Spirit Walker by Michelle Paver

edged along this branch-
He jerked back. Don't even try. The branch might look strong, but it'd take never his weight. This tree was a crack willow, and its wood was notoriously brittle. So not only had he picked the
    smallest
tree within reach, but also the most fragile.
With startling suddenness, the boar stopped. Torak found its silence almost more terrifying than its rage.
He knew that this would be a fight to the death-- and that he would probably lose. His axe, bow and arrows hung neatly on the holly, two paces out of reach. Hope drained out of him like water into sand. There was no way out. He was going to die.
Without knowing what he was doing, he put his hands to his lips and howled.
Wolf! Where are you? Help me!
No answer came to him on the wind. Wolf was far away on the Mountain.
And this part of the Forest seemed empty of people. No one would hear his cry and come to his aid.
Howling made him feel vulnerable, but in a strange way it also gave him strength. You are a member of the
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Wolf Clan, he told himself. You are not going to die like a squirrel up a tree.
Swiftly, before doubts set in, he cut a switch of willow a bit longer than his arm, and stripped it of side branches. He squared off the tip, then split its end lengthways to make a tight, springy fork. The distance to his weapons was about two paces. Maybe-
    maybe
-- he could use the forked stick to hook the thong at the end of his axe, and lift it off the holly.
Beneath him, steam rose from the boar's sweat-blackened hide as it followed his every move.
Luckily, the willow branch that extended closest to the holly was also the sturdiest. Torak edged along it as far as he dared, holding the forked stick at full stretch. It didn't reach far enough.
He edged back again. Whipping off his rawhide belt, he looped it around the willow trunk, knotted it, and grasped its free end. That let him lean out farther. This time--yes! He hooked the forked stick through the axe-handle loop, and slowly lifted it off the holly branch.
The axe was heavy. The forked stick bent--and Torak watched helplessly as the axe slid off the end and thudded into the mud.
The boar squealed, hooked its tusks under the shaft, and tossed it into the bracken.
Torak could not allow himself to be disheartened.
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Still at full stretch, he moved the forked stick toward his bow. Gently,
gently
he eased it under the bowstring. The bow was much lighter than the axe--merely a strip of yew wood strung with sinew--and he lifted it easily off the branch. As soon as he had the bow slung over his shoulder, hope surged through him. "You see that?" he shouted at the boar. "You didn't think I could do it, did you?"
Now for the arrows. Still gripping his belt, Torak strained to reach his quiver with the forked stick. He hooked it. It was light, a wovengrass cone, but as he drew it toward him it tilted, and arrows spilled into the mud. He jerked the quiver toward him--just in time to save the last three.
    For a moment he felt ridiculously pleased. "Three arrows!" he yelled.
Three arrows. To kill a full-grown boar. That would be like trying to fell a bull elk with a bunch of flowers.
The boar snorted and resumed its attack on the trunk. The willow didn't have long to go.
Crouching in the shivering tree, Torak struggled to take aim. Branches hampered his draw arm--he couldn't get a clear shot. . . .
He loosed an arrow. It thudded into one shoulder. The boar roared, but went on tusking the roots. That arrow had done as much damage as a gnat bite. Clenching his teeth, Torak loosed another. It
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glanced harmlessly off the thick skull.
Use your wits, Torak. Hit a boar on the skull or the shoulder bone and you won't do any damage. Hit
behind
the shoulder, and you've got a chance at the heart.
Another splintering crunch--and the willow lurched wildly. Now Torak was barely out of reach.
The boar wheeled around for another attack. Just before it charged, Torak glimpsed paler fur behind its foreleg--took aim--and let fly.