Free A Hero's Tale by Catherine M. Wilson

Soon I heard him crunch the bones. The other was rolling in the snow, to clean the gore from his winter coat.
    The black wolf stood motionless a few paces from the kill. He watched me, but he made no move as I approached. Without taking my eyes from his, I cut a piece of meat and began to back away. I had not practiced walking backwards. My feet in their webbed hoops tangled with each other. My arms flailed at the air, my bow went flying. Before I hit the ground, the wolf had leapt. We landed at the same moment, he on his feet, I helpless on my back. He was so close I could have touched him.
    I had never been more frightened in my life. The wolf was savoring the moment. His shining amber eyes held mine, as he wrinkled his lip at me in a half-snarl, half-smile.
    I had forgotten my companions. Face to face with my own death, I was alone. If I was going to die, it didn't matter what I did, so there was nothing left to fear. As helpless as I was, I prepared myself to make the wolf's victory as difficult as possible. Then I thought of Maara.
    Something new came into those amber eyes, a hint of doubt, a question. They saw that something new had come into my heart. After fear had come a burning anger, not that my life would be cut short, but that Maara's fears were coming true, as if this wolf were the embodiment of the doom that haunted Maara's life. My own death was bad enough, but Maara's grief outweighed it. Even knowing death was unavoidable, I would have fought it. For Maara's sake, I would refuse it. I would refuse to die.
    Against his will, the wolf looked away. Twice he tried and failed to meet my eyes. Ears flattened in submission, he dropped his head and slunk away.
    Urtik came and helped me to my feet. I had dropped the piece of meat that I had almost paid for with my life. I went to the carcass and cut another. The wolves were gone.
    The hunters came to butcher what was left of the doe. I would have helped them, but Worr saw my hand tremble that held the knife and told me first to eat my share. The raw meat filled my mouth with sweetness. It was as sweet as life itself.
    We kept our fire small. The six of us huddled close around it. While we cooked some of the venison, we talked together in soft voices, as if we feared to be overheard. Perhaps the wolves were listening. The forest certainly was. Its dark spirit, awakened from its winter sleep by our brawling with the wolves, hovered just beyond the reach of firelight.
    No one spoke of my encounter with my death, just as no one spoke of his own encounter. Each of us had faced his death that day. I saw in their eyes what they must have seen in mine, a thoughtfulness, a turning inward, to guard and tend the little flame of life that might have flickered out. No one boasted of his courage or gloried in our victory. When death comes so close, there is no making light of it.
    That day I had watched each man approach the wolves alone. At the time I didn't understand why we wouldn't use our strength in numbers. At first it had seemed like a game, one of those reckless, foolish games men play that make their women frown and shake their heads, murmuring their disapproval. Now I saw that it was more than just a game. It was a dance.
    When I first envisioned the hunters of the forest people standing on the edge of the abyss, I wondered what they saw when they gazed down into it. Each man seemed so alone and so defiant. They would not fall, as I had, into the arms of love. I could have no idea what they saw there until I had danced with them along the precipice, until I had peered over the edge. Not love, but power dwelt there, and these men drew power from it. I had drawn power from it. Daani too had once drawn power from it, and that was why she had given up the wolfskin. She who carried life within her could no longer dance with death.
    In the stillness of the forest, at the darkest time of year, a band of hunters sat around their fire, while all around them in the dark the wolf