Wolf Saga: The Legacy

Chapter 3

    A white-furred wolf entered the gloom of the cave, whiskers probing the rough, stony, walls and nose twitching rapidly. Her pelt would have stood out in the dark, yet she had covered herself with ash, disguising her scent as well as her fur. She had run all the way from the Mountain Trail after scorning the pathetic royal's last living daughter, Frostfeather. I can't believe how easily she won Blizzardstar over, she thought, eyes narrowing in anger. She wasn't supposed to be the heir- I was!

"I can hear, see, and sense you," snapped a voice from the shadows. "For an 'elite' wolf, Swanpelt, you're not doing a very good job." A black- furred wolf, his pelt a stark contrast to Swanpelt's white one, stalked out of the shadows, his eyes glinting in disapproval. "For one thing, you should know the Disguise Charm from Lesson One. Second, you seemed all too aware of your surroundings. For the third, why isn't that pathetic gray wolf gone yet?" Swanpelt curled her lip, letting her claws sink into the rough ground.

"No one expected her to be it," she snapped. "Besides, I had hoped to blame it on her, but something riled me up..."

"And you didn't finish the job," growled the black wolf. "Off a cliff? You could have chosen any other method. And weren't the signs obvious? Perfect agility? Endurance? Fit to try for the Mountain Trail? That isn't the best you could do- far from it. Your excuse was pathetic, as was your sloppy work. There are probably half of that ridiculous Fleet Squad trailing you as we speak, not to mention giving that silver wolf an upper hand. Losing patience isn't the answer, and you took too much of a risk coming here."

"Yes, and she doesn't even have a token to prove it!" yelped a dark grey she-wolf who emerged from the shadows. "Blackpool was successful on his first mission, and this is your third! No fur, no claw, no nothing, Swanpelt?"

"Shut your fangs," hissed Swanpelt. "If I recall, Darkfeather, you didn't bring back anything on your first mission at all!" Darkfeather just curled her lip insolently, her eyes wide with mock sympathy.

"Enough!" snarled Blackpool, stepping forward. "Swanpelt, we all expect you to do better. Darkfeather is right; you're not an amateur. You insisted on a harder mission, and you failed. Why?"

"I'll do better, Blackpool," sighed Swanpelt, but a note of desperation was hidden in her voice. "You summoned me! Please, give me another chance." Blackpool sneered at her.

"I did," he acknowledged, "but you've had too many chances. Come here, Clawfoot." Swan pelt's eyes widened in horror. Blackpool grinned. "Put up your pad," he instructed. Darkfeather stood triumphantly behind Blackpool, teeth bared with mirth. Swanpelt obeyed with reluctance, eyeing the wolf who was approaching with his paw held up. A single claw, longer than the others, was shining with black ink. Catching Blackpool's gaze, Swanpelt gritted her teeth as the claw sank into her pad and etched a tattoo.

"You are now Marked," declared Blackpool. "It is rather easy to recognize, and now it's your job to keep it hidden from the Flight Pack. Now go!" Snapping his long jaws at her flanks, Blackpool chased Swanpelt out of the cave. Her paw screaming in pain, she buried it quickly in the snow, leaving an oddly patterned trail of broken snow behind her as Darkfeather and Blackpool's laughter rang out behind her.

Once she had outdistanced the cave, Swanpelt stopped to examine her paw. The cut had barely closed, and the tattoo gleamed as darkly. She passed her tongue over it, hoping to soothe the pad, but winced when she tasted the ink. The bold emblem of a single black fang was etched into her pad, and she knew from experience that it was etched in far too deeply to be healed or removed. She shivered, but froze when something rasped against her fur. Daring to hope, she stretched her back carefully, and to her surprise, jet-black wings had sprouted from her back. Grinning as widely as a raccoon, she took off, first shakily, then smoothing out until she was soaring over the hills, searching wildly for the wolf that had stolen her chance of ever being admitted to the Shadow Pack. Where would those two mouse-brained excuses for wolves be? she thought furiously, wings pumping. At least Darkfeather doesn't have them- that's one thing to laugh about!

Soaring over the Four Paws Valley, she cocked her head, finding a direct thermal wind. To her surprise and delight, she heard voices. Flapping closers, she landed behind a dark boulder, and carefully folded her wings in so that no hint of black could be seen.

"What does it mean?" came Frostfeather's hesitant voice, and Blizzardstar murmured a reply. Swanpelt gritted her teeth, willing her Soul to stay dormant as she eavesdropped on her two most hated wolves.

"That place is cursed," Blizzardstar continued, more clearly this time. "I dragged you out because the ones who supposedly staged the avalanche placed a curse on it, so that it couldn't be restored. I've investigated, and it's the darkest Soul magic I've ever seen- perhaps the most powerful. It would take the King and Queen, with each jewel from the packs, along with Mirgo, to put a dent in the old curse. It's impossible to lift."

"Who's Mirgo?" questioned Frostfeather, and Swanpelt resisted the urge to slap Frostfeather in the face with her wing.

"A fantastic worker of magic involving the Soul, but they said he Turned. No one has found him again, though there have been many rumors about how he extended his life period."

"Mirgo is only the greatest Soul Wolf ever found," Swanpelt muttered, rolling her eyes at Blizzardstar's reply. "'Too bad he Turned?' 'There are rumors about how he extended his life period?'" Swanpelt concealed her disgust with satisfaction, for she knew where Mirgo was. Lurking in the shadows, watching her every move, Mirgo had done much more than Turn. He had changed her Soul.