Moon Called by Andre Norton

could believe Kort had tossed it so. Meat eater he was, but such a kill as this was too unclean to tempt him. Nor did she see that it had been disturbed by any of the scavengers which were quick to gather to any kill.
    The rain did strike again as they entered the lowlands, but not as a heavy storm, rather a soft drizzle, such as the farmers of the Craigs would have welcomed. This land was greening fast and there were bird songs. Thora held her face up to the sky, relishing the touch of the moisture on her skin. Though Malkin’s fur was soon plastered to her body even to that wild mass which crowned her head, she too did notseem to find this a state to cause distress.
    Before they reached the river the herd of wild cattle which had drunk there had scattered to graze. They were smaller than those with whom Thora was familiar. And she saw, sharing their pasturage, several ponies of the same breed the traders favored, dun gray of coat. Their manes were ragged and matted, as were their tails, and it was apparent they were not broken to the service of man.
    Kort kept well apart from the mixed herd, downwind. He had good reason to be wary of the cattle since they could be formidable opponents, especially with young calves among them. Also there was a bull—and, sighting the toss of that murderously horned head, Thora was very glad they were well away—even though this herd promised fresh meat for a hunter.
    The river was pocked by the falling rain, its waters swirling with a lacing of foam about large rocks which broke its surface here and there. Reeds stood tall and other water plants were near submerged to their tops, proving that the flood was above normal. Pieces of tree branch rode the swift central current and among those bobbed a flash of color which caught Thora’s eyes.
    Against the brownish water, in which mud and soil had thickened the flood, that was so bright it could not be missed. Something tumbled along there. Because it might be of importanceto learn more of this land Thora hastily stripped and, with a wave of the hand to Kort, waded in.
    The object was still upstream. She thought she might snare it with her spear when it came within reach, though she would not venture into the main current. As swiftly as she might stab at a salmon, she struck for that which she could now see was a roll of stained and muddied cloth.
    Thora was nearly jerked from her feet where she stood thigh deep in the river. That wavering strip of cloth was anchored to something far heavier, rolling beneath the surface. She held on, whistling for Kort. The hound splashed in and swam out to the bundle, as the girl fought the pull of the water until he could reach it.
    Kort’s jaws closed on a mouthful of the cloth, and Thora threw her strength into a pull. Together they worked the bundle out of the main current, into the shallows and so, finally, up on the bank. The cloth was red and badly torn. Beneath its concealment was a shape which Thora found herself oddly reluctant to reveal.
    When she knelt to see the better, she caught sight of thongs lashed around and about—an end of one dangled, badly frayed, as if the leather cord had been broken. Perhaps the bundle had been weighted down and the water torn it free.

    Kort sniffed and drew back. His head went up and he gave a death howl. Man—no. This was far too small to be the remains of one of her own kind. Thora forced herself to use her knife and saw free those lashings.
    Though it required vast determination, the girl tugged at the sodden cloth, peeling it back. Promptly she flung herself away, bile sour in her mouth, as she stumbled farther off still, to lose all she had put in her stomach that morning. The stench seemed to cling to her, so she scrubbed her body with handsfull of grass. When she had herself under control again and returned it was to see Malkin calmly using her spear to drag the rest of the cloth well away.
    There was no mistaking what the river had carried. These pitiful