Lone Wolf

must be rid of her and her mate, who had contaminated the bloodlines. If they were to survive, they must separate and seek new lives in different clans, for they were deemed to have  destinies marked by blight that might be set right only by finding new bloodlines.
    Shibaan had learned to become suspicious when a pregnant female about to give birth went by-lang, which meant "deeply away." She was an experienced Obea and was not fooled long by the tricks of the she-wolf Morag. Shibaan had to admit that Morag was more thorough than most in covering her tracks. Morag had not urinated except in streams or the ice-free parts of the river. She had left no scent marks to declare her territory. The average wolf would not have noticed the clues to the desperate mother's flight. But Shibaan was no ordinary wolf, nor was she an ordinary Obea. She found the subtlest of traces. A tuft of silver fur caught on some thistle. Scratch marks on a rock that had served as a foothold when Morag crossed a stream. A slight whiff -- a scent message perhaps, not from Morag, but another. To Shibaan, it flared up like a signpost. The message was clear: My territory, first lieutenant of the MacDermott clan, a response to an outsider veering too close to MacDermott land. So, thought Shibaan, Morag has crossed the MacDermott border. Daring!
    Then there was the scent of fox, but not pure fox. Shibaan shook her head wearily. I always find them, no  matter what tricks they play. And she did. The fox scat outside the den even had a thread of fur, like a silvery pennant quivering in the breeze to announce that inside a she-wolf concealed herself, sticky with fox scat, but still redolent in the sweet fragrances of new pups and warm milk.
    No fuss, no muss. The mothers of malcadh never did put up a fight. They knew the consequence of resistance -- immediate death to all the pups.
    ***
    Morag watched the Obea carrying the splay-pawed pup in her jaws until they were a dark speck on the horizon. How perfectly suited Shibaan was for this job! It was as if the years of performing her duty with unquestioning obedience had scoured away any kind of feeling or imagination. When Morag looked into the green eyes of the Obea, they were completely devoid of light, or depth, or anything that might reflect emotion. They were like dry stones, bleached of nearly all color.
    The silver pup had allowed itself to be picked up by its neck scruff and had instinctively curled its body into carrying position. Did he not sense the Obea's scent was different from his mother's? Did the pup not mind the  milkless, dry, sterile wind of her being? The pup had nursed constantly -- but constant had been just a sliver in the short day since it had been born. The pup's eyes and ears were still sealed shut. It would be days before they opened. The pup's only way to know his mother, the Milk Giver, was through her scent and perhaps the feel of her fur and the throbbing rhythms of her heart. Would he remember? But what did it matter.
    A tween season storm was brewing, and these were the worst. Coming on the edge of spring or the cusp of summer, tween storms were full of rage, tumultuous winds, and slashing ice. Morag had felt it coming and seen the leaden skies sinking lower and lower, clamping down on the land like a trap for earth's creatures. Her pup would be abandoned in the midst of this storm. And she herself would have to remain with the two other pups to await the Obea, who would return to lead Morag back to the clan. The Obea would carry one pup and Morag the other as they traveled that trail of shame. The news of the malcadh pup would be announced, and Morag would have to leave the clan immediately, an outlaw. The surviving pups would be nursed by another wolf.
    ***
    The Obea, though lacking imagination, did have thoughts. Practical thoughts. Where should she take this pup so that there was no chance it would survive? She had seen something on the pad of the splayed paw that disturbed her. She wasn't sure why; all she knew was that she had not liked those markings.
    What Shibaan did know was her job: to take care of the bad business of the clan. She did not mind her duty now. Long ago her failure to have pups was like a sharp pebble underfoot, a constant reminder that she would never be a mother but instead an unranked wolf charged with an unpleasant task. However, she performed her work well, and over the years she had gradually gained some respect from the chieftain. The