Yet it was also true that in this time of the hunting drought, he alone had maintained his ratio of kills. This was because his telepathy was attuned to animals rather than to his own kind. Halfhowl had been the first wolf to recognize this, and had chosen Prunepit to be his elf-friend. Theirs was the closest bond between elf and wolf, and this was part of the reason their hunts were almost inevitably successful. Halfhowl never had to listen for Prunepit's directive, either physical or verbal; he knew it as fast as the elf did. He was always there when the elf wanted him, and there was no subservience in this; it was as though the desire to be there had originated with the wolf. Often that might be true; it did not matter. What mattered was that the two never miskeyed; they always acted with such perfect coordination that the other elves and wolves could only watch with muted envy.
The other part of the reason for success was Prunepit's identification with the prey. He could tell the prey's next move at the same time as the prey did, for animals did not think ahead in the way elves did. From a distance this made no difference; there was no catching the prey anyway. But in close action, the prey's specific dodge became critical. In the hunt just completed, Prunepit had in effect linked the minds of ravvit and wolf, allowing the two bodies to coincide.
The others of the tribe had chosen to believe that Prunepit was mostly lucky; it was hard for them to accept the notion that this elf who could hardly send to his own kind could be superior with other kinds. Thus Prunepit's status was higher among the wolves than among the elves. It seemed likely that he would in time turn to animal- healing as his life's work.
There was a commotion as they drew near the holt. Something had happened-and Prunepit felt a surge of dread.
Another elf would have known instantly what the problem was, but the vague dread was all that Prunepit could receive. It involved his mother, known as the She-Wolf.
Rahnee had led a party out to explore the nature of the allos, the big saurians who seemed to be swarming into this region. The allos were huge, vicious reptiles, not as efficient predators as the wolves, but their increasing numbers were making them a nuisance. When the horde swept through a region, hardly any other species of creature survived. The allos were normally solitary hunters, and their relative clumsiness enabled them to prey mainly on the old, the infirm, and the unlucky. Now, their numbers increased perhaps a hundredfold, they required no subtlety of approach; they saturated the range, snapping up everything that moved. Migratory prey had all but disappeared, if its migration took it through the infested regions.
It was obvious that blind, ravening hunger would bring the allos to the region of the Wolfriders, for here the hunting had until recently been good. Now it was not-because of the depredations of the allos-and it was likely to get much worse. What would the reptiles hunt, after the last legitimate prey was gone? The answer just might be: elves.
So Rahnee had gone out to assess the menace-and now there was a commotion, and no sign of her wolf, Silvertooth.
Softfoot hurried out to intercept Prunepit. 'Your mother-' she cried. 'Silvertooth is terribly injured, and-'
Then he knew. Rahnee was dead, and the tribe was without its chief.
It was worse than that. Rahnee's party had included the best hunters of the tribe-and most of them were dead too. There was no obvious prospect for new leadership. Rahnee's lifemate Zarhan was loyal and good, but he had no interest in taking her place. Prunepit, her son, seemed to follow his father's temperament. He had never imagined challenging her
for leadership, and would have felt disloyal to try for it now that she was dead. Even had he not felt this way, he would have known that no elf would follow a leader who was defective in sending; how could the tribe coordinate in times of crisis? He did not grieve for Rahnee as a son might, for they had not been really close after he grew up. But her loss was tragic for the tribe, and he wanted to steal no part of her glory. Still, there had to be a leader, for the dread allos were swarming closer, and in a few days would be here.
In the confusion of the horror of the disaster, one voice emerged with clarity. This was Wreath, the loveliest of the younger female elves, the object of much male interest. She was brave, beautiful, and cold; her fair hair framed her face like a lattice of snow. It was said that her heart was formed of extremely pretty ice. She had never, to Prunepit's knowledge, done anything for anyone other than because of calculated self-interest. She was a fine huntress, adept with the bow, but had no pretensions toward leadership; it seemed that that would have been too much work to suit her. When she encountered a male routinely, her inclination was to inhale,. smile, and give her magnificent cloud of hair a careful toss, causing him to catch his breath and lick his lips while his heart accelerated. Her own heart never fluttered, however. In short, she was a flirt, not a leader. She had been looking for some time for a companion, but had wanted to be absolutely sure she had the best match. That meant Recognition-and it hadn't come. Perhaps, Prunepit thought, that was just as well.
'Why don't we choose as chief the one who can stop the menace of the allos?' she inquired brightly. 'Because if we don't stop them, soon they will wipe out all the prey in our forest, and then we'll starve.'
This made so much sense that the others were amazed. Why hadn't any of them thought of it? There was a murmur of agreement.
'So who knows how to stop the allos?' Wreath inquired.
That was where it went sour. No one had any notion. The allos, according to the description of the survivors of the party who had straggled home, were big, vicious, and numerous. No single Wolfrider could stand against an allo in combat, and indeed, their best hunters had been savaged as a group. The elves were simply outmatched.
'If we don't get a leader,' Wreath pointed out, 'we shall have to flee our holt.'
But no elf stepped forward. If the She-Wolf had been unable to stop the menace, how could any of them?
The tribe spent a glum night. Softfoot stayed up late, talking with Prunepit. 'There has to be a way!' she kept saying. She was a warm, understanding person, lovely in her personality rather than her appearance. Her hair was like a fuzzy, dark blanket. Her feet had seemed malformed in her childhood; they had in time grown normally, but she was not swift on them and was a much better rider than runner. She was good with the spear when on her wolf. She alone of the tribe had appreciated Prunepit's strength and had not perceived him as mentally stunted. It had not been hard for him to love her, and he had never regretted their association.
Reluctantly, Prunepit spoke. 'I think there might be-but if I'm wrong, it would be even worse than now.'
She virtually pounced on him. 'A way! What way?'
'You know how I hunt by relating to the prey,' he said, 'and by putting it in touch with Halfhowl.'
'Yes, of course; you have never received proper credit for your skill.'
'Well, if I could relate to an allo, then we could hunt allos. That would give us and our wolves suitable prey, and help reduce the numbers of the reptiles, until the normal ratios of animals returned.'
Softfoot shook her head. 'You couldn't hunt an allo, Prunepit! They say that a single allo killed Rahnee and two
other hunters and two wolves, and it wasn't even the largest allo! Those monsters have horny scales that make them almost invulnerable to our weapons, and their teeth are horrendous. We can't even recover Rahnee's body from them.'
'They are like snakes,' he said doggedly, suppressing the thought of his mother's body; there was indeed nothing the elves could do about that. 'That means they are slow to move in the cool morning, and not too smart. They can't have armor on their eyes. If we knew how to avoid their teeth and claws, we should be able to score on a weak point. And I do know.'
She began to be swayed. 'You aren't afraid? An allo is no ravvit, you know; it's a predator.'
Prunepit's mouth was dry. 'I'm terrified. But we have to find a way to fight allos, and I think I can.'
'Sleep now,' Softfoot decided. 'If you still think the same in the morning, we'll talk with someone.' This was her way: to consider something, then sleep, and reconsider. It seemed to work well enough. She had done it when they had become lifemates, taking time to be certain. Prunepit was glad to have her doing it now. If she concluded that his notion was viable, in the morning, then perhaps it was. He had spoken forthrightly enough, but the thought of hunting an allo made his body cold.
'I think we should test it,' Softfoot announced in the morning. 'But not on an allo.'
Prunepit hadn't thought of that. He liked the notion. 'What can we test it on? There isn't any prey near.'
'On mock-prey,' she said. 'One of the wolves, maybe. If you can catch a bit of leather the wolf holds between his teeth, when he knows you are trying to do it and doesn't want you to-'
