Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

. .

Slate and the pack watched the bitch two-legs and the other one vanish. Not-birds they were, yet still they flew. Once before the Wolves had seen the same bird-not-bird bitch two-legs, there at the little stone den near the long bad place in the territory of snow. That, too, was a time when a terrible black wind bore their master away.

Slate turned to the others and chuffed, and then he and the pack trotted past the broken-legged and maimed horses and those that were not-alive, past the two-legs that were hurt, some of those not-alive, too, while other two-legs wandered among the sharp odor of mark-water, and the strong smell of mark-pile, and the intense reek of life-water. Through the wrack they passed and among the two-legs now rushing toward the not-alive and hurt ones, many two-legs running out from the big stone den.

And when they were free of the place of the two-legs in the field, and had rounded the big stone den, Slate broke into a lope, with Dark, Render, Shank, Trot, Loll, and Blue-eye following. Starwise they ran, toward where they knew lay the territory of snow, for the last time the black wind had carried their master away, they had waited at his big den, and he had finally come home with his own bitch two-legs. And the master had begun to teach his bitch a limited form of True-People-speak, for the two-legs had no tails and could not move their ears; still she had much left to learn. And even though her understanding was stunted, he would tell her of the terrible black wind taking the master away.

Through the warm-days woodland the pack sped, and ere the sun had set they came to the twilight border, and they slowed not a step but plunged on through.

Foxes scattered before them, and Slate paused a moment to snap up the remains of a dead crow, mostly rent of feathers, thanks to the canine brethren. All others in the pack lingered a moment to take up stripped birds of their own. And with a snap and a crunch and a swallow, they were swiftly on their way once more.

Through the snow they hammered, white clots flying from paws, and they came to a swift-running stream, ice lining the banks though the center flowed free. They took a moment to lap water, and with thirsts quenched, away they sped.

On they ran and on, tireless in their pace, and the waxing half-moon high above slowly sank duskwise through the star-laden wheeling sky.

Some Sprites watched them run, and some raced alongside the Wolves, popping from icicle to clad limb to covered rock to frozen pond, while others flashed on ahead to bear mute word to the manor of the presence of the pack in the wood.

. .

“M’lady,” said Arnot.

Michelle looked up from her book. “Oui?”

“M’lady, the Sprites tell that the Wolves are on their way.”

“Ah, good. Then my Borel will soon be home.” Arnot shook his head. “The prince is not with them.” Michelle frowned. “Not with them? But why would he send them on alone? — Oh, my, are you then telling me Borel comes without the pack’s protection?”

“Princess, the Sprites say that Borel has not entered the Winterwood.”

“Non Borel; just Wolves?”

“Oui.”

Michelle set her book aside and stood. She bowed her head and frowned a moment in thought, and then looked up and said, “Have a falcon ready to fly on the wings of dawn, Arnot, for I would know what is afoot.”

“Mayhap, my lady, a falcon will come from the castle ere midmorn and let us know.”

“Perhaps. . yet I would not wait, for the pack would not leave him without cause.”

“Mayhap, my lady, it is as you first said: the prince sent them on ahead.”

Michelle slowly nodded and said, “ ’Tis unlikely.” Of a sudden, anxiety filled her eyes. “-Oh, Arnot, I feel something is amiss, yet what it might be escapes me.”

A silence fell between them, but then Arnot said, “The only time I’ve known the prince to be without his Wolves is when he and they went beyond the blight to the cottage of the witch, and she reft him away and into imprisonment by using one of the Seals of Orbane.”

Michelle blanched. “But surely that cannot be the case.” Arnot shrugged. “I would think not, for if Hradian yet lives, she should be far from here. Even so, we cannot be certain.” Michelle sat down, but immediately stood again. “Oh, I wish we had word of Raseri and Rondalo’s mission; surely they’ve killed the witch by now.”

“If they caught up to her,” said Arnot.

Michelle sighed and said, “Given where the Sprites saw them, how long ere the pack arrives?”

Arnot pursed his lips. “Nigh dawn, give or take a candlemark.”

“Have the Sprites bring word when the pack passes the blighted section. And then find me, for I shall speak with Slate and the others the moment they reach the manor. In the meanwhile, have a page come to me, for I would send a message to the scribe to post by falcon at dawn.”

“Oui, m’lady.”

After Arnot was gone, Michelle sat down at a nearby escritoire and composed a short query: The Wolves have come alone. What is afoot? — Chelle Moments later, a page appeared at the door.

“Burton, take this to the scribe and have him pen it small enough for a falcon-borne message to King Valeray. But do not have him send it to the mews as of yet, for I would first speak with the Wolves.”

“The Wolves, m’lady? But they’re not here.”

“They are on the way, Burton. Now take that to the scribe.”

“Oui, m’lady.”

As the lad rushed away, Michelle tried to return to her reading, but in moments she placed a ribbon between the pages to mark her place and then set the book aside.

. .

On raced Slate and the pack, and soon they passed the small stone den where the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs had once lived, the den smelling of old char.

They plunged into the tangle of the long-bad place, the trees twisted and stunted, some shattered, the branches hard and bare and clawlike. And the pack felt the faint itch of the same itch felt when the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs made the master go away on the wind.

As they emerged from the long-bad place, a nearby Sprite looked out from a plane of ice and then vanished. But Slate ignored the tiny being, except to note it had gone.

On ran the pack, and as the dawnwise light began to glimmer, they raced up the long slope and onto the flat where the master’s great den sat. And there to greet them stood the master’s two-legs bitch and others of the master’s two-legs pack.

. .

Michelle knelt and ruffled Slate’s fur, the huge Wolf deigning to be so petted. The remainder of the pack gathered about and waited their turns, some fawning, though Slate stood quite still.

After she had greeted each Wolf, Michelle signed to the waiting attendants, and they brought buckets of water for the pack to drink. And when all had slaked their thirst, Michelle struck a posture, and then another, and rumbled as best she could, followed by a short whine. Then she murmured to Arnot, “I’ve asked Slate, where’s Borel?”

With pricked ears and cocked head Slate replied: Where master?

Michelle looked away and raised her nose to the wind, answering: Not here.

Slate raised his nose and looked the same direction and whined: Not here?

Michelle took on another posture and then shifted: Not here.

Where Borel?

Slate emitted a low rumble of disappointment and anger.

Michelle: Where Borel?

Slate gave a whine of uncertainty.

Michelle growled low: Tell.

Slate: Bird-not-bird bitch two-legs.

Michelle gave a whine of confusion.

Slate repeated: Bird-not-bird bitch two-legs.

Michelle: Whine.

Slate snorted and flopped down and looked at Dark and rumbled, for his own bitch and her delicate True-People-speak seemed more able to talk with the master’s bitch two-legs.