“No, they will have gone by now. They were hunting for food and had brought very little preserved meat with them. The object of the expedition was to come this far north to destroy the sammad. Then return. Nothing would be accomplished by remaining here. With the Eistaa’s death no one else would be in command. There would have been a lot of confusion and they would certainly have returned to the city by now.”
“That is what the main body would have done. But would there be others left behind to search for us?”
“There might be. Stallan might be doing that — no. Of all of them she is the one who was closest to second in command. She would surely have ordered their return.”
“Then you believe they are gone?”
“Almost certainly.”
“That is good. We will return to the shore.”
Kerrick felt a thrust of fear at the words. “They may be hiding, waiting for us.”
“You just assured me — that they would not.”
“We are hunters,” Ortnar said. “We will know if they are there.”
“We have no reason…”
“Every reason.” Herilak was firm now, once more in command. “We have two spears, one bow without arrows, nothing more. When the snow falls we will die. All that we need is back there. We return.”
They went fast, too fast for Kerrick. It was too much like returning to certain death. By dusk they were in the foothills above the shore and could see the ocean beyond.
“Ortnar, you will go carefully,” Herilak ordered. “Without sound, unseen. Look carefully for any sign of the murgu.”
Ortnar shook his spear in acknowledgment, turned and slipped away through the trees. Herilak settled down comfortably in the shade and promptly went to sleep. Kerrick was too upset to do anything other than worry, to look towards the shore and let his fear populate the forest with stalking Yilane.
The sun was below the horizon when a bird called out from the valley below. Herilak was instantly awake; cupping his hands to his mouth he answered the call. There was a crackling in the brush and Ortnar came into view running easily up the slope.
“Gone,” he said. “Gone the way they came.”
“You can’t be sure,” Kerrick said. Ortnar looked at him scornfully.
“Of course I am sure. I found no fresh tracks. And the carrion birds were everywhere — and they are quick to take fright. And I searched as well.” His drawn face spoke louder than words. He pointed to the arrows that now filled his quiver. “Everything we need is there.”
“We go now,” Herilak announced.
It was well after dark when they reached the site of the massacre, but the gibbous moon’s cold light enabled them to find the way. The crows and buzzards were gone with the daylight and now the mantle of darkness concealed the worst horrors of the massacre. The smell of decay was already strong. Kerrick stood on the shore, looking out to sea, while the others searched for what was needed. He turned back reluctantly to face the slaughter only when Herilak called to him.
“Put these on,” the sammadar said. “They belonged to a great hunter. May they bring you good fortune.”
There were fur leggings with solid leather soles, a cape, belt, and other heavy garments. Too warm for the summer, but they would make the difference between life and death when the snows came. A long spear, stout bow, arrows. Kerrick made a bundle of the things he would not wear and put it with the other bundles and baskets they were taking. Herilak had taken some of the crosspoles from one of the large mastodon travois and made a smaller one that they could pull. Everything they needed was now lashed into place upon it.
“We go now,” he said, his voice grim as death with the dead of the sammad on all sides of him. “We will never forget what the murgu have done here.”
They walked until the moon set, taking turns between the shafts of the travois, until they were too tired to go any farther. Kerrick still feared that Yilane hunters were searching for him, but so great was his fatigue that he fell asleep while he was worrying and did not stir until dawn.
Herilak unlashed a bag of ekkotaz from the travois and they dipped out handfuls of the delicious mixture, dried berries and nutmeat, pounded together. Kerrick had been a boy when he last tasted it and childhood memories flooded back as he licked it from his fingers. It was good to be Tanu. But even as he thought this he was scratching at his waist, over and over. When he pulled the fur back he saw the red bites. His skin crawled as he realized that the brave hunter who had last worn these furs had been infested with fleas. Suddenly being Tanu was not that pleasant. His back was sore from lying on the hard ground, his muscles ached from the unaccustomed exercise — and if that wasn’t enough there was a sudden spasm of pain in his midriff. The burnt and tough meat was not sitting too well in his stomach; he hurried behind the nearest clump of bushes.
Racked with cramps he saw the flea crawl across his discarded garments. He cracked it between his fingernail, then wiped his fingers disgustedly on the grass. He was filthy and sore, flea-infested and ill. What was he doing here with these crude ustuzou? Why wasn’t he in Alpeasak? He had been comfortable there, at peace, close to the Eistaa. Why couldn’t he return? Vainte was dead of a spear thrust — but who in the city knew that he had wielded the spear? He hadn’t been seen. Why couldn’t he go back?
He washed himself well, then went a few paces upstream to drink. On. the bank the two hunters were lashing the load back onto the travois. They could go on without him.
But did he want to go back to Alpeasak? For years he had been thinking of escape from the city — and now he was free. Wasn’t that what he had always wanted? That was the Yilane’s world, not his. There was no place for him there.
But was there a place for him among the Tanu?
He stood knee-deep in the cool water, his fists clenched. Lost. Belonging neither to one world nor the other. Outcast and alone.
Herilak called out to him, his words cutting through Kerrick’s dark thoughts. He waded ashore, then pulled his garments slowly on.
“We leave now,” Herilak said.
“Where do you go?” Kerrick asked, still torn by conflicting feelings.
“West. To find other hunters. To return with them and kill murgu.”
“They are too strong, too many.”
“Then I will be dead and my tharm will join the tharms of the other hunters in my sammad. But first I will have avenged them. It is a good way to die.”
“There are no good ways to die.”
Herilak looked at him in silence, understanding something of the conflicting emotions that Kerrick was feeling. Those years of captivity must have done strange things to the boy who was now a man. But the years were there, they could not be taken away. There was no going back. The way ahead might be hard — but it was the only way.
Herilak reached up to his neck and slowly lifted the leather thong with the pendant skymetal knife over his head, then held it out.
“This was your father’s. You are his son for you still wear the smaller boy’s knife made at the same time. Hang this one about your neck beside it. Wear it now to remind you of his death and the death of your sammad. And who killed them. Feel hatred in your heart and the knowledge that you seek vengeance as well.”
Kerrick hesitated, then reached out and took the knife, held it, then clenched his fist tightly about its hard shape.
There could be no going back to Alpeasak. Ever. He must teach himself to feel only hatred towards the murderers of his people. He hoped that would come.
But now all he felt was a terrible emptiness inside.
CHAPTER FOUR
Es mo tarril drepastar, er em so man drija.
