Lost Creek Hollow It was in Vienna

Ambra is at his side within moments, hissing softly at the sight of his open flesh. No matter what she does, this will scar. The edges of the wounds are ragged.

She says nothing as she urges Amadeus into the relative shelter of an old windthrow. Then reaching roots of the fallen tree look a hundred arrows piercing a carcass.

She cleans the wound, pressing mouthfuls of snow against the flesh and letting it melt. Fur is licked flat so that it does not stick when the pink meat begins to weep. There is no pharmacy to speak of, but she has spent the morning stripping willow bark - something she chews into a rough paste now, working so fast that sharp splinters bruise her gums and palette. The rudimentary poultice is pressed into Amadeus' shoulder as he rests on his side.

"A shameful and cretinous man did this," she says, putting weight on the paw that rests on her brother. "He will surely be struck down."