The Youngest had to look twice to make certain his eyes didn’t deceive him.
But the pack of wolves was still there, tearing into the belly of a stag, too intent to hear his approach.
He hated this time of year.
Hunting season always started with the first snow.
The frost crunching under the hooves of his mare irritated him further into a foul humor. The trees were naked of leaves, but his eye caught the berries still hanging from the bushes.
The Youngest resisted the urge to dismount and gather them, for he could only imagine the scorn of his father if he came back with frozen blueberries.
His brothers were just like the old man, big men who loved the hunt.
Their father taught them everything he knew about the sport, and the son who returned with the largest buck or the most kills was the one he treated with respect.
His three older brothers were ruthless as they competed for his approval. Every winter, they slaughtered enough meat to feed their wives, children, parents, and him for a year.
The Youngest never stood a chance keeping pace with them.
He loathed hunting and always had.
He didn’t have the predatory instincts of his brothers and his wiry frame couldn’t withstand the sharp cold.
Hunting season was especially bitter because the old man never acknowledged what he did from spring until autumn.
The Youngest had a way with the soil of the high hills, always yielding more crops than other farmers in this harsh climate.
In the growing season, he was appreciated until the leaves dropped and the first snow fell.
Then his father’s pride would end.
In the winter, the Youngest was berated every day for coming back with nothing.
But the old man insisted he hunt.
He dared not defy his father’s wishes.
This would probably be his last winter.
Illness made his body weaker and his temper meaner every year, but it was the longing in the old man’s eyes that hurt the Youngest the most. He would give anything for his father to be strong enough to hunt in his place.
But that was impossible.
He was staring at the frozen bushes of berries when he found the pack.
It was early afternoon, the sun dim behind the clouds already gathering for the next storm. He considered going home early and warming himself at the hearth.
But his father would scold him if he came back too soon.
Fighting off his resentment, the Youngest sighed, the crisp air stinging inside his nose when he breathed in.
Then he tensed, suddenly alert. He inhaled again slower and deeper, making certain he hadn’t imagined the smell of blood.
There was a fresh kill nearby and he hadn’t heard any shots.
Peering through the trees, he spotted three wolves feasting on the stag.
Before he knew what he was doing, the Youngest had unsheathed his rifle.
Sweat broke out along his brow and he had to force his hands to stop shaking.
Just once, he could come home with something, the remains of the stag and the hide of a wolf.
He tucked the rifle under his shoulder, observing the pack before he took aim.
He learned from his father that it was best to shoot the leader first. Picking the largest gray, the Youngest peered down the sights and steadied his aim.
But the fourth wolf came out of nowhere, the impact knocking him off his horse.
The Youngest barely heard the blast shot towards the sky, the wind blown out of him when he hit the ground.
Then all he saw was a mass of fur as black as midnight, his rifle thrown from his hands.
The weight of the animal bore down on his chest, the Youngest crippled with terror staring into its teeth.
Lips quivered around those sharp points, blinding white against the fur. But he gripped the neck and pushed the predator away before its fangs snapped above his throat.
The Youngest wanted to scream, but his voice hardly made a whisper.
He couldn’t move, trapped in the ferocity of a lupine glare. He stared at his reflection in the depths of those black eyes.
Then a memory burst in his mind of a Shepherd and a talking wolf. His terror was gone, replaced with confusion.
“What in the name of…” he murmured, then in a clear voice. “What are you doing?”
The Youngest wondered if the Wolf recognized him as well.
The Wolf was suddenly off his chest, a low growl muffled in the back of his throat.
The Youngest sat up, dazed and staring at the Wolf trotting for his gun.
The Wolf turned and met his gaze again, black eyes almost invisible against his coat.
Then he picked up the rifle, clutching the barrel between his jaws, and sprinted through the trees.
