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he wouldn’t have the embarrassment of a freakish pup.
    Nothing made sense. Nothing was right.
    But then came the raid. And everything changed.
    * * * *
     
    The pack from the north attacked on the night of the smallest moon. The minimal light granted them cover as they swept in from three different points of attack. Reyaqc packs attack one another for various reasons—food stores, supplies, better positioning relative to humans and prey, sometimes to replenish their stock of females and youth, or other times simply out of pure savagery.
    The commotion began well after sundown. Shouts and footfalls as reyaqc raced back and forth about the clearing, growls and shrieks, the sounds of struggle, the gasps of the dying. Dolnaraq knew the sound of a raid. There had been many in his short lifetime. This was part of the reyaqc life. He also knew that even a pup such as he was expected to defend the pack. If he was old enough to hunt, he was old enough to fight.
    Dolnaraq closed his eyes. It would be an easy thing to simply lay here and allow one of the raiders to come by and kill him. There would be no prolonged starvation, no pleas from his mother to reconsider. What of the others? What of his mother? Already he could see the females gathering armfuls of food and supplies and carrying them further back into the depths of the cave. The females were doing their part. Dolnaraq should do his. Perhaps he would die in battle. Then his father would be forced to be proud. Yes. Die in battle. Die a hero. Maybe even a freak could be a hero.
    It was not an easy task to rise from his bed as his muscles curled into tight balls of pain. But Dolnaraq used the cave wall for support and gradually attained an upright position. The first steps were particularly painful, but with each his muscles seemed to loosen. He hobbled some, his left leg remaining numb and twitchy, but he found he could move about in a slow uneven gait.
    The scene beyond the cave was a mass of confusion. The northern pack had seemingly swept in from all sides, catching Dolnaraq’s clan off guard. Already, bodies littered the cold snowy ground, many slashed open with entrails leaving streaks of red upon the pristine white. To his left a young female was thrown harshly against an ancient oak. Her head made a sharp cracking sound with each of three successive strikes. When she finally fell limp, the northern reyaqc bent to clutch her right ankle and then dragged her into the darkness. Directly ahead, two northern reyaqc—both molts—descended upon Mynig, the pack chieftain. These reyaqc had the sharp claws of mountain cats. Mynig did not cry out, nor attempt to flee. Rather, he bit and clawed until finally succumbing in a heap on the bloodied snow.
    Most of the northern reyaqc were molts. But not molts such as Dolnaraq had become. These were fierce creatures, many with full long canines and razor-sharp claws. How had they done this? Why had they become amazing while Dolnaraq had become foolish?
    He knew the answer to this.
    In these more savage packs, those who did not achieve some level of strength or usefulness were simply slain and then consumed by the pack. In this way, at least, they contributed something to the well-being of the many. If Dolnaraq were found by these, he would be murdered. He’d be devoured. Dolnaraq now realized he didn’t want to die, that whatever he had become, he still had reason to go on. But could he? Could he go on? The pack was under siege and Dolnaraq was still weak and uncoordinated from his ordeal.
    Two reyaqc fell before Dolnaraq, scraping and clawing, causing the young pup to scurry to his right. All about him were scenes of carnage—limbs severed, throats bitten and ripped. Dolnaraq’s pack was not large, only comprising some forty members. Dolnaraq knew each corpse by name. He had spent hours with each dying soul. An older reyaqc, Narmon, called out from where he lay on the icy ground. There was a gash in his side, and he was trying to