in one of them that made him creep a little closer. It was a brooding beast with a twitchy tail. The creature was already beating its hoof on the snow, groaning angrily.

  Farraclaw took a step toward the nervous bison. His lips peeled back and a rumble escaped his throat.

  Most of the beasts stood their ground, but the nervous bison with the twitchy tail shuffled its hooves and sprang back, smacking against one of the others. The dark mass of bodies shifted, and I sensed the wolves tense. Farraclaw took another step closer. Without warning, the nervous bison broke rank and charged at Farraclaw, its massive head dropped low, its horns pointed forward. Farraclaw sprang out of its path, bounding along the side of the herd. Mirraclaw and Cattisclaw glared at the nervous bison and it turned, confused, its ropey tail swinging.

  The herd started swaying. Their dark eyes rolled between the wolves, their huge hooves beat the ground. Another bison burst toward Norralclaw, who dodged its sharp horns.

  The standoff was over: the bison began to run.

  The wolves started after them, bounding at either side of the herd. I kept behind Lop. As the beasts stampeded through the sagebrush, I saw Farraclaw, Mirraclaw, and Cattisclaw dashing back and forth, darting at one bison after another. My ears rotated, my breath coming fast. What were they doing? The bison were growing angry. Cattisclaw bounded in front of Lop, sidling up to one of the dark creatures and making to nip at its legs. The bison swung toward her, tossing its horned head. It groaned, low and fierce. But in its movements, I noticed a limp. One of the bison’s back legs was lame.

  I realized what Farraclaw and his nobles were doing.

  They’re testing the bison. Looking for signs of weakness.

  The herd galloped with surprising speed. Their enormous bulk gave them the advantage as they crashed through the sagebrush. The wolves were forced to dodge the sharp bushes, working hard to keep up with their prey.