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Into the White

By Searska GreyRaven

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Alaska at night was a chiaroscuro.

The great void had been cutting the moon away piece by piece for many nights, and tonight, it had finally swallowed the last sliver. It left behind only a shimmering trail of starlight that arched across the darkness, a rainbow of fragments, casting thin light across the white expanse below. Here and there, a few stubborn spruce trees reached through their shroud of white to grasp at the blackened edge of the stardust sky.

Snow and sky. In every direction, nothing but snow and sky.

Well, almost nothing.

A pair of shade-drawn lines marred the endless white. Ribbons of powdered snow ghosted between the ruts, slithering across diamond-studded dunes of white and leaving behind wisps of pearly rime. They hissed and recoiled as a swift shadow blurred past them. A dog sled, mounted by a single animus hound musher, raked away another layer of frost as it sped along the ruts in the snow. The cold bit and worried at the animus-hound's heavy boots, but toughened leather and heavy woolen socks were armor; such minor avatars of the North could not penetrate it.

The hound, you see, was prepared.

One final push. God, just one final push and it's over. And I'll have more than just the memory of being warm again.

Cold may be the Law of the land, but the hound remembered glowing fires and soft blankets. It was that memory which drove the hound and her sled dog team across nearly eighteen-hundred miles of treacherous, snow-locked country.

Memory, and one thing more.

The hound rubbed her mittened paws together and regarded the darkened sky, her eyes squinting against the freezing wind. Beside her, the dogs shifted anxiously in their harnesses. They were eager get on with it. Running was bred in their blood, their very bones, and no amount of cold or country could bleed it from them. They were made for the Law of Cold, although they knew the comfort of civilization. And they knew it wouldn't be long now before they could abandon the Law for a warm bed and a long nap.

Animus-hounds were not so different. She, too, longed for a hot meal and a good rest. The difference, she supposed, was that uplifted animii had words for these things. Her dogs had little use for words. They understood, in their own way, that they were close, so close, to a meal and a bed, but they couldn't be troubled to name them. It was enough that the dogs knew such things existed, that they were over there, and trusted that they would have the strength left in their bodies to make it to them.

Under the insulating layers of her scarf, the hound smiled. She was just as eager as her dogs, but her reasons were more complicated. She was Abby Dale, the bitch-hound of the South, and everyone knew a Southern hound couldn't handle the Alaskan cold. Especially Southern bitch-hounds, who were apt to roll over and die before learning how to build a proper fire. The cold was, to her, a challenge and an act of defiance. She would prove herself equal to the hounds of the North.

But what had started off as a test of mettle soon became a way of life for her. Nothing felt as good as the wind running fingers through her fur, her sled gliding across vast fields of snow and ice as the stars wheeled overhead.

Well,_she thought, _one thing might feel better.

She knelt beside the trail, her sharp eyes reading the markings as if they were lines in a book. If the ruts in the trail were to be trusted, she was in fifth place now. She bared her teeth in a feral grin, her tail wagging under her thick parka. Fifth place, and gaining.

"Ain't never been a bitch-hound to win this race, and there ain't never will be."

Her grin became a grimace, and she growled silently. From the moment she declared her entrance to the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, those words had haunted her, dogging her heels and threatened to drive her mad with the unfairness of it. Just because a bitch-hound hadn't won didn't mean they couldn't. She had already proven that a Southern hound could survive and thrive out here, if they made the effort. The Law of Cold cared nothing for gender; it respected only cunning and guile. Neither of which were the sole providence of a single sex.

But it was as if the Alaskan wilds conspired to prove her a liar. Warmer weather at the start of the race made the trail a slog for her dogs, followed by a snap-freeze each night that forced her to give up precious time (and time, as any musher knows, is miles) breaking her sled free from the ice's solid grip the next morning. The dogs took the extra work stoically. A little ice wasn't going to stand between them and the trail. All fourteen of them--huskies and husky mixes--threw themselves into the race with a ferocity that was matched only by Alaska's efforts to slow them down every step of the way.

Abby backed her ears beneath her heavy hood. Confirming her place in the race had stoked that memory of fire. She fidgeted, now as eager as her dogs to be running once more. We'll show them, she promised. We'll show them all.

Out in the last frontier, one learned or one died. The land had little patience for the stupid and the foolish.

And which am I, I wonder? Abby was a hound, or so her mother insisted. Her muzzle was long and narrow, and her ears hung to either side of her face when not confined in a hood. Soft, chocolate-brown fur covered her body, curling slightly on her ears and tail. It wasn't a thick pelt, the way the Northern hounds' fur was, but the longer she stayed in Alaska, the thicker it seemed to come in every year. Maybe it was the wolf blood. She had wolf in her pedigree, but every prideful hound liked to claim a little wolf blood. And more than one prideful hound had tried to claim they heard the call of the wild in their veins, only to end up a frozen example of Southern animus softness.

"And there ain't nothing softer than a Southern bitch-hound!"

Abby bared her teeth. She may have come here a soft Southern bitch-hound, but Alaska had a way of wearing down all that was sweet and civilized. It had cut away a little more of her each year, until she was as hardened and wise as a native. She'd learned. Good God, had she learned! She'd learned how to gauge the temperature by how fast her spit froze, how to heap on layer after layer of insulating wool to keep the cold at bay. She'd learned the proper way to pitch a tent when the occasion called for it, and the proper way to protect it from the wind. Alaska may be a harsh master, but if you were clever and canny, it could be a generous teacher.

She had proven to be a most devoted student.

Abby had tackled several sled races, and had more or less held her own. She may not have won first place, but Abby never walked away from a race without gaining something. It hadn't always been a trophy, but experience was worth more than money. Money couldn't cure frostbite or fix a broken sled miles from the nearest town.

Twenty-one miles to Nome, and a hot bath, she thought. She mounted her sled, took her stance, and gazed out over the white expanse before her. Last dash, here we come! Into the wind, into the snow, into the wild white yonder I go!

"Mush!" Abby cried, and the dogs surged forward.

Ah, but there was nothing like the hiss of steel runners over ice! Her dogs pulled, legs pumping and chests heaving, and the sled took off like a rocket. Wind whipped the traces, snagging at the lines and trying to tug them loose, but Abby's knots were true and her work precise. There was nothing for the bitter wind to grasp. From the back of the sled, Abby watched her dogs, her keen eyes searching for signs of stress or fatigue. They were a bit trail-worn after days on the run, but none of them limped or slacked off. Ears forward and tails at ease. Abby nodded and pulled her woolen scarf a little tighter round her muzzle. If she didn't cover it, her nose would be covered in frost in three breaths. It was an uneasy trade-off; a covered nose gathered no suffocating frost, but could not pick up subtle shifts in the wind. A Northern hound didn't have this problem; their noses ran hot.

Mile after uneventful mile fell beneath the rails of her sled, and the dogs pulled on.

It was a couple of hours later that the first whiff of trouble passed Abby's nose. She peeled her scarf back and inhaled deeply. The cold nearly choked her and she had to try twice more before she managed a full sniff.

Her nose twitched in dismay. The scent was subtle, but definite. The white aroma of cold was laced with the barb-wire reek of bad weather.

A storm was coming.

Damn it all.

Abby snorted and rubbed her muzzle, dislodging the white glaze that had gathered about her nostrils. She scanned the wind for further clues about the weather. How soon would it arrive? How bad would it be? The rough wool of her mitten scratched the sensitive tip of her nose and the sudden rush of blood warmed it for a moment before the bitter cold stole the heat away.

At the head of her team, Dallas whined. He was the youngest of her dogs, and while he had the nose and cleverness of a good lead dog, he was still as impulsive as a puppy. His running partner, Dax, huffed and shook, rattling the traces. She sniffed the air, just like Abby had, and regarded Abby with a canine expression of concern.

"I know, sugar. I smell it too," Abby said.

Dax grunted.

A storm. Catspit, Abby cursed. It wasn't here yet, but it would be by noon. Earlier, if her nose was to be trusted. And her nose could always be trusted when it came to storms.

Abby hesitated.

Four sets of runner tracks slid toward the frozen horizon, the sharp edges glazed with recent wear. She was behind, certainly, but not by too much. Not if she pressed on. If not for the storm, she might have been able to take third place this year.

But if we run through the storm, we might be able to take first.

Only a fool greenhorn failed to take an Alaskan blizzard seriously. The wind could peel the skin off a human in a matter of minutes. Even a Northern animus hound, covered in thick fur and a heavy coat, found the gale cutting, raising blisters or worse, the blackened blight of frostbite. Abby had been lucky, so far. Quick thinking and a greater devotion to her dogs than to winning had kept her whole team in more or less good health. True, Daisy needed some time in the basket for a cut paw and Delvon, ever Daisy's protector, had cost them an hour with his moody fretting, but despite the set-backs and the gloomy predictions of closed-minded locals, they weren't dead last. They had held their own, for now.

Not bad, for a bitch-hound, Abby mused wryly.

Caution and prudence dictated that Abby buckle down and prepare for the storm. But daring and pride demanded she press on. It was possible to race through a blizzard, assuming the driver was smart and the dogs willing. Possible, but not wise.

"Ain't no bitch-hound animus gonna win this race. This be a man's place!"

Abby snarled, baring her teeth at the mere memory of the taunts. She knew they were meant to dishearten. Hell's bells, more than one of her tormentors had openly told her females of any type were too reckless and emotional to take a race like Iditarod seriously. "The first time one of yer puppies gets a splinter, it's all over," the man had said. "Can't run a race if yer fawning over yer pets the whole time! Racing dogs ain't pets!"

No, they aren't, Abby silently agreed. They were so much more. More like partners than pets. Pack. And she was as proud of them as a mother wolf. As equal to the rigors of the North as true wolves.

Abby paced around her sled, ears laid back and her lip curled.

It was purely idiotic to challenge a blizzard!

But I've done it before.

And she had, her first real race. She hadn't even known, then, what that bite to the wind meant, and had foolishly run on right into the teeth of an Alaskan whiteout. Only through luck and an obsessive habit of checking her compass did she and her team not only remain on the trail, but slip ahead of much of the competition. The backlash against her status as a female sled dog driver had eased some, after that little stunt, only to reignite as scorn.

"No real musher is dumb enough to fight a blizzard!"

Dallas whined again and fussed in the traces. He barked and kicked up his heels, mule-kicking Devlon in the teeth. Devlon yipped, more in surprise than pain. Dallas kicked again, only to get a sharp click of Dax's fangs at his muzzle. He snarled and snapped back.

"Enough!" Abby barked. The two huskies settled down again. Duke, one of her wheel dogs, snorted and shook, his white coat fluffing and settling. Drake, her other wheel dog sat back on his haunches and panted, evidently amused by Abby's sharp rebuke to the other dogs.

She should stop. She knew she should stop. She should find a sheltered place and buckle down, because this was going to be a mother of a storm. She could feel it down to the marrow of her bones.

She could...but so would everyone else.

And that was the crux of it. Everyone knew that it was better to wait out the storm to ride another day, rather than risk freezing to death. The dogs were good in white-out conditions, but not perfect. It would be madness--suicide!--to press on, knowing what was coming.

Abby paused her pacing and tapped her claws on the handle of her sled. Madness, yes. But they called her move to Alaska madness, her desire to become a sled dog racer madness, and her entrance into the Iditarod race madness. Crazy had certainly been working for her so far.

Dax tipped her head back and barked. A short, encouraging sound. She wagged her tail and stood, pointing her nose straight as an arrow.

Right down the center of the trail.

"You sure about this, Dax? You think we can do it?" Abby asked.

Dax yipped twice. Dallas joined in, followed by Daisy, and Devlon. Dax let loose with a howl, and the entire team tipped their heads back and sang as one. That sound--of a pack on the verge of a Great Hunt--quickened the drop of wolf blood in Abby's veins. She howled with them, adding her voice to the song, and when their howling was finally swallowed up by the chill Alaskan sky, she nodded.

"Alright, crazy it is," she said.

She checked the traces and the supplies on her sled one last time, reassuring herself that everything was as close to perfect as it could be. She stepped up into her sled once more, her paw pads damp in her mittens but her tail thrashing under her parka.

"Mush!" she howled. "Hike! All right, let's go!"

Dallas and Dax bayed to the wind while Duke and Drake grunted, hind legs flexing as they struggled to get the sled moving once more.

Into the wind, into the snow, into the wild white yonder I go!

Abby pedaled the sled forward, giving Duke and Drake a bit of a boost. They bowed their heads, harnesses straining and the great muscles of their legs bulging. Ahead of them, Duck and Duncan pulled, adding their strength to the team. Dallas's paws scrabbled on the ice and snow, eager to get moving, and another flash of Dax's teeth forced him to calm down.

After a few hectic moments, the sled was sailing across the snow, the runners spitting under Abby's thick boots. Even through her heavy hood, she could hear the wind shrieking, as if refusing to believe anyone could be so bold as to dare defy an Alaskan blizzard.

Do your worst, Abby crowed. Do your worst, and I will match it with my will. We will see what this bitch-hound ain't!

As you wish, the wind hissed in her ear. As you wish.

The Alaskan snowscape spread out before her, mile after mile of white, and white, and white. Even the sky was merely darker shades of white as the storm bore down upon them. Won't be long now, Abby thought. She bayed, urging her dogs harder, faster. They bayed with her, chests heaving against the harnesses, black and pink paws pounding across the endless white expanse.

The storm came upon them all at once, more like a wall than a wind, coating the air in swirling, biting crystal. It dimmed the world to mist, then smoke, and finally, steel. Each slice of the wind cut her to the quick, the cold stealing away what little warmth she had until she swore she'd forgotten the meaning of heat.

Abby huddled down, streamlining the sled as much as possible for the dogs. Dallas yipped sharply, and the whole sled eased gee-wise as the team side-stepped a lump in the snow.

No, not any lump. That's a sled-shaped lump!

Abby glanced back. Something sharp and curved like a scythe stuck out from the snow. A flicker of crimson fabric, the jagged edge of a wooden slat clawing through the gathering snowdrift. It was a capsized sled, its contents quickly vanishing under a blanket of white. If there were footprints, the storm had long since obliterated them.

Abby's paw touched the brake. Should she...? She would lose much of her momentum if she did. But if someone was hurt, she might be their only chance. Certainly no one else was mad enough to be out in the storm.

There's always next year.

"Whoa!" Abby gripped the brake, and the sled came to a skidding halt. Dallas yelped, and even Dax looked more dismayed than usual. Now was not the time for charity! her look said.

"Easy, Dax," Abby crooned. Or tried to, over the raging wind. "Halloooo!" she howled. The wind swallowed her howl. Abby tried again. "HALLLOOOOO!!" And again, the wind drowned her out.

"Halloo?"

Abby cocked her head to the side, ears perked. Had that been a reply, or was the wind playing tricks on her? She'd heard stories of people lost in a white out, hallucinating trees and the sounds of a crackling fire.

"Halloooo!"

"Is someone out there?" Abby shouted. "Do you need help?"

A shadowed figure trudged out of the billowing snow. A pair of short antlers clung to the shade's head, causing the wind to whistle through them. "Is that...? I thought I heard...Abby? Abby Dale? Great Spirit, are you alright? I heard a howl--"

"Grahm, what in God's name are you doing out here? What happened to your sled?" Abby asked.

The animus elk had the courtesy to look sheepish. "How about we talk about this somewhere warmer?" Grahm said, raising his voice to be heard over the storm. He rubbed his mittened hands together and breathed on them. A taut line of red rope dangled from his wrist and trailed back into the white beyond him. A green thermos was tucked under one arm.

"Can't," Abby said. "I've got a race to win."

"You're mental!" he brayed. "If you go out in this, you're going to die, Abby. Do you get that? _Die._Ain't no second chances to that. No race is worth dying for!"

"I'm not giving up!" Abby said, "Not now. Now when we're so close--"

"Close to death, you stupid bitch-hound!" Grahm shouted. "I thought I heard a greenhorn chechaquo stumbling around in the snow. Not some--" Grahm cut off his tirade and took a deep breath. "Please, come back to my camp. There's more than enough room for the dogs, don't you worry. Fire, a hot meal, and no danger of dying in the cold. Does that sound good to you?"

Abby shook her head. Snow tumbled down the back of her parka as she spoke. "I'm sorry Grahm. Nome's calling, and I mean to answer by dawn." She turned and headed back toward her sled.

"Abby Dale, you damned well know better than this! Don't be stupid!" Grahm said.

"Yeah, and maybe I do," she retorted, rounding on him. "And maybe if I'd known better, I may never had tried to win this, cause everyone _knows_bitch-hounds don't win races. But I aim to prove otherwise. I only stopped because I thought--" She snarled and gave up. It was simply too cold to sustain her anger. She stomped through the snow, agitating her dogs further in the process, determined to leave Grahm and his nay saying to the storm.

"You saw the broken sled and thought there was trouble," Grahm finished gruffly. He sighed, and held out the thermos. "I'm out. Jack and Mattie are showing signs of hypothermia, and the rest of my dogs are in no condition to run through clear air, much less a blizzard. I won't risk this storm. No ma'am, not for all the snow in Alaska. But if you're gonna try, the least I can do is hand off a little warm supper. Now, you git, Abby Dale. You git, and you prove me a liar, you hear?"

He shoved the thermos into Abby's paws and started following his lead line back to his camp. Bemused, Abby hopped back into her sled.

Grahm turned around and looked back, just once. "And Abby? Ain't no bitch hound gonna survive this storm!" Grahm roared, and waved.

Huddled under her hood, Abby smiled.

Aye, I'll prove him a liar. We all will.

Around her, the storm howled, unabated, and screamed for her blood.

"Mush, Duke! Mush Drake! Hike! Hike! C'mon Dallas, Dax! Devlon, Daisy, go! Destiel, Diesel, get moving! Dahlia! Dee! Dulce and Dom, mush! Duck, Duncan, mush!"

The dogs bayed, shook off the snow that had gathered on their backs, and surged forward again.

A blizzard is, at the best of times, a beast to be respected. It's the sort of beast that expects deference, even reverence, and woe upon any foolish or daring enough to refuse to give such a storm its due. The rage of an Alaskan blizzard quells the fire in even a brave man's heart. It is not for the faint, and it is not for the foolhardy.

But Abby dared. She defied that storm with every breath, every footfall, every mile that dragged out beneath her. She plunged into the white with her team, bellowing against the storm, the cold, and the snow. Her ears ached, her nose burned, and her eyes were frosted nearly shut behind her goggles, but she refused to back down and yield to the fury of the storm.

Before her, the dogs panted, their breath ghosting the air. Pelts of black and amber became grey and white beneath a building layer of soft, smothering white.

And still, they ran on.

In the sled, Abby silently counted down from fifty. At the end of each count, she checked her compass and adjusted her heading as needed. The storm tightened its grip, squeezing the snow closer and closer. Abby could barely see Duck and Duncan, her second pair of dogs. Dax and Dallas were a faint shadow, just a suggestion of dogs running through the pale swirls.

We can't be far now, Abby thought numbly. We have to have covered at least ten miles, and we were only nineteen from Nome when we left Grahm. I can't have lost the trail, I can't have! She examined her compass again, tapping it with one mittened paw to make sure it hadn't frozen. But the little needle bobbled true; they were heading in the right direction. But where was Nome? Where were the bright lights marking the end of the race and the wild? Had she missed a landmark? Were they running in circles?

No, that can't be right. She was certain. There! Nearly lost in the white, she could see the faint outline of a trail marker.

But then why hadn't she come across any other tracks?

Ah, the storm. The storm must have covered the ruts.

The wind scoured away her own tracks almost as fast as she made them, leaving behind a flawless expanse of pristine white. It stood to reason that it would have erased the tracks before her just as completely. But the snow here felt different under her runners. Virginal. If another sled had come this way, she couldn't feel it.

Suddenly, Dax yelped. The sled lurched and the dogs stumbled. Duke dug his heels in, Drake back-peddled, and Abby squeezed the brake for all she was worth. Finally, the sled creaked to a halt. The wind howled in triumph, gouging at Abby's body and rattling the traces. Just ahead, Abby could see the lines slacken where Dax should have been.

Oh God in Heaven, Dax! Abby leapt off the runners toward her lead dogs.

And there, her body shuddering and the snow already claiming her, was Dax. Her left hind leg splayed to the side, badly broken. Just behind her, Daisy paced, her paws scrabbling over a low spot. A rotten log, concealed by a snowdrift, had nearly cost Dax her leg and may still cost the husky her life.

"Shit!" Abby cursed. Dallas whined and nudged Dax with his nose, pink tongue licking her face as he urged her to get up. Dax snarled and tried valiantly to stand, but collapsed back into the snow, whimpering.

Abby pulled out her first aid kit. She'd set a broken bone before, but never bracing against a blizzard. Still, she had to try. There was no one else who could. Dax whined once more and went quiet, her whole body shaking.

"Hold still, Dax. I got you. Just a little pinch--" Abby spat the plastic tip of the needle into the snow. A painkiller, to take the edge off from what she would have to do. It was going to be brutish and harsh, but there wasn't time for finesse. There was no way she could set a tent, not now, not in this wind. But she had a tarp and rope; it would have to do. She lifted the wounded Dax out of the traces and carried her to the sled. She pulled the tarp tight over the back of the sled and tucked it under the runners, as sheltered as she could be from the wind. And there, she set and bound Dax's broken leg. To her credit, Dax yelped only once, right when the bone was set. She held still, her leg held out from her body, and Abby wrapped the makeshift splint tight. All the while, Abby crooned to her lead dog, comforting her and stroking her behind the ears to keep her calm.

She needs a vet. That broken leg will fester without proper care. A septic leg wound meant death. Or worse, for a running dog, amputation.

It was no longer about winning the race. Now, Abby just hoped to get Dax to a vet in time to save her leg.

"You're out for the count, old girl," Abby said when she was finished. Dax whimpered more pitifully than when Abby had set the bone.

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry. We're almost there. Just rest, Daxie." Abby secured Dax into the basket of the sled, checking the knots twice just in case Dax tried to take her place at the head of the team again. She shuffled down the line of dogs and approached Dallas.

Dallas sat in his traces, his harness slack and his expression haunted. "Dallas, you're up. You can do this."

Dallas yowled, ending in a mournful howl. He strained to look at the sled, where Dax was stowed.

"She's going to be just fine, but we need to keep going. She needs a real vet. And a real vet is waiting at the end of this trail. Just nine more miles. Do you have nine more miles in you?"

Dallas whined.

She knelt down and scratched Dallas behind the ears. He whined again. "You can do this. I know it's your first time alone, but I believe in you. And Dax believes in you."

There was a snort from the back of the sled, and Abby almost laughed at the comical way every other dog swiveled to glance at the surly husky in the basket.

Dallas yipped anxiously. Dax made another sound, and Abby could have sworn the bark sounded sarcastic.

"Hush you! None of your sass!" Abby said to her lead dog in the basket.

Dax grumbled and fell silent.

"Can you do this?" Abby asked Dallas.

Dallas barked.

"I said, can you do this?"

Dallas barked again, his tail held high.

"That's more like it!" Abby said. She adjusted the traces for Dallas and trotted back to the sled, where Dax was belted in. She scratched Dax behind the ears, but Dax only huffed.

"Hey now, you've done your part. Just rest and try not to move too much. We'll get that leg looked at when we get to Nome."

Duke and Drake regarded her, their tails wagging. "Ready?" she asked them.

They grinned. Abby set her boots on the sled once more, bracing herself.

"Mush! Let's go!" Abby crowed. And they were off once more. The storm roared, wailing all around them, and the cold dug its fangs in as deep as it could, but Abby and her dogs would not be deterred. On and on they ran, a defiant blot of dark against the fathomless, spiraling white.

Nine miles became eight. Became seven.

The storm beat down on them, harder than ever, screaming and rocking the sled with gust after gust, but Abby and her dogs ran on. She stopped looking for signs of other racers and concentrated on keeping her dogs heading in the right direction.

Six.

Was that a trail marker or just a bit of ice? They had passed too quickly for Abby to judge. She checked her compass again. No, it had to be a trail marker. Had to be.

Five.

Never had Abby seen such an angry blizzard before. Her dogs staggered under the force of it, slowing as the wind tried to force them back. They bowed into the wind, and pressed on.

It has to blow out sooner or later! Abby thought. No blizzard can last forever!

In the basket, Dax whimpered. Abby bared her teeth and howled into the storm, urging her dogs onward. They replied, barking and growling, pressing themselves against the wind and driving it back.

Another trail marker. Had to be a trail marker. Was that five or four?

Four. She was sure of it.

The blinding white shroud lifted, inch by inch, until Abby could once more make out the shape of Dallas, running straight and true at the head of her team.

"Mush!" Abby cried out. Her voice was hoarse from howling, but the dogs still heard her. Duke and Drake yipped.

Three. Was that three? No, that was two. Had to be two.

The storm raged on. There was nothing else in the world but Abby, her dogs, and the wild white scream of the blizzard.

Three. Three. Three.

Two. Two. Two.

She chanted the mile marker with every ragged breath. Her scarf sagged around her lips but Abby didn't dare loose her grip on her sled to adjust it.

Two.

Two?

Two.

Was it getting brighter, or was it her imagination? She could see Duck and Duncan again, black paw pads kicking up tufts of white. Dax whimpered plaintively, breaking Abby's heart.

"Just a little longer, Dax. Hang on. Please, hang on," Abby said.

Mush.

Mush, please!

Abby lost her count, forgot her compass. The world was definitely getting brighter. Pale sunlight shredded the iron curtain of the blizzard.

Almost. Almost. Just a little more, a little further. Can't be far now. Abby's fingers had gone numb in their mittens and her nose was nearly iced over. She breathed through her mouth, tongue lolling, and felt it, too, begin to freeze.

Almost.

Submitting at last, the storm blew one final blast of savage, frigid air at Abby and abated. All around, the last of the snowflakes drifted to earth, revealing a greying sky. And there, in the East, was the sun spilling across the new-fallen snow.

The storm had passed.

Off in the distance, less than a half a mile away, Abby saw lights.

"No, not just any lights," she whispered. There, under the golden light, was a brilliant white banner with the words IDITAROD TRAIL RACE FINISH in bold, red letters.

We made it! God in Heaven above, we've made it!

Abby bayed with joy, her voice cracked and rough, spurring the dogs into one last burst of speed. They returned her cry, barreling toward the banner. A few bystanders had staked out the finish line and were witness to Abby's frantic dash under the banner and across the finish line. Abby gripped the break, her paws trembling and her knees shaking. They'd made it. They had raced through a blizzard and survived!

The sled had barely skidded to a halt when Abby leapt off, searching for someone to point her toward the Nome veterinarian.

A grizzled animus bear shuffled up to her. He held a clipboard and wore pinned to his coat an official badge of the Iditarod race staff.

Abby didn't waste any time on pleasantries. "Hey! My lead dog, Dax, was wounded on the last stretch. She needs a vet," Abby said to him.

The bear held up one paw and nodded. "Not to worry, not to worry." He waved over the vet, another hound with brindled fur, and she gingerly lifted Dax out of her basket and on to a sled to be carried inside.

"I'll be right with you, as soon as I can," Abby said, giving Dax a hug. The husky whimpered and licked her face. The vet smiled faintly and carried Dax off.

"Abby, I can't believe I'm saying this, but...you're the first to cross the line."

Abby blinked. "Today?"

"No," the bear said, shaking his shaggy head. "The first. Of the whole damned race!" He grinned from ear to ear and held out one paw. "Allow me to congratulate you, Abby Dale, on being the winner of this year's Iditarod, and the first ever animus hound lady to take first place in the history of Iditarod!"

"I...what?" Abby felt faint.

"You've won, Abby Dale. Although, I haven't the faintest idea how. You were seventh, back in Safety. Last you checked in, you were still fifth."

"I...through the storm...we..."

"Spirits, are you...? You did. Great Spirit, you actually did. Abby you stupid, crazy bitch-hound, I can't believe...oh, Grahm is going to love this. He had a fifty dollar bet with Buck that you wouldn't even place."

Abby frowned. "Of course Grahm bet against me," she muttered.

"No, Buck did. Grahm insisted you'd make at least third this year. Seems the prong-head was right."

Abby smiled as she untied her dogs. They needed aftercare, and she had to see to Dax as soon as possible, but...

"Hey, when Grahm crosses the finish line, could you give him this?" She handed the judge the battered thermos, still full of soup. "Tell him thanks, but I didn't need it." She had, in fact, completely forgotten about it in the struggle to get Dax to Nome.

The bear regarded the thermos and, upon seeing the name scratched into the bottom, burst out laughing.

"Aye, Abby, I'll do just that. See to your dogs. I'll be by later to fetch you for the ceremony." And he toddled off, still chuckling.

Abby finished unhooking her dogs and setting them up with food, and ran to the vet to check in on Dax. The vet had already re-set Dax's leg and was busy putting the cast on it.

"You're lucky, Miss Abby, that you got here her when you did. A few weeks of taking it easy, and she'll be as right as rain. Congrats on placing, Abby Dale!"

The husky was still sedated, but when she saw Abby, she lifted her tail in a weak salute.

"We did it, Daxie. We're first place!"

Dax barked, grinning from ear to ear, and Abby scratched her under the chin. "We did it, Dax," she said. "Today, a bitch-hound wins the race."

Into the wind, into the snow. Into the wild white yonder I go!