Prologue

It was a cold, January night in which out story begins. A fresh layer of snow had fallen that evening, wrapping everything in a thick blanket of diamond like flakes. The soft forest, a picturesque scene of beauty, was draped with silvery snow and dangling crystalline icicles, moonlight filtering though the tree branches in clear, cold shafts. The woods feigned lifelessness, but this was not to be believed: rabbits and other small creatures, dressed in their warm winter apparel, scurried across the thin film of ice that covered the voluptuous blanket of snow, their passing leaving hardly a trace as they slipped into their cozy holes. Ravens made sudden flights up from the laden branches, and every once in a while a fox passed silently by. Thus, the night lay like a gentle caress across the valley, stroking the forests and brushing over the rivers, fractured only by the glistening shards of moonlight that shone down from the heavens. Through this great silence another being moved, not a fox, nor rabbit nor raven. It carried itself with an aura of pride and freedom, and none dared approach. For this creature was the most feared and cunning predator since man had faded from that land: this was a wolf, or to be more precise, a she-wolf. Her name was Amaya, and this moonlit land was her home territory. She stopped for a moment in the middle of a silvery clearing, and raised her head. She was a beautiful creature: warm golden eyes and a soft brush of cheek fur framed a long, powerful muzzle, which was a shining russet color and dappled with flecks of gold. Her body was well proportioned: she had a thin chest, long strong legs, and a fine brushy tail. Her fur was all russet, with golden-silver flecks stretched out over the map of her coat, giving her the appearance of having been splashed by some divine paint bucket. Amaya padded away from the center of the clearing and glanced hopefully underneath a fallen tree trunk, but after a moments investigation, turned away. She sighed heavily and glanced down, grimacing as her unborn pups kicked in her belly. The delivery time was drawing near, and still she had not found a suitable birthing den; she was growing anxious. This was the reason Amaya was wandering alone in the middle of the night; the den was greatly needed,

unless she wanted to birth her pups in one of the packs home dens, and somehow that did not feel right to her. She was preparing to leave again when something caught her attention. She tilted her head, swiveling her finely tuned ears to the sweet night wind, and raised her acute nose slightly. She stood in that way for a long time, looking like a statue in the falling snow. The night swirled quietly around her; once a mouse even scurried unknowingly underneath her hind leg, but still Amaya did not move. Then the wind changed slightly and, jolted back to reality, she shook out her mane and turned west, leaping through the deep white and into the shadows once more. Something seemed to have awakened her curiosity, for her smooth gait reflected the interest that shone in her eyes. After a while she reached the edge of the woods, where she paused, some obscure sign halting her progress. Her features took on a look of deep worry, and her ears slicked back against her head as she tested the wind. After a moment she snorted, unsure of whether to follow her previous course, or to collapse under the primeval instinct that had ruled her kind for eons. Taking a step forward, she reared up on her hind legs and tested the wind before dropping to all fours again. The soft current that brushed through her elegant fur had confirmed her doubts: a long dead stench of smoke and sweat, blood and flesh, a medley of unnatural brine which had, many generations ago, polluted the cold mountain air. All this confirmed the existence of an abandoned human city. The she-wolf hesitated at the edge of the shadows, the feint human scent filling her with irrational fear: she had never been outside of the familiar and welcomingly safe forest in which she had been raised, except for the rare times when her pack hunted out of their vast territory, so therefore, she had never seen any of the old human residences. However something shoved her onward and diluted her fears: the curiosity that had drawn her out of the forest in the first place. Hesitantly, she took a step forward, and, when nothing happened, she began to travel further into the open. Her steps grew bolder, and her strides stretched to the length of those which she had formerly held. Amaya traveled on this way for close to an hour before she stopped again, this time her fear grabbing her sentience and twisting her back to the primeval beast that had ruled this verdant land for centuries after mans departure, before the knowledge of being had moved into her species. Her heart pounded and her legs stiffened, wide golden eyes staring at a collection of tall, black pinnacles that soared into the sky, part of a large brown blotch in the vast white. It was far longer this time before Amaya was able to fight off her fear and proceed toward the ruins, slowly, carefully placing every foot in the track of the last. Finally, a couple hundred meters from the human towers, she stopped once again, staring not in fear this time but in awe. It was a small city, and in great disrepair, yet it still held the human

scent, which clung to the place as if it were contaminated, and in a way it was, for the dead left from the fallout had never been buried in the swamp graveyard below the city. The graveyard was menacing: cracked and crumbling pillars of dark stone rising ominously up from the sloping ground, proclaiming the fearsome bite of death. Situated in a murky, peat filled swamp at the bottom of a rather deep valley, the graveyard was the perfect nightmare scene: heat from the decomposition of the peat rose up from the putrid ground and melted the snow, thus a thin fog enshrouded the dark place. The human city stood between the graveyard and the forest, so any creature headed for the other side of the valley would first have to pass through the moldering streets of the town. Though the passage was a most unpleasant endeavor, it was quickly and easily managed if you watched where you stepped. Amayas fear was now almost nonexistent, her curiosity, becoming more of a burning hunger to keep on her set path, drove her through the cold, narrow streets, over still, hollow forms; once animate, now only sun bleached shells, and out again into the open. She halted at the edge of the city and turned back, in that moment wondering just what had driven the humans to their own extinction. This was beyond her. She shook her head then turned away again and quietly loped through the deep snow, her movements barely discernible in the darkness. Down the ravine she carefully picked her way, wary of every ice patch and loose stone. Each movement mattered, carrying her and her unborn pups down the steep slope; one false step and it would be over. At the bottom she stopped, her paws finally visible due to the lack of snow. The air down here is rather warmer than back in the forest. She said to herself, speaking in the silent language of all canines. Now why is that, I wonder? She gently nosed the steaming ground and drew back quickly. The stench of rot made her nose twitch in revulsion. In this place, death was the king; the dark bog had taken many an animal in its gentle, choking grasp, snatching their lives and tossing them to the wind, turning their bodies into mud deep beneath the earth. The she-wolf tested the ground carefully, proceeding through the dangerous marsh, her acute senses directing her path and keeping her from slipping into the bottomless mud that spread out on either side. She could smell a fresh scent of death hanging over the place, suggesting that some animal, lacking a wolfs sense for danger, has succumbed to the murk. At the center of this bog lay the prehistoric (for wolves at least) human graveyard, the desolate pillars of stone silently proclaiming their hidden treasures. Amaya wondered at those stones, mysteriously rising from the ground as if they had been planted there like trees. However, she did not ponder over them for long.

Her head came up and her fur bristled as the scent came to her again, this time stronger than ever before: she had finally come to the source of her unexpected journey. Upon reaching the tombstones she placed her nose to the ground and snuffed at the churned earth, weaving in and out of the high, thick pillars in pursuit of the scent. Finally she came around an especially large stone and stopped. The scent hit her like a wave; she could see something huddled under the tombstone, crouching, ready to spring. Her head lowered in a defensive posture, her eyes narrowing, her ears rammed forward and her mane bristling like a porcupine: she was ready for an attack, for among the strange scent which she had been following, she could also smell blood. When nothing happened, and the thing under the tombstone did not attack, she lowered her defense and began to investigate. The form was a small, fluffy animal. When the she-wolf nosed it, it stirred slightly and raised its head, wide green eyes opening on the cruel world. The she-wolfs shock was now complete; if a human had rounded the corner she could not have been more surprised, for this lone creature was a tiny wolf pup. He stared up into her eyes, his own green ones reflecting her face. He did not seem to be frightened of the other wolf, but a slight interest woke in his features. He is very beautiful, if not a little small She remarked to herself as she looked over the pup, snuffing at his fur. Indeed he was a beautiful creature: thick grey fur covered a thin frame, a set of muscular legs ending in paws far too large for his body. A thick, short tail curled around the hind legs, while at the other end an overly long mane reached over his green eyes, partially covering the right one. His facial markings were unique: near black rectangular patches covered his eyes, joined together by a splotch of black covering his forehead, while two perfectly black ears made the symmetry complete. The only colorful part of the face besides his eyes was a smear of tan across the top of his muzzle, giving the pup a rather centered look. The only other thing odd about his pelt was the black saddle shape across his back, stretching from halfway down his mane to the base of his black tipped tail. The pup turned his luminous green eyes on her, and she felt a shiver run from her ears to the tip of her tail. His stare was intense, like that of a hunting cat or a giant raptor. His little face was dark and sad: almost as if he had born witness to more than his age could bear. After a few more moments more spent inspecting him, the she-wolf began a wide circle around his hiding place, searching for another scent trail, one of a parent.

Its not as if a wolf pup can just appear in the middle of no where, especially one like him. She remarked curiously to no one in particular. There has to be someone somewhere around here! Then, near one of the largest pillars she found it: the scent of a he-wolf, weak, injured, scared, and utterly alone. She followed the staggering, stumbling trail, laced with dark red blood, away from the tombstones, and towards the edge of the deep bog. Amaya could see something not far ahead, and she went on faster than before, until the trail ended. And there he was. Amaya could not stop a whimper of horror from escaping her jaws as she stared at the degraded form before her. It was a white male wolf, large, but not large enough to be a threat to an alpha such as she, even in a good condition, and the condition of this male was anything but good. His throat fur was soaked with blood, and all of his legs were horribly maimed. Amaya whimpered and lowered her head, nuzzling his jaw gently. One of his eyes opened, a piercing green with flecks of orangey gold. He looked at her, and then sighed. The Pup, He rasped, his voice barely audible, a soft gurgle rolling in his throat that suggested something wrong inside. Amaya licked the blood from his face, and curled around his frozen body, trying to give the poor creature some comfort in death: for one of the wolves greatest horrors is that of dying alone. He sighed gently, and his tail twitched in an attempt at gratitude. The pup he continued waveringly. Take him. Amaya nodded her consent, her eyes flaring with compassion. I will. He will be in the best of care, one of my own. Relief flashed across the dying wolfs face, and a shudder racked his body. His name. The wolf closed his eyes, and his voice faded to a murmur. Forgive me Rakuro. Amaya shrunk away, her eyes widening in horror. Another shudder passed through the dying wolf, his legs twitched spasmodically and his breath hissed through his teeth. It was over.

Amaya stood shuddering, the name ringing through her head. Rakuro. Rakuro. Rakuro, the ancient word meaning a slow and agonizing death. The name was a curse, a bane. Any wolf who carried the name would bring death to its pack, a slow and agonizing end that only stopped when every wolf in the pack was dead. Why? Why had the dying wolf laid such a curse across the poor pups shoulders? He was desperate! Amaya thought aloud, then she frowned. But desperate enough to name him that? She flicked her ears back as the young pup sighed softly, a quiet but plaintive sound. Her heart ached for the young orphan, no one to care for him, left alone to be discovered by a wandering fox, or worse. She did not wonder at the relief which the white wolf had shown at her appearance. What happened here? Amaya sighed and turned away from the white wolfs corpse, padding softly back through the graves. The little pup was sitting right where she had left him, quietly staring at his paws and flicking his ears gently to the shush of the falling snow. The she-wolf was struck by how indifferent he seemed to the whole matter. Probably too young to even understand what is happening. At that moment she was seized with an unquenchable desire to care for and nurture this little orphan, this child of death, to raise him as her own, alongside her soon to be born pups. Gently she lifted the little body up in her firm jaws, and without another thought turned away from the foggy graveyard and began her journey back home.

It was a long time before she was finally in her pack territory again. Miles of endless loping, leaping through the snow banks and charging past thick, ancient tree trunks, dyed red by the slowly rising sun. By that time the Rakuro had fallen asleep, swinging gently from her jaws, the caress of fatigue drawing him in, and whispering soft lullabies in his large ears. Amaya came to the top of a high ridge: ancient boulders heaped lavishly on the crest of a small cliff

overlooking a gully. At the bottom of this gully could be seen a cluster of snow-covered shapes, silent, still, and yet totally attentive of their surroundings. The she-wolf whimpered a high, thin call around the ball of fur in her jaws, and immediately the shapes shifted, some rising to their paws, others only turning their heads to view the disturbance, then yawning and lapsing once again into sleep. This was the she-wolfs pack. The largest wolf, which had been reclining on top of a sizeable boulder, scrambled to his paws and leaped from his resting place, tail waving ecstatically. The she-wolf yipped and leaped down the cliff face, her sure paws finding the trail to safety. The two of them met halfway down the gully, their tails waving, heads pressed together, pawing each others faces in excitement and joy. The other wolf looked curiously at the she-wolfs little package, one ear cocked down and a quizzical look in his eyes. What have you got there, Amaya? He asked her, using the wolves spoken language, Lunkrish. Amaya frowned slightly and gently placed her bundle on the ground. She didnt want to tell him everything, noting good would come of it. A krosha, Alken Amaya looked sadly down at the little krosha, or lost one, then back at her mate. Alken was staring thoughtfully at the little pup. He began inspecting the creatures face, then his eyes. The alpha male pulled back and flicked his ears forward, his face unreadable. The pup just stared back at him, his little green orbs questioning. Amaya stared, tense and quiet, watching the interaction between the two with anticipation. As alpha male, Alken had the partial authority over what would happen to the pup. A wolf pack could be very harsh toward unfamiliar animals: in some cases, a pack would even kill the unfamiliar pups, no questions asked. This was to be a turning point in Rakuros life. It was a long time before the alpha male showed any sign of a decision. He was still staring thoughtfully into the little wolfs green eyes, his own searching for something that only he knew and understood, when all of a sudden, a smile spread across his scarred muzzle, a lopsided and silly look slapped over his jaws. He lowered his head and nuzzled the little ones tiny muzzle.

Ra Lunkra, miel krosha.* Amaya visibly relaxed, letting out a little sigh that turned to mist before her muzzle. Alken chuckled and waved his bushy grey plume gently, ignoring the quizzical barks and whimpers which were beginning to emerge from the camp below them. The alpha male turned to his mate and cocked his head questioningly. Has the little one a name? Amaya stiffened, then nodded. She had been dreading this moment. Yes Alken. Alken paused at the sudden shift in speech and the fear seeping through Amayas fur, then twitched his ears in answer. What is it; dont tell me that it is something like Softpaw? No, Alken. Rakuro. Alken stiffened, his ears erect and eyes wide. Rakuro! He hissed, his mane bristling and fangs bared. The pup shrank away, whimpering. Amaya looked at her mate, her brain rushing to think of some excuse for the horrible name. She did not want Alken to know about the white wolf. She did not want her mate to know about the wolfs wounds, and what she had smelled in that place. It would bring him great pain, perhaps unnecessarily. But then again, Amaya could tell from the way that he was looking at her that he though that she had laid the name on the pups shoulders. This was going to be difficult. What are you going to do?

Translation: My greetings, little lost one. Ra Lunkra is the standard greeting used by wolves of a higher rank in a pack, towards wolves of a lower or equal rank. This greeting is also used towards wolves of another pack, other than the Alpha Pair, Beta and the Omega. Each of these has their respective greeting terms. The greeting system in a Lunkrish wolf pack is a complicated one. The system is governed by hierarchy, the higher-ranking wolves receiving a more respectful greeting from their subordinates. When one wolf greets another, the lower ranking animal speaks first, giving his/her greeting to the other, and showing that he/she would take the time and energy required to make a substantial greeting. Even though most wolves have a spoken language, speaking does not come as easily to them as it does to humans. For a wolf it requires a great amount of willpower and energy to form the words in their minds and process these into coherent sentences. In this case, the alpha is addressing the pup. In greeting him with Ra Lunkra, the alpha is showing his acceptan ce of the pup into his pack.
*

Alken looked at her, fear and anger in his gaze. You know as well as I do. Amayas eyes widened as Alken snatched up Raku and began running toward the river on the far side of the gully. Wait Alken! She cried. Alken ran faster, the pup swinging violently from his jaws You cant kill him! It was for his sake that the dying wolf spent his last breath! Alken faltered and stopped, staring at her in confusion and incredulity, just long enough for Amaya to get in between him and the river. Alken stared at her and quietly placed the pup in the snow. What do you mean? He asked slowly. Amayas ears twitched, and her tail rose slightly. I was not the one who laid this name upon his shoulders. Alken stared at her as if she were crazy. Amaya took a deep breath. There was a wolf, a white wolf. I wasnt going to tell you, but now. Her tail curled down. Alken, he died with the scent of rot in his wounds. No ordinary death. Alkens nostrils flared, and his ears slicked back. No ordinary death indeed. So it was truly a Rakuro that killed him. And we need not guess at who dealt it. Alken breathed out heavily. What would you have us do? We need to care for this Krosha. The white wolf told me his wishes. Alken lowered his head. You ask me to bring a cursed into my pack? Death shall follow him. Death, yes, but maybe life as well. Do not forget, Alken.

Alken snarled, but then lowered his tail. A well thrown retort. He murmured, defeat in his voice. The grey wolf turned his head to the sunrise gleaming over the horizon, a sunrise the color of blood. Alken snorted and shook his head. Im going crazy. He murmured to himself. The pup at his paws was now fast asleep, his innocent eyes closed to the world. Then, Amaya, for you and a rot-wound loner, I will take this curse upon my pack. So saying he gently lowered his head and nuzzled the pup, whose soft slumbers were not yet to be shaken. As he named him, Alken brought to mind the beware call for their deepest enemy, man. The raving cry that, when heard, had used to send that species into a mad terror: this was the Rakuro cry, the call of slow and painful death. Welcome, you who are Rakuro, Rakuro, for the darkness of your beginning and for the promise of a perilous future. Forever shall your soul wander, afraid and alone, even in death. He glanced up at Amaya, but she had turned to shoo away a large but inquisitive wolf named Snarl, and his mate. Alken sighed, and set his shoulders, the Beware Call rising again in his throat as he took up the tiny bundle, feeling its warmth as it rested against his chest. Even in death. Even in death.