The Bracken Woods The one of Ice

A young buck, not of caribou make, shot through the bracken wood from the south. He crossed the trail of the she-wolf and spun on his heel in the deft manner of a desperate animal; there was blood running down its haunch and its withers quaked with the effort to push harder and run, plunging in to snow, and away.

Some minutes later another section of snow erupted, and through the flakes came Kigipigak; breathing hard and clearly focused on the red streaks melting the winter path, he did not immediately take notice of the wolf scent nearby. He spun also, charging around saplings and over roots packed with white, only to lose the trail.

He cursed to himself and stood panting on the rise. His breath plumed around him. The stag had made a last feint and escaped — but off to one side of the trailhead, the she-wolf. Kigipigak gawked for a moment as he caught his breath, not yet able to speak.