Book 1 - Doomstalker Read Free Page A

pack’s territory.
Their work and play were all shaped to teach skills adults would
need to survive to raise their own pups.
    Marika almost always ran with her littermates, especially
Kublin. Zamberlin seldom did anything not required of him.
    Kublin, though, hadn’t Marika’s stamina, strength,
or nerve. She sometimes became impatient with him. In her crueler
moments she would hide and force him to find his own way. He did so
whining, complaining, sullenly, and slow, but he always managed. He
was capable enough at his own pace.
    North and east of the packstead stood Stapen Rock, a bizarre
basalt upthrust the early Wise designated as spiritually and
ritually significant. At Stapen Rock the Wise communed with the
spirits of the forest and made offerings meant to assure good
hunting, rich mast crops, fat and juicy berries, and a plentitude
of chote. Chote being a knee-high plant edible in leaf, fruit, and
fat, sweet, tuberous root. The root would store indefinitely in a
dark, cool, dry place.
    Stapen Rock was the chief of five such natural shrines recalling
old Degnan animistic traditions. Others were dedicated to the
spirits of air and water, fire and the underworld. The All itself,
supercessor of the old way, was sanctified within the loghouses
themselves.
    Machen Cave, gateway to the world below, centered the shadowed
side of life. Pohsit, sagan in Skiljan’s loghouse, and her
like visited Machen Cave regularly, propitiating shadows and the
dead, refreshing spells which bound the gateway against those.
    The Degnan were not superstitious by the standards of the
Ponath, but in the case of shadows no offering was spared to avert
baleful influences. The spells sealing the cave were always
numerous and fresh.
    Marika played a game with herself and Kublin, one that stretched
their courage. It required them to approach the fane nearer than
fear would permit. Timid, Kublin remained ever close to her when
they ran the woods. If, perforce, he went with her.
    Marika had been playing that game for three summers. In the
summer before the great winter, though, it ceased being pup
play.
    As always, Kublin was reluctant. At a respectful distance he
began, “Marika, I’m tired. Can we go home
now?”
    “It’s just the middle of the afternoon, Kublin. Are
you an infant that needs a nap?” Then distraction. “Oh.
Look.”
    She had spotted a patch of chote, thick among old leaves on a
ravine bank facing northward. Chote grew best where it received
little direct sunlight. It was an ephemeral plant, springing up,
flowering, fruiting, and wilting all within thirty days. A patch
this lush could not have gone unnoticed. In fact, it would have
been there for years. But she would report it. Pups were expected
to report discoveries. If nothing else, such reports revealed how
well they knew their territory.
    She forgot the cave. She searched for those plants with two
double-paw-sized leaves instead of one. The female chote fruited on
a short stem growing from the crotch where the leaf stems joined.
“Here’s one. Not ripe. This one’s not ripe
either.”
    Kublin found the first ripe fruit, a one-by-one-and-a-half-inch
ovoid a pale greenish yellow beginning to show spots of brown.
“Here.” He held it up.
    Marika found another a moment later. She bit a hole, sucked
tangy, acid juice, then split the shell of the fruit. She removed
the seeds, which she buried immediately. There was little meat to
chote fruit, and that with an unpalatable bitterness near the skin.
She scraped the better part carefully with a small stone knife. The
long meth jaw and carnivore teeth made getting the meat with the
mouth impossible.
    Kublin seemed determined to devour every fruit in the patch.
Marika concluded he was stalling. “Come on.”
    She wished Zamberlin had come. Kublin was less balky then. But
Zamberlin was running with friends this year, and those friends had
no use for Kublin, who could not maintain their pace.
    They were growing apart. Marika did not