PACK ANIMAL

prologue

The ground was soft and yielding beneath their hooves.

It was during the brief breath of time between seasons—when the last snow had already fallen but new life hesitated to bud—when they made their migration. The melted snow turned the soil into a thick sludge but they dutifully trekked on. Their herd had been making this migration for generations now. They followed the path their ancestors laid and did not mind when mud clung to their hooves or matted in their fur.

Migrations were dangerous endeavors. It was when the herd was at its most vulnerable. Though they treated its trees with equal parts respect and fear, the forest was not a kind creature. A wiser species might have dug dens and grown rooted in a single spot, but there was a reason all wiser species perished long ago. The herd lingered nowhere longer than a season. Soil steeped in blood and rage and sorrow attracted things better left to children's tales.

The herd had been lucky for many migrations now. Their Chief Elder—the one that guided them down the ancient migration routes—was a competent woman named Tarishka. She had spent her entire life learning to read the stars and follow the pulse of the forest. It was an honor and a privilege to lead the herd, one that had been passed from generation to generation since the first of their ancestors was born.

Tarishka had been chosen and trained for this honor since girlhood. After succeeding the prior Chief Elder, she began her search for the child that would succeed her.

That was many seasons ago.

The most important trait a Chief Elder possessed was the gift of magic. Everything else could be trained or taught but the gift was an innate ability. Without it, a Chief Elder would not be able to adequately protect their herd. No child had been born with the gift since Tarishka became Chief Elder. As she grew quietly older, the herd's anxieties grew louder. Even if a child possessing the gift was born within the next season, it was possible that Tarishka would not live long enough to impart all of the needed knowledge.

As the gift was sometimes passed through a bloodline—typically from mother to daughter but not always—the herd was eager to believe Tarishka's nephew possessed it, though the boy had never shown any of the common indications. Even if he did, Tarishka would not name him as her successor unless she had no other choice. The boy was the son of her brother. He had not even been fully weaned when his parents were robbed from him by the fangs of a creature he could not yet hope to comprehend.

Tarishka tried to fill that void but she had not been made for motherhood. She was too busy protecting the herd to raise a child. Perhaps it was the lack of proper parental figures that led to the boy developing several unpleasant traits. The obstinate child had a skull made of stone and a temper that needed no flint to ignite. He was too much like his mother. That woman had not been suited for Tarishka's mild-mannered brother and her temper was certainly not suited for a Chief Elder.

A Chief Elder was meant to be calm, collected, and wise. They could not allow their judgment to be muddled by emotions. They needed to be able to keep in mind what was best for the herd. Tarishka's nephew was none of those things.

Tarishka tried not to torment herself with such thoughts. Though the nipping terror of her own mortality never fully fell far from her hooves, there was little she could do. Her successor would come, eventually, and until they did Tarishka would accept no substitutes. The Ancestors had guided the herd through similar such times before and they would undoubtedly do so again.

That was when Tarishka heard the first howl.

It was far off and lonesome but it sliced through the still forest air with a sharpness that herd-voices never possessed. Hooves stamped against the ground. Horns turned in the direction of the howl. Tails flicked violently.