Free The Dog Master by W. Bruce Cameron

the younger wolf dropped to all fours, turned, and ran. She had felt, in one second, both her superior strength and her inexperience coming to the fore. This was not a fight she could win. She might be larger but she was unskilled, and she was too young to mate. She could not be the dominant female at her age. It would not be good for the pack.
    Yet she knew she was fated to mate, eventually, that her size and strength meant the pack needed her pups. It was why Smoke had attacked, defending her rank, and it was why now, when the larger she-wolf wanted so much to circle back and rejoin her pack, she kept going, slowing but moving steadily. For the good of the pack, she needed to leave the very social order that had sustained and nurtured her for her whole life. It was her destiny.
    She could not calculate risks, but her instincts did a good job of giving her a heightened sense of danger, of urgency. She needed to find food quickly, not because of hunger—she had just fed—but because she was callow and still clumsy and utterly alone.
    After a time, the she-wolf stopped at a stream and drank. The pack was downwind and she could no longer detect its scent, or smell anything worth pursuing for a meal. Instinctively electing to conserve energy, she found a cool spot of shade and circled around in the grass, lying down for an afternoon nap.
    Soon she raised her head, staring alertly. She smelled them long before she saw them.
    Her two young male companions, coming toward her across a field of grass, throwing their fate in with hers.

 
    EIGHT
    The thin soup of two days ago had done little to ease the hollow hunger in their bellies, and now the Kindred hunt, twenty men in all, pressed a hard pace as they trotted out onto the plains in search of prey. They were breathing raggedly, especially those who fell out of line to squat and ease their cramps and then had to sprint to catch up.
    Hardy, hunt master, was nearly the oldest man among them, having spent a full forty summers hunting game on these steppes. Never could he remember there being so little to eat—just a handful of years ago there was enough game that the hunt would return to the settlement after only a day, dragging reindeer and elk behind them. Now they had been forced to cross the great river into Wolfen territory, though he was hardly worried about a confrontation—the Wolfen were as cowardly as the Frighteneds, and would run from the Kindred spear.
    There was an odd rocking motion to Hardy’s gait, as the leg on his left side, the woman’s side, turned awkwardly in its socket with every step. It was a pain that had bothered him his whole life, but he had never mentioned it, never told anyone that it was more than just a hitch in his step—it hurt, and at this pace felt as if he were being repeatedly stabbed, but he would not let up. He was hunt master and the Kindred were starving. His legend told of a man who was always strong and fit for the hunt, acknowledging his stocky build and broad chest—he would die before he would betray that legend.
    Urs ran easily on Hardy’s man’s side, while Vent—Aventus, “He Runs as Fast and Strong as the Wind”—kept pace on the woman’s side. Urs impressed Hardy; he could run for miles and then throw a spear on target without hesitation. Palloc was up front with them, trotting along a few steps back.
    Palloc did not impress Hardy. The spear master’s loud breathing was distracting—did the fool not understand that they all hurt, that they were all tired?
    Hardy signaled he wanted to speak to Urs alone. “What is it, Urs?” Hardy asked softly. “You have sighed like a woman several times today.”
    Urs gave a guilty start. “I was just thinking perhaps we should send the stalkers out ahead to find prey,” he finally responded respectfully.
    â€œNo,” Hardy answered curtly.
    â€œBut if they fanned out, we would be able to search far