In the early days of the holt, players came and went, and some created of characters as "holt characters." These were meant to be characters anyone could use in a story, but as they had no assigned player, the characters usually went unplayed unless they were adopted. Before long, the holt was overrun with "holt characters." Newer players will find many unfamiliar names in this long tale, and can probably guess which characters will be among the casualties in this saga, often referred to as "The Purge." The story opens with the birth of Briarheart, daughter of an unwelcome Recognition between Redmane and Allim.

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Cover art for The Grandfather Tree Vol. 1 no. 3. 1994, the issue in which this tale appeared. That's Sharwit hiding in the bushes, Crosstrail on the limb above the unsuspecting humans. Note the obsidian ring pendants that mark the humans as Forest House. Why one young man is blonde in a tribe of brown-skinned, dark-haired people, I really don't know.

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It was a bad day for Thorntoe.

Not that a bad day was unusual for the prickly elder, he mused briefly before plunging back into his darkest thoughts. He stomped on through the forest, growling deep in his chest, smashing leaves and branches aside with the back of his hand as he went. "Briarheart," he muttered, "Briarheart!" Redmane had chosen the cub's name to mock him. That was the only explanation. To mock him! A gibe at Allim? Out of the question. No one dared do such a thing to that pureblood, sire of the child or not. And Redmane, his own lovemate... why? Why?

"WHY?" he roared.

Why did cubs die? The young of all creatures were vulnerable, but why elves, who had so few young to begin with? Skyblade had been a little fool to run off into the forest with Moth, unattended...

Thorntoe sat down heavily on a fallen log, scattering bits of rotten wood. He had seen the faces of Tracer and Snowberry when they learned of the death their cub. Skyblade, ever impetuous and enamored by Moth, his tiny brother, had taken the cubling off into the forest to show him its secrets. Had he told anyone of his intentions, the tragedy could have been prevented. But, no, it was only the thought of a moment, and Skyblade was off, Moth in his arms. For the first time in his long life, Thorntoe wondered if an extra dose of wolf blood in one's veins was such a good thing after all. Living in the Now, not thinking beyond the moment, meant no planning, no thought for consequences. Thorntoe shook his head violently. Now he was thinking like a pureblood.

He jumped off the log and stomped off through the forest again, glaring until he thought his brow would break. The trap that Skyblade had overlooked, until he was dangling high in the air with a broken neck, was in a place humans had never set their game traps before. The cord was new, the trap fresh, and the humans nowhere near as they should have been. Humans always stayed near the traps, to quickly cut down and bleed the game before the meat began to spoil. There wasn't a human anywhere in the area, which made Thorntoe uneasy. What was the true purpose of an unattended trap, so deep in the forest?

It was he, Thorntoe, who had been nearby with a hunting party, he who felt the sudden departure of Skyblade's soul, and, a moment later, heard Moth's wail when the cubling tumbled from Skyblade's arms and fell into the duff. It was he who growled out the news to Snowberry, and put the dead Skyblade in her arms. Her anguished howl still echoed in his head.

Then the birth of Briarheart, which cheered all but Snowberry, whose grief only became deeper. And as for himself, old Thorntoe?

"Briarheart," he muttered, "Of all the... Briarheart!"

Tilvah winced at the racket of the newborn's wails. So loud! She smiled in sympathy as Redmane sank back on the furs, eyes closed in exhaustion. Stone's shoulders sagged as he cut the birth-cord and wrapped the infant in soft suede, the best his lifemate could make.

"There!" He laid the struggling, screaming bundle in Redmane's arms. "A new life for the Wolfriders, and a very healthy one!"

"Not to mention loud." That voice, dry as a summer wind and not nearly as friendly, came from Orelan, seated on a fur-covered stool. Tilvah raised her eyes warningly to the younger elf, who had returned from a two-year journey only to find her enemy's cub being born. Although it was Orelan's den, Tilvah would not have anyone disturbing her youngest child. The firemaker shrugged in return, golden-red hair sliding over her shoulders. "You'd think she wanted back inside."

Stone raised his eyebrows. "You'd howl, too, if someone threw you out of the only den you'd known." He beckoned to Shycloud, handing her a leather-wrapped lump. "Put this someplace cool. It's the afterbirth, and she'll need it soon."

"Ugh!" Orelan grimaced. "Maybe that's why it always took me days to get back on my feet after bearing a cub. I never could stomach eating that."

Tilvah chuckled. "To be perfectly honest, neither could I."

Stone sighed, slumping on the floor. "I'm too tired to argue with you about it."

"Oh, she's perfect," Redmane sighed, running a finger along the baby's red, crumpled face. "Isn't she beautiful, Mother?"

Unlike most cubs Tilvah had seen, Redmane's new cub was adorable. The red hair on her tender scalp was thick, silky, and curled in ringlets on her high forehead. Her eyes were not yet open, but the delicate lids were like translucent shells.

"She will be a beauty when she's older," Tilvah remarked. She gave her daughter a sly smile. "You'll have to beat the lads away with a spear." She paused, aware as they all were of the recent tragedy. "At any rate," Tilvah went on, mastering a shudder, "her older brother will be very protective of her."

Redmane nodded, a troubled look on her face. She handed Stone her cub. "Now go outside and show her to the others. I know they're waiting -- " She lay back, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. "Remember to say her name good and loud. There's somebody I want to hear that." She looked at Tilvah. "Allim may be your friend, Mother, but he'll never be mine. And this precious one is the only blessed thing to come out of our Recognition."

"Well, I'm game," Orelan said slyly, rising to her feet. "I'd prefer someone else had ended up in that trap -- and do not glare at me, Stone, we can't keep silent on that forever!" She matched the healer's scowl with a fearsome one of her own. "I've lost cubs myself, though none to humans. But Snowberry won't be served well by tiptoeing around Skyblade's death. She needs to know that the tribe is with her."

"So she will," Tilvah agreed. She laid a hand on Stone's shoulder. "This new one is a promise to Snowberry as well as to all our hunt-brothers and sisters."

"All right," Stone gave in. "I'll say that. Redmane -- " He turned. Redmane was fast asleep, curled up in her furs with a slight smile on her face.

Tilvah smiled. "That was a long, hard birth. I'm glad she can sleep." The ancient elf arranged the fur around her daughter's slim shoulders, smoothing back the tangles of dark red hair. In sleep, Redmane looked barely old enough to have a cub. Tilvah shook her head to dispel such a thought; she had been very young when she had her firstborn. Only her wolfling lifemate had been with her, holding her in an embrace strong enough to keep the pain at bay. But where had Thorntoe been for this birth? Lurking outside, lingering only long enough to hear the gender and the name before bolting off into the forest.

She followed Stone, Orelan, and a very subdued Shycloud outside, blinking at the sunlight piercing the boughs of the great trees. Already it was morning, and the air was thick with the sharp green scent of opening leaves and last night's rain. Tilvah stretched her arms, grateful to be outdoors and able to move freely; Orelan's den had been made for one, not five.

Sharpwit and Feathersilk took the infant from Stone, cooing over the newborn. Their little son, Brightsun, reached up vainly, trying to touch the whimpering bundle; the other cubs gathered near, eyes wide as they got a look at their newest mate. Tilvah silently counted them, the ache in her heart growing -- Soulsinger, Starfall, Frost, Hilltop, blind Blackbird -- and wished again that Skyblade had seen the snare he'd walked into. There should have been some warning scent, some trail-sign. How could the humans be so cruel as to murder their children? They had so few!

"So what's her name?" Flintpoint demanded, taking a look over Feathersilk's shoulder.

"It's a girl?" Moonwing gasped. "Where's Allim?"

"Never mind that," retorted Whitefox, grinning at Moonwing. "Where's Thorntoe?"

Tilvah frowned at the laughing pair; they knew very well where Thorntoe was. She searched the crowd for Allim, but he was nowhere in sight, either. Then she saw Tracer and Snowberry sitting together on a flat-topped rock. Tracer had buried his head in Snowberry's hair; Snowberry clutched Moth in her arms and leaned against her lifemate. Their shared grief pierced Tilvah. The aged elf wondered again: why?

"Well, come on!" someone shouted; it sounded like Crosstrail. "What's the cub's name?"

Stone took the cubling away from Feathersilk, smiling like a well-fed ferret as his tribemates demanded he tell them the cub's name. Even Sharpwit glared impatiently at the healer. Finally, Stone held up his hand.

"Her mother has named her Briarheart -- a fair result from a bad beginning!" The cub let out a wail that startled Stone, and the healer continued, with a grin, "We certainly can tell whom she most resembles!"

The tribe laughed, appreciating the joke. Certainly Redmane's lovemate and Recognized both had made life miserable for her for the last two turns.

"She comes at the time we need her most. May this little one be a promise to all of us of the life to come -- from those here who have Recognized" -- He nodded to Mistweaver, who was as round as the Mother Moon -- "and from those who have gone North."

The Wolfriders nodded solemnly, and Stone handed the infant to Sharpwit. As Briarheart was passed from elf to elf, Tilvah remembered that they'd not done this since Starwing died. Four cubs had been born since that dark day -- Moth, Brightsun, Hilltop, and Frost -- yet it was Redmane's cub who was welcomed in the usual way, handed to each tribemate who would breathe in her scent and send a welcome to the infant.

Somehow it made Tilvah feel much more secure in Briarheart's safety.

"Touch not the meadow rue, nor the bleeding heart," the Forest House elder intoned, "For they will bring sorrowful dreams at this time and fill the rest of your life with woe. Nor touch the mushroom, for at this time the window of your soul is open, and the mushroom will only bring rot and ruin to your innermost being."

Jarrah stared straight ahead at the sacred carvings on the heartpost of his lodge. He wore only a short loincloth, yet he was sweating. His hands trembled. He struggled to remember the words the elder said, lest he fail, as he always seemed to. His father, Tegret, glared at him. Jarrah knew that his slight body, his regular summer illnesses, his clumsiness, brought only shame and anger to his father. Lomar, his older brother, looked at him with a touch of sympathy. Lomar had gone through his own spirit quest a few years ago, and had come forth from the forest triumphant. Lomar was everything Jarrah wished he himself could be: strong, tall, good looking, a silent hunter. Everything a man of Forest House should be. Though he had always been treated kindly by his older brother, Jarrah felt like he was more of a pet than a family member to Lomar.

"Look for the rose," spoke the Mage who oversaw the spirit quests, "and feed on her scent. Look for the hound's tongue, and the lungwort, for their blossoms are blue eyes that see only the truth. Listen for the call of the hawk as he seeks his mate, for his is the voice of steadfastness and fidelity."

The Mage's voice droned on. So much to remember! Jarrah's determination was fast degrading into a case of nerves. Seek the oak? Avoid it? What was the Mage saying? To ask the Mage to repeat his directions was unheard of. This was a ceremony, after all. Though his mother was well versed in plant lore, these were things she had never taught him, and rightly so: only boys leaving on a spirit quest were ever told these secrets. The women were all out of the lodge. Men's secrets were not for the ears of women.

At long last the spirit quest Mage and the elder finished their instructions, and the image maker came forward to paint Jarrah's back and chest with sacred symbols. Tegret wrapped a cloak around his son, and the men of the House led Jarrah out of the lodge. While the women in the village looked away, pretending not to see, the Mages gave Jarrah a blessing, and the men of his House led him into the forest.

"Do not disappoint me, Jarrah," Tegret said in a low voice when they were deep in the forest. The Mages were no longer with them, and the boy knew he was now at the tender mercies of the men of his House. "Do not bring any more shame upon your mother's bloodline than you already have. If you are lucky, and if you do all that was taught you, perhaps the souls of your ancestors will speak to you and make a man out of you yet. If not, you might as well die out here." He shoved Jarrah down to sit on a log beside a stream. "Succeed," he ordered, in a low, dangerous voice, "and do not come back until you do."

"Don't worry," Lomar said, after Tegret had stalked off with the other men, "The forest is kind to our House. I never told anyone but the Mages this, but," his voice lowered to a whisper, "When I was on my quest, I saw one of the Big-ears. I actually struck it with a thrown stick before it leapt away. That is why I am so full of luck." He patted Jarrah on the shoulder. "You will have luck, too. Perhaps you will see a Big-ear."

Jarrah watched Lomar melt into the forest. The boy remained on the log, silent, thinking private thoughts. So, Lomar had seen one of the Spirits, and had left his mark on it. Big-ears. Jarrah snorted. It was a name only his House used, and only when other Houses weren't listening. There were so many names for those mysterious creatures: Big-ears, Spirits, Forest Folk, the Invisible People. He wondered what they called themselves. He wondered what they were, what they thought. He had heard the whispers, when he was five years younger, that one of the Spirits was seen wearing the amulet and House stone of a long-dead Mage. Was it possible? Could the bodies of the Spirits house the soul of one of his kind? From that time until now, it was forbidden to harm one of the Spirits, until the Mages could divine what the Spirits wanted of the Sky People.

Jarrah sighed, his shoulders sagging as the deep sigh of longing swirled the silent forest air. How his father would hate him if his most private thoughts could be heard. The Mages might not know what the Spirits wanted of his people, but he knew what he wanted of the Spirits. He got up from the log, and wandered slowly through the forest, deliberately ignoring the words the elder and the Mage had taught him before he left. He had disappointed his family so often and so deeply that he was beyond caring. Why not die in the forest, as his father had said? Thoughts of that mysterious Mage, whose death chant was sung before Jarrah's father was even born, filled his head. How had he set his feet to come upon such a path? How was it done? And could it be done again?

Slowly, Jarrah straightened his shoulders, and stood at full height. He had come into the forest to speak with the ancestors, had he not? He would find this ancestor. He would speak with the Mage.

Thorntoe's inner sense of self-preservation told him he had strayed too far. The quiet voice of warning broke through his raging thoughts long enough and persistently enough that he finally looked around to see where he was. Faint scents of humans were in the air. These were their game trails. Silently he left the path, slipping through the underbrush. Here the forest canopy was broken, for humans came in from time to time to fell one of the big trees, which they split into planks for their lodges. The shafts of pale morning sunlight fell on thick brush, warning Thorntoe that it was time to return to the holt, using the cover of undergrowth which the felling of the trees had encouraged.

The scent of humans led his thoughts into anger, but a cold, ugly anger it was. Thorntoe fell to scheming. He was certain the humans had set the trap deliberately to catch an elf. There was no other explanation for it. It was done simply to stir up trouble. Well, if the humans wanted trouble, they would get it. He took his axe from his belt and thumbed the edge. It was sharp as an obsidian chip. He smiled in satisfaction, but his smile faded as he thought of how his tribe would react if he sought vengeance against the humans. He paused to consider. There were some, certainly, who hadn't gone soft over the humans since that little whelp Kestrel left her disgusting human lover and returned to the holt. Certainly some still remembered how unpredictable and dangerous humans were.

His pace slowed as he thought it over. Thinking made his head ache, for he was used to living in the Now, but he kept at it. The results could be worth the pain. There were the new ones in the holt. The Glider might not do, for though he hated humans with all his flimsy soul, he was too impetuous, and Recognition had ruined him for the time being as far as Thorntoe was concerned. The other, Flint, was a possibility. Sturdy, steadfast, a human-hater through and through. And of his own people, perhaps Darkcloud and Flintpoint would join him. Perhaps others.

Thoughts of battle were sweet. Thorntoe became lost in the memories of past battles with the humans. They feared him even more than the wolves, for he was swift, silent, and strong. He had sent humans to their death before they even knew he was there. He frowned over his own name, how it had been an insult that had stuck with him for far too many years. A new name would do him good, perhaps raise his importance in the eyes of the tribe. A battle to win a new name, he mused, that would be sweet. He had grown tired of being mocked, of watching his every step lest someone find something amusing in it. Let the cublings be in awe of him, slayer of humans that he was. He would walk in pride.

So deep was he in thought, so full of his own dreams of glory, that he didn't notice the slippery patch of clay on the side of the stream where he had wandered. One step sent him tumbling down the steep bank, and, with a splash, he found himself sprawing in a most undignified position in the middle of the stream.

It was a bad day for Thorntoe.

It was a terrible day for the young human who happened to see him.

Jarrah neared the oak grove and the skull markers there and found his step growing lighter. He smiled at the skulls lodged in the oak, their white brows shaded with patches of green. There was no need to ask their protection. He paused within the grove, for this was the place that the Mage-now-Spirit had been seen. He stopped, and stood under the largest of the trees. What had the hollow eyes of the skull seen that autumn? If the soul of the shamaness still resided in the skull, could she tell him what he wanted to know? Or would she be too shocked?

He sucked at his teeth as he thought it through. To wander into the forest and simply roam around could waste time. He needed guidance. He made sacred signs with his fingers, and sat under the skull, praying to the soul of the shamaness to guide him. Then he emptied his mind of all thoughts, and waited for an answer.

That was always the hardest part. His own thoughts intruded so much it was hard to tell his own inner voice from the voice of the ancestors. Or was there a difference? The Mages made it seem so easy, going out into the forest as they did to meditate, coming back with answers from the ancestors or the Spirits. Or they stayed in their own lodge, casting bones or yarrow stems to read the future or divine the desires of the Spirits. Or they painted symbols and let the ancestors guide their hands. Jarrah sighed, and shushed his inner voice, forcing himself to listen, listen, listen.

His legs soon ached. His back grew tired. A fly was tickling his nose. He struggled to his feet, stretching his cramped-up legs. This was useless. He was no Mage, to commune with the Spirits and get answers. An ordinary boy like himself must fast for several days, cleanse himself in the small streams, and chant a great deal before he could be in the proper state of mind to receive the voices of the ancestors. He looked around for signs of water nearby, thinking about where he should bed down later.

Water. A thought struck him. He had heard the elders whispering about the Mage-now-Spirit, saying he had spent a great deal of time in a willow grove by a stream not too distant from the skull marker. He had painted his last paintings there, a triptych so fearsome that it had been broken and burned . What direction had it been from the skull marker? Wasn't it in the direction of Sun-goes-down? Jarrah smiled and bowed his thanks to the hollow skull of the shamaness, then turned his feet in the direction of Sun-goes-down.

He kept steadfastly in the direction, wondering if he was going the right way, or if he was walking in circles as lost hunters were said to do. At long last he smelled the tang of willow leaves, and heard the faint rushing of a small stream. A tangle of willows ran along the streambank closest to him. On the other side of the stream the bank sloped steeply upward. Jarrah frowned. The willows ran on in either direction as far as he could see. There was no way of knowing if this was the spot or not. Well, it was as good a place as any to start. He spread his cloak on the ground and sat on it, again emptying his mind to receive the call of the ancestors.

This time he concentrated on meditating as long as he could. He forced all thoughts from his mind by carefully listening to the rustle of the willow leaves. It was said willows were favorites of the Moon, and could bring powerful visions. Yes, this would be a good spot to stay for awhile. The morning sun filtered through the leaves of the willows, dancing in red patterns across his closed eyelids. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze. Jarrah listened attentively, hoping that in the rustles he might pick out a word or two, messages from the other world. He waited for a sign.

He heard a great splash.

His eyelids flew open, and he stared in surprise. In the middle of the stream sat a Spirit, a real Spirit, looking as disgruntled as a forest cat might if it, too, had just had a dunking. The Spirit shook his head, sending a spray of water flying from his pale hair, his long braid flapping angrily. Jarrah stared in amazement at the Spirit's long, tapered ears, his well-made, beautifully dyed leathers. He rose, still staring, and hastily made a sacred sign.

"Spirit, I would speak with you. There are things I wish to know. I... "

The Spirit leaped to his feet. With a howl he charged at Jarrah, brandishing a fearsome, shining axe. Shocked, Jarrah turned to run. Then he stopped, and stood tall.

"Oh," he said, "I understand."

His only regret was that he cried out when the Spirit's axe struck him.

"Of course you're tired, Redmane, it's almost the middle of the day," Tilvah said soothingly. Indeed, there were dark circles under the eyes of the Wolfrider, and her bright hair lay in ribbons and tangles around her shoulders. Tilvah pulled a dark face, wondering why Redmane was up and about so soon after giving birth.

Redmane winced as she tried to sit up. "Oohh, that hurts... oh, Mother, are you sure there aren't any she-wolves nursing? I want so much to nurse her, but I'm exhausted!"

"I've spoken to Whitefox, but she says none of the she-wolves have hidden litters. And your cubling isn't hungry yet. Besides," she added, "nursing her will be good for you."

Redmane shot a guilty, loving look at Briarheart.

"And don't you worry about Briarheart," Tilvah assured her. "I haven't forgotten how you were as a cubling. You go to sleep. I'll tend to the little one while you get some strength back." Briarheart was already mewling in her grandmother's arms.

"But what is wrong with the cubling?" Redmane demanded. "Why does she cry all the time? I thought newborns went to sleep soon after birth."

"Most do," Tilvah said wryly, "but Briarheart seems to be as reluctant to leave the womb as you were. No doubt she will resign herself to the fact as quickly as you did as well. Now rest, child of mine, and let others look after you for a time. Stone, help Redmane up to her den, and see that she rests."

"Of course," Stone said, helping Redmane to her feet. "Seeing as how someone else who should be doing just that is off wandering the woods."

"Thorntoe will come back soon," Redmane said wearily, "He's just a little... shaken."

"Rattled, if you ask me," Stone muttered. Redmane was too tired to disagree, and let herself be led to her den halfway up the Grandfather Tree.

Tilvah gently bounced the cubling in her arms as she walked away from the holt, turning her feet down the long path that led to the falls. Slowly Briarheart's head began to droop and her eyes shut, though her pathetic wails did not cease until she was fully asleep. Tilvah touched the infant's mind with a gentle send: *Poor little cubling, born without a soul name. Is that why you howl so? Patience, little one, for it will come to you.*

She walked on for some time as the dawn crept slowly over the sky. As she neared the falls, Tilvah noticed a swath of black fluttering at the end of the trail. Allim stood on a boulder overlooking the rushing stream, his long, black hair whipped by the winds generated by the falls.

She sent to him.

*What do you want?* he sent back, sounding tired and surly.

*See what I have to show you,* she answered, nearing the spot where he stood. She stood in the lee of the boulder, sheltering the infant from the spray and the chill winds. Allim looked down, then quickly averted his eyes.

*Allim!* Tilvah chided him, *You caused her to come into this world. At least look at her.*

Allim turned back to stare at the falls.

*What is this I sense in you, old friend?* Tilvah asked, softly, *Shame? From you?*

Allim gave no reply, but his head bowed a trifle.

*Well, I should think so, considering the brutish way you treated Redmane. What ever posessed you?*

*Please,* Allim cut her short, *I do not wish to be reminded.*

*Hmm... so that's why you've avoided the holt so much these two years. At least come look at Briarheart. She bears a striking resemblance to her sire.*

Slowly Allim turned to look down upon Tilvah and the cubling now sleeping peacefully in her arms. A flicker at his mouth suggested a smile. He climbed down from the boulder and took a long look at the face of his daughter.

*Who can resist such a sight?* Tilvah said, handing Briarheart to him. Clumsy from lack of practice, a surprised Allim held the cubling stiffly.

*Sit down,* Tilvah told him, *Here, lay her like this, on your thighs. Yes, with her head at your knees.*

*I'd forgotten how small they can be,* he said, then sighed. *Briarheart? Such a name. So much promise in such a small bundle.*

*And so welcome, after Skyblade...* Tilvah lowered her head. The loss of the cub was still too fresh a pain.

*Lives of the Wolfriders are but a blink, it seems,* Allim responded, *Death is all too frequent among them, but they follow up with renewal.*

*To which you've contributed a substantial share,* Tilvah teased.

Allim cocked one eyebrow as a warning. *There have been a number of little ones like this. But they all grow up to be wolflings.*

*Yours certainly do, at least,* Tilvah chuckled.

Allim's features folded darkly. "Such is my fate," he muttered. Despite the roaring of the falls, Tilvah heard him clearly.

*You do have a way of Recognizing the Wolfriders, don't you? And a rare talent for Recognizing those who want you the least. But, like flint striking steel, the differences make bright sparks. Yours are remarkable offspring.*

*Remarkable, perhaps, for Wolfriders, but... * he would have risen to pace the stony shoreline, but the infant on his knees prevented him. *I have a dream long thwarted, and I am losing patience.*

Tilvah leaned forward. *Tell me of it, my friend.*

Allim sighed. *Like you, I sleep little, but when I do I am often visited by visions of our ancestors. I remember some of the Firstcomers, when they walked the forest in their own flesh. They were beautiful to behold, and, while the forces of this world dampened their powers, they were still in posession of powers stronger than ours.*

*I think of them, too,* Tilvah admitted, *And I remember... * She looked at Allim with a blend of pity and sorrow. *I do so remember... *

*My memories of her are dim,* Allim's send was no more that a whisper. *But I saw her die. That much I remember far too clearly. That day my childhood ended.*

*But your dream, my friend,* Tilvah urged, drawing Allim away from the pain of the past.

*We of pure blood Recognize far too little,* Allim continued, *But if we do, is it not possible to see a rebirth of the Firstcomers? What I would not give to bring up a child with such power and promise!*

Tilvah chuckled. *Do you think only of your own honor in raising so remarkable a child? As the Wolfriders say, you are too full of yourself. Still,* she added, seeing his dark glare, *It is not unworthy to dream so. Think of what such a child could do for all of us, Wolfrider and Pureblood alike.*

*Just so. I long for this, but it has been so long since two of pure blood Recognized, I am losing hope.*

*Then let's celebrate the renewals we do have, rather than pity ourselves with what we don't. Bring Briarheart back to the holt, put her in her mother's arms, and thank her for bearing one of yours. Be a father, Allim, for just this once.*

*I have tried... *

*No, you have attempted to overpower. This time, guide. Come,* Tilvah took him by the hand and drew him to his feet, while he crooked one arm awkwardly around Briarheart. *Night is long gone, and even the birds rest from the mid-day sun. Humans are abroad.*

She walked away from him, forcing Allim to follow, for he knew the child would wake and be hungry soon. He did not care to be alone with a squalling infant. He shrugged his shoulders, and lengthened his strides until he caught up with Tilvah. Side by side, in the comfortable silence of an aged friendship, they walked the long path to the holt.

The Wolfriders were already holed up in their dens when they arrived at the Grandfather Tree. Allim looked up doubtfully.

"Go on," Tilvah urged.

Briarheart awoke, and whimpered.

"I didn't ask your opinion," Allim muttered, as he began his ascent of the tree.

He paused at Redmane's den, teetering on the threshold, suddenly filled with distaste for this task. He would have simply dumped the cub in her mother's furs and departed, but Tilvah stood at the base of the tree, arms crossed, foot tapping. He could not back out gracefully now. Briarheart began to cry in earnest. Redmane stirred and looked up.

"Allim?" she said, warily. She sat up. "What are you doing with my cub?" she demanded.

"Our cub," he corrected, then, with an attempt to soften his tone, he added, "We made this together. It is only right that we work together in bringing her up."

Redmane clutched Briarheart to her chest. "Together? I saw what you did to Fringes and Kestrel. What are you up to, pureblood?"

"I was prepared to right old wrongs," he snarled, "But I suppose that you and Thorntoe together can... "

"Where is Thorntoe?" Redmane said, looking around her den for her lovemate, "Oooh, one mate is enough trouble, that's all I have to say."

A loud howl interrupted both of them. "Thorntoe!" Redmane cried, and leaped to the hole of her den. Allim, looking over her shoulder, saw Thorntoe emerge from the forest, streaked with blood, brandishing his axe.

*Thorntoe!* Redmane sent, *What have you done?*

"I am not Thorntoe any more!" the Wolfrider roared, "I have a new name now. Call me Mankiller!"

"Jarrah! Jarrah, my brother!" His brother's cry had brought Lomar running from his lone hunting expedition, the sight of red streaks coiling in the clear stream waters put haste into his heels. Bursting through a screen of willow, he cried out at the sight of Jarrah lying face down in the stream, blood streaming from fresh wounds. He snatched his brother from the water, and shook him until he heard a small gasp, enough that he knew Jarrah still breathed. "Jarrah, who has done this to you?"

The boy's head moved, and his eyelids fluttered. "Spirit... ?" he murmured. Lomar looked around, and saw the accusation confirmed by a set of small prints in the muddy streambank.

"May the gods curse the Spirits!" Lomar shouted to the empty sky, "Cruel! Evil! Heartless! Oh, Jarrah," he moaned, as his brother's head fell slack, "Live, brother, and I will avenge this. I will hang their pointed ears on our lodge wall. I swear it."

Lomar rushed homeward, Jarrah in his arms, and did not hear his brother's soft "No..."

Lomar's fury gave him strength as he ran. He burst through the village gates shouting for his father, the elders, and the Mages. There was no time for ceremonial greetings. Jarrah was whisked away to the Mages' House for the flesh-menders to work on, while the elders of Forest House took Lomar away to the elders' corner of the lodge to question him. There was little to tell. Though the prints were fresh, and the Spirit could not have been far away, Lomar's first thoughts were for Jarrah. The elders nodded sagely. Revenge at that moment would certainly have cost Jarrah his life, while Lomar's quick decision bought him at least a little more time. Revenge would be dealt, certainly, but they would now have the advantage of planning.

"If the boy lives," the Eldest said, "He will tell us what happened, and we will better know how to extract our revenge. But we must go to the Chief now, and demand the right. Let the Mages toss their bones and sticks now, so they will reach a decision faster."

"And if we are refused?" asked another elder.

The Eldest looked grim. "Then we must make our own plans."

"Stone, his wounds," Sharpwit said, motioning the healer toward Thorntoe.

"Wounds? I have none!" Thorntoe bragged. "I fought a desperate battle, but the only blood here is human blood. Our cub is avenged. A life for a life, a cub for a cub. Justice!" He roared, "Hear me, Wolfriders, justice is done today! Do you hear, Snowberry? It is the humans who will mourn a whelp of their own!"

Snowberry, looking down from her den, wept fresh tears, clutching little Moth tightly to her chest. Kestrel bounded down from the Grandfather Tree.

"You did what?" she hissed between clenched teeth.

"You heard me, human-lover. The tall ones will be wailing for their dead when they find what is left of the whelp." He patted his sticky axe blade against his hand. "They will think twice about setting traps for us when they know retribution will be so swift."

"Good for you!" shouted Windsilver, brandishing her bow. Stone turned quickly, eyes narrowed, but it was her mother Whitefox who struck her.

"Silence! We've enough fools to deal with," the elder warned.

"Is that it?" Sharpwit said, incredulous. "You think the humans set that trap only to catch one of us?"

"And so must be punished!" Thorntoe roared, brandishing his axe.

"If it wasn't an accident," the chief went on. "We don't know that. And killing one of their children would only get them stirred up, bringing danger to the holt!"

"Would? The deed is done, O chief," Thorntoe sneered. "And no longer will I chafe under the name of Thorntoe. Now I am Mankiller, and humans will shudder when they think of me."

"Cubkiller!" Kestrel roared, and launched herself at the braggart. Daughter of Allim that she was, she inherited a good measure of both his height and, in extremes, his temper. She stood almost a full head taller than Thorntoe, and bowled the surprised Wolfrider over, knocking the axe from his hand. She thrashed at his face with her fists. "Cubkiller!" she shouted again, "It's all the name you deserve!"

"Like a she-bear," Sharpwit commented as he yanked her bodily aside. Thortoe started up after her, but Stone planted a foot on the elder Wolfrider's chest. There was murder in those narrow gray eyes. Sharpwit handed a panting, snarling Kestrel over to Tilvah's firm command, and turned his attentions to Thorntoe.

"You will take me to the spot," Sharpwit ordered, "Stone, you come, too. I'd like to eradicate humans as much as you, Thortoe, but this deed of yours will only keep the anger going. Let us hope that Stone can undo what you have done."

The trail was long, and, despite travelling wolfback, the sun was past noon and dropping in the sky before they neared the creek. Thorntoe complained long and loudly about how weary he was, how any good Wolfrider should be in his furs while the sun burned in the sky. Sharpwit growled "Shut up," from time to time, and Stone remained ominously silent. Thorntoe led them along the high bank until he found the place his feet had slipped on the clay. "There," he said, "That is the spot where I fell, and the youth thought to attack me while I was in the water. As though he could prevail over an experienced warrior such as myself. I slew him there, and threw him into the creek."

"And where is he now, O mighty slayer of children?" Stone asked.

Thorntoe shrugged. "Perhaps the body floated downstream. I'm sure I don't care."

Sharpwit slipped off of his wolf's back, and eased himself down the bank, peering closely at the marks left in the clay. He waded across the creek, and scouted around the opposite bank, sniffing as well as observing. He stood up straight, hands on hips, and glared up at Thorntoe before he splashed back across the creek and scrambled up the bank. "Dismount, Thorntoe," he ordered.

"Mankiller," the Wolfrider insisted.

From the direction of the human village came the angry thrumming of drums.

"Thorntoe, Thorn-in-my-side, get down off your wolf and face me."

Thorntoe gulped, and dismounted.

"You told us one tale, but the tracks tell another," Sharpwit began, then stared down the elder Wolfrider. **You can't look me in the eyes and send me a lie, Thorntoe. You massacred that young human without cause, didn't you? Didn't you?**

Thorntoe looked away.

**I thought as much.**

Sharpwit looked in the direction of the human village. More drum voices had joined the first they had heard. The sound was angry, incessant, demanding blood revenge.

"Let's go back to the holt. The tribe must be warned. There will be human warriors in the forest soon, and we must be prepared."

"It was the Spirits! It was the Spirits, I tell you!"

Berian, Chief of Chief's House and of all the Sky People, stared through the feathery fringe of his chief's formal headress at the Forest House man ranting at him. Tegret was the man's name, a hunter and warrior of middling rank in a low-ranked house. His son, Jarrah, was the boy who had been wounded in the forest. Berian vaguely remembered a narrow chested, sickly boy whom this man had been haranguing in the village common all too often recently. The Chief's eyes slowly narrowed. This man had little love for his gawky, asthmatic son. Why the outrage now?

"The Spirits have tried to murder my son without cause. There is nothing he did to provoke them, that much is evident in the traces left behind. We found a few tracks of others who came after the deed to gloat over it. You cannot let this go unpunished. This business of letting Spirits wander the whole forest without harm or consequence is pure foolishness. We must not let a little trick of theirs fool us into thinking they mean us no harm. Is it not evident they mean to murder us one at a time? To steal our youth on their manhood quests? We must strike now, and show them that they cannot harm us without paying a dire penalty."

Berian pursed his lips. This was a familiar story. The hatred the Forest House carried for Spirits was well known, and appeared to stem from their legends about the origins of their House. The hatred was old, exisiting long before this band of Spirits appeared in the forest many generations ago. Ever since that time, the Forest House had been in direct competition with the Spirits for game and food plants in the forest. Still, Berian thought, shifting in his raised seat, the forest's bounty could have fed all the Houses, and still left plenty for the Spirits. The Chief frowned. He had to be honest with himself; ever since the Spirit had been sighted wearing the amulet and House stone of the Mad Mage, he had been frightened. He did not understand the uncanny world of the Spirits, and had no wish to bring the wrath of the Spirits down on his village. On the advice of the Mages, he had given orders that no Spirits were to be harmed. But did this mean Spirits could harm his people with impunity? Where was that cursed Shaman?

A scratching at the curtain announced the arrival of the Shaman of the Mage's House. Berian gruffly gave permission to enter the chamber. "Well? What is the word?"

The Shaman, in formal robes and headdress, bowed low and gracefully. "My Chief, we have been trying to read the patterns in the boy's wounds. The patterns are complex, however, and the message is incomplete to our eyes."

"But they were inflicted by a Spirit, were they not?" Tegret demanded.

The Shaman looked down his nose at the Forest House man, saying with his entire body but without words "You have forgotten your place." Tegret glared, but backed off.

"The wounds were made by a thin blade," the Shaman said to the Chief. Berian thought of the flat, obsidian-studded clubs his own warriors carried into the few battles the village ever fought. He knew from experience the sort of wounds such weapons inflicted, and thin was not the word for them. "An axe with a blade of the bright material Spirit's blades are made of could have done this," the Shaman concluded.

"Then it is your opinion that a Spirit made such wounds?" Berian asked.

The Shaman demurred. "Anyone in posession of such a weapon could have done the deed, especially someone who has ample reason to wish us to believe the Spirits did it." He turned and gave Tegret a significant look.

The Forest House man surged forward and blurted out: "It was Spirits, I tell you! The boy said so himself, and Lomar saw the signs!"

"Silence, Forest House," the chief commanded, "What messages have you gleaned so far?"

"Only one thing is clear, my chief," the Shaman said, "The boy must now belong to the Mage's House."

"Ridiculous!" Tegret roared, "The worthless runt destined to be a Mage? What sort of nonsense is... "

"Forest House, you may leave the chamber," Berian said quietly, "And leave the lodge, as well."

Shaking with anger, Tegret gave a quick bow and rushed past the curtain that separated the chamber from the rest of the lodge. When he was gone, the Shaman dropped his formality like a cloak, and sat himself on the footledge in front of the Chief's seat.

"Speak frankly, old friend," Berian said, "What meaning is there in this?"

"I only wish I knew," the Shaman sighed, "That the deed was done by a lone Spirit is certain. Whether it was the will of the whole Spirit world, or if the axe-wielder was a rogue I am not prepared to say."

"But there were sufficient signs to tell you the boy is destined to be a Mage?"

At this the Shaman smiled. "That message did not come so much from the Spirits as from the boy's father. His ill treatement of his youngest son has been the topic of gossip for several years now. The boy is plainly too ill to be a hunter, and the gashes on his legs will leave him with a pronounced limp. In his father's hands, he is destined for Tick House. We will do what we can to find a talent in him, and if none shows, one of us will adopt him."

Berian chuckled. "Tegret will not like that, not at all."

The Shaman sniffed. "I am not particularly concerned about what Tegret will like."

"But tell me, old friend," Berian said, leaning forward, "Who could the angry Spirit have been?"

"I know your thoughts, my Chief," the Shaman said, "I do not think it was him."

"Are you certain?"

The Shaman sighed, then was lost in deep thought for a few moments before speaking. "No one was more surprised that I to see a Spirit wearing his amulet. A she-Spirit, at that, and a comely one. It was a shock. We were all scared witless, and dashed back to the village in a panic. I regret that now. Had I been a shade bolder, I might have spoken with the Spirit to confirm what I saw and... yes, and to visit with my old mentor. Singing his death chant was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, though I was little more than a boy at the time But the chief's daughter, your aunt, had turned the village against him with her accusations of madness and blasphemy, and there was nothing we could do. I missed him sorely when he was gone."

"And now she has gone mad herself."

The Shaman nodded. "As you see daily, she is quite mad, indeed. The news of her old mate unhinged her. She does nothing but mutter to herself all day."

"Still, is it not possible that he could have done this out of anger at us? He was dead the year before I was born, thus I know nothing of him, not even his name."

The Shaman shook his head decisively. "If it were a warrior, I would have my suspicions, but my old mentor adored children. He was not capable of such a deed, and I doubt that he could now, even though only his soul animates a Spirit."

"Then what does it all mean?"

"I only wish I knew. There is so little to read in it all." With a sigh, the Shaman arose. "I think we must consult with the gods."

"The gods? It has come to that, then?"

"I'm afraid it has. You will issue your word to the village to follow all taboos, will you not?"

"Of course."

"And one more thing, my chief," the Shaman said, pausing at the curtain, "Confusing as all of this is, there is one thing I can clearly read."

"And what is that, old friend?"

"That regardless of what message the Spirits wish to convey, we must keep a close eye on Forest House."

"The Mages would charge us with blasphemy," the Forest House elder growled, "But here in the arms of the Mother Forest, they cannot hear us. Speak, Tegret. Tell the men of our House what you said to me."

Lomar saw his father stand up, a barely visible shadow in the darkness of the forest on that cold and moonless night. The men had felt their way into the hollow, and thence into the shallow cave that only the hunters of their House knew of. Rumbling through the darkness came the sound of drums as the elders remaining in the lodge continued the drumming of protest that had not ceased since Lomar had carried Jarrah back to the village. Angry and heated as he had been then, Lomar now shivered, and not entirely from cold. He had never seen battle, and a battle with the Spirits -- well it was one thing to brag to the girls about, and plan with one's friends, but to actually do it? Lomar steeled himself by thinking of Jarrah, and listened to his father's words.

"My second son, my youngest child, as you all know was ruthlessly attacked by a Big-ear. The flesh-menders now say he will be crippled for life. And what for? There was no reason for the attack, save hatred of our people. Oh, the Root House suggested that as closely allied as the Spirits are with their wolves, perhaps they saw Jarrah as a runt and would kill him as a she-dog might kill the runt of her litter. But you see the what a ridiculous notion that is. My people, if Jarrah, alone and undefended, is attacked by a Big-ear, who is next? Which of your sons will be the next target? Our children are vulnerable when they go to seek the ancestors. They are without weapon, and weakened by fasting. What better time for a Big-ear to strike them down? Can you not see their plan? Is it not obvious that they intend to destroy our people by slaying our questing youths one at a time? If they are dead before they take a mate, soon we will be too old and there will be no more children, no more Sky People.

"My people, we cannot allow this to happen. Our Mages shiver before the Big-ears, and are fooled by their tricks. Our Chief is too slow to come to a decision, and depends upon the Mages too much. They will wait until all our children are dead before they come to the right decision. Ours is the only House that knows what the Big-ears really are, but we cannot share that secret with the rest of the village, even in this time of danger, even though it could sway the Chief's decision. Let us instead strike, swiftly and silently. We will hunt down the Big-ears, or one of their children if we can. We will take vengeance upon them, and show them that they cannot harm a child of the Forest House without retribution. We will carry out all in our own silent and secret ways. The other Houses will never know the boon we grant them tonight. Our praises will never be sung in the village common. Yet we will do this because we know we must. May the ancestors know what we do tonight, and may we receive our just reward in the afterlife."

Tegret sat down, and Lomar heard low mutters and rumbles as the men considered the matter. A few moments later, the elder stood up.

"My sons, Tegret is suggesting battle with the Big-ears. You know I cannot command you to go into battle, nor can I add to his words to sway you one way or the other. The decision to take up a warrior's club is yours. I ask you to decide now. Will you or will you not become a warrior tonight?"

The elder touched the shoulder of the man next to him. "I will," the man said, firmly. His assent was echoed by every man in turn around the circle.

"And you, Lomar, son of Tegret, what say you? You have achieved manhood, and have the right to decide for yourself, and the right to wield a warrior's weapon. What is your decision?"

Lomar shivered again, from cold, from fear, from excitement that surged through his veins. "I will," he said, "For Jarrah, I will."

"Then let us go and prepare for battle," the elder said. There was no battle cry given, Lomar could feel the tension and supressed battle lust in the rustling and shifting of the silent men. "We will go back to the house and gird ourselves with our weapons, then slip out the gates. It is fortunate it is our watch this moon. Our wise Chief seems to have overlooked that crucial point, yet another sign that the ancestors are with us. We will slip out one at a time so as not to attract attention, and meet here. Are there any among us who are armed now?"

Four men indicated they had their spears and knives with them.

"Good. Go forth now as scouts. Meet us here when the moon rises and tell us what you have learned. The rest of us will return to the lodge. Tegret, I want you to go to Tick House and tell the men there what you have told us. I want you to make their blood boil, and urge them to come with us."

"Tick House?" Lomar could clearly hear his father's disgust. "This is our battle. What do we want of them?"

"They are easily swayed, and most are ready for a fight any time. Coax them with rewards, and they will be yours."

"But why? They are not skilled warriors."

"True, they lack skill, and that will result in heavy losses for them," the elder conceded. Then he chuckled in a low, ominous tone that chilled Lomar even further. "That is exactly why I want them. They will prove useful."