Doomstalker by Glen Cook

hunt, though, being lazy as a species. Vegetables neither ran nor fought back. The only adventure in a kropek’s life was its long vernal and autumnal migrations.
    The meth of the upper Ponath hunted kropek only in the fall. In the spring, for the months bracketing the mating season, kropek flesh was inedible. It caused vomiting and powerful stomach cramps.
    A young huntress raced into the packstead. The forerunners of the migration had been spotted in the high Plenthzo Valley, following that tributary of the east fork of the Hainlin. The near part of that valley lay only twenty miles east of the Degnan packstead. Excitement reached new heights. The kropek had not passed down Plenthzo Valley in generations. The good broad bottomland there made travel easy but gave meth room to maneuver in the hunt. There were natural formations where the migration could be brought under massed missile fire, the hunters remaining safe from counterattack.
    Kropek were feisty. They would charge anything that threatened them — meaning mainly meth, for the meth were their most dangerous natural enemy. A meth caught was a meth dead. But meth could outrun and outsmart kropek.
    Most of the time.
    Huntresses double-checked weapons held ready and checked a dozen times since the season began. Messengers went out to the neighbors, suggesting meeting places. Males shouldered packs and tools. Pups being taken out to watch and learn scooted around, chattering at one another, trying to stay out of sight of those who ordered chores.
    Skiljan finally gave Marika the light bow she had been hoping was meant for her. “You stay close, pup. And pay attention. Daydream around the kropek and you will find yourself dreaming forever. In the embrace of the All.”
    “Yes, Dam.”
    Skiljan wheeled on Kublin. “You stay close to Bhlase. Hear me? Do not get in the huntresses’ way.”
    “Yes, Dam.”
    Marika and Kublin exchanged glances behind Skiljan’s back, meaning they would do what they wanted.
    A paw slammed against Marika’s ear. “You heard your dam,” Pobuda said. Her teeth were bared in amusement. “Put those thoughts out of your mind. Both of you.”
    Damned old Pobuda, Marika thought. She might be wide and ugly, but she never forgot what it was like to be young. You could not get away with anything with her around. She always knew what you were thinking.
    Skiljan, and Barlog from Gerrien’s loghouse, led the way. They set a pace the pups soon found brutal. Marika was panting and stumbling when they reached the Laspe packstead, where the Laspe huntresses joined the column. Marika did not, as she usually did, study the odd structure of the Laspe stockade and wonder why those meth did things so differently. She hadn’t the energy. She had begun to realize that carrying a pack and bow made all the difference in the world.
    Pobuda trotted by, mocking her with an amused grunt. Though Pobuda’s pack weighed thrice what Marika’s did, the huntress was as frisky as a pup.
    Marika glanced back at Kublin, among the males. Her littermate, to her surprise, was keeping pace with Zambi. His face, though, betrayed the cost. He was running on pure will.
    The pace slackened as they went up into the hills beyond the Laspe packstead. The scouts raced ahead, carrying only their javelins. The huntresses moved in silence now, listening intently. Marika never heard anything.
    An hour later the Degnan and Laspe joined three packs corning up from the south. The enlarged party continued eastward on a broad front, still listening.
    Marika finally surrendered to curiosity and asked why.
    Skiljan told her, “Because kropek were spotted in the Plenthzo Valley does not guarantee that that is the route to be followed by the main herd. It could come some other way. Even over these hills. We do not want to be caught off guard.” After walking some dozens of yards, she added, “You always hear the herd before you see it. So you always listen.”
    The pace remained slow.