But Brant did.
As he circled, he noted the smaller paw prints, mere scratches in the crusted snow. They were too small to leave true tracks. Except for a few bloody prints, bright against the snow.
The cubbies had come out of hiding, come to their mother, nosed her cooling form, smelled her blood and pain. Brant knew that pain. There was nothing he could do to lessen that ache-only end it swiftly.
He slid an arrow from the quiver on his back. He warmed the frozen fletched feathers with his breath. He would make their ends swift. Better than to let them starve and freeze, locked in grief. He would finish what Sten and his man failed to do.
Brant moved away from the other men’s trail for the first time, following a new one now. Scratches in the ice. He would find the pair together.
Who else did they have?
Brant rose from one knee. He had been fingering a broken and bent twig on a bramblebriar bush. A pluck of black downy fur clung to it.
Frowning, he straightened. The hunt had stretched longer than he would have expected. He was deep in the wood by now. The whelpings were still on the move. Had they heard him, scented him? Fell wolves were known for their cunning, but the pair of cubbies were still suckling. Surely they were not so wise to this strange forest, separated from their own dark mountainous haunts of Mistdale far to the north.
Brant felt the pressure of time. Blind to the skies in the fog-shrouded forest, he had no way of judging the coming storm. But his nose sensed the snow in the air. He would not reach Oldenbrook before it fell.
Still, he continued. Turning back was not a choice. If the Way led into the teeth of the storm, so be it.
Clearing the patch of bramblebriar, he noted a dart of shadow ahead, a flicker from the corner of his eye. He froze in place, not even turning his head. He stretched his senses. From the edge of sight, he saw a flash, close to the ground, a pair of eyes.
One pair.
Where was the other?
From the clouded skies, large flakes of snow shed downward. It started as if it had been snowing all along. First nothing. Then all around, the flakes fell heavily, silently. It was as if the ice fog had simply crystallized and begun to collapse around him.
Flakes landed on his lashes, on the edges of his ears.
Too cold.
Rather than melting, they froze the flesh they touched.
Before Brant could react further, a small hare skitter-pattered right past his toes, fleeing to the left.
Farther in the forest, the fog broke enough to reveal a large buck bounding in the same direction, head low to the ground. Behind him, Brant heard something even larger breaking through the brush in a panicked scrabble.
Heading in the same direction.
South.
Soon Brant spotted more hares. A pair of fat badgers, driven from their dens, hurried by, all but scrambling over each other. Off in the distance, snow crunched and branches cracked, marking the passage of more and more fleeing animals.
Brant finally moved, obeying the forest.
What was amiss?
The snow fell thicker, burning with its cold kiss. Unnaturally cold. He might have missed it if he hadn’t stopped, his senses on edge. He dragged up his hood, protecting his face. He moved with a steady but swift gait. He didn’t know what had routed the forest with such panic, but he knew better than to ignore it.
His trot grew quicker, his heart suddenly pounding.
A pair of flicker deer flew past him, parting to either side of him. Something large growled farther to his left. Grass bear. But the anger was not directed at him; it was a blind warning to whatever had set them aflight.
Brant found himself hurrying, boots pounding through the iced snow, dredging through occasional deeper drifts. He used his shoulders and back to keep moving. The cold rolled over him-sinking into him, drawn in with every breath.
Ahead, a hare, which had been spearing ahead of him in zigzagging bursts, suddenly collapsed on its side. It skidded into the snow, shook a breath, then lay still.
Brant ignored his own thundering heart to stop at its side. He touched an ear, blue and frosted. He nudged the body with a gloved finger. It was stiff and solid. Frozen to the core.
Impossible.
Brant stumbled onward.
Snow blinded now. But he found more bodies in agonized postures or simply dropped in their tracks.
This was no natural cold. There was something behind him, cloaked in the storm, something of Dark Grace and deadly touch. He could almost smell the taint in the air-or maybe it was just the fear in the forest. Then again, maybe it was one and the same.
Then he saw them, off to the right. Two pairs of eyes glowed from beneath a leafless thrushberry bush. The cubbies huddled together, lost, panicked.
He would have to hurry. Each breath was now ice in the lungs. But he had come to honor the Way. Even what lurked in the storm would not stop him.
He notched an arrow, drew a full pull, and aimed for the first cubbie. He clutched the second arrow between his lips. Eyes glowed back at him. He saw their trembling, a mix of fear and cold. It spread to his aim. He tightened his grip to steady himself.
Still, his fingers refused to let go of the string.
Snow burned his exposed wrist where his coat sleeve had pulled up.
Cursing silently, he relaxed the tension and lowered his bow. With an exasperated sigh, he dropped the bow and spat out the arrow. His actions were foolish, a waste of precious breath, but the forest had seen enough death this day.
Brant undid the top hooks of his coat and used his teeth to pull the gloves from his fingers.
By now, the forest had gone silent again. All the animals had fled past him already.
He reached to his pockets and found the she-wolf’s teats, now thawed enough to squeeze. He massaged a bit of milk over his fingers, smearing them. Satisfied, he pulled his hands free and approached the cubbies’ hiding place. He held his hands out and made a small growled whine.
The whelpings backed from him, deeper into the bushes. They were dark-furred except for white-tipped ears, the better to hide in a den or shadowed nest. They would gain a winter’s snow white pelt only when full grown.
Brant held still. He had only the time to try this once. If they bolted, he would have to chase them down with bow and arrow. While he would honor the Way, mercy went only so far.
He waited for a full icy breath. Then noted one of the cubbies’ nose shift, tasting the air.
“That’s right-” Brant whispered gently. “You know your mama.”
A whine escaped the second, scared, testing.
The first cubbie, the one who tested the air, reached toward his fingers, sniffing and growling. The second huddled against it. Brant’s fingertips were at the first one’s black nose.
A fast nudge, and the braver cubbie licked its nose.
“You know your mamma’s milk,” Brant whispered with a growling whine of his own. “There’s no one you trust more.”
The pair trembled, caught between panic and hope.
Brant reached farther, sliding his palms between their flattened ears, filling their noses with their mother’s scent. The first cubbie continued to growl. Brant dared wait no longer.
He grabbed each cubbie by the nape of the neck and hauled them to him. They growled. The first swung around and bit him in the forearm, catching mostly coat but also a pinch of flesh. He pulled them to his chest. The cubbies struggled, but just as weakly as the first one’s bite. The pair was thin, half a stone each at best, exhausted to the edge of collapse.
He tucked one pup into his half-open coat, then shoved in the second. Using one arm to sling under them, he rehooked his coat.
The cubbies took solace in the darkness and were reassured by each other’s presence. They gave up their fight and settled together within the warmth of his coat.