Chapter 8: Old Frost's Valley

The high valley was a white bowl between three mountains, two days' climb above Saltmarket.

"Learn the ground before the pig does," my father used to say.

So Kell and I went up alone.

Tobiah stayed in town with our cores sewn into his cloak and orders to watch the Ridge wolves from the rooftops.

At the top end of the valley was a dark gash in the mountain where the snow had been churned into slush by something enormous.

"His trail," Kell said.

The tracks were the size of cartwheels.

I knelt and spread my hand inside one. My fingers didn't reach the edges.

"Still want to hunt a pig?" Kell said.

"More than ever."

We marked the ravines with knotted cords.

We paced the distance from the tarn to the narrows.

I drew it all on a scrap of hide with charcoal.

By late afternoon the sky turned the color of a bruise.

Kell started to slow.

His stride got shorter.

His hands stopped swinging.

When I asked him a question, he answered half a breath late.

By dusk he was stumbling.

"Cave," I said. "There's one under the north ledge. Come on."

I got him into the cave and got a fire going, but the wind came down off the mountain and found every crack.

The fire guttered.

Kell sat against the rock wall with frost forming in his black hair.

His lips were going blue.

I knew what to do. Every hunter knows what to do.

I just hadn't done it before.

"Take your shirt off," I said.

He looked at me slowly. "Gray Knife."

"I'm not asking twice. You'll be dead by moonrise."

He fumbled with the laces. His fingers wouldn't work.

So I knelt in front of him and undid them myself.

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