“I was perhaps mistaken to kill the marag—but I am not sorry that I did it. The sammadar ordered me to say this. What is done is done. But you attempted to kill me, strange one, and that is something that is not easy to forget. But your bond to that marag was stronger than I knew—nor do I want to know more about it. So I say of my own free will that your back is safe from my spearpoint. How say you?”

The two hunters watched Kerrick in stern silence and he knew that he had to decide. Now. Inlènu* was dead and nothing could restore her life. And he could understand Ortnar’s cold hatred after the destruction of his sammad. He, of all people, should be able to understand that.

“Your back is safe from my spear, Ortnar,” he said.

“That is the end of the matter,” Herilak said, and it was a command. “We shall talk of it no more. Ortnar, you will carry the deer’s carcass. We will have a fire tonight and will eat well. Go with Kerrick, you know the path. Stop at midday. I will join you then. There is cover among those trees. If we are being followed by the murgu I will know it soon enough.”

The two men walked in silence for some time. The track was easy to follow, the ground deeply scored by the poles of the travois, leading up the valley almost to its end, then over the ridge to the next valley. Ortnar was gasping for breath under the weight of his burden and called out when they came to the slow-moving stream on the valley’s floor.

“Some water, strange-one, then we will go on.”

He threw the deer down and buried his face in the stream, came up gasping.

“My name is Kerrick, son of Amahast,” Kerrick said. “Do you find that too hard to remember?”

“Peace, Kerrick. My throat is still sore from our last encounter. I meant no insult, but you do look strange. You have just stubble instead of a beard or hair.”

“It will grow in time.” Kerrick rubbed at the bristles on his face.

“Yes. I imagine so. It just looks strange now. But that ring on your neck. Why do you wear it? Why not cut it off?”

“Here, you do it.” Kerrick handed over the ring he was carrying and smiled as Ortnar sawed uselessly at the transparent lead with the edge of his spear point.

“It is smooth and soft—yet I cannot cut it.”

“The Yilanè can do many things that we cannot. If I told you how it was made you would not believe me.”

“You know their secrets? Of course, you must. Tell me of the death-sticks. We captured one but could do nothing with it. Finally it began to smell and we cut it open and it was a dead animal of some kind.”