Blue. The Beastmaster.

-- I almost feel a little pity. If anyone shouldn't be involved in all of this, it's him.

-- You shouldn't. He lived a life long and purposeful for one of his species.

-- For his species?

-- Yes. For his species.

The cold, wet nose gently poked his hand.

"Uncle?"

He turned his head -- very slightly, just enough to get a quick glimpse at the lean figure sprawled on the ground. The direct gaze, so natural for him, made them feel very uneasy, that much he had learned; and yet, it had taken many years for him to control this urge to look directly into the eyes of the one he was talking to. Even now, his control slipped quite often.

"Yes, Third," he responded to this shy but persistent double-request for attention.

"I've heard that you are leaving us."

So this was the reason why, all of a sudden, the pack had started acting so strangely within the last few days, he realized. The respect was the same; there was no alienation, as there was when the pack decided to estrange a member chosen for banishment -- but there were fewer questions than usual. Recently, they stopped coming for advice as well.

Nothing had changed in the rules of the hunt, though -- this was strictly forbidden. The tiniest ripple on the still pool of hunting customs could make all the perfectly driven mechanisms fail.

But during the free time...not that he was avoided, but rather, respectfully left alone, and only now did he understand why. They were politely leaving him free space for his decision.

And he wouldn't even have known that he had to make a decision, if not for Third.

Third was always special. He was still too young to separate from his family, or even to have the adult name, since he hadn't distinguished himself in any way yet to make the pack take notice of him and name him. Only humans had their names unchanged from their birth, like he did. Fenrir; that was his human name. For some reason, he remembered it well, despite the fact that nobody in the pack called him that. He didn't miss that name anyway, preferring to be called by his pack name - earlier, Upright Death, and now, the Mentor.

This was solely the name of his position in the pack -- but ever since he became the teacher of youngsters, he was called only that. Like King was only called King, whatever name was used before the victory in the fight for kingship was now lost.

Third was sort of a weakling too. Fenrir often caught himself thinking that, if not for his obvious protection, Third would have been the first candidate to be banished. But Mentor's opinion was not to be argued. Other wolves might not understand his ways, but he was the Mentor. Therefore, he knew such things better, he had his reasons, and the pack didn't have to understand them to obey them. That was his direct responsibility, after all.

That's why he had already started considering various names for Third. The pack would choose the name together, but Mentor's share was the most significant.

And now, he was proven that he had not been mistaken about Third. The young one was smart and decisive enough to come and ask him the worrying question.

"Who told you this?" he asked.

Third had his head lying on his front paws, blue cold eyes looking somewhere at a point a few feet away from Fenrir's right boot. To someone ignorant, who wasn't able to notice how alert and strained his ears stood, nor how precisely they were directed straight to Fenrir, the young wolf would look utterly bored and idle.

"Mother did."

Fenrir jerked upright, his muscles tensed, and the answer, 'That is a mistake,' was left unsaid. Third referred to the King as 'mother', which meant that he had come to Fenrir like the worried cub to the elder and more cunning member of a family: with no formalities. Yet the King was still the King, no matter how called. And the King never did any mistakes. The King never lied; the King was never wrong. She could have been, before becoming the King, but ever since the victory in the battle for kingship, she had become above any possibility of doubt and disagreement. After all, the pack had accepted her, and had made its choice. It would then be unwise to argue against its own will, wouldn't it? Those were the rules, and the pack followed them. Not because it had to -- but because it had always been like that. Such was the pack.

"She also said she's not the King anymore," Third proceeded. "She said there will be the new King, with her own powerful pack, and she herself is very powerful too. Mother said she will be ruling here from now on, and that you are leaving us for her pack. What will happen to us then, Uncle?"

Such a smart young one indeed, Fenrir thought. He regarded his favorite pupil with pride, despite the anxiety and irritation that Third's words set on him. This had to be ended, he decided, and said:

"You heard wrong."

Almost without any actual change to an untrained eye, Third attained the 'Guilty, Sorry Puppy' posture, compulsory for any puppy whose behavior upset the Mentor.

But Fenrir didn't feel upset.

"I shall go and see the King anyway," he said as he stood and stretched up. This situation had to be dealt with, and no matter what the King was thinking for herself, Fenrir had his right to discuss everything else. Even to deny it -- and not because he was King's brother. Only the Mentor had enough power in the pack to have his arguments heard and considered by the King.

He approached the place where the pack rested, and quietly sat besides the King. Black Fao, King's husband, took the message precisely, and slowly, with a lazy grace, rose up and joined another tiny group of wolves. Two leaders of the pack wanted to have a private conversation, and Fao let them. The fact that he, who actually had to be the second highest-ranked wolf in the pack, was pushed aside by the Mentor, whose rank was lower than that of King's husband in other packs, did not bother or disgrace Fao. Fenrir was the very special Mentor; hence their pack was the very special pack. The rules were stretchable, especially when it made them the most powerful pack in the lands. Fao saw nothing wrong in being the third in the strongest pack; others didn't mind either.

"Sister." Fenrir gently asked for attention.

The King twitched her ear, recognizing Fenrir's presence and showing him that she was attending.

"Third came and said I am separating. That is not true."

The King didn't move. Here we go again, she thought heavily, while Fenrir continued:

"He said that you are going to resign, too. Why? It didn't occur to me that you had to..."

"The new King is much stronger than I am," she interrupted. "And you saw that."

He winced. Apparently, the memories of her brother of that gruesome night, when the new King declared herself, weren't pleasant at all -- just like her own, just like those of the rest of the pack. He wasn't able to do anything then, and neither could she, or anyone from the pack. And this feeling of helplessness, that they were so unused to experiencing, was the main reason it gave them the creeps while thinking about those events. The new King had plainly come, had her complete victory, and the old King had submitted. It wasn't necessary to be grabbed by the throat and thrown onto the ground in order to lose the kingship. The advantage of might came in many ways.

"I came to see her then, like she had ordered me to," Fenrir softly reminded her. "Remember? And I explained everything to you. That she doesn't want to get our pack under her control, because she already has her own. We just have to fulfill some task for her, and then we are free, and you're the King still the same. And that she only wants to borrow me for some time. Other packs used to ask for the same from me, quite often; you never mind before."

That was true; the fame of her pack's Mentor and his extreme intelligence spread far. There were other cases indeed, when other Kings came and asked for his temporary assistance in teaching their cubs. She never refused -- the packs that ruled different territories were used to help each other in times of collective hunts on big prey or for the exchanging of their most cunning members to share experience. Those were the rules, and occasional savage fights on the boundaries were also part of it, not the exception. Such was their life.

But this time was completely different. She felt that, but couldn't explain it to Fenrir in words that he would understand. In things like discussions, explanations and suchlike, Fenrir always outsmarted her, as well as in another fields where the intelligence was required. That was why he was such a famous Mentor.

"I still think you must try your luck with her." The King was not going to give up so easily, and she guided the conversation from the subject she felt unstable on to that of another, where she still hoped to persuade him. "From what you have said, you can become the King yourself by just marrying her, that King. I am sure you will easily defeat the male that is currently seeking her."

When Fenrir had told her about the weird custom of that pack, she had been seriously confused. How could anyone push the King out of ruling by a simple marriage? When Fao had fought for her and won, there hadn't been a single thought about him claiming the kingship -- for this, he would have to fight her, not for her. Or did they treat the marriage like the fight for leadership? Fenrir had mentioned something about differences in the positions of males and females; this was also strange to her, since any wolf of any gender could win the fight and become the King. Fenrir had said that they had another name for the female King, and she couldn't understand this either. What's the use in that? The King was the same King anyway, why create so many definitions? It made it only easier to get lost in them.

Anyway, the pack received Fenrir's tale like always -- without too much of deep pondering, this time grinning a bit about the funny customs of that strange pack -- and that was all. It had started long ago, that the pack would never understand Fenrir's kin like he did, and thus there was no point in trying. Complicated things were the responsibility of the Mentor, and the rest of the pack accepted his version.

"But I don't want to," Fenrir objected. "I like the way I am now. I really do."

"I know." The King shifted her position; now she had her muzzle placed on his lap. He ruffled her fur, absentmindedly stroking her velvet soft ears. The feeling was pleasant, very pleasant; she wasn't ashamed to admit, closing her eyes in delight. Who if not a brother could satisfy her craving for tenderness? The fondling from Fao was different, and it had to be, after all; Fao was her husband and the father of her seventeen children.

While Fenrir...he was her only brother, and her only family for a long time. Blood of her blood.

In fact, he was not -- but she never remembered that. It was not important from the beginning, that Fenrir was not the sibling of the same lair, moreover, that he was not even of her species. Maybe it was because she didn't like to remember the day they had found each other -- the day when strong and cunning, yet young and overconfident Moon Shadow had decided that she was a match for a bear, and had been cruelly proven wrong. Later, there had been days of a feverish haze hanging in front of her eyes all the time, persistently and annoyingly; the drilling smell of her own blood; and the constant concern from someone that wasn't here before, but who was unquestionably accepted by the pack. And he had filled the empty niche of the family for her, when she had gotten back on her feet. They had grown up together -- if it could be called so, since she had already been nearly an adult and he had almost a baby when they had met. Additionally, he grew very slowly. That was why she was so used to treating him like the younger helpless cub, even now, when he was the Mentor, and anything but helpless and weak. He had stopped being helpless and weak a few years ago, when she had fought for the kingship and won. He was her great support; somewhere in her blood she felt that the position of mighty Moon Shadow wouldn't be so strong if not for the wit and intelligence of Upright Death. He had been very proud of her then, but completely lacked ambitions and never wanted to become the King himself.

Even if he did, he would never make it. However smart he was, he lacked many things apart ambition. Too many, for a wolf -- but for his own species, he was the best. At least that was what she thought and desired -- the old habits of seeing in him a little puppy to protect didn't want to give up easily. She loved him nearly as selflessly and as fearlessly as she did her own children and she fiercely wished him to have anything he wanted. He deserved all of the best, in her opinion. And she tried again:

"I still think you must have a go at it. You must have a family. You are not eternal, and a mind like yours must not be wasted. That would be unfair, and I know you like children and want to have them yourself. And that King, she looks healthy and clever. You can have good children together."

"No we can't." He shook his head, obstinately. This was the sign of firm denial, one of his human reactions that she had learned to recognize after all these years. "You've seen her, she's got the same faults like I do -- poor fur, weak on all fours, terribly slow reaction. The cubs would be just the same." The wolves neither knew nor bothered to know about genetics, but they had a deep intuitive feeling of it nevertheless. "Besides, she is..." he frowned, having a rare case of trouble expressing himself, "...evil. Dark-minded. Mad. And I know you noticed that yourself, mind you."

She did. There really was something rotten about the new King. Her presence was disturbing, intimidating. And she really seemed mad; Fenrir gave a precise description there.

"Untrustworthy, too." Meanwhile, he proceeded, encouraged by the lack of response from her. "She acts indecently, because she has already chosen a male for herself, and the one who wants to fight for her doesn't know it. I don't know why she doesn't let them fight, but this is filthy and disgraceful. Not proper Kingly behavior at all, if you ask me. Ah, even more -- her chosen male smells of a cat, yuck! And you here want me to fight for someone who messes with a cat," he wrinkled his nose in utter disgust. "I prefer to wait and look for a nice proper girl in our pack, or for another from the neighborhood."

"The girls never accepted you to fight for them," she said, as kindly as she was able to, trying not to hurt him. This was one of his most painful subjects. "Or have you forgotten that?"

And they never would, the King knew. She also knew why -- Fenrir lacked that scent, that which let the females decide whether or not the candidate wolf was suitable for her future family. Not that his scent was wrong, telling about some hidden diseases or defects, no. He just didn't have it, and with his own poor sense of smell, he was utterly incapable of either participating in all the sophisticated love games, or of understanding the whole meaning behind them. There it was clearly obvious that he was of a different species, and no matter how much he was respected within the pack, nobody would choose him for a husband.

Still, he stubbornly refused to admit this fact, and the King was not able either to persuade him or to explain it in a way that he could understand. And how could she? Such things never required explanation before, like breathing or walking.

"But I am very young," just as she expected, Fenrir rigidly persisted in his conviction. "You often say that I'm a puppy still in despite of being the Mentor -- playing with my food, things like that...I grow not in the same way you grow, that's why girls ignore me. Everything will change for sure, when I reach full maturity. You will see."

The King sighed in her wolfish way. He was an immature youngster indeed; cases like this fully proved it. But he was also the Mentor, the most intelligent member of the pack, which meant that he always won discussions, whatever they were about. He won now, too -- the King felt like she had depleted all her arguments against him.

"Alright then," her defeat she admitted calmly, like always. "I won't ask you to join that pack anymore. And I am not going to surrender to that new King, or submit my pack to her. Are you content with that?"

"Pretty content," Fenrir nodded, without any glee in his voice, considering the victory that he had just won. This had been an ordinary debate with an ordinary outcome. "I shall go and soothe Third now. I'm sure he is still waiting for me. He looked very worried."

"Yes. Go to him." The King slightly moved aside, letting him go. For some time, she watched him leave on his twos, the strange way he preferred to walk. It still amazed her, how confidently and firmly he did that.

"I hope you know what you are doing."

Third was in the same place where Fenrir had left him. The wolves knew how to be patient, when it was needed -- and Fenrir knew how much it was needed for Third to know his answers.

"I cleared it up." He soundlessly sat next to Third. "You was wrong. I am not going anywhere. Like I said, that pack only needs us for some time. To catch a prey they cannot catch by themselves."

"That's good." To an inexperienced eye, all that Third did was a brief twist of ears. For Fenrir, however, it was as clear as daylight to see how the anxious worry left the slender body of the young wolf, carrying away with it the tension of the muscles, leaving him easy and relaxed. The brightly improved mood of Third affected Fenrir somewhat back, for he also suddenly felt much better and easier.

"Uncle?"

"What?"

"Tell me the tale about the new pack."

"But I've already told you it. Many times before."

"I forgot."

Fenrir smiled at this simple lie. The youngsters never got tired of listening to the same stories. He brought up a few generations, and all the cubs were the same -- curious and always ready to hear the story they liked one more time -- and then once more, and maybe again, later. Even if they already knew it by heart.

"Alright. Then listen."

He lay back, putting his head over his hands and facing the night sky; Third, meanwhile, crouched closer, until his side was pressed to Fenrir's, and put his muzzle was over Fenrir's chest. The eyes of Third were closed; he was in excited concentration.

"So there is this pack which called for us to help catch its prey. The pack is lead by the mad King. She is very powerful, very strong, very dangerous -- and very mad."

"That's not good for the pack," inserted Third.

"No. Their Second in rank is very powerful too. And he is loyal, as the only seeking male can be loyal. He smells of a dragon."

"What's a dragon?" Third asked, though he had already heard an explanation. But the rites had to be followed in full order.

"A beast. Big beast. Scaly. Vicious, savage...tough to hunt."

"Tougher than a bear?"

"Tougher. And there is another one, extremely strong. Smells of a snake. Remember snakes?"

"Yes. They show up only in hot summers. Have no legs. I must keep far from them, because they can make me very ill, and even dead."

Fenrir, of course, didn't know, that by fusing the captivating tale with the practical lesson, he proved himself a good teacher, even by human standards. And even if he did -- he wouldn't care.

"Precisely. Then, there is a horse..."

"Ah, horse. Food."

"Yes, food. But this horse is much more deadly than any other horse, and horses are dangerous food in general. Remember what I have told you?"

"Yes. Grab the throat instantly; if failed, keep away of the hooves as far as possible. "

"Correct. Then, another one smells of a strange thing. I do not even know what it is. Certainly not a living thing."

"Not edible, then," Third concluded. From his wolfish point of view, that meant 'Not interesting'.

"No, not edible. But listen further. The next one..." Fenrir shuddered, remembering the creepy, tainting feeling that the pink-haired pack member with gleaming green eyes had cast on him, "...is someone who smells of...I don't know, something like bad, spoiled earth. Poisonous. And bones. Dead bones."

"Bones. Can be food, if nothing else's left."

"Not this kind of bones. I said 'dead bones', and only live bones are edible," -- for a wolf, the difference between dead and alive bones was more than elementary and didn't require any additional explanation.

"Right. Dead bones are poisonous. Eating them would leave me very ill, and maybe even dead."

"Yes. Especially these bones. Now, the last one is..." Fenrir's upper lip curled in the instinctive grimace of scorn and hatred; it climbed up, causing his nose to wrinkle, and he spat the word: "...a cat."

"A cat," Third reflected Fenrir's expression, his eyes, now two half-opened narrow slits, showed pure blue hatred. "An enemy. Kill him."

"Kill him, absolutely. But be careful. One cat is bad enough, and there is another. A loner."

"Cats always are loners. Silly things," Third noted.

"Yes, and like it always is with cats, they can't stand the close presence of each other. They never unite, and they fight each other until there is only one of them. Even if they are of the same blood."

"Stupid things."

"Yes, but strong. Especially the loner. The King has even chosen him for her...I don't know, as some kind of husband, but not exactly, without fair fight. The Second in rank who seeks her, knows nothing about it."

"Really." There was an open interest in Third's eyes now; this he heard for the first time, since Fenrir hadn't found it interesting enough to tell before. And only now, perhaps under the influence of the conversation with the King, was the new topic triggered.

"Why is that? Why doesn't she let them fight?"

"I don't know. I told you, she's mad."

"Right. Only the mad King would choose a cat," Third grinned with all the spiteful irony that wolves were able to express. "Now, tell me about the magical fur."

This was the favorite part of the story for Third.

"Magical fur, yes. It makes me much more powerful than I am now. I can run as fast as you all, smell as good as you, and even better. I am invincible, when wearing it. The strongest wolf from all the packs in all territories. And when we slay that prey down, mad King promised to give that fur to me forever."

"And you'll forever be the strongest wolf around."

"Yes."

"And our pack will be the strongest pack."

"Yes. And the girls will stop refusing me," Fenrir added, a shade uneasily and more for himself than to Third.

"And then we can go and slay that weird pack, when you are undefeatable."

"Yes."

"And kill the cats."

"Yes."

"And others, too. Mad King is no good...and Uncle? Are the dragons and snakes food or not?"

"I don't know. Never tried. We can find out by ourselves, then."

"Right." Third had no doubt that his pack, supported by the magical fur of the Mentor, who was strong enough, by himself, could defeat anyone playfully. "At least a horse is food."

"Yes."

The short silence floated over the two still figures under the night sky.

"Uncle? But why can't such a powerful and mighty, like you've said, pack, get its pray itself? Why do they need us?"

He really is very smart, Fenrir thought. Much smarter than nearly every other wolf in the pack. It somewhat reassured him -- even if he didn't have children, the pack would have the next cunning Mentor anyway.

"I don't know," he thoughtfully said. "Probably because they are not as strong as they want us to think, after all."

"Probably. With cats and a mad King..." Third looked content with the answer. For a moment.

"Uncle? You won't let the mother get hurt in the hunt, will you?"

The intuition never worried the wolves, like how sleeping didn't either. Both things were common and natural for them ever since their birth and they never bothered discussing it or analyzing it's reasons.

"I won't," Fenrir put one hand over Third's neck, lazily stroking his fur. "Like always. Like in any hunt. The King won't die before I die."

"Right." Third closed his eyes again, content and confident. He knew that Fenrir always kept his promises and that knowledge alone was enough to make him feel fine.

* * *

On the day the pack met their prey, Third was among the first to die. Thus, he didn't see that Fenrir -- like always -- had not failed his promise.

The end