Herilak rolled his head back and forth, trying to shake the blood from his eyes. Kerrick reached down and gently wiped them clean. It was like touching himself, the warm skin. Skin like his, flesh like his. Kerrick shivered all over, his hand shook in the grasp of some unknown sensation.

“You were making sounds at them,” Herilak said, “and wriggling about too just as they do. You can speak with them, can’t you?”

“You will answer my questions. It is not you who will do the questioning.”

Herilak ignored this but nodded with understanding. “They want you to do their work. How long have you been with them?”

“I don’t know. Many summers . . . winters.”

“They have been killing Tanu all of that time, Kerrick. We kill them, but never enough. I saw a boy once, being held by the murgu. Do they have many captives?”

“There are no captives. Just myself . . .” Kerrick fell silent; a memory long forgotten stirred his thoughts, a bearded face in the trees.

“They captured you, raised you, didn’t they?” Herilak said almost in a whisper. “You can speak with them. We need your help, the Tanu need you now . . .”

He broke off as he saw what hung about Kerrick’s neck. His voice was choked now as he spoke.

“Turn, boy, turn to the light. Around your neck—is that yours?”

“Mine?” Kerrick said, touching the cool metal of the knife. “I suppose so. It was around my neck, they tell me, when I first came to them.”

Herilak’s voice was distant, as he too dredged in memories of the past. “Skymetal. I was one of those who saw it fall from the sky, searched and found it. I was there when the knives were made, sawn from the metal block with sheets of stone, hammered and drilled. Now—reach into my furs, in the front, that’s right. You have it, pull it out.”

The metal knife was hanging from a thong. Kerrick clutched it, unbelieving. It was the same as his—only twice as large.

“I saw them made. A large one for a hunter, a sammadar, a small one for his son. The son, a boy’s name, Kerrick perhaps, I don’t remember. But the father. One close to me. His name was Amahast. Then I found the skymetal knife again many years later—in the broken bones of his body. The bones of Amahast.”

Kerrick could only listen in frozen, horrified silence as the name was spoken. A name remembered in dreams, forgotten upon awakening.

“Amahast.”

Amahast. The word was like a key unlocking a flood of memories that washed silently over him. Karu, his mastodon, killed beside him. His father, Amahast, killed, the sammad destroyed around him. The memory blurred and merged with that of this sammad lying dead now on all sides. The slaughter, the years, the long years since. Through these memories the hunter’s words slowly penetrated.