This growl, which continued to rumble in his throat, was his trademark, the trait which had given him his name. Unlike his packmates, who hunted in silence, Bloodsinger's eagerness while on the scent expressed itself in growls or small yips of anticipation. Needless to say this tended to spook the game prematurely, but his strength and speed allowed him to make the kill even after giving his prey a warning. It was dangerous to warn the man-pack, or so his elf-friend had told him when they stopped hunting together. An involuntary growl might be annoying on a hunt, but it would be disastrous on a mission of stealth. Bloodsinger did not object or even follow his rider at a hidden distance; he didn't hunt the man-pack. Normally he shunned their range, as did most of the wolf-pack; it was easy enough as the man-pack never tried to hide their stench.

Now, however, he was being called and called desperately into the man-pack's territory. While the wolf never sought out a fight, he would not swerve from protecting what he considered to be his, and that included not only the wolf-pack but his elf-friend and Wolfriders as well. If the humans wanted trouble, he'd make it for them.

Another sending came, and the wolf altered his course slightly. Even though this call was even weaker than the second, the beast sensed he was nearing his objective and slowed to a trot. Loyalty was fine, but his natural cunning told him to investigate the situation before rushing in blindly.

At last he saw his rider and drew to a halt, his ears cocked forward in query. Something was wrong. The elf was on his feet, but holding onto a tree limb with both hands for support. Following the instinct which lets predators avoid sick animals, the wolf circled to study his elf-friend more closely.

Midway around, Bloodsinger saw and understood the problem. One of the man-pack's throwing fangs protruded from his elf-friend's back. It was as long as the elf was tall, and heavy, too, as it sagged to the ground. Reassured that it was not sickness or madness which made his elf-friend tremble, yet concerned by the blood-on-metal smell of the glade, the wolf whined and drew closer.

"Bloodsinger ... you're here... Good. ... I was afraid you ..."

The beast didn't understand the words, but felt the emotion of relief behind them. While the joy of meeting was shared, Bloodsinger was still perturbed by the throwing fang. A throwing fang meant dead-meat, but his elf-friend wasn't— couldn't be—dead-meat.

Seizing the throwing fang in his mouth, Bloodsinger tried to remedy the paradox the only way he could: jerking his head from side to side until the two were no longer connected. It worked and the throwing fang wrenched free, but his satisfaction was overridden by a sudden dark sending from his rider who arched in pain-tension for a moment, then hung weakly from the tree branch.

Dropping the stick, the wolf tried to lick the wound, but the elf threw a groping arm across him and drew him into eye. contact.

"Bloodsinger ..."

The wolf waited as the familiar weight shifted into his back with uncharacteristic slowness, but instead of feeling the balanced poise of his rider, the burden suddenly went limp and still. After a few moments, the strangeness of the situation began to vex the animal.

No orders. No low conversation. Not even a guiding pressure from the knees. What did his elf-friend want?

Bloodsinger was already aware that something was seriously wrong with his elf-friend, but was unsure of what to do about it. When a wolf feels unwell, he usually pulls apart from the pack to heal or die. His rider, however, had specifically summoned him. Did he want company? Companionship?

Partly in an effort to comply with his rider's probable wishes, and partly in an effort to get help in a puzzling situation, the wolf decided to carry his rider back to the Father Tree, where the other elves made their lairs. Yes. That was a good plan. Did they not pull painful thorns and such from between toe-pads?

Bloodsinger turned toward his decided destination, but was forced to halt almost immediately as his burden lurched sideways across his back. There was a moment of cold predator appraisal, but then the decision was reached that the distance was too great to drag his rider in his jaws. With a whine, the wolf started on his journey once more, walking slowly this time and choosing his path carefully so as not to dislodge his delicate load.

Beehunter was the first at the holt to realize anything was wrong. Picking his way along one of the upper branches of the Great Tree, his eye was suddenly drawn by a movement along the creek-bed. It was a wolf, and in a moment he identified it as Bloodsinger. That in itself was unusual, for their wayward chief's wolf-friend was seldom seen these days, much less near the holt. And what was he doing? The beast was moving unnaturally slow. He wasn't tracking or hunting for his head was held high, so what— Then Beehunter saw the figure on Bloodsinger's back.

Before Beehunter reached the ground, his sending had alerted the holt, and the elves gathered around the wolf and their chief. Even as they eased Mantricker to the ground, dark glances were exchanged, for the terrible wound was all too apparent, and the tribe's healer was off with the hunt, as was the chief's lifemate. Though the spark of life still flickered, there was not a one of the assemblage who doubted it would soon fade, though none cared to state it out loud. The Wolfriders never died a peaceful death; when death came it was invariably a sudden and unexpected guest.

"Father!"

The small crowd gave way as Bearclaw dashed to the chief's side. He assessed the situation with a glance and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Wolfrider.

"Quick. Get the hunters. Take Bloodsinger and—"

"No."

Mantricker's voice was almost too weak to be heard, but it still carried the firmness of authority.

"But Father ..."

**It's too late, my son. Besides, the tribe needs meat now more than they need a chief ... at least, this chief.**

Bearclaw sucked in his breath sharply, but signaled for the others to stay where they were.

Mantricker tried to raise his arm, but tensed at the agony of the movement and it sank back to his side.

"Someone ... untie my topknot."

Bearclaw started to do his father's bidding, but his hands halted as if they had encountered a wall. He raised pleading eyes to the others, and Beehunter stepped forward to remove the chief's sign of office.

"Bearclaw shall ... be your new chief. He ... will be a better leader... than I was for ... he is closer to the tribe."

With tremendous effort, Mantricker raised his head and looked around the group. Seeing no objections, he closed his eyes and let his head drop.

**Learn from my mistakes, young chief. Do not let your duty set you apart from the tribe. Be with them, share with them. And the humans ... do not underestimate them. They are not so different as we think. They love their cubs. I was wrong to attack them unprovoked, even alone. There may even be a chance—**

Then there was silence. The total silence which can only be final. Mantricker was gone, his final thoughts as closed to the tribe as his life had become.

Bloodsinger rose and whined, his ears alert. He had also noted the passing spark. His elf-friend had become dead-meat, and that he knew how to deal with.

Silently, solemnly, the elves draped their dead chief's body across the back of his wolf, and watched as the beast bore it away into the shadows of the forest.

Bearclaw was the last to turn from the sight. When he did, he found the eyes of the group upon him, and tasted for the first time the pressures of leadership.

"There will be a howl tonight," he said. "Let the talking be done there when we are all assembled."

With that, he turned his back on the tribe and, like a wolf, went off by himself to nurse his pain.