He had sought shelter behind a clump of balsam, and he stood over a growing pool of blood in the snow.

He was still breathing hard.
His massive head, grotesque now with its one antler, was drooping.
Flecks of blood dropped from his distended nostrils.

Even then, with the old bull weakened by starvation, exhaustion and loss of blood, a wolf-pack would have hung back before attacking.

Where they would have hesitated, Kazan leaped in with a snarling cry.

For an instant his fangs sunk into the thick hide of the bull's throat.