"Seven hells." He gave the leashes a hard yank to get the dogs´ attention. "Track, you bastards. That´s a bear print. You want some meat or no? Find!" But the hounds only huddle closer, whining. Chett snapped his short lash above their heads, and the black bitch snarled at him. "Dog meat would taste as good as bear," he warned her, his breath frosting with every word.
Lark the Sisterman stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked up into his armpits. He wore black wool gloves, but he was always complaining how his fingers were frozen. "It´s too bloddy cold to hunt," he said. "Bugger his bear, he´s not worth freezing over." "We can´t go back emptyhand, Lark," Rumbled Small Paul through the brown whiskers that covered most of his face. "The Lord Commander wouldn´t like that." There was ice under the big man´s squashed pug nose, where his snot had frozen. A huge hand in a thick fur glove clenched tight around the shaft of a spear.
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