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 Yilanè 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 Alpèasak? He had been comfortable there, at peace, close to the Eistaa. Why couldn’t he return? Vaintè 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 Alpèasak? 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 Yilanè’s world, not his. There was no place for him there.