Chapter 5
RIVIK
The first deer went down under Jarak's jaws, clean and quick. The second bolted left and Miska took it at full sprint, bringing it down before it could reach the tree line. I'd marked the third—old buck with heavy antlers—and was closing in when Torin's growl split the air.
Fourth deer. Eastern ridge.
Perfect.
I changed direction mid-stride, trusting the others to finish what they'd started. Daska was already moving to intercept, his massive bear form a wall of muscle and fur that cut off the deer's escape route. The buck tried to turn, panicked, and ran straight into my path.
I took it at the throat. Quick. Respectful.
Four deer. Enough meat to help feed the pack for more than a week, and we'd hunted smart—taking only what we needed, leaving the rest of the herd intact to breed and grow.
Good hunt. Clean kills.
I shifted back to human form, fur shifting to human clothing made from the fur and leather of our prey and surveyed our work. The others were also shifting, moving to their kills with the practiced efficiency of wolves who'd hunted together since boyhood.
Then I heard Torin curse, sharp and pained.
I was moving before the sound finished, crossing the frozen grass in long strides. Torin was on his knees beside his kill, blood streaming down his forearm where the buck's antler had caught him—a ragged tear that went deep into muscle.
"Got careless," he said through gritted teeth. "Thought it was already gone when I moved in to finish it. Bastard had one last fight in him."
"Daska!" I called, and the big bear was already there, his human form not much smaller than his bear one, dropping to his knees beside Torin with his healer's pack already open.
I watched him work for a few moments. There was something about Daska in his element that always settled something restless in me.
I had seen those enormous hands crack skulls in bear form, so watching him at his healing work always amused me somewhat.
"Deep, but clean. Missed the tendon."
"Doesn't feel like it missed anything," Torin hissed.
"That's because you've got the pain tolerance of a newborn pup," Daska said mildly, and Torin barked a laugh despite himself.
Daska pulled a leather pouch of dried herbs from his pack, then set about cleaning the wound with water from his skin, packing it with dried yarrow and moss, binding it tight with strips of soft leather.
His movements were sure and unhurried, each one deliberate, and I watched the tension drain from Torin's shoulders as the healer worked.
That was Daska's gift. Not just the knowledge of herbs and poultices, though he had more of that than anyone I'd ever known.
It was the calm he carried with him, solid as bedrock.
You could be bleeding out in a ditch and Daska would kneel beside you and make you feel like the world had slowed down just enough to set things right.
"Keep it dry tonight," Daska said, tying off the last strip. “Try not to use it too much. I’d advise sleeping human form tonight, then shifting tomorrow to speed up the healing process.”
I turned to the others, happy the wound wasn’t serious. It was a decent few days travel back to the camp, especially laden with our kills. Having one of our hunting party seriously wounded would have been unfortunate.
"Jarak, Miska, you take those two over there, Fen, help me with this one. We need to work fast before that storm hits."
We fell into the rhythm of simple butchery: opening bellies, removing organs, sectioning the best cuts for transport.
It was brutal work, bloody and exhausting, but necessary.
Meat this fresh wouldn't last long without proper smoking, and we had four carcasses to process before the weather turned. Certain offal and organs were discarded, and the blood of the animals was allowed to drain into the earth below, returning their spirits to the Great Mother. Its spirit would return to her sacred realm, drink from the healing waters and be reborn again when spring returned to the earth. I murmured the proper words of thanks as I cut into the carcass, thanking the animal’s spirit for its sacrifice.
Daska finished with Torin's arm and came to help with my buck. He was still in human form, but even without the bear's strength he was broader and more heavily muscled than any of us. He lifted the hindquarters like they weighed nothing.
"Nice hunt," he said, grinning at me. "Thought for a second there you were going to let that old buck get away."
I snorted. "Please. I had him the whole time."
"Sure you did. That's why you needed me to cut him off."
"I was herding him toward you. Strategy."
Daska laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Right. Strategy. That's what we're calling it now."
I grinned and kept working, the easy banter settling something in my chest. This—this was pack. Brotherhood. The kind of bond that didn't need words to be solid.
"How's Torin's arm?" I asked after a moment.
"Deep, but not dangerous. He'll be fine in a few days as long as he keeps it clean and doesn't do anything stupid." Daska glanced over to where Torin was helping Jarak despite the injury. "So probably infected by tomorrow."
I laughed. "Probably."
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, hands moving through familiar motions. Daska was efficient—precise in a way that came from years of training as a healer, but strong enough to handle the heavy work without breaking stride.
"Think we can get all four processed before dark?" he asked.
I glanced at the sky. Heavy clouds rolling in from the north with the promise of heavy rain. "We'll have to. That storm's going to hit hard. We’ll need shelter and to avoid the river valleys."
"There's a cave," Daska said, nodding toward the hillside behind us. "Saw it on the way in. Should be big enough for all of us if we need shelter."
"Check it," I said. "Make sure it's stable and empty, with good air flow. We'll need somewhere to smoke the meat regardless."
He nodded and moved off, and I turned back to the carcass, my hands red with blood and my breath steaming in the cold air.
Four deer. Good hunt. Everyone safe.
Well. Mostly safe. Torin would have a scar and a story, but he'd be fine.
Could have been worse. Deer that size can gut a wolf if they catch you wrong.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the work.
By the time we had the meat sectioned and the drying racks built, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon.
Daska had confirmed the cave was sound—deep enough for all of us, no signs of bears or mountain cats, stable rock overhead.
We'd moved everything inside: the racks, the meat, our packs, and built a fire that crackled and smoked, filling the cave with warmth and the rich smell of venison.
I positioned the racks carefully, making sure the smoke would cure the meat without cooking it, then settled near the fire with the others. My hands were still sticky with blood despite washing them in snow, my muscles pleasantly tired from the hunt and the work that followed.
This was the best part—the aftermath, when the hard work was done and we could eat and rest and enjoy what we'd accomplished.
Daska dropped down beside me with a satisfied grunt, stretching his legs toward the fire. "Four deer," he said, grinning. "Not bad for a day's work."
"Could have been five if you'd moved faster," I said.
He shoved my shoulder, laughing. "Could have been three if I hadn't saved your ass."
"I didn't need—"
"You absolutely did."
The others were watching us with varying degrees of amusement, and I felt the warmth of pack settling around us like a blanket.
Jarak was already threading meat onto sticks for roasting.
Miska had found a skin of something fermented from the last trade gathering and was passing it around.
Even Torin, his arm bound and probably throbbing, looked pleased with himself.
"To the hunt," I said, raising the skin when it came to me. "And to pack."
"To pack," they echoed, and we drank.
The drink burned pleasantly going down, harsh and warming, and I passed the skin to Daska. He took a long pull, then handed it back to Miska.
Before the main part of the meal, I passed around a stick with chunks of raw liver skewered on it.
The others had been carefully packed away, but as the hunters, we were entitled to some of the choicest morsels as our reward for a good job done.
Each took a piece, and I took the last, chewing on the rich, raw meat.
The liver was good—iron-rich and tender, the taste of it primal and satisfying in a way that cooked meat never quite matched.
I swallowed and licked the blood from my fingers, watching the fire throw shadows across the cave walls.
Jarak pulled the first of the roasting sticks from the fire and tore into the meat with his teeth, grease running down his chin. "Gods, that's good," he groaned. "Better than anything we've had in weeks."
"That's because you've been eating Miska's cooking," Fen said, and Miska threw a bone at his head.
"My cooking is fine."
"Your cooking is why I spend half my time shitting in the woods."
"That's because you eat like a starving bear. No offense, Daska."
Daska raised his hands in mock surrender. "None taken. Bears have excellent digestion."
The laughter that rippled through the cave was easy, unforced as we relaxed.
We ate the fresh meat roasted over the fire—rich and fatty and perfect after a day of hard hunting.
Daska had found wild onion and some kind of bitter herb that actually tasted good when roasted with the venison.
The occasional gust of wind blew through the cave, but we were facing away from the storm, and the fire burned steadily.
Outside, rain began to fall, quietly at first, then heavier, but we ate well, talking and laughing, the warmth of the fire and full bellies making the storm merely background noise.