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.”