Hastila had not looked at the boy, did not notice his open fear. He was too obsessed with his own hatred. Murgu. How he loathed them. This carrion eater, blood and bits of decay still on its head and neck, snapped feebly at him as he came up. He kicked it aside, stood on its neck while he pulled his spear free. It was scaled and green-spotted, pale gray as a corpse, as long as a man although its head was no bigger than his hand. He plunged the spear home again and it trembled and died. He waved the clouds of flies from his face as he climbed back out of the pit. Kerrick had lowered his spear and fought to control his trembling. Hastila saw this and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Do not be afraid of them. For all their size they are cowards, carrion eaters, filth. Hate them—but do not fear them. Remember always what they are. When Ermanpadar made the Tanu from the mud of the river, he made the deer and the other animals as well for the Tanu to hunt. He put them down in the grass beside the mountains where there is clean snow and fresh water. But then he looked and saw all the emptiness to the south. But by then he was tired and far distant from the river so he did not return to it but instead dug deep into the green slime of the swamp. With this he made the murgu and they are green to this day and fit only for killing so they can decay back into the swamp from which they were born.”
While he spoke Hastila plunged his spear into the sand and twisted it to remove all the stains of the marag’s blood. When this was done he was quieter; most of Kerrick’s fear had ebbed away. The marag was dead, the others gone. Soon they would leave this shore and return to the sammad.
“Now I will show you how to stalk your prey,” Hastila said. “Those murgu were eating or they would have heard you—you sounded like a mastodon going up the slope.”
“I was quiet!” Kerrick said defensively. “I know how to walk. I stalked a squirrel once, right up so close that I was only a spear length away—”
“The squirrel is the stupidest animal, the longtooth is the smartest. The deer is not smart, but he can hear the best of all. Now I will stand here in the sand and you will go up the bank and into the deep grass. Then stalk me. In silence—for I have the ears of the deer.”
Kerrick ran happily up the slope and through the wet grass—then dropped and crawled away from the camp. He went on this way, as silently as he could, then turned towards the ocean again to work his way up behind the hunter. It was hot, wet work—and to little avail, for when he finally reached the top of the ridge again Hastila was already there waiting for him.
“You must look carefully each time before you put your foot down,” the hunter said. “Then roll it forward and do not stamp. Part the grass and do not force your way through it. Now we try again.”
There was little beach here and Hastila went down to the water’s edge and splashed his spear into the sea to wash away any remaining trace of the marag’s blood. Kerrick once more pushed his way up the slope, stopping for breath on the top. “This time you won’t hear me,” he called out, shaking his spear in defiance at the big man.
Hastila waved back and leaned forward on his spear.
Something dark surged out of the surf behind him. Kerrick called out a horrified warning and Hastila spun about, spear ready. There was a snapping sound, like the breaking of a stout branch. The hunter dropped his spear and clutched at his midriff and fell face first into the water. Wet arms pulled him under and he vanished among the foam-flecked waves.
Kerrick screamed as he ran back to the encampment, met the others running towards him. He choked out what he had seen as he led them back along the beach, to the spot where the terrifying event had taken place.