PROLOGUE
He was small, merely a pup, when the two legs with very little fur came into his home.
His mother had hid him from them in the small den that she had given birth to him in.
Telling him to be quiet and not to say a word, for if he made one sound, their deafening roars and shouts would come closer to him. He understood the danger, for his mother and father had told him of it from a very young age. He could only nuzzle his mother and hope that she would return to him soon, as she ran off with his sisters to try to lead the two legs away from him.
He could only wonder where his father and brothers were, and why his father had not returned with them yet. For they had gone hunting when the white disk was high in the black sky and had not returned when the bright disk was high in the blue sky. Which had always happened before, but at this moment, his mother and sisters had to run away from him. So that they could lead the two legs away from the den that protected him. For he did not know that he had been the only pup to survive out of his mother's litters over the last three months.
The pup curled up in a ball, the shadow matching his black fur as he hid there. He put his paws over his muzzle and closed his dark eyes. As he could hear the retreating paws of his mother and sisters growing more distant from the den's entrance.
It was then that he heard the dogs, angry barking beasts that bayed terribly in the night. The pup stifled a terrified yelp and whimpered softly to himself, as one of the two legs came too near to the den. He became very still, as the sound of the two leg's voice reached his ears, and then faded away. It was accompanied by the sound of his footfalls growing more distant and the pup allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the footfalls and the sounds of danger grew more quiet.
Even so, he fretted inwardly, about the angry baying dogs. He did not understand his angry cousins, or their rage when it came to fighting with his family. For they had never travelled through their territory, or ate of their food and drank of their rivers. They had always stayed within their own boundaries, hunting game and drinking their own water, as far back as he could remember. His own father had spoken of the times before he had opened his eyes, and he had said the same thing when he had asked him of the angry ones.
The pup sighed to himself worriedly, as his fear faded away. He would wait for his mother and sisters as she had told him to do, and they would know what to do. Secure in this knowledge, he felt safe and dozed off to sleep.
* * * * * * * *
River Moon stretched as the bright disk reminded him of aching bones and torn muscles.
He stood up, regarding the only other male out of a hunting party of eight, who had survived the night of thunder and the baying dogs who had chased them. He merely regarded him back in a quiet manner, sniffing the air with his black nose.
The white wolf with black ear tips, and blue eyes was a startling contrast to his own black fur and green eyes. They were both the same height in the four legs, but Moonsinger's blue eyes held a mirth to them, that River Moon had sworn the previous night that he had lost as a pup.
Moonsinger shook himself, as River Moon watched him in envy. Was their nothing that could shake him of his convictions, and why did he not want to be the alpha of the pack? Why instead, was he content to simply be the beta and defend him and his pups. He was no son of River Moon's, but merely an outsider who had wandered in and impressed him one night.
Even now, he seemed to hold on to a hope in his eyes, that River Moon found himself not daring to believe in. For he felt if he did so, he would end up as dead as his own pups who lay in the empty field nearby the thick copse of trees that they had hid in to escape. Moreover, why did he wait for him, as if in silent anticipation of orders from him?
Moonsinger looked at him quietly, cocking his head to one side quizzically, his ears forward as he continued searching the wind for scents. River Moon walked over to him and nuzzled his neck in silence, as Moonsinger murred softly in an attempt to soothe him.
Yet River Moon felt the icy grip of fear in his heart grow tighter, as instinct told him to run back to his den, where his mate and pup were. For if the two legs had found them, then they would find his mate and pups as well, and the angry cousins were very good at doing their job for the two legs. They had to be, for if they did not work hard for the two legs, then they would not eat.
River Moon turned and looked at Moonsinger over his shoulder, beckoning him to follow silently, then started back towards his den at a painful run. Moonsinger followed him diligently, refusing to allow his own wounds to slow him down as he ran, attempting to keep up with River Moon in his haste to get back.
As they rounded the rise, they looked down into the clearing and saw the bodies of the dead. Wolves stretched out, and rotting beneathe the bright spot in the sky. Shot to death for their skins, for the two legs had taken them. More than likely to where their packs lived and they sold the skins of the pups for shiny yellow discs of metal that weren't even good to eat.
River Moon stopped in mid-stride, for he wanted to howl his grief for them to the sky.
He had known everyone of them, for they had been his sons, and who should know them best?
His broken heart was torn with hopelessness and he did not feel like he could go on.
Yet the thoughts of his mate and daughters tugged him back into action, as he heard himself growling aloud ferally with a might he had never known before. His green eyes exploding into the hunter's vision that only an outraged father can see when his mind and heart are afire with white hot rage!
Moonsinger knew he was albeit forgotten which made him even more careful. Ages ago, he had trained under a mighty swordsman who had been a were-tiger, who had taught the young werewolf how to survive in more forbidding conditions than these. It was a secret that he had sought to keep from the wolves, for he had longed for their company for so long that he would not jeopardize their trust in him. Yet as he ran after River Moon, he could sense that the wounded wolf alpha was changing and that his instincts had been correct all along.
River Moon was a werewolf, born to wolves.
A strength, for he would never know fully from childhood, the greed of man.
A weakness, for he must know it, or die from naiveté'.
