Another low growl came from the hound as Waylander eased a flap of skin back into place, and the beast struggled to turn its head, baring its fangs. ‘Lie still,’ ordered the man. ‘We’ll see what can be done.’ From a leather pouch at his belt Waylander removed a long needle and a thin length of twine, stitching the largest of the wounds, seeking to stem the flow of blood. At last satisfied he moved to the head, stroking the beast’s ears. ‘You must try to rise,’ he said, keeping his voice low, soothing. ‘I need to see your left side. Come on. Up, boy!’ The hound struggled, but sank back to the earth, tongue lolling from its gaping jaws.
Waylander rose and moved outside to a fallen tree, cutting from it a long strip of bark, which he twisted into a shallow bowl. Nearby was a slender stream and he filled the bowl, carrying it back to the stricken hound, and holding it beneath the creature’s mouth. The hound’s nostrils quivered, and once more it struggled to rise. Waylander pushed his hands beneath the huge shoulders, helping it to its feet. The head drooped, the tongue slowly lapping at the water. ‘Good,’ said Waylander. ‘Good. Finish it now.’ There were four more jagged cuts on the hound’s left side, but these were matted with dirt and clay, which had at least stopped the flow of blood.
Having finished drinking the exhausted hound sank back to the earth, its great head resting on its huge paws. Waylander sat beside the beast, which gazed up at him unblinking, and noted the many scars, old and new, which crisscrossed its flanks and head. The right ear had been ripped away some years before and there was a long, thick scar which ran from the hound’s shoulder to the first joint of its right leg. ‘By the gods, you’re a fighter, boy,’ said the man admiringly. ‘And you’re no youngster. What would you be? Eight? Ten? Well, those cowards made a mistake. You’re not going to die, are you? You won’t give them the satisfaction, will you?’
Reaching into his shirt the man pulled clear a wedge of smoked meat, wrapped in linen. ‘This was to have lasted me another two days,’ said Waylander, ‘but I can live without a meal for a while. I’m not sure that you can.’ Unfolding the linen he took his knife and cut a section of meat which he laid before the hound. The dog merely sniffed at it, then returned its brown gaze to the man. ‘Eat, idiot,’ said Waylander, lifting the meat and touching it to the hound’s long canines. Its tongue snaked out and the man watched as the dog chewed wearily. Slowly, as the hours passed, he fed the rest of the meat to the injured hound. Then, with the light fading, he took a last look at the wounds. They were mostly sealed, though a thin trickle of blood was seeping from the deepest cut on the rear right flank.
‘That’s all I can do for you, boy,’ said Waylander, rising. ‘Good luck to you. Were I you, I wouldn’t stay here too long. Those oafs may decide to come back for some sport -and they could bring a bowman.’ Without a backward glance the man left the hound and made his way back into the forest.
The moon was high when he found a place to camp, a sheltered cave where his fire could not be seen, and he sat long into the night, wrapped in his cloak. He had done what he could for the dog, but there was little chance it would survive. It would have to scavenge for food, and in its wounded state it would not be able to move far. If it had been stronger he would have encouraged it to follow him, taken it to the cabin. Miriel would have loved it. He recalled the orphaned fox cub she had mothered as a child. What was the name she gave it? Blue. That was it. It stayed near the cabin for almost a year. Then, one day, it just loped off and never returned. Miriel had been twelve then. It was just before …