Watcher of the Dead by J. V. Jones Page A

squatting by the creature’s head. The eyes and soft
tissue around the muzzle had mummified in the dry air, and drift snow
had compacted in the Y of its splayed rear legs.
    You did not need to be a listener to
know it for an ill omen.
    It was Nolo who had found the bear.
Nolo’s dogs had sniffed out the carcass—most unluckily
for Nolo as they were leashed to his sled at the time. In their
excitement, the dogs capsized the sled and scattered Nolo’s
load of willow cords and blocks of frozen whale oil. Nolo was thrown
from the runner, landing hard on the river ice. By the time he got to
his feet, the dogs and the empty sled had reached the carcass a
quarter league downstream. Straightaway Nolo knew something was
wrong. Hungry dogs didn’t stand three feet away from a
potential meal and howl like half-crazed wolves. Hungry dogs ate.
Nolo was young and still distracted by the pleasures of his new wife,
but even he knew that.
    Glancing at the rising sun, Sadaluk
drew himself upright. His elbow joints creaked—a recent
development that both bothered and delighted him. Age was his
stock-in-trade, and it did not hurt a listener to have a body that
snapped as it moved. Reminding the young of their youth was one of
his tasks. Still, it did not mean that he liked lying within his
sleeping skins every morning, waiting for his body to start acting
like something that might actually take his weight.
    Sadaluk drilled his stick into the
snow, cleaning. Behind him he was aware that Nolo and the other five
hunters were waiting for him to speak. As was proper, they stood in a
half circle facing into the sun. All knew better than to cast a
shadow on a dead bear.
    When he was ready Sadaluk turned to
look at them. The river’s slip-stream riffled their caribou
pelts and auk feathers, and blew their exhaled breath against their
faces. All were winter-lean and strong-bodied. Kill notches on their
spears told of varying degrees of bravery and luck. Nolo was the
youngest, but none of the six were over thirty. Their faces were
still, but Sadaluk could see through the holes in their eyes to the
fear that slid between their thoughts.
    â€œNolo. Retrieve your dog whip.â€

CHAPTER 1
    Departures
    RAIF SEVRANCE RETURNED from the
deerhunt to find the lamb brothers breaking up camp. A sharp wind
cutting from the east pushed the men’s dark robes against their
longbones. The rising sun shone along the same path as the wind,
creating shadows that blew from the brothers like sand off dunes.
    Four of the five tents had already been
reduced to skeletons. Hides and guideropes had been stowed. The
corral was still standing, but the mules and the ewe had been strung
on nooselines and led to graze. Frost had grown overnight on the
tough winter rye, yet the lamb brothers’ animals knew enough
about hardship to take their meals where they found them. Warmer
temperatures during the day had melted most of the surrounding ground
snow, but lenses of ice were still fixed between the rocks.
    Raif approached camp from the forested
headland to the east. He’d opened and drained the deer carcass,
but he could still smell its blood. It was a yearling. In a moonless
hour past midnight he’d found her stealing milk from her dam.
Her mother had just given birth and by rights the milk was for the
newborn. The yearling had other ideas, and kept butting aside her
younger brother to get to the udder and the rich green milk leaking
from the teats. It had been a difficult kill. Three hearts beating in
close proximity. Raif had known straight away which animal he
wanted—the newborn and the dam were not for him—and he
had been forced to wait under cover of a stand of hemlock until his
target moved clear of the group. He had thought about taking the shot
when the yearling stood directly in front of the dam. Part of him had
wanted to test himself. See if he could skewer two hearts with one
arrow. Yet if he