The Blood Of Ten Chiefs

Bearclaw stiffened when he saw something vaguely familiar—the same woman-shape he'd perceived in the darkness: the girl with the baby. She emerged from the cave, holding and hugging her newborn child, kissing the rosebud face and playing with the tiny fingers that gripped her thumb. After a moment, she handed her child to another woman, who seemed to love it almost as much.

Bearclaw drew his shoulders in. The girl had held her baby as Joyleaf held their own cub—a special holding. By the dawn light, these tall ones were no longer his nightmare, and with that came a touch of regret.

His eyes narrowed suddenly, acute to movement. His thoughts dissolved into wolf-time, and he sank back into the leafy brush.

The girl was walking toward him, toward the woods, her safe cave-porch left behind. With a piece of soft leather she was buffing something cradled in one hand.

He drifted deeper into the bushes, and became still.

The leaves and branches around him rustled gently. Her leather skirt brushed by, near enough to touch. She paused, less than an arm's length away. Seen through the leaves in the dimness of new-dawn, she was only a faint outline as she tugged at young branches and placed something in them. There was a faint clink of stones, but no other clue. Satisfied, the girl paused for a moment to gaze thoughtfully at what she had done, almost as though a decision was not yet completely made. But then she turned and, without a backward glance, returned to her encampment.

Bearclaw waited until his heart stopped pounding.

The smell of humans clung to the tree. For the first time in his long life, Bearclaw was drawn to it.

There, hanging on a stubby branch, was a bit of dawn. Red-gold amber and green water-polished pebbles reflected his wry smile. "Toad turds," he muttered. Too bad—he had always enjoyed hating the humans.

His whiskered face twisted into a grin as he tossed a glance toward the retreating human girl. He slipped the necklace over his head. The amber was warm against his skin, the pebbles cool. He would give it to Joyleaf. It would gleam against her neck like the glow of her hair and the shine in her eyes. Yes, Joyleaf should have this gift. Sometimes it is harder to share than to give, and Joyleaf had given the greatest sharing, after all.

Dawn. Time to retreat to the holt.

This time he didn't bother with his usual morning sending that would rouse the tribe from their activities and tell them to retire to the safety of the holt. If they didn't know by now, then too bad. He sauntered along with his private thoughts, rather self-satisfied.

**Relief.**

He stopped.

Before him, the darkness moved. With his mind, Bearclaw listened.

The ebony wolf lowered its head, and sent.

**Re

Astonishment tingled through Bearclaw's body. The night beast knew—he knew!

The Wolfrider chief's faint trembling suddenly ceased as a glimmer appeared in his own mind and he also knew. The rightness of it overwhelmed him with a deep and intriguing calm.

His eyes grew slim. **Blackfell.**

This time the wolf came to him. As though nodding, its massive head glided close to the ground at the end of the thick arched spine. Crescent eyes glowed, unaffected by dawn light. Bearclaw put his hand out slowly.

Yellow eyes closed as the black beast's muzzle slid under Bearclaw's fingers. The bond was made and it was true, truer than either wolf or elf could yet know. As twin moons faded into the lightening sky, two night creatures melted like shadows into the forest's deep and silent embrace.

Afterword

It occurs to us (the four of us occupying the editor's seat) that an observation may be made by the readers of this volume, to wit: This world is one grim place! The elves seem always to be scrambling for bare existence, Recognition is a pain, and they don't have a lot of fun. In reply, I offer a possible explanation and a ray of hope.

I think that whenever you collect a tribe of very creative people together and turn them loose in a universe not of their own making, they will make their first forays into the territory cautious ones. It's the "don't want to step on any toes" syndrome. There's an awareness on everyone's part that, not only do the characters have to be introduced and fleshed out, there are also conventions to be followed if the internal logic of the land is to be maintained. This doesn't lend itself easily to wild abandon. At first.

However, as I mentioned earlier, I'm getting signs that a certain feisty attitude is begi