Little Mountain, Ryan, J.B. and Joe rode out of the compound, on through the silent, shadowed windings of the forest city. The wolf trotted at the end of the leash beside Joe’s steed.
When they were out of the city and on the rolling sward, Joe put the wafer of metal to his head. He spoke aloud, in English, for the benefit of Ryan and J.B.
“Lead the way, Blood-sniffer, and remember if you break your word and play us wrongly, you will die.”
Reaching down, he slipped the leash over the animal’s neck. The wolf slid ahead, still favoring his hind leg, trotting almost due north.
Wind, chilled from the distant, snow-covered peaks, buffeted Ryan and stung his eye as the mare cantered steadily across the grassy plain. J.B. rode just behind him, and Little Mountain brought up the rear, leading the spare horse.
The wolf veered constantly to keep always as near as possible to the stands and groves of trees that dotted the plain. It occurred to Ryan that the beast might be leading them into an ambush, but he learned the reason for Blood-sniffer’s strange route was exactly the opposite.
Just ahead of them the wolf spun, its eyes flashed a warning, and Joe whispered urgently, “Into the trees! Quickly!”
There was a stand of birch close ahead. They heeled their mounts into the little copse. The wolf hunkered down in front of Joe’s pony, staring intently through the curtain of underbrush. Ryan followed its gaze and glimpsed three gray shadows gliding low over the plain. They were wolves, creeping toward the forest city.
After a minute Blood-sniffer stood. Joe whispered to Ryan, “They go to spy on us.”
They left the grove of trees and rode on, continually changing course to keep near the infrequent wooded clumps and rises in the valley’s floor. They topped one rise and saw a solid forest wall looming before them. The trees were tall, the spaces between them dark and quiet. It looked like the haunted forests he had read about as a child, full of mystery, gloom, witches and trolls.
Ryan didn’t want to ride into that black wood, and neither did J.B. The Armorer’s voice whispered from the dimness behind him. “If that goddamn wolf has his brotherhood waiting for us in there”
He didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need. Ryan’s imagination was fully capable of completing the image of a pack of vicious wolves tearing out their livers and chewing their intestines.
When Blood-sniffer padded into the forest, everyone followed. At first it seemed pitch-dark beneath the towering trees, then Ryan’s eye became adjusted to the gloom and he was able to pick out more and more details.
The ground was very dry. Rainless weeks had parched it so that each twig, each leaf the horses stepped on snapped or crackled, the sounds seeming as loud as gunshots. From their right came the faint rushing of the river.
Their animal guide was a deeper shadow in the murk, leading the way carefully between the trees by occasional backward glances and low whines.
Joe turned on his pad saddle and whispered, “No more talk unless I speak first. Use your sender from now on.”
The horses were jumpy as they traversed the woods, climbing ridges and down into brush-clogged dells. The mare quivered beneath Ryan as if in fear. Wind gusts rustled the leaves of the trees, and at each faint rattle, the horse would snort and Ryan’s hand would reach for his blaster. Now and then he heard the crunch of distant brush as something fled from their approaching party.
They had traveled a little less than an hour when a yelping wolf call from the west was answered by another in the direction of the river. Blood-sniffer stopped and looked up at Joe. The Lakota pressed the metal wafer to his forehead, glared down at the animal for a moment, then gestured to Ryan.
When Ryan had placed the slice of gold to his head, Joe’s thoughts said, We must leave the horses here. Too many of the Wolf Soldiers are about and will catch their scent .
Ryan, J.B. and Joe dismounted. Using sign language, Joe ordered Little Mountain to remain behind with their mounts.
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