Tollee turned. She started to say something, then stopped. At last, she said, "Get Kelsy to teach you how to fight. He's better at it than I am."

"What's that supposed to mean?" But Storm had a sinking feeling. Somehow, although he'd won the race against Sharmel, he'd lost his friend.

Storm knew by the next day that he had lost his clique, too. No one would admit it. Mylo claimed that the clique had simply broken up. He would be five years old that spring and fully capable of defending Tollee on his own, given her willing a.s.sistance. Callaris and Valla were in a similar position. Leep and Tracer had both paired off with their prospective mates. They would be four years old and could make the transition to adulthood with a modic.u.m of luck and cooperation. Tarsis had surprised everyone by fighting, and beating, the leader of another young clique and thereby advancing himself into a secure position.

Only Storm was left, at three years of age, to fend for himself. Tracer and Leep both invited him to hunt with them "from time to time," but no one told him where they were sleeping, and no one returned to the clique's old haunt. Storm could hardly blame them-a group of social misfits, caught suddenly and frighteningly in the midst of major herd politics. Rather than appear to sanction Kelsy's actions or to argue with him, they simply disbanded and attempted to get out of sight.

Still, Storm felt betrayed and rejected. Never had he imagined that success could feel so lonely. He wondered whether another clique would take him. Many probably wanted to, but he wasn't sure any would dare. He had a few things he wanted to say to Kelsy, but he never got the chance before the creasia attacked again.

They came in a typical raid pattern early one morning when most of the herd was grazing on the edge of the plain. Storm was deep in the boulder mazes when the raid began, and although he heard the screams, it took him some moments to reach the plain. When he arrived, the cats had separated a small group of ferryshaft-only three animals-from the herd and were pacing around them, waiting.

Storm felt reckless, and he strolled out of the boulders into the s.p.a.ce between the herd and the cats without so much as a pause to identify their leader. "I expected you two days ago," he called. "Were you waiting to kill the newborn foals? Maybe you could catch them."

A dark brown creasia answered. He was a handsome animal with black points, though he had a curiously short tail. "The creasia kill when and where they please, foal."

"I have a name," snapped Storm.

"No one will remember it after today."

"On the contrary, I think that you will recall it vividly tomorrow." Storm spun away towards the boulders, expecting the cats to follow. However, as he clattered into the rocks, he heard the unmistakable scream of a mortally injured ferryshaft, cut horribly short. It was joined briefly, by snarls, the sounds of a struggle, and another desperate cry. He realized, with a jolt, that the creasia leader had stayed to kill the selected ferryshaft. And I can do nothing about it. Some herd protector I am!

For a moment, his stride wavered, but then he picked up his feet again. No, I can do one thing. The creasia's decision to sacrifice a few moments killing ferryshaft had been an act of calculated arrogance. Storm felt a flame of anger. Are you so confident that you can afford to give me a head start? Well. Let us see what I can do with it.

Storm suspected that the creasia leader would have posted cats near the major cliff trails to ambush him. There was no point in heading in that direction anytime soon. The plain, however, was recently free of snow, the gra.s.s still short, and the damp ground crisscrossed with the short-lived streams of spring snowmelt. It would provide any number of ways to confuse a scent trail. Storm angled in that direction, running south towards the river.

As he reached the edge of the plain, he glimpsed curb tracks in the soggy ground. Their trail ran in the same direction as his own. An idea blossomed in Storm's head. He slowed and spent a few precious moments finding the curb trail again. The tracks were definitely fresh.

Storm raised his head and looked out across the plain. He could not see the curbs, but that did not mean they were not close. Storm's explorations had taught him that curb tracks would generally be found in the troughs, where the curbs could stay out of sight of potential prey. He knew the dips in this area well, and had a pretty good idea of where the curbs must be.

Storm considered. He thought back to the time when he'd been attacked by curbs. Tollee saved me. I was trying to save her. The curbs were small compared to a creasia, but they were fierce, especially when they came in numbers.

The flame of anger still burned hot in Storm's chest. It mingled with the pain and frustration that he felt over his friends' recent rejection. He felt a little numb.

Methodically, ignoring the approaching yowls of cats, Storm began to follow the curbs' trail. His plan, he reflected, would be every bit as arrogant as the creasia's behavior and probably quite foolish. However, if it didn't work, he would only die.

Eyal looked over his pack once more before settling down in the short gra.s.s. He was a new leader, still wondering whether he'd made a mistake by volunteering for the long patrols. It was a position of unparalleled freedom and responsibility, so far from his queen in the Southern Mountains.

It was also a position of unparalleled danger. His predecessor had disappeared without a trace. Eyal had searched for him when he came north last fall, but the entire pack seemed to have vanished. He held out a small hope that the spring thaw might reveal their bodies beneath the snow, giving some clue as to how they had died.

But we already know that. While the forest and plain held many dangers for a lone curb, only one threat was likely to have eradicated an entire pack: other curbs. Specifically, lowland curbs.

The smaller, sleeker lowland packs dominated this half of the island. They cooperated loosely, although Eyal had seen them fight each other on occasion. However, they would viciously attack and kill highland curbs. The two clans had been at war for as long as anyone could remember.

Highland curbs had always been less numerous-larger and s.h.a.ggier, but slower to breed. They lived in cooperative groups, all controlled by a single queen in the Southern Mountains. There'd been a time when highland curbs also controlled the foothills and parts of the surrounding plain, but the faster-breeding, less centralized bands of lowland curbs had eventually driven them out until they held only the highest, most forbidding slopes.

Nevertheless, Myridia, their queen, still saw fit to send long patrols into the distant reaches of the island-her eyes and ears in foreign parts. Long patrols brought back word of the doings among other intelligent races, including alliances and power shifts, which might affect the highland curbs or their enemies. There'd been a time when several ferryshaft herds roamed the plain on both sides of the lake and kept the lowland curbs in check. Their absence this past decade was part of the reason for the highland curbs' decline.

Mortality among long patrols had risen alarmingly over the past few years, with whole packs disappearing without a single survivor. The patrols were now composed almost entirely of troublemakers-individuals that the queen did not wish to keep near her, but were too valuable as fighters to banish entirely. Females were never sent on the long patrols. They were too valuable to the survival of their race.

Four years ago, there'd been three packs of highland curbs living on the ferryshaft plains and reporting back to their queen. Last year, there'd been only one, and by the time Eyal arrived that summer, it had disappeared as well. Now, two seasons later, Myridia had still not sent another pack, nor even individuals to replace Eyal's subordinates who'd been killed that winter.

She has lost faith in me. Eyal remembered what he'd said to his queen as he stood beneath the great fir tree in the heart of their valley. "Give me a mate, my queen-only one, the lowliest of your b.i.t.c.hes-and I will establish our tribe across the great river, beyond the flesh-eating forest on the slopes of the Great Mountain where the lowland curbs do not roam."

Bold words, thought Eyal bitterly, and stupid. He'd tried to scale the Great Mountain. He'd actually brought his pack safely to its foothills that summer. However, they'd been driven off by the ely-ary-enormous birds who ruled the mountain and did not tolerate other predators on its slopes. Eyal had been unable to parley with them and had returned at last to the plain, where his pack spent a miserable winter learning the territory and dodging packs of lowland curbs.

He'd come north with thirty animals-a large pack. By spring, he had nineteen. Eyal was not surprised when the snows melted and his queen sent no b.i.t.c.h to join him. This was no place to raise pups or establish a colony. But if we don't, thought Eyal, if lowland curbs ever get past our guards in the mountains, if they ever find our dens in the valley... It would take only one breach, one killing spree among the birthing dens, and his race would never recover. Eyal knew that they needed a second colony. His queen knew it, too, but as yet, no safe place could be found. So, Eyal watched and listened and waited.

On this particular spring morning, his pack was settling down to rest after a night of hunting sheep. Eyal had heard the cries from the ferryshaft herd not far away and had surmised that the creasia were raiding. This was nothing unusual.

Eyal was curious, however, as he'd noticed a recent disturbance in the pattern of creasia/ferryshaft relations. The raiding season had been predictably short this year due to the brief winter. Even so, the raids seemed to be coming extremely close together. In spite of this, his pack had found no ferryshaft bodies on the occasions when they'd tried to scavenge after raids. Odd. Eyal did not normally spend a great deal of time observing the ferryshaft, but over the last few days, he'd hung around the edges of the herd in an attempt to discover what was going on. He'd considered trying to capture and question a ferryshaft, but the potential loss of life to his irreplaceable pack made him waver.

Eyal cursed his own inexperience. He was certain that a more seasoned long patrol leader would have contacts among the ferryshaft and elsewhere who would already have alerted him to the situation. However, that knowledge had died with his predecessor, and every member of Eyal's pack was as green as himself.

Still, they were none of them so inexperienced as to all sleep at once. Consequently, about a third of the pack jumped up when a young ferryshaft bounded over the side of the dip into their midst. He flashed up the far side of the trench and was gone before Eyal could call an order. Eyal stood, bristling, and hesitated while the rest of the pack started up, asking their friends what had happened.

The foal was not far from the herd, but it did seem to be alone. Was it running in a blind panic from the most recent creasia raid? That seemed most likely, although the foal looked old enough to know better.

Perhaps we could capture and question this one. If nothing else, a youngster alone on the plain meant food. "We hunt," said Eyal, and the group turned to follow the foal.

At that moment, creasia poured over the side of the trench and plowed into the curbs. Eyal had no time to give orders, no time to prepare, no time to think. The curbs imagined that they were being attacked and retaliated. The cats were hot with running, and the scent of their quarry.

Eyal reeled back from the fight, shouting orders, but his subordinates ignored him. He collided with one of the cats as he bounded around the chaotic tangle of snarling bodies. "What are you doing?" sputtered Eyal, for the cat was obviously their leader. He was calling for order as loudly as Eyal and being just as thoroughly ignored. "When did Leeshwood declare war on the highland curbs?"

"We're not attacking you," snarled the cat.

"Oh, no?" The body of a curb sailed out of the fight to land in a limp sprawl some distance away. Eyal wanted to fly at the lead creasia, but he held his ground, seething. "Control your clutter!" he barked.

The lead creasia responded by wading into the fight himself and bellowing until the group broke up. When they finally separated, three curbs lay dead or dying. Not a single cat had escaped without injuries, and one looked seriously lame. The two groups continued to snarl at each other as the creasia leader herded his clutter up the far side of the trench.

"Stay behind that foal!" he ordered through clenched teeth. He came back and tried to apologize to Eyal, but the curb was still choking on bile. "My queen will hear of this!" he shot. "Arcove will hear of it! An unprovoked attack on neutral territory! Such a thing has not been done in living memory!"

The cat started to say something, thought better of it, and turned to follow his clutter.

Storm could hardly contain his merriment at the commotion behind him. His trick had worked better than he could have hoped. What was more, he felt alive for the first time in days. The numbness that had driven him to make this reckless gamble had vanished, and he felt giddy. Glancing back, Storm saw that he had a comfortable lead once more. Now, let's see what I can do with this wet ground.

Chapter 13. Gone Swimming.

The sun was halfway down the sky by the time Halvery reached the river. His clutter was tired, but still determined. They had followed Storm all day through the spring snowmelt, untangling one trick after another in a scent trail that backtracked and looped over soggy ground and through tiny streams.

Halvery was proud of his clutter. They'd made a mistake with the curbs, but as the day wore on, they behaved like the expert hunters they were-smoothly splitting up when the trail demanded it, solving problems quickly, calling to each other only when necessary in low voices. They'd all been wounded in the fight with the curbs, but no one complained. Even the cat who was hobbling on three legs tried to keep up until Halvery told him to go home.

We will run this foal to ground yet, thought Halvery. The incident with the curbs still made him bristle whenever he thought about it. Roup will have fun with that in council. Halvery was done underestimating Storm Ela-ferry. No animal in the world is so lucky...and no animal will be so dead by the time I'm done with him!

Halvery was certain they were closing in. Storm had spent too much time laying elaborate scent trails, which the clutter had solved with relative ease. These were not the young, hot-blooded cats that Ariand and Treace liked to recruit to their commands, nor were they the gray-muzzles who gravitated to Sharmel. Halvery's cats were seasoned hunters, all animals who'd fought in the ferryshaft wars, but none of them older than thirty. They could be unruly; Halvery had always valued aggression in his clutter. But they knew their business. Some of these cats had fought Coden beside Halvery on Turis Rock. They'd hunted wily ferryshaft and even telshees. They would not be daunted by a few scent tricks.

As they approached the river-running high and frothy with snowmelt-Halvery thought he understood how it would end. Storm will turn west here, and it will be a race to the cliffs-a race he will lose. He's clever-more clever than I gave him credit for, but he's no fighter. Once we catch him, it'll be over quickly.

Storm's trail did, indeed, turn west once he entered the belt of trees beside the river. Here he must have sensed they were closing in, for he ran straight without tricks through the little woodland, and Halvery's cats tore along his trail at top speed.

Then the scent trail ended.

Halvery was unconcerned. He had expected Storm to slow down and try to confuse his trail as he grew tired. The clutter fanned out to look for the missing scent. They should find it quickly.

But they didn't.

Time dragged on, and no new trail presented itself. The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, and still the creasia searched. The clutter became restless and frustrated.

At last, Halvery sat down at the end of Storm's trail, and fifteen cats gathered round him. "Sir," began his beta, "we don't know where else to look." He did not add: We're exhausted. We've run all day, fought with curbs, and haven't even stopped to lick our wounds.

Halvery looked at their tired faces. "Where did he go?" he growled.

The other cat looked away. "The river?" he ventured.

It was a possibility they'd considered and discarded. Storm's path ended beyond sight of the river, and even if he'd found a way to reach it without leaving a scent trail, the roiling water, full of spring debris and chunks of ice, would be too dangerous. Halvery could not imagine an animal willingly risking it, even for a short distance.

The subordinate dropped his gaze. "I don't know, sir."

Halvery heard a mutter from one the other animals. "What was that?" he snapped.

The cat cleared his throat. "Some say he can float, sir."

"We all float, but not in that," said Halvery, with a jerk of his head at the river.

The others exchanged a look. "He meant, in the air, sir."

Halvery drew a deep breath. "And I suppose he can walk through stone, too? Because he's a ghost, right? Have you ever smelled a ghost, Omma?"

She would not meet his gaze. "I wouldn't know, sir."

Halvery let his voice turn savage. "I can't believe that my clutter would listen to such idiocy! The foal is clever, but he's made of blood and bones and gristle. He's tired just like you, and I think he's hiding. We can find him!"

A gloomy pause. Halvery's subordinates kept their eyes on the ground. They were too well-trained to suggest giving up. They would keep trying as long as he asked. But they did not know what to try next, and Halvery didn't know what to tell them.

Halvery licked his lips. We are out of practice. He would never have admitted it aloud. His clutter were expert hunters, yes, but how long had it been since they'd hunted anything more cunning than a buck? They'd killed one telshee after the recent Volontaro, but it had been injured-driven into the rocks and confused by the storm. I used to run my clutter after foxes and oories to keep them in form. When did I stop doing that? Three years ago? Four?

"Very well." He answered the unspoken request. "We will turn for home as soon as the sun touches the horizon." The sun was already very low. The tired cats sighed with relief.

Halvery turned and walked slowly along Storm's old trail. I thought too highly of myself, he admitted. The foal is dangerous. Sharmel tried to tell me, and I didn't listen. He thought of the cat limping home alone, who might not survive. If we had not stayed to kill ferryshaft this morning, would Storm have had time to plan his trick with the curbs? Halvery forced himself not to think of what Roup might say. Concentrate! The day's not done.

Halvery raised his head and looked around slowly. I have missed something. The clue cannot be anywhere that we have already looked.

A broken tree branch. Any creasia with his nose to the ground would have missed it. Halvery's eyes narrowed as he stared at the twisted limb, bent as if by unaccustomed weight. Sharmel's words rang in his head: "He used trees, Halvery!"

Halvery hurried into the forest to his left. Nothing. He moved to his right. Five paces, ten-another broken branch. The trail was difficult to follow. Storm had taken care to make as little disturbance as possible, but occasionally a dead limb had given way beneath his grappling hooves. Slowly, Halvery traced the evidence eastward, angling ever closer to the river.

Finally, on the edge of the water, he spied an evergreen tree-one of the few on this side of the river. It had a thick spray of needles in its upper branches. It must have looked like a perfect hiding place, thought Halvery. He gave a low cry, a summons to bring the other creasia. Then he slunk towards the tree.

Halvery's call awakened Storm, but it did not shake his confidence. The creasia had never managed to track him through trees before. Sharmel's clutter had only found him because he'd come down. Still, Storm recognized the sound as a rally cry, and the fact that it was nearby made him uneasy. Maybe they're leaving.

Thump. The whole tree trembled, and Storm gasped. Instantly he was on his feet, trying to climb higher, but he was already almost as high as his weight would allow. In an agony of uncertainty, Storm turned to look down.

The lead creasia grinned up at him. "Your games are over, foal."

Storm gulped and inched backwards. The cat climbed nearer. Storm found no refuge, save one slender branch, which hung over the river. He retreated onto the limb.

"You're smarter than I expected," murmured Halvery. "I've seen only one other ferryshaft climb a tree. He had more wit than you, but we still won in the end. We always do."

Storm's mind raced. Only a moment before, he'd been taking a much-needed nap, and it seemed the chase was over. Now, he was cornered. The cat wants to talk, he thought desperately. Keep him going.

"All the other leaders introduced themselves," Storm blurted as he risked a downward glance. He saw that the rest of the clutter had gathered on the riverbank. They were watching with shining eyes.

The lead creasia snorted. "I'm Halvery," he said indulgently.

"What happened to your tail, Halvery?"

It was, apparently, the wrong question. Halvery's voice dropped to a snarl. "I can kill you here, or you can go into the river. If the current doesn't dash you to pieces, I'll be waiting on the bank."

Storm glanced down again. Melting snow had transformed the normally sluggish Igby into whitewater. Storm thought he might be able to survive if he stayed near the bank on this side of the river. But I'll never cross it. If I get swept near the center, I'm dead, and the cats will be waiting on this bank when I try to crawl out. Unless...unless they're distracted.

Halvery was edging nearer.

Storm backed along his limb. His hopes rose for a moment. Maybe he won't be able to reach me.

Halvery did find approach difficult. Storm's branch refused to hold the weight of the cat, and a nearby limb groaned dangerously as the creasia advanced. Yet the branch did not break.

"Which will it be, foal?" Halvery took a swat at Storm and almost slashed him. One more step...