As they came to the base of the dune they smelled the sweet and sickening smell of rotting flesh. The remains of the butchered deer carcasses had been dumped here, well away from their camp. The crackling sound was much louder now, as well as the buzzing of countless flies. Hastila signaled Kerrick to wait while he moved up the slope and peered carefully over. He drew back and turned to Kerrick, his face twisted with disgust, and waved the boy up to join him. When they were both below the crest he raised his spear into thwing position and Kerrick did the same. What was there? What creature were they stalking? Filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity Kerrick crouched—then jumped forward just behind the hunter.

Hastila shouted loudly and three creatures looked up from their grisly work, stood motionless for an instant at his sudden appearance. The hunter’s arm snapped down, his spear flew straight, struck the nearest one between the forelegs. It fell and thrashed, screeching loudly. The others fled, hissing with fear, long legs pumping, necks and tails outstretched.

Kerrick had not moved, still stood with his spear held high, rigid with fear. Murgu. The one that was dying, clawing at the spear with sharp-clawed toes, was too much like the marag he had speared in the sea. Mouth open. Sharp teeth. Something from a nightmare.

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.