Before Beehunter reached the ground, his sending had alerted the holt, and the elves gathered around the wolf and their chief. Even as they eased Mantricker to the ground, dark glances were exchanged, for the terrible wound was all too apparent, and the tribe's healer was off with the hunt, as was the chief's lifemate. Though the spark of life still flickered, there was not a one of the assemblage who doubted it would soon fade, though none cared to state it out loud. The Wolfriders never died a peaceful death; when death came it was invariably a sudden and unexpected guest.
"Father!"
The small crowd gave way as Bearclaw dashed to the chief's side. He assessed the situation with a glance and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Wolfrider.
"Quick. Get the hunters. Take Bloodsinger and—"
"No."
Mantricker's voice was almost too weak to be heard, but it still carried the firmness of authority.
"But Father ..."
**It's too late, my son. Besides, the tribe needs meat now more than they need a chief ... at least, this chief.**
Bearclaw sucked in his breath sharply, but signaled for the others to stay where they were.
Mantricker tried to raise his arm, but tensed at the agony of the movement and it sank back to his side.
"Someone ... untie my topknot."
Bearclaw started to do his father's bidding, but his hands halted as if they had encountered a wall. He raised pleading eyes to the others, and Beehunter stepped forward to remove the chief's sign of office.
"Bearclaw shall ... be your new chief. He ... will be a better leader... than I was for ... he is closer to the tribe."
With tremendous effort, Mantricker raised his head and looked around the group. Seeing no objections, he closed his eyes and let his head drop.
**Learn from my mistakes, young chief. Do not let your duty set you apart from the tribe. Be with them, share with them. And the humans ... do not underestimate them. They are not so different as we think. They love their cubs. I was wrong to attack them unprovoked, even alone. There may even be a chance—**
Then there was silence. The total silence which can only be final. Mantricker was gone, his final thoughts as closed to the tribe as his life had become.
Bloodsinger rose and whined, his ears alert. He had also noted the passing spark. His elf-friend had become dead-meat, and that he knew how to deal with.
Silently, solemnly, the elves draped their dead chief's body across the back of his wolf, and watched as the beast bore it away into the shadows of the forest.
Bearclaw was the last to turn from the sight. When he did, he found the eyes of the group upon him, and tasted for the first time the pressures of leadership.
"There will be a howl tonight," he said. "Let the talking be done there when we are all assembled."
With that, he turned his back on the tribe and, like a wolf, went off by himself to nurse his pain.
The night was chilly, but few felt it as the last echoes of the assembly howling died away. All were eager to hear what their new chief had to say, for his appointment had been confirmed as soon as the hunting party had returned, his own mother tying the topknot on his head. Even the wolves who had joined their elf-friends sat with their ears forward as if waiting for words they could not understand.
Bearclaw stood up then, and if his new topknot was unsteady, he was not.
"The path of the Wolfriders has always been decided by their chief," he began abruptly. "It is therefore your right to know the mind of your new chief as it affects your lives ... to know of any changes I will make in the Way.
"I am young, younger than many of you, but old enough to know the ignorance of my youth. For that reason, I will continue to follow the ways of my father unless events prove those ways must be changed."
A low murmur started, but he held up his hand for silence.
"One thing I will change immediately, however, for in his dying moments Mantricker taught me a lesson. No longer will your chief leave the tribe to harass the humans, nor will any Wolfrider strike at them unless attacked or provoked. We will try to share our range with them, to live in peace if possible."
Growls rather than murmurs met this announcement, but Bearclaw silenced them with a snarl.
"Do you think I like this decision? This day the humans have killed your chief, but he was my father. A part of me cries for vengeance, but a greater part speaks with the heaviness of a chief. Mantricker knew the risks of his actions, and they finally caught up with him as we all knew it would one day. His last words were an admission that he was wrong, that the humans are not so different as we think. Am I then to ignore this lesson and attack the humans? Shall I provoke them because they struck back at an elf who now admits he was wrong? As your chief, I am now responsible for the entire tribe, and if there is a chance we can live at peace with the humans, it must be done!"
As the young chief supported his decision, Brightwater, the tribe's storyteller, popped another dreamberry into her mouth. Soon it would be her turn, and she had never spoken at a howl prompted by a chief's death before. Nervousness made her overindulge in the berries as she prepared to delve into her memory, and images were beginning to wash over her, overlaying the moonlit howl.
What to do about the humans? It seemed the Wolfriders' history revolved around that question. Make war against them with Two-Spear's reckless abandon? Try to avoid them as Tanner had done? Chief after chief paraded in her head, yet none had had a truly workable or enduring answer. Not Mantricker, and, she feared, not Bearclaw.
' 'Timmorn Yellow-Eyes, Rahnee the She-Wolf..."
The chief-saying had begun. What was she to say when it was over?
"... Prey-Pacer, Two-Spear ..."
What tale of the past could she summon that would not cast aspersions on their new chiefs decision? It would be totally inappropriate to say that she thought that not only Mantricker, but Bearclaw as well, was wrong ... that disaster loomed in the chosen path.
"... Huntress Skyfire, Freefoot ..."
In desperation she leaned forward and rested her head in her arms, feigning sleep. Let the tribe laugh at the storyteller who had too many dreamberries and fell asleep during a howl. Better that than admit the lessons her memory was summoning up.
Not far away, another gathering was being held. The human hunters pressed closer to the warmth of their fire and tried to pool their knowledge. How many of the forest demons were there? How were they armed? Could the hunters hold their village if attacked?
At length, one rose to address the assemblage. It was the father of the boy who had been taken that day.
"Why do we babble like frightened women?" he demanded. "We have no choice. If nothing else, today has taught us that the forest demons are evil and cannot be trusted. We have tried to live in peace with them, to appease their thieving with gifts, and they show their gratitude by taking our children.
"Now they tell us that if we go, they will leave us alone. I ask you, can we believe them? My son trusted one, and now he lies in our hut with a wound on his face. I say whether it's here or at another camp we must take a stand against these demons, so why not here? We must guard ourselves and our families, and if that means attacking first, then so be it. That is the lesson I've learned this day, as has my son. We will never forget it. Tell your sons, and your sons' sons, that they will not have to learn it as painfully as we did!"
The group rose to their feet shouting their approval and spears were shaken at the surrounding woods.