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There he paused to eject the empty, make sure that there was no snow in the rifle bore, and reload. The blasting had stopped by then; after a moment, he heard the voice of Vahr Farg’s son, and guessed that the two surviving thieves had advanced to the blasted crest of the other ridge. They’d find the pack, and his tracks and Brave’s. He wondered whether they’d come hunting for him, or turn around and go the other way. He knew what he’d do, under the circumstances, but he doubted if Vahr’s mind would work that way. The Southron’s might; he wouldn’t want to be caught between blaster-range and rifle-range of Raud the Keeper again.

“Come, Brave,” he whispered, looking quickly around and then starting to run.

Lay a trail down this ravine for them to follow. Then get to the top of the ridge beside it, double back, and wait for them. Let them pass, and shoot the Southron first. By now, Vahr would have a negatron pistol too, taken from the body of the man in blue, but it wasn’t a weapon he was accustomed to, and he’d be more than a little afraid of it.

The ravine ended against an upthrust face of ice, at right angles to the ridge he had just crossed; there was a V-shaped notch between them. He turned into this; it would be a good place to get to the top….

He found himself face to face, at fifteen feet, with Vahr Farg’s son and the Southron in yellow, coming through from the other side. They had their packs, the Southron had the bearskin bundle, and they had drawn negatron pistols in their hands.

Swinging up the rifle, he shot the Southron in the chest, making sure he hit him low enough to miss the Crown. At the same time, he shouted:

“Catch, Brave!”

Brave never jumped for the deer or wild-ox that had been shot; always for the one still on its feet. He launched himself straight at the throat of Vahr Farg’s son–and into the muzzle of Vahr’s blaster. He died in a blue-white flash.

Raud had reversed the heavy rifle as Brave leaped; he threw it, butt-on, like a seal-spear, into Vahr’s face. As soon as it was out of his fingers, he was jumping forward, snatching out his knife. His left hand found Vahr’s right wrist, and he knew that he was driving the knife into Vahr’s body, over and over, trying to keep the blaster pointed away from him and away from the body of the dead Southron. At last, the negatron-pistol fell from Vahr’s fingers, and the arm that had been trying to fend off his knife relaxed.

He straightened and tried to stand–he had been kneeling on Vahr’s body, he found–and reeled giddily. He got to his feet and stumbled to the other body, kneeling beside it. He tried for a long time before he was able to detach the bearskin bundle from the dead man’s pack. Then he got the pack open, and found dried venison. He started to divide it, and realized that there was no Brave with whom to share it. He had just sent Brave to his death.

Well, and so? Brave had been the Keeper’s dog. He had died for the Crown, and that had been his duty. If he could have saved the Crown by giving his own life, Raud would have died too. But he could not–if Raud died the Crown was lost.

The sky was darkening rapidly, and the snow was whitening the body in green. Moving slowly, he started to make camp for the night.

It was still snowing when he woke. He started to rise, wondering, at first, where Brave was, and then he huddled back among the robes–his own and the dead men’s–and tried to go to sleep again. Finally, he got up and ate some of his pemmican, gathered his gear and broke camp. For a moment, and only a moment, he stood looking to the east, in the direction he had come from. Then he turned west and started across the snow toward the edge of the Ice-Father.