Thirty thousand years ago, ice was storming the planet. Among the species forced out of the trees and onto the steppes by the advancing cold was modern man, who was both predator and prey.
No stranger to the experiences that make us humana mother's love and a father's betrayal, tribal war and increasing famine, political intrigue and forbidden love, joy and hope and devastating lossour ancestors competed for scant resources in a brutal landscape.
Mankind stood on the cold brink of extinction...but they had a unique advantage over other species, a new technologydomesticated wolves.
Only a set of extraordinary circumstances could have transformed one of these fierce creatures into a hunting companion, a bodyguard, a solider, and a friend. The Dog Master by New York Times bestselling author W. Bruce Cameron is an evocative glimpse of prehistory, an emotional coming of age saga, a thrilling tale of survival against all odds, and the exciting, imaginative story of the first doga perfect gift for everyone who loves and appreciates humanity's best friend.
A Dog's Purpose Series
#1 A Dog’s Purpose
#2 A Dog’s Journey
#3 A Dog's Promise
Books for Young Readers
Ellie's Story: A Dog’s Purpose Puppy Tale
Bailey’s Story: A Dog’s Purpose Puppy Tale
Molly's Story: A Dog's Purpose Puppy Tale
Max's Story: A Dog’s Purpose Puppy Tale
Toby's Story: A Dog's Purpose Puppy Tale
Shelby's Story: A Dog's Way Home Novel
The Rudy McCann Series
The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man
A Dog's Way Home
The Dog Master
The Dogs of Christmas
About the Author
David Colacci has been an actor and a director for over thirty years, and has worked as a narrator for over fifteen years. He has won AudioFile Earphones Awards, earned Audie nominations, and been included in Best of the Year lists by such publications as Publishers Weekly, AudioFile magazine, and Library Journal.
Read an Excerpt
The Dog Master
By W. Bruce Cameron
Tom Doherty AssociatesCopyright © 2015 W. Bruce Cameron
All rights reserved.
The big mother-wolf and her mate had made a den in a small cave along the stream. She was heavy with her pups, and she and the father had left the pack to give birth. She had done this before — left to bear her young, tended to by her mate, only to return to the howling site when her pups were able to travel and eat solid meals. Memory and instinct were both guiding her now.
The male-wolf was out searching for food. It was still cool, this spring, and the air carried elements of ice and water, buds and new leaves, stale grass and lush shoots. She took a deep whiff of it, noting that though he had been gone some time, she could still smell her mate on the breeze. He was not far away.
A shift inside of her told her the time had arrived. The birthing would start momentarily. Suddenly extremely thirsty, she left the den and eased down to the stream and lapped at the clear water. This would be her last drink on her own for several days. Her mate would regurgitate all of her sustenance while she lay nursing. But right now she drank and drank, some primitive part of her calculating the need to take on liquid.
Her senses alerted her to a shift in the breeze. She heard it in the trees and smelled it before it stirred her fur, but by that time her head had already whipped around, her pupils dilating and her nostrils flaring.
The wind was now flowing straight from the direction of the den and it carried with it the scent of a killer. The mother-wolf could tell that the lion was approaching, whether by chance, or because it was tracking the tantalizing odor of the fluids that had started to leak from her.
She hesitated. Her instinct was to flee, but it battled with the urge to return to the den to give birth. She padded a few feet toward the den, then halted. No. The lion was coming from that direction, coming fast.
She turned and ran for the stream, which even deep with meltwater could be forded without swimming. She lunged across, her pregnant belly slowing her down, scrabbling up the opposite bank and hearing the lion hit the water behind her. She turned and the lion was upon her.
The attack was swift and brutal. The mother-wolf ignored the pain as lion claws raked her flanks and she twisted, snapping her teeth, trying to get the lion's throat.
Then a massive impact tumbled them both. Male-wolf had arrived and had thrown himself into the fray, slamming into the lion and seizing the feline behind its head. Yowling and growling and screaming, the two did battle.
The mother-wolf turned away and fled toward the den. She could not rejoin the fight; her only concern could be for the pups.
Her rear legs gave out when she was still two dozen yards from the mouth of the den. She crawled ahead, panting, while behind her she could hear the yelps and screams of her mate's final moments. The lion was nearly twice the size of the male-wolf — the outcome of this bloody engagement had been foretold the moment the feline found them.
She was still struggling toward the mouth of the den when the sudden silence behind her pronounced the end of the fight. She kept her eyes on the opening where a gap between rock and ground made for the entrance, dragging her useless legs, focused on getting to safety and not looking back even when her senses told her the lion was coming after her.
* * *
The man had never been alone. Not like this, not with no prospect of seeing another human as he made his way along the rocky bluffs bordering the slender stream. No prospect of ever seeing another human, not ever again, though that seemed impossible, even ludicrous. Of course he would return to his tribe, would be allowed to return. He could not imagine anything else.
But on this day, with winter still lurking in pools of crystalline snow in deep shadows and buds barely making their long overdue appearance on the trees, he was turning his back on his people, both literally and figuratively.
Just as they had turned their backs on him.
He had tracked along the stream for most of the day, trekking into unfamiliar territory. This was land that belonged to no clan — he was safe here.
He carried a pouch sewn from reindeer hide looped over his shoulder, and carefully extracted some dried meat to chew on while he walked. His mind was on rationing, stretching his supplies as long as he could, but his stomach was focused on hunger and the easy availability of food. As a sort of compromise, he did not use the smoldering horn dangling from his neck to make fire to heat his snack, as if depriving himself of that luxury was a relevant sacrifice. The horn was packed with coals and moss and, with a few sticks and leaves added every so often, would still be potent enough to allow him to make camp before dark.
He carried both club and spear and was watching the ground for animal tracks when he heard a strange, almost ghastly, grunting and hissing. Several creatures of some kind were just ahead. He stopped, tense — hyenas? His heart was pounding — though he had never seen one, he knew he could neither successfully flee nor fight a pack of hyenas.
A shadow crossed the path and he jerked his head upward as a huge bird ghosted out of the sky and landed to a chorus of loud hisses and furious wings beating the air. Less afraid — no one had ever, to his knowledge, been killed by birds — he eased forward.
There was blood on the trail, here. Something had happened on this path, something savage and brutal, with lion tracks and wolf tracks jumbled together.
He tightened his grip on his club and, drawn by the noise, went down to the stream and stopped. A flock of immense, hideously ugly birds, with deadly beaks and featherless faces, were pecking at what he determined was a dead wolf on the opposite bank. He had never seen them before, but he supposed these were vultures. He watched their greedy plunder of the corpse for a moment, his lips twisted in repugnance.
"Yah!" the man yelled. "Away!"
The birds all but ignored him, so he stooped and picked up a rock. He hit one and the entire flock took flight, beating the air as they strained to take off.
The wolf was completely torn apart — the tracks suggested the fatal injuries had come from a cave lion, whose immense paw prints sank into the mud, but the vultures had stripped the flesh to the bone.
The man knelt, puzzling it out. It appeared that there was a vicious fight on the other side of the stream, the lion taking on the wolf. The male-wolf was eventually killed in the battle right there where he lay. Yet the blood trail was on this side of the stream. What had happened over here, away from where the vultures had been feeding?
He studied the tracks. They told a contradictory story, both lion and wolf prints seeming to go back and forth to the stream. But the blood only went in the direction away from the banks, away from the dead wolf. How was that possible?
What if he had it wrong? What if there were two wolves? Both fought the lion. The shredded carcass of one canine lay where it died, on that side of the stream, while the other one fled to this side.
But a lion probably would not attack a pair of wolves unless they were pups, and, judging by the tracks, the surviving wolf was even larger than the dead one. But something brutal had occurred here. Also, where did the wolf go when it escaped? By all appearances, it had crawled off to die.
The corpse of the wolf on the other side of the stream was too picked apart to be of any use, but if he could find the other one and it was more intact, the man decided to harvest its fur. There was great honor in wearing a wolf pelt.
He cautiously followed the blood trail, his club at the ready. A wounded wolf would attack instinctively, though judging by the blood loss he felt fairly certain the other wolf would be dead.
The track led directly to a small hole in the rock wall — a dark semicircle where the rock pulled back from the soil like an upper lip curling to reveal an open mouth. Blood was smeared on the earth in front of the hole.
The wolf was in there.
He drew in a breath, considering. If he went in with a torch held out in front of him, the wolf could not attack without getting a mouth full of flame. He could at least assess the situation, and retreat if the wolf was aggressive.
Or, if he went in with the torch, the wolf might rip it from his hand and then tear out his throat.
This was, he reminded himself sternly, why he was a man, not a boy. A man needed to meet challenges such as these. He, he needed to meet the challenge. There were those who said he would not survive the year — he would not allow himself to prove them right by failing on the very first day.
He made a torch by winding dead grasses around the end of a branch. His heart was beating strongly in his chest, and when he lit the torch from coals in his fire horn, his hands trembled.
The wolf, he reminded himself repeatedly, was probably dead.
He shoved the torch into the hole in the rock, listening for any sort of reaction, but heard nothing. He could not see much past the flames, not from outside, so he squirmed in, hating how vulnerable he was as he pushed past the lip of the cave.
Inside, it was a narrow squeeze, and he was only able to advance if he remained on hands and knees. His palms picked up a sticky liquid as he crawled: more blood.
At a very tight turn, he had to climb over some rocks, and then a shaft of light fell on his shoulders. He glanced up and saw that a crack in the rock extended all the way up to the sky, many times a man's height and large enough in radius that had he known about it, he could have climbed down it instead of wriggling through the hole.
Starting with the crack, the cave was larger, tall enough for him to stand if he stooped, wide enough that he could not quite touch both sides with his fingers if he spread his arms.
His torch seemed weakened by the light from the shaft, but just past it and the flames licked back the darkness with authority.
He saw the wolf, a female. She was lying on her side, her eyes closed. He stopped, holding his breath. Pressed up against her were three tiny pups: newborns. The mother-wolf's side had been raked by lion claws and glistened with blood.
She was breathing, though he could not tell if the pups were also alive.
Now he understood. It had been a fight to the death by a male-wolf defending a mother-wolf ready to whelp.
He stared at the scene, his vision becoming more clear in the dancing flames from the torch head. The mother had a white spill of fur on her dark grey face, looking a little like a man's hand. She was still motionless. If she were almost dead, the pups would never survive.
He needed meat — while he had never heard of anyone eating an adult wolf, the very young of nearly all animals could usually be made into palatable meals. He decided to take the pups and harvest the adult's fur. There were plenty of rocks he could use to finish off the mother, though judging by the way she looked — her eyes closed, her chest barely moving — she was very near to death.
Should he wait, or pick up a rock and get it done?
Tired of stooping, he knelt in the gritty sand. It was an awkward motion for him, and he made some noise as his knees hit the ground.
The mother-wolf opened her eyes.CHAPTER 2
Alarm coursed through the mother-wolf and she growled, struggling to her feet. A human was inside her den, a human and a fire. Instincts as old as her species told her to attack this threat to her pups.
Her back legs were not cooperating so she lunged with just her forelegs, dragging herself at him, her throat full of enraged snarling.
The man smelled frightened and made a lot of noise as he scrambled backward. The fire followed him. She registered the burning thing in his hand even as he tossed it wildly away, and then the human was in the part of the den where outside air and light flowed down from the roof. She went for his legs, her teeth ready to tear into his flesh, but he was able to climb up out of reach in a shower of small stones and dust.
She looked up at him, still growling deep in her chest. He was panting, but less fear was pouring off him. He was wedged up in the rocks like a leopard in a tree. She wanted to return to her newborns, but could not as long as this menace remained.
The tiniest squeal behind her told the mother-wolf that her pups were missing her, and her teats ached at the sound. She stared at the man, wanting him to leave the den so she could take care of her young.
"Hey," the human called softly. "Want some meat?"
The mother-wolf heard the man's sounds and they were reminiscent of the calls from the humans who often fed her. She growled again. The smell of the still-burning fire from the front of the den was upsetting, and this human reeked of smoke as well.
When something small and light fell from the man's hand, the mother-wolf backed away from it, then eased forward and sniffed suspiciously.
"It is reindeer. Eat it."
The flesh was familiar, if dry and tasting strongly of smoke, but it was edible. She crunched it.
"See? It is good."
So. This human was one of the kind who fed her. She looked him full in the face and saw the same raised eyebrows she had long ago learned meant no threat.
Nothing in her instincts would allow any animal, even a friendly one, into her den. But the lion's attack had altered everything. She could smell the faint odor of her mate's blood and knew intuitively that he would not be coming back. Her life's focus now needed to be her puppies. Nothing else mattered.
Another piece of odd meat fell. She ate this one without hesitation — something beyond hunger told her to take in all the food she possibly could. Then she turned away to drag herself back to her litter.
* * *
Later, the mother-wolf registered the grunts and scrambling sounds as the man moved around. She did not know it was the sound of him climbing up the shaft, that the cascade of small stones bouncing off the rock face was from his near fall as he groped for handholds. The scent of fire remained even as the man's smell abruptly faded from fresh to stale as the man succeeded in his ascent.
She closed her eyes, pushed away her pain, and let her young suckle at her side.
She awoke a short time later: The man was coming back, making noise as he squeezed through the entrance at ground level. She stiffened, her hackles rising, but her growl never made it past her throat. Her tolerance was learned behavior, overriding her instincts. She needed food and the man was providing. Now she smelled wet wood and, deliciously, water.
She was unhappy when the flames, which had died away, started flickering higher, shadows jumping up the walls again, but she did not move, watching the man in the steadily building light, as he crept forward with a log.
"You need water. I am going to pour it in the hollow here, in the stones. See?"
The mother-wolf registered the man sounds and then the enticing spill of water from the branch he was holding as he pointed it down. A small pool of water formed, close to her head, and her young made tiny peeps as she pulled herself forward with her two front legs, leaving them behind.
The man backed away abruptly, then cautiously returned when the mother-wolf lapped at the water.
"I will take the hollow log back to the stream for more."
The mother-wolf returned to her young, lying down with a groan. The pain in her flanks bit hard when she moved, though it dulled if she lay still. She licked her pups carefully before falling back to sleep.
* * *
The light building and waning as it filtered down the shaft, and the noises and smells coming in on the air currents, gave the mother-wolf the sense of days passing. During the daytime, the man was often absent for long stretches, but as night fell he would build a fire at the bottom of the crevice and remain until sunrise. She could not directly see him: a large pile of loose rock separated the den from the rest of the cave, but he was detectable by his scent. In the morning he would climb over the mound of rocks and toss her small pieces of the odd dry meat. He came very close to her, and she could eat without having to rise fully off the cave floor.
Excerpted from The Dog Master by W. Bruce Cameron. Copyright © 2015 W. Bruce Cameron. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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