The Sacrifice
Ember ran through the gloaming of the woods with dried tears and blood on her face. She was the last. The others had died fighting, as was their way, giving their lives to the Beast to give her a chance.
Breakspear had been the first. The Beast had come up out of the very earth, a blasphemous intruder beneath the skin of the Mother, and torn him apart before he or the others even realized anything was wrong.
Moonjumper had howled and hurled himself at the Beast. Two thousand pounds of rage, caught and held and broken like a twig. Only then did the three remaining packmates understand what it was that stood among them.
Icewalker and Eats-Thorns drew on all their power, attacking with their gifts before attacking with their claws. Their roars were defiance and rage, but also a command. Ember was the youngest and swiftest. It could only be her.
She ran as the Beast reached into Icewalker and pulled his heart out through his mouth.
She ran as Eats-Thorns drew the spirits of the forest into herself and became greater than great, a giant of fangs and fury.
She ran as the howls of rage turned into howls of pain.
She ran through the silence.
The forest was ancient. It was their home and their friend.
The branches above parted instead of snapping and cutting her.
The roots below sank down instead of tripping and snaring her.
The beasts around fled instead of nipping at her heels.
The stones called to her, singing to her soul. The Glade wasn’t far now. Ember leaped over the wall of thorns and entered the sacred place. She sensed the peace and protection of the Mother, but also Her rage. The Beast was not far now.
“Mother above, hear me!” Ember cried out as she turned about swiftly in the ancient dance, calling on the power within her to take on the battle-form. “Death Bear, protect your child! Send forth your champion!”
The eyes of the totem-statue in the center of the Glade shined with a silver light. Ember laughed and wept and roared. Mangi the Warrior had heard her prayer. All would be well in the end.
Ember roared again and turned to face her own end.
The standing stones and the wall of thorns were just the superficial signs of the Glade’s true walls, the walls of power drawn up from the Mother’s life-spring and bound there in its defense. These walls struck at the Beast as she dared intrude the holy place. The Beast was anathema to the Mother, unliving flesh encasing a debased soul that itself encased a shard of hell. But the Beast was strong, her black blood full of power of a different kind from that which the Mother gave to her children. She laughed even as her dead flesh was ripped and flayed from her black bones. Then she cried out in a foul tongue and the walls broke. Thorns withered, stones splintered, power shattered.
Ember stared down at the Beast. The unholy thing was a woman of surpassing beauty, even now. Her tattered flesh was already mending itself. She was clad in nothing but mud, clay and blood. Her pale, perfect flesh was adorned with symbols, unholy glyphs that pulsed and gleamed. Her eyes were as red as blood, or fire, pure red all the way through. So was her hair, a contrast to the black and gold of Ember’s people.
The Beast stared up at Ember and smiled. She licked her lips and the tips of her fangs.
Ember howled and the Beast laughed, then they hurled themselves into battle.
That battle was short and brutal. When it ended, Ember lay broken at the Beast’s feet. She was trapped in her birth-guise of a human, denied the dignity of dying in the battle-form. But she did not beg or plead and only cried out once at the very end.
The Death Bear was not the only one who had heard Ember’s prayer. High above, a red raven wheeled about and sped away into the west with the tidings.
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