High above them a mass of vine tore loose from the cliff, tumbled and fell to the valley floor. Dust rose about it and when it had settled they saw that the thick stems that had supported it were gray and crumbled. Even as they watched the waxy green leaves drooped and lost their shine. In the distance another great tangle of vines broke free and slid down into the valley.

“Something is happening out there, something that we don’t know about,” Herilak said, released from the dark prison of despair by the incredible events about him. “I must go see.”

His death-stick ready he ran the length of the valley, clambered up the barricade. Across from him, on the other side of the river, were the cliffs of the opposite bank, a close arrow-shot away. There was sudden movement there and he crouched, weapon pointed. A murgu appeared to stand at the cliff’s edge, then another and another. Their repulsive two-thumbed hands were empty. They stood motionless, wide-eyed and staring.

Herilak lowered his weapon. It was inaccurate at this distance—and he needed to understand what was happening.

They looked at him, as he looked at them, in silence, capable of communicating only their presence to each other. The width of the river lay between them, the width of their difference wider than any river or sea. Herilak hated them and knew that the stare from their slitted eyes radiated the same hate in return. Then what was happening? Why had they undamned the river, slain the vines?

The large one, closest to him, turned about and moved its limbs in sudden spasms as another appeared and passed over some object. The first one turned and cradled it in both hands, looking down at it—then looked up at Herilak. Its mouth opened in a spasm of unreadable emotion. Then it spun about and hurled the thing across the narrow valley. He watched it rise up in a slow arc, descend to strike the barrier and roll down to catch among the rocks.

When he looked back the murgu were gone. Herilak waited but they did not return. Only then did he slide down the barrier and stop beside the thing they had thrown over to him. There was the sound of hoarse panting as Sanone climbed up to join him.

“I saw . . . that,” he said. “They stood and looked at you, did nothing. Just threw this thing—then left. What is it?”

It was a melon-shaped bladder of some kind, gray and smooth. Featureless. Herilak pushed at it with his foot.

“It could be dangerous,” Sanone warned. “Be careful.”

“It could be anything.” Herilak knelt and prodded it with his thumb. “There is only one way to find out.”

He lay the death-stick aside and pulled out his stone knife, tested the edge with his thumb. Sanone gasped with alarm and moved back as Herilak bent and cut into the bladder.