INTERLUDE 1

Smoke crawled desperately across the dew-soaked grass, leaving a glistening red trail behind him. His dappled gray fur was thickly matted with dried blood, barely concealing the vicious wounds on his skin.

He nosed through the expanse of the Wake-Dream, barely catching the scent of his pack almost at the edge of his limit. He could feel their faint desperation and anxiety mirroring his own. He could pick each packmate's familiar essence from all the thousands of muted whispers that crowded the Wake-Dream.

He was pulled back to reality as he felt the terrible lance of pain from the terrible wounds carved in his sides, a keepsake memory of last night.

He was leading the pack away from their hunting grounds, heeding the guidance of the Old Dreamers. He was the alpha, in part because of his deep attunement to their voices. The Old Dreamers had warned him of the dangers. This land was dying and bleak. Packs were disappearing, vanishing both in the land and in the Dream. Whispers in the Wake-Dream were silenced, winking out one by one. Smoke always heeded the Old Dreamers, their truths always had served the pack. And so he let the pack of a lean six away, to follow the guiding star that reigned solo in the sky.

But it was too late. Just a few moons in their journey, he sensed them being stalked. Though none of the pack knew the scent in their lives, the putrid smell awoken hereditary knowledge carved into their bones, raising hackles instinctively. The ancient enemies, never forgotten. Shadowbrothers. A full pack of them. Smoke knew deep hate but also an intense chilling fear.

Is it the Last Hunt? Red Mane asked. The pack matron turned her striking face to him.

It may be so. Smoke replied. He had been the alpha for five years, through lean winters and close encounters with the two-legs. But this was the first time he felt such intense fear for the survival of the pack. He could feel the evil presence like one of the traps of the two-legs. I will draw them away. You must escape.

We can fight. She replied, anger bristling like sour smoke on her scent.

Not like this. The pack must survive. You will carry the next generation. Smoke gave a low growl before his mate could retort. Follow the guiding star. Listen for the Dreamers. The pack will follow you. We will run once more together in the True Dream.

With that, Smoke turned and charged back towards the approaching lurking evil. He tried to ignore the last scent of Red Mane, mixed with concern, fear, and desperation. He continued until he could spy the tortured figures of the ancient enemies, before howling a challengeand turning to lead them from his family.

He hoped they would follow him, and they did, trailing behind him like his own shadow. He felt relief when he could too feel the fading presence of his own pack in the Wake-Dream, as they fled in the opposite direction.

The Shadowbrothers chased him through the night, never flagging. Pairs of glowing red eyes glittered occasionally in the distant shadows. Their malicious scent stung Smoke's nares with just enough core of a wolf's smell to enhance the wrongness. And twisted in that smell was that of amusement. Snow knew that this was a game to them, like a cub playing with a crawler before squashing it.

Smoke knew the game was coming to a close, as he could feel his limbs burning with exertion. His pack should be enough distance now. He turned to face the Shadowbrothers with a defiant stand. He had faced plenty of challengers within the pack and without, and in his prime even survived a faceoff with a Lord of the Woods. As he watched the red eyes surround him, he stoned himself to show the strength of a True Alpha.

Then the Shadowbrothers pounced on him, rolling over him like an indomitable flood. Smoke has never felt so helpless. Within seconds, he felt like he was a newborn being tossed between the unquenchable jaws of pain. It was like fighting the wind. They left vicious wounds after another, until Smoke finally crumpled before their strikes, still defiant, ready for the end.

Yet, the Shadowbrothers continued to play, through the night, torturing the fallen Alpha inexorably with continued pain and malice.

And the end never came. Through the cruel torture of the Shadowbrothers, when the dawn sun rose, Smoke still breathed from his broken and bloody body, held together by tattered ribbons of once proud flesh. The Shadowbrothers had faded into the night with sunset, leaving him alive.

But he knew he was dying. And in his shattered mind, the last driving thought was to be with his family again before his last breath. To know that they will live on past him. And he found the strength in his front legs to pull his ruined body forward, one slow length at a time. His hind legs hang loose; he could not feel them anymore. The rest of his body screamed in pain with each lunge of his front legs, but he was terrified to die alone. He reached desperately through the Wake-Dream towards the essence of Red Mane. Towards family. He pulled himself forward in that direction, each agonizing lunge at a time.

More than the pain was the feeling of a dark crushing pressure around his mind like a unrelenting jaw on his skull. It was increasingly more difficult to think about anything else.

NO. The Old Dreamers voice broke through the suffocating pressure around his head, like a hoarse shout. YOU CANNOT.

I must. Smoke whimpered like a mewling pup. I must see them once more.

NO. The Old Dreamers' admonitions became agitated, their voices cutting through the pain and the haze of Smoke's dying brain and the oppressive dark curtain. DANGER. And then Smoke was left alone in his thoughts once more.

But the warning was enough to instill just enough pause in Smoke, to wrest away control from his basic instincts. He could feel the wounds left by the Shadowbrothers beginning to turn numb, replaced by a gnawing sensation over his entire body. But the worst feeling was the jaw pressure on his brain was replaced by an incessant scratching and burrowing sensation. He knew from memories carved through generations of ancestors that these wounds were not natural. And more importantly, he could feel that his survival was not a mere accident by the cruel enemies.

You live? The familiar thought-speak of Red Mane came through the Wake-Dream. We come. Once her voice would have been a lap of crisp water after a parched journey, but now it brought sheer terror with what Smoke knew.

NO. STAY AWAY. With all his will, he roared back, and burrowed his mind deeply away from the Wake-Dream.

He knew at last he must not die from these wounds. He remembered the brief image of the gray-stone path that he crossed last night during his desperate flight. A path built by the two-legs. All of his life, he had heeded the lessons to stay away from the two-legs. They were dangerous and capricious, and proven deadly to many of his kind. But they would have to be the answer.

He changed his destination, crawling forward towards the embrace of the True Dream.