Until the voyage south began. The novelty of being at sea in the ikkergak kept his mind and his body occupied, for it was like nothing he had ever seen or experienced in his life before. Crossing the ocean in an uruketo had been completely different, trapped in a living, leathery compartment with smells and stinks and constant semidarkness, nothing to see, nothing to do. The ikkergak could not have been more different. Now they moved over the sea, not under it, sea-birds crying out, winging close, with the creaking of the ikkergak’s structure all about as the big sail was spread and they rode before the fresh wind. Here he was not a stupefied passenger but played an active role in the ikkergak’s passage. There was always water to be pumped out and he never tired of working the handle and watching the gush of clear water over the side. He puzzled over it, but never quite understood the mystery. It had something to do with the air, like the popping toy, but just exactly what he was never sure. It did not matter—it was enough to know that with a pull of his arm he could lift water from below his feet and send it back into the ocean.
Setting sail was less of a mystery. He could feel the wind on his face, saw it fill the leather sail, could see the strain on the woven lines that passed the strength of the wind on to the fabric of the ikkergak itself. Following instructions carefully he learned to pull on the correct lines and mastered the knots that held them into position. He even took his turn at the tiller. He was needed because they sailed all night as well as all day, sailing from winter into spring. Steering the craft at night was beyond him, he had not the skill to guide it by the feel of the air on his face and the pressure on the tiller. But during the day, with a good following wind, he could hold the ikkergak on its course as well as any of the Paramutan.
The ikkergak was an intricate and marvelous construction. Big as it was, the outer skin was made from the hide of a single ularuaq, and he wondered what the immense creatures could possibly be like. The skin had been stretched over a framework made of thin strips of strong wood, countless lengths that crossed each other and were tied together with leather thongs. In some ways it was like sailing in an uruketo for the flexible sides moved as the ikkergak rode over the waves, moving in and out as though it were breathing.
Traveling south in the ikkergak was far better for Armun than the trip north had been in the little boat. The motion was easier and she was no longer sick. While the days grew warmer instead of colder: she had had enough of ice and snow. But she worried about the boys falling into the water and watched them closely when they were playing. Despite this, in a moment of daring, Harl did lose his balance and topple over the side. Her scream alerted the helmsman who brought the ikkergak all aback, sail flapping, while Kalaleq scrambled over and threw a line to the frightened boy. It had happened in moments, the air in his clothes had kept him afloat, and all the Paramutan rolled about with laughter when his dripping form was hauled aboard. He was much more careful after this experience and even Arnwheet was more cautious after having seen his friend vanish over the side.
The Paramutan were good fishermen and kept lines out most of the time. The hooks were carved from two small bones, one sharpened at the end and the other drilled for the line, tied together with ligament where they joined. Three or four of them would be tied to the line and baited with bits of leather that had been stained yellow and red. A large rock with a hole drilled through it was used for a weight and this was secured at the end of an immense length of line. The weight would be thrown over the side and the line paid out. Many times when it was hauled up again it would be heavy with fish. Of course the catch was eaten raw, as was all the meat that formed the Paramutan diet, but the Tanu had long grown accustomed to this.
Water was carried in skins and refreshed often from streams along the shore. The coast was green with new grass now and the first leaves were opening. Sooner than they had imagined they reached the great river where it emptied into the sea, where the sammads had camped on their trek south. The weather was warmer too, the days longer. The Tanu relished the heat but the Paramutan became more and more uncomfortable. They had long since shed all of their clothing and stayed out of the sun whenever they were able, but their soft brown fur was still sheened with perspiration. There was no laughter now. It was after a warm and sunny day that Kalaleq drew Armun aside in the dusk. He was crouched down, exhausted, fanning himself with his outstretched tail.
“You must learn to sail the ikkergak, make sure all the other Erqigdlit know how as well, for now is the time for the Paramutan to part. We leave you, we die . . .”
“Don’t say that!” she cried, horrified, for it was known that death always waited close by, eager to come if he were called. “It is the warm air, we will land, you must go back north.”
For many days now the Paramutan had been suffering from the heat, but they still insisted on going on, nor would they permit the Tanu to go ashore so the ikkergak could turn back. Something had to be done, she did not know what—when the decision was made for them. The sails flapped suddenly and the ikkergak turned and wallowed in the water. Kerrick was steering and had thrown the tiller hard over, he was pointing at the shore and shouting.
They were just outside the breaking waves, passing a long beach that stretched away to the horizon in both directions. It was low tide and most of the sand was exposed, smooth and unbroken. Except for the dark object that Kerrick was pointing to. Gray rock. Armun could not understand why he was bothered. Then her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it.
A mastodon. Dead.
They ran the ikkergak up onto the beach close to the body. Kerrick was first over the side, pushing through the surf toward the great, still form. Its trunk lay in the water, washing back and forth in the waves. Seabirds had already torn the creature’s eyes out. Kerrick was hidden by the mastodon’s bulk for a moment, then reappeared, walking slowly now. His face was as grim as death itself when he held up the Yilanè dart that he had plucked from the wrinkled hide.
“You must go back,” Armun said, shouting in Paramutan, her voice shaking with fear. “Go north, this night, keep going. We are going inland, away from the ocean.” She reached up for Arnwheet as Harl landed with a splash in the water beside her. Ortnar climbed painfully down from the bow. She explained what had happened to the horrified Paramutan, her words coming out in a rush. “Those creatures I told you about, the murgu, they have been here. They strike from the sea, from the south. You are safe if you go north.”
“The mastodon came down from there,” Kerrick said, pointing to the trees beyond the dunes. “You can still make out the tracks. They are two or three days old. Tell them to pass down our packs. Tell them to leave.”
The dead bulk of the mastodon made argument impossible. “We will go,” Kalaleq said, unable to keep the fear out of his voice. “We will go north and fish and bring the catch back to the paukaruts. Come with us or the murgu will kill you as well.”
“We must stay.”
“Then we will return. To this place. Before the winter comes again. We must catch more fish. You will come back with us.”
“Understand me, please, we cannot do that. This is where we must remain. Now—go, quickly, you must leave.”
She stood on the shore, their few possessions tumbled about them, her arms around the boys, as the ikkergak caught the wind and moved quickly away from the shore. The Paramutan had remembered to do the correct thing when they departed so were laughing and making loud jokes as they went, growing more distant until their sharp voices were drowned in the rustle of the waves upon the shore.
Ortnar went slowly ahead, leaning heavily on his spear, while they lifted the packs onto their shoulders. They followed his footsteps and caught up with him at the edge of the trees. At the place where this sammad had been slaughtered.
It was hideously familiar to all of them except for the four-year-old Arnwheet who fiercely clutched his mother’s hand in numbed silence.
The collapsed tents, the sprawled bodies, the dead mastodon.
�
�It is sammad Sorli. They were going north,” Ortnar said grimly. “Yet we met them last autumn, going south. What reason . . . ?”
“You know the reason,” Kerrick said, his voice as deadly grim as the death that surrounded them. “Something has happened in the city. I must go there, find out—”
He stopped when he heard the sound from the forest, dim and distant. A sound familiar to them all. The bellow of a mastodon. Kerrick ran toward it, through the slaughtered sammad and beyond, toward the opening in the trees where a path had been torn, clearly marked by broken branches and shrubs. The mastodons had panicked during the attack, had broken away. He came to one dead body, then another. He stopped to listen and heard the trumpeting call again, much closer this time.
Moving quietly be slipped through the darkening forest until he saw the beast: he called out softly. It turned toward him and lifted its trunk, made a burbling cry in response.
When it moved, in the shadows behind it, he saw the small girl standing forlornly against a tree. Tear-stained and frightened, no more than eight years old, speechless. He made soothing noises as he approached, both child and animal were still afraid, bent and picked her up.
“Let me,” Armun said as she came through the trees. He gave her the child.
It was getting too dark to move on. They stayed there, in the protection of the trees, waiting for the others. The boys were close behind Armun, but Ortnar did not come hobbling up that quickly.
“No fire,” Kerrick said. “We don’t know where they have gone. They could have come by land, might still be close.”
The child finally talked to Armun, but could add nothing to what they already knew had happened. Her name was Darras. She had been alone in the woods, squatting down in the shelter of the bushes, when everyone screamed. She had been frightened, had not known what to do, so had remained hidden. Later she found the mastodon and stayed with it. She was hungry. When she was asked why the sammad had trekked north she had no idea. She ate the cold meat ravenously and fell asleep soon afterward.
There was little to be said until Kerrick broke the silence.
“In the morning I will see if there is any trace of the Yilanè, though they must be gone by now. If they are, we will start south, to the lake where I left the two male murgu. If those two are still alive we can get their death-sticks. There will be food there too; it will be a safe place to stay. I must find out what has happened in Deifoben. But I will have to do that alone while you remain at the lake.”
“That is what you must do,” Ortnar said, grimly. “The sammads are there—or were there. We must find out what has happened.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ortnar hobbled off at dawn, leaning heavily on his spear, to find the track of the Yilanè. Kerrick wanted to go in his place, but he knew that the big hunter was a far better tracker and woodsman. While Armun fed the children he cut long, stout poles to make a travois, using the straps from their packs to bind it together. He was fixing it to the mastodon when Ortnar returned.
“They came from the sea,” he said, dropping wearily to the ground, his face running with sweat and taut with pain. “I found where they came ashore, where they laid an ambush that the sammad walked into. They’re gone, back to sea.”
Kerrick looked up at the sky. “We are safe enough until we get further south. They won’t have any birds looking at this area, not after the killing. We’ll leave now, go as far south as we can before we have to travel by night.”
“The owl . . .” Armun said. Kerrick nodded.
“We are still better moving at night. The raptors fly high, can watch a bigger area. That is all we can do.”
Once they had passed the dead sammad they came to the well-marked track it had made, then followed this south. Arnwheet ran behind the plodding mastodon, thinking it was all exciting and fun, stopping to admire the giant heaps of fresh dung. Darras walked in silence, numbed by what had happened, staying close to Armun. Arnwheet quickly tired of walking and swung onto the travois where the little girl soon joined him. Harl at thirteen was far too old for this babyish comfort and walked on with the others.
Ortnar refused to ride on the travois—though his toeless foot kept him in constant agony. He was a hunter, not a child. Kerrick mentioned it just once, did not speak of it again after the hunter’s snarled refusal. In midmorning a spring rain began to fall in a fine drizzle, becoming heavier as the day progressed. Slowed by the glutinous mud, Ortnar fell farther and farther behind until he was out of sight.
“We should wait for him,” Armun said. Kerrick shook his head.
“No. He is a hunter and has his pride. He must do what he must do.”
“Hunters are stupid. If my foot hurt I would be riding.”
“So would I. That must make me only half a hunter because a Yilanè would not walk unnecessarily.”
“You are no murgu!” she protested.
“No—but at times I think like one.” His smile faded and he strode on unhappily through the rain. “They are out there somewhere—and something terrible is happening. I must find out what it is, go to the city.”
Kerrick was reluctant to stop at midday—but Armun insisted because they had not seen Ortnar since the storm had begun. While she took out the food, he cut some pine branches to shelter them from the cold rain. Harl brought water from a nearby stream and they gulped mouthfuls of it to wash down the repellent meat. Kerrick finally spat his out. They must hunt, get fresh meat, cook it. He had not noticed any game, but it must be there. Something moved in the forest and he grabbed up his bow, fitted an arrow to it—but it was Ortnar. Stumbling forward, slowly and steadily. He had a brace of woods pigeons slung over his shoulder.
“Thought we could use . . . the fresh meat,” he gasped as he slumped to the ground.
“Let us eat them now,” Kerrick said, worried by the drawn lines in Ortnar’s face. “We can light a fire, the smoke won’t be seen in the rain. Harl, you know how to find dry wood. Get some.”
Armun plucked the birds, with Darras’s enthusiastic if not too skilled help, while Kerrick built the fire. Even Ortnar sat up and smiled at the smell of birds roasting on green-wood spits. The birds were half raw, barely warmed through when they ate them, but they could not wait. They had had enough of frozen fish and stinking meat.
All they left were the well-gnawed bones. Then, warmed and with their stomachs filled, they resumed the walk with more energy than they had started the day with. Even Ortnar kept up with them at first, though as time passed he fell farther behind until he was out of sight again. The rain stopped and the sun was visible behind the thin clouds. Kerrick looked up at it and decided that they would make an early halt. He must allow enough daylight for the injured hunter to reach them before dark. When they came to a glade of large oak trees, with a stream nearby, he decided that they had gone far enough.
Cutting branches from a stand of pine and building them into a shelter for the night kept him busy for some time. But not long enough. Ortnar still had not appeared.
“I’m going back along the track,” he said. “I’ll look out for game.”
“You will need me to help,” Harl said, reaching for his small spear.
“No, you have a more important task. You must stay here and be on your guard. There could be murgu.”
The hunting was only an excuse: he was worried about Ortnar. Walking back along the track he did not even think of hunting. Something had to be done—but Ortnar could not be forced to ride in the travois. Yet he should. When they had been eating the birds he had noticed that there was blood dripping from the wrappings of Ortnar’s bad foot. Kerrick must talk to him, say that he was slowing them up, endangering them all. No, this would be no good, for the hunter would then leave them and strike out on his own. He began to worry. He had come a long way and the hunter was still not in sight. There was something ahead—dark on the track. He raised his spear and went forward warily.
It was long after dark and Armun was torn by worry and fear. T
he sun had set and they had not returned. Should she send Harl to see what was happening? No, best to stay together. Was that a shout? She listened and heard it more clearly this time.
“Harl, watch the children,” she said, seizing up her own spear and hurrying back along the rutted path.
There Kerrick was, coming along slowly, a dark bulk over his shoulders. Ortnar, hanging limply.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but something is very wrong,” he gasped out the words for he had carried the motionless body a long way. “Help me.”
There was little they could do other than cover the unconscious hunter with furs, make him comfortable under the shelter. There was foam on his lips and Armun wiped it gently away. “Do you know what happened?” she asked.
“This is the way I found him, just collapsed in the mud. Can you tell what is wrong with him?”
“There are no wounds, no bones seem to be broken. I have never seen anything like it.”
The clouds blew away and the night was clear: they dare not light a fire. They took turns sitting by the unconscious figure, making sure he stayed covered. Near dawn Harl awoke and offered to help, but Kerrick told him to go to sleep again. When the first light filtered through the leaves, Ortnar stirred and moaned. Kerrick bent over him when he opened his right eye.
“What happened?” Kerrick asked.
Ortnar struggled to speak and the words came out slowly, mumbled, for his lips were twisted. Kerrick saw that not only was his left eye closed but the entire left side of his face was slack and ummoving.
“Hurt . . . fell down . . .” was all he could say.
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