Then it snowed without stopping for many days, for days to the count of two hands, snow that drifted silently into giant drifts that clogged the landscape. When the sun finally returned the river could not be told from the land in this new white world. The mastodons bellowed angrily, their breath forming white clouds against the pale blue sky as they trampled the snow underfoot. Armun wrapped Arnwheet in many layers of deerskin before slinging him on her back. The snow was heaped high over the tent and she had to dig her way up to the outside world. Other women were emerging, calling out to one another. None called to Armun. Anger replaced her old despair and she put the baby in its carrier and walked away from the tents to find peace from the warm cries that were only taunts to her. The snow was waistdeep, but she was strong and it was good to be out of the tent. Arnwheet gurgled on her back, seemingly enjoying the release as much as she did.

Armun walked until trees hid the tents and only then did she stop and catch her breath. Ahead of her the white plain stretched out, not really a plain but the frozen, snow-covered river. Black dots moved upon it in the distance and she was suddenly sorry that she had come this far alone. She had no weapon, not even a knife. Even if she had she would never have been able to stand against the starving predators. They were closer and she turned to run—and stopped.

There were more now, strung out in a single line, more and more of them.

Hunters! Could it be?

Unmoving she watched as they came closer, until it was clear that they were hunters—skinclad, snowshoed hunters. And the one in front, that massive form could be no other, it must be Herilak. Breaking trail, leading the way. She shielded her eyes to see which one was Kerrick, her heart pounding as though it would burst. She laughed aloud and waved. They must have seen her for their ululating cry of victory cut the air. She could not move, only wait as they came closer and closer, until Herilak’s frosted beard was clear, until he could hear her cry.

“Kerrick—where are you?”

Herilak did not answer, nor was there any answering shout and she swayed and almost fell.

“He is dead! I am dead!” she screamed when Herrilak came close.

“No. Kerrick lives, he is sound. The battle has been won.”

“Then why doesn’t he answer me? Kerrick!”

She floundered through the snow to get past the big hunter, but he stayed her with one hand.

“He is not here. He did not return with us. He is in the burnt murgu city. He told me to care for you in my sammad and that I will do.”

“Kerrick!” she wailed and struggled against his grip.

To no avail.

CHAPTER FOUR