Kerrick smiled. “Big talk for small boy. You have been hearing too many of Ortnar’s hunting stories.” He glanced up as he said this, looked back under the trees and along the trail they had taken. It was empty. The lame hunter would be some time catching up with them for he moved very slowly. This march was going to be a long one. Kerrick took the smoked meat that Darras handed him, sat down beside her and began to eat. Arnwheet, hunting forgotten at the sight of food, sat next to him as well. They had almost finished when there was movement under the trees. Kerrick reached for his hesotsan and Arnwheet laughed.
“It is only Ortnar. Do not shoot him.”
“I won’t. But my eyesight is not as keen as that of the mighty small hunter.”
Ortnar limped up slowly, dragging his dead leg, streaming with perspiration. Darras hurried to him with the water gourd and he drained it, then let himself slide down the bole of a tree until he sat on the ground. “You stop too early,” he said.
“Armun tires quickly. We will go on when it is cooler.”
“Keep your death-stick pointed towards me,” he said quietly. “There is something out there, it has been stalking me for some time now.”
“Come to me, Arnwheet,” Armun said quietly. “You too, Darras. Leave those things, move slowly.”
The girl trembled but did as she was told. Kerrick stepped to one side so he could see the forest wall without Ortnar being in the way.
There was a sudden crashing and the large dappled, green and white form hurtled through the undergrowth towards him.
When he raised his weapon the beast screamed fiercely through widespread jaws. Kerrick squeezed the hesotsan but the marag did not stop. Squeezed again as it loomed over him, stepped back as it fell heavily, almost at his feet.
There was a quick movement in the air and Arnwheet’s little spear thudded into the carcass.
“Well done, great hunter,” Ortnar said, an unaccustomed smile on his lips. “You have killed it.”
Arnwheet came forward, more than a little afraid of the large creature, then bent and pulled his spear free. “What is it?”
“A marag.” Ortnar spat on the corpse. “See the teeth, a meat eater.”
“Then we will eat it, instead of it eating us!”
“They are no good, the flesh is poison.”
“Then I will cut off its tail.”
Ortnar smiled. “The tail alone is bigger than you. But take one of the claws from the hind foot. You can hang it around your neck next to your knife for all to see.”
“Will there be more of them?” Armun asked, taking up the baby and moving along the trail away from the corpse. It stank.
“I don’t think so,” Ortnar said. “This kind, I’ve seen them before, they hunt alone. Its smell will keep any other murgu away.
“Myself as well,” Kerrick said, going to join Armun and the others. Ortnar stayed where he was, spear ready, to watch over the boy. Harl returned soon after that and admired the kill.
“There is no game. I think this marag has frightened off everything else in the forest. We are not far from a large trail. There are the marks of travois poles on it.”
“New marks?” Armun asked, hopefully.
“Very old, grown over. Hard to see.” He took his flint knife and went to help the blood-splattered boy cut off the claw.
It was not a long trek, but they moved even more slowly now. Ortnar protested but Kerrick insisted that Harl stay with him, armed with a hesotsan. Kerrick would go ahead with the others and guard them against the deadly creatures of the forest.
They were eight nights more on this trail, the main one leading north that the sammads had used, before Harl came running up from behind them, calling out.
“What is wrong?” Kerrick said, raising his weapon.
“Nothing. But Ortnar says that you have passed the track we must take. Not far back.”
Ortnar was leaning on his spear when they came up. He pointed with satisfaction to a broken branch that was almost completely concealed by the undergrowth. “I marked it, when I was here last. This is the way.”
Ortnar went first and they were forced to go as slowly as he. But it was not far, along a ridge and across a shallow stream. From the top of the next ridge they could see the shore of the ocean. The waveless shore of a slow-moving river, tall reeds and birds, and across the narrow stretch of water the bulk of an island.
“Beyond the island there is an inlet, much wider than this river, before you reach the small islands along the coast,” Ortnar said.
“Then we will make our camp on this side of the island, among the trees over there, where we cannot be seen from the sea. We must get wood for a raft. If we do that now we can cross before dark.”
“I like it better than Round Lake ,” Armun said. “I think we will be safe here. Far away from murgu. Of all kinds.”
Kerrick ignored what she said, knowing perfectly well who she was talking about. But she was right, she would be happier here away from the Yilane males. But would he? Already he missed the richness of their talk, the subtle references and gestures, implications of a kind he could not express in Marbak. They were a part of his sammad and he was the lesser for their absence.
“Is the hunting good here?” Arnwheet asked.
“Very good,” Ortnar said. “Now help Harl gather the wood for the raft.”
It had been a hot and dry summer. Because of this the great river was very low. The water meadows, flooded during the winter and spring, now stretched verdantly along the river’s edge and were carpeted with lush green grass. The deer moved through it, thigh deep, grazing. When the sammads had arrived and reached the edge of the bluff above the meadows there had been only happiness at this sight.
They had spread out and made camp in the cool shadows under the trees. After dark, after they had all eaten, the sammadars drifted up one by one to sit by Herilak’s fire. He was no longer their war leader for they were no longer at war. But it was a natural thing to do as long as the sammads marched together.
“The mastodons grow lean,” Har-Havola said. “We could stop in this place, the grazing is good. That is what I am going to do.”
“It is not the mastodons I care for — it is the hunting,” Herilak called out and there were many shouts of agreement. “And I am tired of killing murgu. Some of them are good for eating, but nothing tastes like deer. You saw the fields below. We need skins too — most of you look like Sasku with woven charadis tied about you instead of warm furs.”
“Fur is too hot in the summer,” said Kellimans, humorless and unimaginative as always.
“Of course,” Herilak said. “But the hunting is good here, winter will come, it might be that we will hunt north in the cold. Many things can happen. I am stopping here with my sammad to hunt. Then we will go on.”
There were shouts of agreement, not a dissenting voice. The women who were listening agreed as well. Here they could find familiar things to eat that they had almost forgotten about, roots and berries, mushrooms, tubers in the ground if you knew which were the right plants to dig up. There were already young girls who had never done this: they must learn. A stop here would be a very good thing.
Merrith wanted to stay here just as much as the others. But she found one who was unhappy.
“You have been beaten, that is why you cry,” she said to the girl. “No hunter should do that to you. Take a piece of wood and hit him back. If he is stronger than you are, then you hit him when he is asleep.”
“No, it is nothing like that,” Malagen said, the tears glistening in her dark eyes. Like all Sasku she was far thinner and shorter than the Tanu, her olive skin and black eyes a contrast to their blond hair and pale skin. “Newasfar to me is good, that is why I come with him along. I am foolish to act like this.”
“Nothing foolish. You miss your friends, your sammad, even the way we speak is different.”
“I learn.”
“You do. Me, I never learned a word of your Sasku.”
“It is called Sesek, what we speak. And what you say is not true. I have heard you say tagaso, that is Sesek.”
