The sun was low now and the air was cool at this altitude. Inlènu* laid aside the well-gnawed bone and looked in Kerrick’s direction.
“Humbly ask, low to high, where are the cloaks?”
“There are no cloaks, Inlènu*.”
“I am cold.”
Kerrick shivered as well, but not from the cold. “There is nothing I can do, Inlènu*, nothing at all.”
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
Inlènu* died during the night. Kerrick woke at dawn, shivering with cold. There was a beading of dew on the grass and mist was rising from the stream. When he turned towards Inlènu* he saw that her mouth was gaping open, her eyes staring sightlessly.
The cold, he thought. She died in the night of the cold.
Then he saw the pool of blood under her head. A spearpoint had been thrust into her throat, silencing her and killing her. Who had done this cruel thing? Herilak was still asleep but Ortnar’s eyes were open, staring coldly at him.
“You did this!” Kerrick cried out, jumping to his feet. “Murdered this harmless creature in her sleep.”
“I killed a marag.” His voice was insolent. “It is always a good thing to kill murgu.”
Shaking with rage, Kerrick reached out and seized Herilak’s spear. But he could not lift it; the big hunter held fast to the haft.
“The creature is dead,” Herilak said. “That is the end of it. She would have died soon of the cold in any case.”
Kerrick stopped tugging at the spear and sprang suddenly at Ortnar, seizing him by the throat with both hands, his thumbs digging deep into the hunter’s windpipe. His own throat hurt where the collar cut in; he had dragged Inlènu*’s dead weight after him, but he paid it no heed. Ortnar writhed in his grasp and groped for his spear, but Kerrick jammed the man’s arm against the ground with his knee, grinding down hard. Ortnar thrashed feebly, tearing at Kerrick’s back with the nails of his free hand, but Kerrick felt nothing in his rage.
Ortnar would have been dead had not Herilak intervened. He seized Kerrick’s wrists in his great hands and pulled them wide. Ortnar hoarsely gasped in breath after breath, then moaned and rubbed at the bruised flesh of his throat. Kerrick’s blind anger faded and, as soon as he stopped struggling, Herilak released him.
“Tanu does not kill Tanu,” he said.
Kerrick started to protest, then grew silent. It was done. Inlènu* was dead. Killing her murderer would accomplish nothing. And Herilak was right; the winter would have killed her in any case. Kerrick sat down by her still form and looked out into the sunrise. What did she matter to him anyway? Just a stupid fargi who was always in his way. With her death his last link with Alpèasak was severed. So be it. He was Tanu now. He could forget that he had ever been Yilanè.
Then he realized that he was holding the flexible lead that joined him to Inlènu*. He was not free yet. And this lead could not be cut, he knew that. With that came the realization that there was only one way that he could be freed. He looked up, horrified, into Herilak’s face. The sammadar nodded with understanding.
“I will do what must be done. Turn away for you will not enjoy the sight.”
Kerrick faced the stream, but he could clearly hear what was happening behind his back. Ortnar stumbled to the water to bathe his face and neck and Kerrick shouted insults at him, trying to drown out the sounds.
It was over quickly. Herilak wiped the neck-ring on the grass before handing it to Kerrick. Kerrick went swiftly to the stream and washed it over and over in the running water. When it was clean, he took it in both hands, stood and walked upstream away from the spot. He did not want to see what was lying back there.
When he heard the hunters approaching he turned quickly to face them; he had no desire to be killed from behind.
“This one has something to say,” Herilak said pushing Ortnar forward. There was hatred in the small hunter’s face and he touched his bruised throat when he spoke. His voice was hoarse.