Peleinè signed confusion and worry. “Yet I have doubts. If the ustuzou can speak they may be aware of the existence of death, therefore the meaning of life. If this is so I cannot aid in their extinction.”
Vaintè came forward then, so close that their hands almost touched, and spoke with great feeling. “They are beasts. One of them was taught to speak, just as a boat is taught to obey commands. Just one of them. The others grunt like animals in the jungle. And this one who was taught to speak like a Yilanè now kills Yilanè. They are a blight that destroys us. They must be wiped out, every last one of them. And you will help. You will lead the Daughters of Death from the darkness of death and they will be the true Daughters of Life. This you will do. This you must do.”
When she said this she touched Peleinè’s thumbs gently with the gesture that one efenselè uses only with another. Peleinè welcomed this embrace of one so high and realized that her rank could be that of an equal if she did what must be done.
“You are right, Vaintè, so right. It shall be done as you say. The Daughters of Life have lived apart from their city for too long. We must return, we must be a part of life once again. But we must not be turned from the true way.”
“You shall not be. You will believe as you believe and none shall stop you. The path ahead is clear and you shall lead the way into the triumphant future.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was Harl’s first bow and he was immensely proud of it. He had gone with his uncle, Nadris, to the forest to search for the right kind of tree that they would need, the thin-barked one with the tough and springy wood. Nadris had selected the thin sapling, but Harl had chopped it down himself, sawing at the resilient, green trunk until it had been cut through. Then, under Nadris’s careful direction, he had scraped off the bark to uncover the white heart of the wood within. But then he had had to wait, and waiting had been the worst part. Nadris had hung the length of wood high inside his tent to dry and had left it there, day after day, until it was ready. When the shaping began Harl had sat and watched while Nadris methodically scraped it with a stone blade. The ends of the bow were carefully tapered, then nocked to take the bowstring that had been woven from the long, strong hairs of the niastodon’s tail. Even with the bowstring in place Nadris had not been satisfied, but had tested the pull, then removed the string and shaped the wood again. But in the end even this was finished. This was to be Harl’s bow, so it was his right to shoot the first arrow from it. He had done so, bending the bow as far as he could, then releasing the arrow. It flew straight and true, sinking into the tree trunk with a satisfactory thud.
This had been the longest and happiest day in Harl’s life. He had a bow now, would learn to shoot it well, would be allowed on the hunt soon. This was the first and most important step that put him on the path from childhood, the path that would one day lead him into the world of hunters.
Although his arm was sore, his fingertips blistered, he would not stop. It was his bow, his day. He wanted to be alone with it and had slipped away from the other boys and gone to the small copse close to the camp. All day he had crept between the trees, stalked bushes, sunk his arrows into innocent tussocks — that were really deer that only he could see.
When it grew dark he reluctantly put up the bow and turned back towards the tents. He was hungry and looked forward to the meat that would be waiting. One day he would hunt and kill his own meat. Nock arrow, draw, zumm, hit, dead. One day.
There was a rustle in the tree above him and he stopped, silent and unmoving. There was something there, a dark form outlined against the gray of the sky. It moved and its claws rustled again. A large bird.
It was too tempting a target to resist. He might lose the arrow in the darkness, but he had made it himself and could make more. But if he hit the bird it would be his first kill. The first day of the bow, the first kill that same day. The other boys would look at him very differently when he walked between the tents with his trophy.
Slowly and silently he put an arrow to the string, bent the bow, sighted along the arrow at the dark shape above. Then let fly.
There was a squawk of pain — then the bird was tumbling down from the branch. It landed in the bough above Harl’s head, hung there, unmoving, caught by the thin branches. He stood on tiptoe and could just reach it with the end of his bow, prodding and pushing until it fell to the ground at his feet. His arrow stuck out from the bird’s body and the creature’s round, sightless eyes looked up at him. Harl stepped back, gasping with fright.
An owl. He had killed an owl.
Why hadn’t he stopped to think? He moaned aloud at the terror within him. He should have known, no other bird would be about in the dark. A forbidden bird and he had killed it. Just the night before old Fraken had unrolled the ball of fur disgorged by an owl, had poked his fingers through the tiny bones inside, had seen the future and the success of the hunting from the manner in which the bones were tangled. And while Fraken had done this he had talked about the owls, the only birds that flew by night, the birds that waited to guide the tharms of dead hunters through the darkness towards the sky.
An owl must never be killed.
And Harl had killed one.
Maybe if he buried it, no one would know. He began to dig wildly at the ground with his hands, then stopped. It was no good. The owl knew, and the other owls would know. They would remember. And one day his own tharm would have no owl for a guide because animals never forgot. Never. There were tears in his eyes when he bent over the dead bird, pulled his arrow free. He bent and looked more closely at it in the gathering darkness.
Armun was sitting by the fire when the boy came running up. He stood waiting for her to notice him, but she was in no hurry to do that and poked a bit at the fire first. She was Kerrick’s woman now and she felt the warm contentment suffuse her once again. Kerrick’s woman. The boys did not dare to laugh at her or point any more and she did not have to cover her face.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to be stern but smiling in spite of herself, too filled with happiness to pretend otherwise.
“This is the tent of the margalus,” Harl said, and his voice trembled when he spoke. “Will he talk to me?”
Kerrick had heard their voices. He climbed slowly to his feet, although his broken leg had set well it was still sore when he rested his weight on it, and emerged from the tent. Harl turned to face him. The boy’s face was drawn and pale and there were smears upon his cheeks as though tears had been rubbed away.
“You are the margalus and know all about murgu, that is what I have been told.”
“What do you want?”
“Come with me, please, it is important. There is something I must show you.”
There were strange beasts of all kinds here, Kerrick knew. The boy must have found something that he didn’t recognize. He started to turn him away, then thought better of it. It might be something dangerous; he had better look at it. Kerrick nodded then followed the boy away from the fire. As soon as they were far enough distant so that Armun could not overhear him the boy stopped.
“I have killed an owl,” he said, his voice trembling. Kerrick wondered at this, then remembered the stories that Fraken told about the owls and knew why the boy was so frightened. He must find some way to reassure him without violating Fraken’s teachings and beliefs.
“It is not good to kill an owl,” he said. “But you should not let it bother you too much…”
“That is not it. There is something else.”
Harl bent and dragged the owl out from under a bush by the end of one long wing, then held it up so that the light of the nearest fires fell upon it.
“This is why I came to you,” Harl said, pointing to the black lump on the owl’s leg.
Kerrick bent close to look. The light from the fire reflected back a quick spark as the creature’s eye opened and closed again.
Kerrick straightened up slowly, then reached out and took the bird from the boy’s hands. “You did the right th
ing,” he said. “It is wrong to shoot owls, but this is not an owl that we know. This is a marag owl. You were right to kill it, right to come to me. Now run quickly, find the hunter Herilak, tell him to come to my tent at once. Tell him what we have seen on the owl’s leg.”
Har-Havola came as well when he heard what the boy had found, and Sorli who now was sammadar in Ulfadan’s place. They looked at the dead bird and the live marag with its black claws clamped about the owl’s leg. Sorli shuddered when the large eye opened and stared at him, then slowly closed again.
“What is the meaning of this?” Herilak asked.
“It means that the murgu know that we are here,” Kerrick said. “They no longer send the raptors to spy us out for too many did not return. The owl can fly at night, can see in the dark.” He poked the black creature with his fingertip and its cool skin twitched, then was still. “This marag can see in the darkness too. It has seen us and told the murgu. It may have seen us many times.”
“Which could mean that the murgu might be on their way now to attack us,” Herilak said, his voice cold as death.
Kerrick shook his head, his face grim. “Not may be — but must be. It is warm enough for them this far south even at this time of year. They have sought for us, and this creature has told them where we camp. They will seek vengeance, there is no doubt of that.”
“What do we do?” Har-Havola asked, glancing up at the star-filled sky. “Can we go north? It is not yet spring.”
“We may have to go, spring or no spring,” Kerrick said. “We will have to decide about that. In the meantime we must know if we are to be attacked. Hunters will go south along the riverbank, hunters who are the strongest runners. They must go one, even two days’ march south of this camp and watch the river. If they see the murgu boats they must warn us at once.”
“Sigurnath and Peremandu,” Har-Havola said. “They are the fastest of foot in my sammad. They have run after deer in the mountains and they run as fast as the deer.”
“They leave at dawn,” Herilak said.
“There are some of my hunters who have not returned,” Sorli said. “They have traveled far and sleep away. We cannot leave this place until they come back.”
Kerrick looked into the fire as though searching for an answer there. “I feel we should not wait any longer than that. We must go north as soon as your hunters return.”
“It is frozen still, there is no hunting,” Har-Havola protested.
“We have food,” Kerrick said. “We have our own meat and the meat in bladders that we took from the murgu. We can eat that and we can live. If we stay here they will fall upon us. I feel that, I know that.” He pointed to the dead owl and the living creature tight-clamped to its leg. “They watch. They know where we are. They come to kill us. I know them, know how they feel. If we stay we are dead.”
They slept little that night and Kerrick was there at the first light of dawn when Sigurnath and Peremandu set out.
Both of them were tall and strong, wearing birchbark leggings as protection against the underbrush.
“Leave your spears so they will not weigh you down,” Kerrick said. “Take dried meat and ekkotaz, but only enough for three days. You will not need the spears because you will not hunt. You are there to watch. You will have your bows, and you will take a hèsotsan as well for protection. As you go south always stay within sight of the river, even if it takes you longer that way. Go until it is dark and remain by the river at night. Return on the third day if we have not sent for you, for we will stay here no longer than that. Watch the river all of the time — but leave it at once if you see the murgu. If you see them you must get back here as quickly as you can.”
The two hunters ran. An easy and steady, ground-eating pace. The sky was overcast, the day cool, which made the running that much easier. They ran along the bank of the wide river, and splashed through the shallows when they were forced to, or climbed the high banks, never letting the water out of their sight. The river remained empty. When the sun was high they stopped, soaked in sweat, and drank deep from a clear stream that fell in a waterfall over a stone bank, then splashed into the river below. They cooled their faces in the spray, then chewed some of the smoked meat. They did not stop long.
In midafternoon they came to a place where the river cut a great loop into the plain. They were on a rise above it and could see where the course of the river curved out, then back.
“It is shorter to cross the bend here,” Sigurnath said. Peremandu looked at it, then rubbed the perspiration from his face with the back of his hand.
“Shorter — but we will not be able to see the water. They could pass by and we would not know. We must stay by the river.”
As they looked south they became aware of a cloud on the horizon that billowed upwards. It grew while they watched, puzzled, for they had never seen a cloud like that before.
“What is it?” Sigurnath asked.
“Dust,” Peremandu said, for he was known for his keen sight. “A cloud of dust. Maybe the duck-bills, a large herd.”
“As long as we have hunted them I have never seen a thing like this. It is too big, too wide — and it grows.”
They watched as the cloud of dust came closer, until the animals could be seen running before it. A very large herd indeed. There were some of them out ahead of the pack and Peremandu shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to make them out.
“They are murgu!” he cried in sudden horror. “Death-stick murgu. Run!”
They ran, back along the river bank, clearly visible in the knee-high grass. There were harsh cries behind them, the thunder of heavy feet and sudden sharp snapping sounds.
Sigurnath reared up, fell, and Peremandu had only a quick glimpse of the dart that sprouted suddenly from the back of his neck.
There was no escape on the plain. Sigurnath veered left, dirt crumbled from under his feet. He fell from the high bank, turned as he dropped, then hit the water far below.
The two great beasts slowed and stopped at the edge of the bank and their two Yilanè riders climbed down from their high saddles to look down at the muddy river. There was nothing visible. They stood, motionless, for a long time. Then the first one turned and led the way back to the tarakast.
“Report to Vaintè,” she said. “Tell her we have come upon two ustuzou. They are both dead. The rest of them will not know of our presence. We will fall upon them just as she has planned.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The distant shouts brought Kerrick suddenly awake, staring into the darkness of the tent. Armun was disturbed as well, murmuring something in her sleep as she moved the warm flesh of her body against his. The shouting was louder now: Kerrick pulled away from her, groped for his clothing among the furs.
When he threw back the tentflap he saw the group of hunters running towards him. They were carrying torches and two of them were dragging a dark shape. It was another hunter, limp and unmoving. Herilak ran on ahead of the others.
“They’re coming,” he called out, and Kerrick felt the hair stir on the back of his neck.
“It is Peremandu,” Herilak said. “He ran all day, most of this night as well.”
Peremandu was conscious, but completely exhausted. They carried him to Kerrick, his toes trailing in the dust, then sat him gently on the ground. In the flickering light of the torches his skin was pale: sooty patches ringed his eyes.
“Coming…” he said hoarsely. “Behind me… Sigurnath, dead.”
“Are there guards at the river?” Kerrick asked, and Peremandu shook his head weakly when he heard the words.
“Not on the water. Land.”
“Run,” Herilak ordered the hunters who had carried Peremandu. “Wake everyone. Get the sammadars here.”
Armun slipped out of the tent and bent over Peremandu, holding a cup of water to his mouth. He drained it greedily, gasping with the effort. His words came a bit more easily now.
“We watched the river — but they came by land. First a dust cloud
bigger than anything we had ever seen. There were murgu, they could not be counted, running fast, heavy feet, death-stick murgu on their backs. The murgu also rode another kind, bigger, faster, scouting ahead. When we ran they saw us. Killed Sigurnath. I went into the river, holding my breath, as long as I could. Swimming deep, with the current. When I came up they were gone. I stayed in the water a long time.”
The sammadars hurried up while he was talking, while more and more hunters gathered silently to listen. The torchlight flickered across their grim faces.
“When I came out of the water they were gone. I could see the dust of their passing in the distance. They went very fast. I followed their track, wide as a river through the trampled grass, marked with much dung of the murgu. Followed until the sun was low and I could see that they had halted by the river. Then I stopped too and went no closer. The margalus has said that they do not like the night and do not go about then. Remembering this I waited until the sun had set. As soon as it was dark I circled far to the east so I would not pass near them. I did not see them again. I ran and did not stop, and I ran and I am here. Sigurnath is dead.”
He dropped back onto the ground, exhausted again by the effort of speaking. What he had said struck terror into the listeners’ hearts for they knew that death was striding close.
“They will attack,” Kerrick said. “Soon after dawn. They know exactly where we are. They plan these things carefully. They will have stopped for the night just far enough away not to be observed, yet close enough to strike in the morning.”
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