Skins polar bear

Larten scratched at his injured back – the wounds were deep, but not
life-threatening – while considering his course. He could dig through the fur
and flesh of the bear’s stomach with his nails. There would be hot juices
inside. Digested food which he could mash up and feed to the baby. It
would make for a foul meal, but the boy wouldn’t complain once his
stomach was full. And Larten could fashion wraps out of the fur, one for the
child and another for himself. Protected and fed, they could maybe march
for another day or two. Surely that would give him all the time he needed to
find a cave for his young, doomed charge.

Grimacing against the pain in his back, Larten wiped blood from his
lips and knelt by the bear. He said a quick prayer over its carcass, then made
a blade of his fingers and set to work, staying hunched against the snow,
which never stopped blowing while he sliced open the dead bear’s stomach
and trawled through a maze of steaming, gooey guts.

***

A storm was raging. It had whipped up without warning and had been
blowing for hours. Larten struggled through it, face buried in the rough
cloak he’d made from the fur of the polar bear. The baby was covered
entirely and was gurgling happily in the dark, sticky warmth.


***

The Saga of Larten Crepsley: Palace of the Damned, Chapters 1-2