Shoal slipped the furs off as she got out of the sleigh, and drew her pistol to load it. Her gloved fingers fumbled with the snap of her cartridge case; she tore the right glove off with her teeth. The cold air bit the exposed fingers to the bone. To her regret, the driver was starting to look hopeful. He thought she was going to do more than buy herself time to escape.

He hadn’t heard the old joke about outrunning a bear.

She looked in the open case. Lead would be useless. Silver might slow him down – probably not. Obsidian? No, blutblei. But she only had two left.

The line of white fire arced up, higher and higher into the grey sky, pregnant with snow. Whistbone was almost overhead now. The driver gasped.

No time for tactics. Shoal groped for a blutblei cartridge, tore one end off with her teeth and poured the powder down the barrel, spilling some as she shivered. She pushed the bullet in and rammed it and the wadding down.

Whistbone descended, as gaunt and swollen as a malnourished child.