“Father,” he called out. “Smoke — I can smell smoke!”

“There is smoke on us and on the meat,” Amahast said, yet he paddled a little faster at the thought. Could the sammad be that close?

“No, this is not old smoke. This is fresh-on the wind from ahead. And listen to the waves. Are they not different?”

They were indeed. With the reek of the skins and the meat there may have been some doubt about the smoke. But not the waves. Their sound was growing fainter, falling behind them. Many of the tents of the sammad had been pitched on the banks of a great river, where it ran into the sea. The waves might very well be going up this estuary now, dying away in the flow of fresh water there.

“Pull towards shore!” Amahast ordered, leaning hard into his own oar.

The sky was growing lighter now: the mist was lifting. Above the screams of the gulls they heard a woman calling out and they shouted in answer.

Once the sun began burning through the fog it began to lift faster and faster. It still lay close to the surface of the water, but beyond it was the shore and the waiting tents, smoking fires, piles of debris — all of the familiar bustle of their encampment. The boat was seen now and a great shout went up and people rushed from the tents to the water’s edge. Everyone was crying out with happiness and there were echoing trumpetings from the meadow where the mastodons were grazing. They were home.

Men and women both were splashing into the water, calling out — but their shouts of welcome died away as they counted the places in the boat. Five had left on the hunting expedition. Just three had returned. As the boat grated against the sandy bottom it was seized and pulled up onto the beach. Nothing was said but the woman of Hastila suddenly screamed with horror as she realized he was missing, as did the woman of Diken and his children.

“Both dead,” were Amahast’s first words, lest they have false hopes that the others were following behind. “Diken and Hastila. They are among the stars. Are there many away from the encampment?”

“Alkos and Kassis have gone up the river, to get fish,” Aleth said. “They are the only ones not close by.”

“Go after them,” Amahast ordered. “Bring them back at once. Strike the tents, load the beasts. We leave today for the mountains.”

There were shouts and cries of protest at this because they were not prepared for this sudden departure. While on the move they would break camp every morning: they did this easily because just the essentials were unpacked. This was not true now. The summer encampment sprawled along both sides of the small river, while in the tents all their baskets, furs, everything were spread about in confusion.

Ogatyr shouted at them, his voice rising over the women’s wails of distress. “Do as Amahast says or you will die in the snows. The season is late, the path long.”

Amahast said nothing more. This reason was as good as any. Perhaps even better than the real reason, for which he could give no evidence. Despite this lack he was sure that he was being watched. He, a hunter, knew when he was being hunted in turn. For all of this day, and the day before, he had felt eyes upon him. He had seen nothing, the sea had always been empty when he looked. Yet something was out there, he knew it. He could not forget that Hastila had been pulled beneath the ocean and had not returned. Now Amahast wanted them to leave, this day, pack the travois and lash them behind the mastodons and turn their faces away from the sea and what lay beneath it. Not until they were back among the familiar mountains would he feel safe.

Although he worked them until they ran with sweat, it still took the entire day to break camp. He shouted at the women and beat the youths when they slowed down. It was no easy thing to leave a summer camp. Scattered goods had to be brought together and packed, the tentacles of hardalt from the drying racks loaded into baskets as well. Nor were there enough baskets for all the hardalt and there was wailing and complaining when he ordered that some of the catch be left behind. There was not even time to mourn the dead; that would come later. Now they must leave.

The sun was dropping behind the hills before they were ready. They would have to travel by night, but they had done that before. The skies were clear, the new moon just a crescent of light, the tharms of warriors were bright above and would guide them on their way. There was much trumpeting and waving of trunks as the mastodons, long unharnessed, bellowed their protests. Yet they permitted the boys to climb up to their backs, and watched with rolling eyes as the great poles were lashed into place. Two to each beast, trailing behind on both sides, making a frame to which the crosspieces were tied, then the tents and stores were loaded on top.

Kerrick sat on the neck of the great bull, Karu, tired as they all were, but still pleased that the sammad was leaving. He wanted to be away from the ocean as soon as it was possible. He was afraid of the sea and of the creatures in it. Out of the entire sammad he was the only one who had seen the arms rise from the sea to pull Hastila down. Dark arms in the ocean, dark forms in the sea.

He looked out at the sea and his screams, over and over again, cut through the voices, silencing them, drawing every eye to the ocean where he pointed and screamed and pointed again.

Out of the evening darkness even darker forms were emerging. Low, black boats that had no oars yet moved more swiftly than any Tanu boat, rushing forward in a line as straight as a breaking wave. Nor did they stop until they were in the surf and rasping on the shore. From them came the murgu, clearly seen despite the failing light.

Ogatyr was close to the water when they landed, could see them clearly. He knew them for what they were.

“The ones we killed, on the beach…”

The nearest marag raised the length of stick and squeezed with both hands. It made a loud crack and pain struck Ogatyr’s chest and he fell.

Other sticks were cracking now and above the sound were the human cries of pain and terror.

“They flee!” Vaintè shouted, waving the attackers forward. “After them. None shall escape.”

She had been the first ashore, had fired the first hèsotsan, had killed the first ustuzou. Now she wanted to kill more.

It was not a battle but a massacre. The Yilanè butchered all the living creatures indiscriminately: men, women, children, animals. Their casualties were few. The hunters had no time to find their bows. They had their spears, but while a thrown spear could wound or kill, most of the hunters held their spears as they rushed in and were shot down before they could use them.

All that the Tanu could do was flee — followed by the killers from the sea. Frightened women and children ran past Karu and the mastodon raised his head high, trumpeting in fear as well. Kerrick seized handfuls of the beast’s thick hair so he wouldn’t be hurled off, then climbed down the wooden shaft to the ground, running to grab up his spear. A strong hand seized his shoulder and spun him about.

“Run!” his father ordered. “Escape to the hills!”

Amahast turned about swiftly as the first of the murgu came around the bulk of the mastodon, jumping over the wooden pole. Before it could aim its weapon Amahast pierced it through with his spear, wrenched it free.

Vaintè saw the murdered fargi fall and was shaken by the need for vengeance. The blood-dripping point was swinging towards her — but she did not flinch away. She stood her ground, raising the hèsotsan, squeezing off quick explosions, dropping the ustuzou before it could reach her. She had not noticed the small one, didn’t know it was there until pain lanced through her leg. Roaring with agony she struck the creature down with the butt end of the hèsotsan.

The wound was bloody and painful — but not serious, she could see that now. Her rage died away as she examined it, then turned her attention to the battle raging around her.