Free Ghost Hunter by Michelle Paver, Geoff Taylor Page B

cow reindeer surged onto the other side of the island and charged at him. Wolf scrambled to avoid her. She threw down her head and lashed out with her head-branches. Wolf leaped. The head-branches missed by a whisker, spraying him with pebbles. He'd made a mistake. That carcass wasn't the mother. This was. Wolf shot past her and jumped into the Wet.

    As he reached the safety of the bank, he glanced back. The calf had ducked under its mother's belly to suckle,

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    but the mother was still glaring at Wolf: Stay away I

    Shaking the Wet from his fur, he scanned the herd for easier prey.

    He caught a distant bleat of pain. There. A young buck struggling to climb the bank. Its head-branches looked sharp as fangs: one swipe would gut an unwary wolf.

    But there was something wrong with its leg.

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    SEVENTEEN

    Torak spotted Wolf among the reindeer, then lost him again.

    Renn whispered in his ear: "These willows are too thick, I can't get a clean shot."

    He nodded. "If we can get down to those rocks by the river..."

    Silently, they threaded their way between the man-high trees on the slope. Through the branches, Torak glimpsed reindeer trotting over open ground toward the water. They ran as reindeer do, with muzzles raised and hind legs splayed, white rumps swaying from side to side.

    Beside him, Renn had taken off her snow mask. Her

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    eyes shone. He knew she was thinking of marrowfat, and baked haunch so succulent that when you bite it, the blood squelches between your teeth and runs down your chin....

    Stop it, Torak. You haven't got one yet.

    As it was still the rut, bulls kept turning aside to clash antlers, scattering cows and calves as they raced after each other. The biggest bulls had swollen necks and heavy manes from throat to knees; some bore bloody tatters on their tines, where the hide hadn't finished peeling. Torak saw shreds of it fluttering from branches at the edges of the thickets on either side of the gap. The reindeer shied from these, as they did from the turf men who stood with open arms on the hills and banks.

    Almost, thought Torak, as if they were herding the prey.

    He noticed that the reindeer weren't as plump as they should be. After grazing all summer, they should have had thick pads of fat on their backs, but these didn't. Torak saw a young cow drop to one side and make a pitiful attempt to feed, pawing the ice with her front hooves, before trotting wearily on.

    At last, he and Renn made it down the slope to an outcrop of boulders on the riverbank, surrounded by straggling willows. Torak saw reindeer jostling to get into the water. He saw moist pink tongues sliding over yellow teeth. He smelled musk, and heard the clicking

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    of tendons as hooves struck icy ground. He nocked an arrow to his bow.

    Renn pushed back her hood, fixed her eyes on her target, and took aim.

    Wolf bit hard and the buck with the broken leg went limp.

    In a frenzy of hunger, Wolf sank his teeth into its belly and loosed a flood of delicious, slithery guts. He gulped them fast, leaving only the pouch that smelled of moss. When the buck's belly was empty and Wolf's nearly full, he started on the haunches, biting off chunks of hot, juicy meat.

    The ravens alighted and hopped toward the kill. Wolf growled them away without lifting his muzzle. They stalked off to wait their turn.

    The hunger was gone: Wolf couldn't eat any more. He was thirsty. His muzzle and chest fur were sticky. Trotting down the bank, he snapped up the Wet, leaving the kill to the ravens.

    As he raised his head from the Wet, he caught the scent of taillesses. He sniffed.

    Not his taillesses.

    Other.

    Renn was about to shoot when her quarry stumbled in the shallows, and fell with a spear quivering in its ribs.

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    A spear.

    Torak met her startled glance and lowered his bow. Where had that come from?

    The spear had dropped the reindeer so cleanly that the others splashed past it, unconcerned. Crouching among the willows,