No one wanted to leave; no one could find reason to stay. Between the ice and the murgu they had no choice. They talked about it far into the night, but search as they might they could find no other course open to them. It must be the mountains.
In the morning the travois were assembled and old traces repaired with new leather. Small boys searched the woods for the compact balls of fur and bones that the owls regurgitated and Fraken poked them open and read the omens.
“Not today, but tomorrow,” he said. “That will be the time we must leave, at first light. Then when the sun is over the hills and shines here it will see nothing. We must be gone.”
That night, after they had eaten, Kerrick sat by the fire tying bits of grass to long thorns from a berry bush. The supply of darts for the hèsotsan were running low, and there were none of the special trees here on which the darts grew. They were not needed. Any bit of material of the same size would be expelled by the hèsotsan. The darts that they made worked just as well, even better if they were carefully done. Kerrick bit the knot off with his teeth. Armun passed by him and threw the food scraps into the fire, then began to tie their few possessions into bundles. She was silent all the time that she did this and Kerrick suddenly realized she had reverted to her old habit of holding her hair over her face.
When she came close he took her by the wrist and pulled her down beside him, but she still turned away from him. Only when he took her chin in his hands and turned her face to him did he see the tears that filled her eyes.
“Have you hurt yourself? What is wrong?” he asked, puzzled.
She shook her head and tried to keep silent but he was worried and made her speak. In the end she turned her head away, held her hair before her face, and told him.
“There is a baby coming. In the spring.”
In his excitement Kerrick forgot all about her tears and her worries, pulled her down to him and laughed out loud. He knew about babies now, had seen them born, had seen the pride the parents felt. He could think of no reason why Armun should cry instead of being joyful. She did not want to tell him and kept turning away in her old manner. At first he was worried, then grew angry at her silence and shook her until she cried harder. After this he felt ashamed of what he had done, wiped her tears and held her. When she had quieted she knew that she had to tell him. She pulled back and pointed to her face.
“The baby will be a girl and will look like me,” she said, touching the cleft in her mouth.
“That will be very good, for you are beautiful.”
She smiled a little at that. “Only to you,” she said. “When I was little they poked at me and laughed and I could never be happy like the other children.”
“No one laughs at you now.”
“No. Not with you here. But the children will laugh at our daughter.”
“No, they won’t. Our daughter could be a son and he could look like me. Did your mother or father have a lip and mouth like yours?”
“No.”
“Then why should our baby? You will then be the only one like that and I am lucky to have one with a face like yours. You should not cry.”
“I should not.” She dried her eyes. “And I should not bother you with my fears. You must be strong when we leave tomorrow when we go to the mountains. Will there really be good hunting on the other side?”
“Of course. Munan has told us so and he has been there.”
“Will there be… murgu there? Death-stick murgu?”
“No. We are leaving them behind. We go where they have never been.”
He did not add the dark thought that he shared with no one. Vaintè was alive. She would never rest, never stop searching, not until he and all the Tanu were dead.
They could flee, but surely as night followed day she would follow them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On the fifth day the land began to rise; the west wind was cool and dry. The hunters of sammad Har-Havola sniffed the air and laughed aloud for this was the part of the world they knew best. They talked excitedly among themselves, pointing out familiar landmarks, hurrying ahead of the sammads and their plodding mastodons. Herilak did not share their pleasure because he could see from the tracks and signs just how bad the hunting was here. A few times he saw that other Tanu had come this way, once even finding the remains of a fire with the ashes still warm. He never saw the hunters themselves; they were obviously staying well clear of this large and heavily armed band.
The trail they were following took them further and further into the hills, each one higher than the one before. The days were warm, the sun hot, but they were happy to burrow under their furs at night. Then one morning at dawn Har-Havola called out happily and pointed ahead at the place where the rising sun was touching the high white peaks on the horizon. These were the snow-covered mountains they would have to cross.
Each day the track they were following rose higher and higher, until the mountains ahead were a barrier stretching away into the distance to either side. They looked unbroken, formidable. Only when the sammads were closer could it be seen that a river valley led gently up into their heart. The water ran quickly, cold and gray. They walked beside it, following its turns, until the foothills were lost from sight. The landscape changed as well; there were fewer trees and most of these were evergreens.
One afternoon there was a stirring on the mountainside above them and they looked up to see white, horned beasts bounding to cover. One stopped on a ledge, looking down, and an arrow from Herilak’s bow sought it out, dropped the creature tumbling down the cliff face. Its fur was curled and soft, the flesh, when they cooked it that evening, delicious and fat. Har-Havola licked the last of the grease from his fingers and grunted happily.
“Only once before have I eaten mountain goat. Good. Very hard to stalk. They live only in the high mountains. Now we must think of fodder for the mastodons and wood for our fires.”
“Why is this?” Herilak asked.
“We go higher. Soon there will be no trees, then even the grass will be thin and scarce. It will be cold, very cold.”
“Then we must take what we will need,” Herilak said. “Without the tents the travois are lightly loaded. We will cut wood, load it. Young branches as well with leaves for the beasts. They must not starve. Will there be water?”
“No, but it does not matter since there will be snow to melt. It can be done.”
Although the days were still warm they found frost on the ground now when they awoke in the morning, while the mastodons rumbled their discomfort, breaths smoking in the chill of dawn. Although there were complaints about how thin the air was and old Fraken gasped loudly and could not walk so rode instead on one of the travois, Kerrick found himself filled with a happiness that was new to him. The clarity of the arr pleased him, as did the silence of the mountains, the stark cleanliness of sky and rock. So different from the damp heat of the south, the sweat and insects. The Yilanè could have their swamps and endless summer. They were suited for it. They would find life here unbearable. This was not their world here — could they not leave it to the Tanu? Although he looked always at the sky Kerrick saw none of the great raptors or other birds that might be marking their passage. Perhaps the Yilanè would not follow. Perhaps they were safe from them at last.
“That is the highest pass, there,” Munan announced one afternoon, pointing ahead. “Where those clouds are, where it is snowing. I remember now how the clouds sweep up from the west so that it snows there more often than not.”
“We cannot wait for the snow to stop,” Herilak said. “There is little wood and fodder left. We must press on.”
It took a long day of continuous struggle to reach the summit of the pass. The snow was deep and the mastodons broke through the crust and foundered in the heavy drifts. It was an exhausting struggle for them all, pushing ahead step after slow step. At nightfall the sammads were still on the slope and were forced to spend a sleepless night there, with the beasts squealing in discomfort through the darkn
ess. Unable to light fires they could only wrap themselves in furs and shiver until dawn. At the first light they went on, knowing only that frozen death awaited them if they did not.
Once past the crest the going was even more difficult, working their way down the steep and icy slope. But they could not stop. The feed was gone and the mastodons would not survive another night in the snow. They went on, feeling their way through the banks of cloud that rolled up the slope to them. They reached the broken scree of rocks and boulders in the afternoon and found that it was even harder to walk on than the snow had been. It was almost dusk when they broke through the clouds and felt the setting sun warm on their faces. The valleys opened out below them and, far distant yet, there was a trace of green vegetation.
Darkness fell but they stopped only long enough to build a fire and light torches. In their flickering light the exhausted sarnmads stumbled onward. It wasn’t until they were aware that the ground was softer underfoot that they realized the ordeal was over. They stopped then, on a slope beside a rushing stream of snowmelt where the ground was tufted with clumps of grass. They dropped, exhausted, while the mastodons squealed and tore out great clumps of grass with their trunks. Even the preserved murgu meat tasted good that night.
The worst was past; going down the valleys proved to be far easier than climbing them had been. Very soon they were back among the trees where the mastodons gorged themselves on the green leaves. The hunters were happy. They had seen the fresh droppings of mountain goat that day and in the morning swore that there would be fresh meat. But the goats were too wary and climbed to safety, vanishing well before the hunters were within arrowshot. It was the following day, in a meadow set between the trees, that they stalked a herd of small deer, killing two before the others fled. There were not only deer to eat here, for the pine trees were a kind they had never seen before, with sweet nuts inside the pinecones. The mountains were behind them, the future bright.
It was on the next day that the stream they were following ended in a rocky pool. There were the tracks of many animals in the mud beside it. The pool itself had no outlet. The water must run underground from this place; they had seen this happen before.
“This is where we will stop,” Herilak said. “There is water here, grazing for the beasts, good hunting if we have read the signs right. Here is what we will do. The sammads will stay in this place and the hunters will bring in fresh meat. There are berries, roots to be dug. We will not go hungry at once. I will go on with Munan who has been here before to see what lies ahead. Kerrick will come with us.”
“We must carry water in skins,” Munan said. “There is little water after this, none in the desert.”
“That is what we will do,” Herilak said.
The change began at once, as soon as the three hunters were lower in the hills. There were few trees now, the grass was dry, and there were more and more of the spiny, dangerous-looking plants. As the foothills grew flatter the grass became sparse and they walked on gravel and drifts of sand. All of the plants now were spiny and dry-looking, each spaced far from the others. The air was dry and motionless. A lizard wriggled out of sight when they approached. Nothing else moved.
“It has been a long hard day,” Herilak said. “We will stop here, one place is like any other. Is this the desert you talked of?”
Munan nodded. “It is all very much like this. Some places with more sand, sometimes broken rock. Other than these spine-plants nothing grows. There is no water.”
“We will go on in the morning. It must have an end.”
The desert was hot and dry and despite what Herilak had said it appeared to be endless. They walked for four days, from sunrise to sunset, resting in the middle of the day when the sun was high and it was too hot to go on. At the end of the fourth day the mountains were only a gray line on the horizon behind them. Ahead the desert was unchanged. At sunset Herilak stood on a small rise, shading his eyes as he looked west.
“The same,” he said. “No hills or mountains, nothing green. Just more desert.”
Kerrick held up the water skin. “This is the last.”
“I know. We return in the morning. We have come as far as we can. Even now we will have no water for the last day’s walking. We will drink well that night, when we reach the hills again.”
“What will we do then?” Kerrick asked, piling up dry twigs for their fire.
“That must be thought about. If the hunting has been good perhaps we can stay in those hills. We will see.”
When it was dark there was a hooting of an owl, close by. Kerrick shook himself, suddenly wide awake, feeling a sudden chill. It was just an owl, nothing more. They lived here in the desert, eating the lizards. Just an owl.
The Yilanè could not know they were here, could not have followed them through the snows of the mountain passes. They were safe.
Yet that night he dreamed of Alpèasak, was once again among the scurrying fargi. There was Inlènu* at the other end of the lead. He moaned in his sleep but did not wake, did not know that he lay with his fingers clamped on the iron ring about his neck.
When Kerrick woke at dawn the dream was still with him, pressing down on him like a great weight. It was just a dream, he kept telling himself, but the feeling of disaster stayed with him as they walked.
They made good time on their return journey. With their food and water gone they had less to carry and could move faster across the dry desert, then on to the grassy slopes of the foothills. It was late in the afternoon when they came over the last ridge, their mouths dry, looking forward with pleasure to the water that lay ahead. The track they were following led through thick undergrowth that crackled as they pushed by. Herilak was leading the way, climbing steadily. He saw that he was outdistancing the others and stopped to let them catch up.
As he did the arrow strummed past him and thudded into the ground.
He hurled himself to one side, calling out a warning as he did. Lying behind the bole of a tree he took an arrow of his own from his quiver and nocked it to the bowstring. A voice called from the slope above.
“Herilak, is that you? Did you cry out?”
“Who is that?”
“Sorli. Be on your guard. There is danger in the forest.”
Herilak looked carefully about but saw nothing. What danger was there here? He did not want to call out again. Kerrick appeared among the trees, moving warily. Herilak waved him forward, signaled to keep on up the trail. When Munan had passed as well he followed them, silent and alert.
Sorli was waiting for them, concealed from sight behind the large boulders. Other hunters from his sammad were close by, hidden from below, peering back down the hill. Sorli waved them past, then fell in behind them. Once over the ridge he took the arrow from his bow.
“I heard you moving through the brush, then just saw your outline. I did not know it was you, that is why I let fly the arrow. I thought it was the others. They attacked this morning, just after dawn. The hunters on guard were killed, but gave the warning. They killed one of the mastodons too, perhaps for the meat, but we drove them off before they could do anything to it.”
“Who were they?”
“Not Tanu.”
“Murgu!” Kerrick. heard the terror in his voice as he spoke the word. Not here, no, not here too.
“Not murgu. But not Tanu as we know Tanu. There is one we killed, you will see. They had spears but no bows. Once the arrows struck among them they broke and ran.”
They walked along the trail and Sorli stopped and pointed to a dead body.
The corpse lay where it had fallen, face down in the brush. There was a bloody hole in its back where the arrow that had made the mortal wound had been cut out. There were furs tied around the waist. The corpse’s skin was darker than theirs, the long hair black instead of light. Herilak bent and heaved the corpse over, pushed the furs aside with the butt of his spear.
“A hunter. He could be Tanu except for the skin and that hair.”
Kerrick b
ent and pulled up an eyelid; a misted black eye stared up sightlessly at his blue one. Munan leaned over to look as well, then spat with distaste.
“Harwan,” he said. “When I was small I used to be frightened when they told stories about the black men from beyond the high mountains who came in the dark to steal children and eat babies. They were called the Harwan and were ferocious and terrible. Some said that the stories were true. Others laughed.”
“Now you know,” Sorli said. “They were true. And there is another thing. Look at this.”
He led them a short distance up the hill to the dark form stretched under the trees. Herilak looked at it and grunted with amazement. “A longtooth, one of the biggest I have ever seen.”
It was immense, half again longer than a man. The creature’s mouth gaped in death, the two long teeth that gave it its name projecting, large, deadly, sharp.
“It came with the dark Tanu — and there were others as well. They marched with them like mastodons, attacked when they were told.”
Herilak did not like it in the slightest. “This is dangerous. Armed Tanu and these creatures. Where did they come from?”
“From the north — and they went back to the north. It may have been a hunting party.”
Herilak looked to the north and shook his head. “Then that way is sealed to us. So is the way west, at least at this place. We do not know how many of these dark Tanu there are, or how many longtooth run at their sides. We do not want to fight them. That leaves us only one direction to go.”
“South,” Kerrick said. “South through these hills. But there may be murgu there.”
“There may be anything there,” Herilak said, his face set in hard lines. “It does not matter. We must go. The desert may end there, the hunting may be good. Now let us go drink the sweet water. Keep guards out during the night. We leave at sunrise tomorrow.”
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