Lupus Rex (25 page)

C
IRCLING ABOVE, THE
new King Crow heard the words of the wolf and wondered. Certainly, Asmod could not be trusted—not ever, but he was injured now. Perhaps this attack by the hornets had stirred an awareness of his need to keep allegiance with the crows. Surely the wolf was in need now. Sintus made his decision and flew down beside the wolf. “I am glad you have come to clear mind, wolf. Too bad it took the stings of a thousand hornets and the betrayal of a mere quail to bring you to your senses.”

“Oh, yes,” said Asmod. “My senses are quite awake. In fact, I never lost them.”

And with that, he reared up and was on Sintus in a flash, grabbing the big black bird within his jaws. Then Darus and another were on the wolf, trying to fight him away, but it was too late. Asmod tore the newly crowned King Crow’s chest apart, casting his ravaged form to the ground. And so it was that finally Sintus’s salty blood poured down upon the earth, and the field ate it up greedily.

A
S
Y
SIL WATCHED
Sintus die, he felt all hope die with him. Within the crow’s order there had always been a place for the quail, rabbits, and other lower animals, and though he remembered what Cormo had heard from his perch above the trail, that being Sintus’s agreeing to the deaths of all quail, with the crows, at least there was some hope. Within the order of the wolf, there was none at all. The remainder of the crows gathered about and bowed low and professed Asmod the only King, of the field and also the Murder’s Tree.

The wolf once again turned his puffy head high and howled in victory. The others joined in. And as the yelps and howls of the predators died out, the cry of victory turned into a defiant screech. It came from above, a sound that spoke deep within Ysil’s heart. It was a sound that brought new fear, but for some reason, also hope. Ysil looked to the left and saw the shape of the wolverine move into the field. The darkly furred monster was looking up into the sky; he shook his head and turned quickly away. As the wolverine disappeared into the dark woods from where it had come, the screech continued, becoming louder each second, the whole of the field growing deathly quiet. Ysil looked up, and there, high in the sky, were the forms of birds. The shapes grew larger as they descended with great speed. The first bird was much larger than the other shapes behind it: brown, with the tips of his wings gray and bearing white highlights across. And it was a bird he knew.

“Pitrin,” he heard in a whisper. It was Harlequin. “It is Pitrin, returned at last.”

Chapter Nineteen

The Final Battle

D
AY’S LIGHT WAS
fading and dark would soon come, relentless and unavoidable. All eyes, those within the field and those around it, were upon the sky. Now the shapes of the birds were clear upon the gray backdrop of racing cloud. It was the great hawk returned, and behind him was the one-eyed prince of the crows: the chosen Nascus. And the wind blew straight down from the heavens and dropped them with a fury.

So concerned were they with the descending birds, none of the predators heard the approaching attack from the forest. Out of four corners of the field burst four groups of animals. One, from the direction of the cold wind, was the remainder of the deer, led by Oda, the widow, injured but racing into battle. Flying at her side was the tiny form of Flax, scarcely larger than a hornet himself. From the direction of the setting sun came an army of turkeys with Butry in lead. From the direction of the rising sun charged the remainder of the squirrels and a pack of badgers. Within this number was Risa the woodchuck, racing ahead of the others with fangs bared. And from the direction of the warm wind came the greatest gathering of raccoons ever assembled, and all sprinted toward the wolf and his band at once.

The predators panicked, surrounded from all sides and from above. They all packed in together, huddled up against Asmod.

The wolf screamed, “In rank! Prepare for battle!” Tortrix wrapped around the wolf’s neck in protection and for safety.

Drac and Puk loosened their paws from Ysil and Harlequin. The quail burst free, taking fast to wing. Ysil was in great pain, but he paid it no mind. The two birds flew tight together, straight over the top of the turkeys, which ran, hopped, and flew into battle.

The two small birds flew straight to their hiding place and watched in anticipation. There was a rustle beside them and up looked Cormo, a great relief in his eyes.

Before them, the deer were upon the predators, crashing in with their hooves and antlers, some of them wounded. Fueled by the hope of victory and revenge, they fought even stronger than before. A coyote’s skull was cracked, his head dashed upon the sharp end of a hoof. Puk ran. He raced for what he thought was a break in the pounding hooves, but just as he broke past two attacking deer, Oda was upon him. She beat him to death with her flogging legs. Drac tried to flee, only to be attacked by three raccoons at once, who tore his throat apart, singing their joyous song as they did so. A familiar coon looked Drac in the eye as he died. “We fight only when cornered, eh?” said the masked animal.

The turkeys flew upon Asmod all at once, and he thrashed and fought, tearing them up with his sharp teeth. Butry, the tom, was killed by the wolf with one quick shake of its head, the monstrous jaws clenched about his frail neck. Then the raccoons were also upon him. One of them ripped the snake from about his neck with its sharp teeth, the copperhead falling to the ground. Asmod was upon the raccoons, tearing and biting them, and one after the other he was killing them. They screamed and barked, their blood flying into the air. Still they attacked him, one after another, and with each he would dispatch, Asmod was pounced upon by another. But the wolf would not go down, and he was killing the assailants as fast as they came at him.

Asmod reared up on his hind legs to wail a victory cry to frighten those attacking. The tastes of raccoon’s and turkey’s blood were strong in his mouth. The wolf heard only one beat of a wing, and he did not have time to register what it might be before the hawk was upon him. With deft purpose and aim, Pitrin jabbed his beak into the wolf’s head and plucked out his remaining eye. The wolf’s howl of victory became one of agony. Pitrin did not even slow, but swallowed the eye down and banked sharply to return for the kill.

Asmod screamed, jumping about wildly.

Pitrin bore down upon the great wolf, his talons outstretched, his red beak open in attack. The wolf thrashed madly about, biting at the air, yelping and howling. But when the hawk was nearly upon him, Tortrix burst like a bolt into the air. Pitrin banked sharply to avoid the deadly fangs of the snake. There came another beat of wings and, suddenly, Strix the owl took the snake in midflight; he flew far and high with the snake, who would not return living to the earth.

By this time dusk was upon the field, and with the dying light Ysil saw the great bleeding and blind wolf burst from the middle of battle and race in the direction of the falling sun. Asmod, the last wolf, blinded and wounded, disappeared with a rustle into the forest, none in pursuit. Pitrin flew in a tight arc around the foray, quickly returning to where the wolf had been, but found the beast had disappeared.

Still the battle raged, but not for long. The predators became aware that their leader was no longer in the field and began to flee: limping, howling, barking, and seething. Across the field were the bodies of the dead. As the sounds of battle died, and the moans of the injured calmed or ended, twilight fell. The clouds billowed across the gray sky, and the light of day was swallowed by a whole and complete darkness. Ysil heard no screams of victory, just the milling of deer and raccoons, and of course the tearing of the vultures. The wind quieted and all grew still.

As Ysil, Cormo, and Harlequin settled into the inevitable sleep of quail, Ysil heard from upon high, as if from an approaching dream, the lone screech of Pitrin, returned to the nest of his birth.

Chapter Twenty

The Claims of the Brother

W
ITH THE DAWN
came a drenching rain, and the water rinsed the field, cleansing and purifying. Blood of both predator and prey, bird and innocent, washed down into the thirsty earth. And with the rain came the promise of fall, days ever colder and longer nights.

Ysil and Harlequin woke to the sound of the falling rain, and for the hours it fell they did not move but lay there within the brush and talked quietly among themselves. Finally the light of the sun folded across the field, and there returned to collect the bounty of the dead those whose right is so.

“Is it really over?” asked Harlequin.

“Certainly it must be,” said Cormo. “The wolf surely died in the night.”

“I feel positive also that it is over,” said Ysil.

But the three sat at the edge of the field, still within the brush, and watched as the vultures tended to the dead.

Nascus, the new King Crow, descended upon the field and talked with the vultures, with Ekbeth and the others. And all was still except for the sound of the vultures’ feeding. At the edge of the field Ysil saw the movement of mice and also a small quail.

“It’s Sylvil,” said Harlequin. “For her to be out, she must sense all is safe.”

And with so many of the lesser animals feeding, the quail made up their minds to join them, and they stepped from the brush.

Cormo went first, approaching Sylvil carefully. Cormo picked through what was there, Sylvil looking up at him shyly as he drew close. Ysil and Harlequin moved together near them, and Roe was there, munching at a rattlesnake body. Harlequin looked at him disgustedly. He smiled back a crimson grin in response. The warmth of the early fall day arrived, and the sun shone upon the field, a thick steam rising from it. And so the quail meandered about the edge of the field, picking the drying grain.

Ysil ate the grain. There arose a breeze, and though it was slight, it pressed persistently into his face. There came to his ear a whistle within the wind. He closed his eyes, listening carefully. A melody unfolded from the blowing, a rising and falling cadence, not unlike the dance of the raccoons. But the song was urgent, determined. All around Ysil the sounds of feeding disappeared, and for that moment all was erased; the loss was gone, the pain in his side forgotten. The melody surrounded him, swallowed him, and demanded his attention. It was then it became clear there was a word within the song, a word not spoken but whistled through the leaves of the trees and the cut blades of grass, and he listened, trying to determine the speaking. The word was of two tones, one higher and the second low, repeating over and over.

Abruptly, Ysil understood. His eyes burst open and the message from the wind came flying from his beak. “Warning!” he screamed.

Suddenly a horrendous gray form, stinking and bloody, jumped blindly at the small group of feeding animals. The wolf! He yelped, frenzied, snapping his bloody teeth at the birds he could smell very well, though he could not see them at all. Harlequin was close to the wolf, too close. Asmod thrashed his head harshly and the small form of Harlequin thudded to the ground, pummeled by the wolf’s murderous jaws.

With the instinct of protection in him, the agonizing pain of his broken rib forgotten, Ysil jumped upon the great wolf’s head and, driving down with all his might, pushed his beak into the freshly emptied socket in the wolf’s skull. Asmod howled in pain. The animals at the edges of the field jumped and ran to hiding. The crows flew from the Murder’s Tree, racing toward the fray. The wolf shook his head furiously, tossing off Ysil and running fast into the field, but blindly. The crows were closer now.

The wind blew strong now, and with it the rising crescendo of a chorus of whistles—a song of fury. The wolf ran. The song ended with a deafening sound like none Ysil had ever heard, except when lightning crashed down upon the ground very close. The tiny quail lay unmoving on the field’s silage. The crows broke their descent and scattered. There, only a few feet away, stood the man, a long stick smoking in his hand. The immense wolf was lying limp on the field. The wind had dropped to a dead calm.