Winter had come again to Deifoben. The rains were heavy this year and a north wind that whistled through the branches of the trees sent dead leaves tumbling before it. This morning Kerrick had been woken in the darkness by the drumming of the rain on the translucent coverings above. He had not fallen asleep again. At the first grayness of dawn he had taken his hèsotsan and fed it, pushing into its tiny mouth the fragments of meat that he had saved from his evening meal the night before. The weapon was at his side most of the time now. He had issued firm orders that anyone going out of the confines of the city must be armed. There were no exceptions — himself included. When it had fed he went out, walking as he did almost every day now, along the paths that led between the fields to the north of the city, to the last grove where the nenitesk tore at the leaves, loudly crunching great mouthfuls. The clinging vines that the Yilanè had planted to block the path still stretched from side to side and he stepped over them carefully. But the poison thorn bushes had been cleared away since they were there to trap humans, not animals. He kept his weapon ready, wary of the many predators that prowled the city’s fringes. Looking and listening carefully. But he was alone, the path to the north was open.

And empty. Kerrick stood there, unaware of the rain that soaked his long hair and beard, dripped from the large and the small metal knives that hung from the collar about his neck, ran in runnels down his skins. Empty. He came here most mornings: this was the worst time. Later when the day’s work involved him he would forget for awhile. Not now, not when he first awoke. Perhaps Herilak would return and bring Armun back, or there would be a hunter with some word of her. Yet he knew, even before he came here that this hope was an empty one. He should have gone himself in the spring, gone north to bring her back. Now it was too late and spring was far away. What made this city so important that he had stayed when all of the others had returned? He was still not sure. But it had been done and could not be undone. He would go after her in the spring and nothing would prevent him this time.

When he turned away the path was just as empty as it had been when he first came.

The rain was easing up and patches of blue sky were breaking through above. There were problems awaiting him in the city, decisions to be made. He did not want to face them, to talk to anyone, not yet. The ocean was not far, he could hear the muted thunder of the surf even here: there would be no one on the shore. He would go along the beach and back to the city that way.

Sun broke through as he emerged from under the trees, shining on the clean sand and the white-capped surf. Alpèasak, the beautiful beaches, the words sprang unbidden to his mind, his right arm and chin-moved at the same time, unknown to him, with the correct modifiers. Head down he scuffed through the sand, the beauty of the beach meaning nothing. The world was a very empty place.

The docks had been overgrown by scrub, unused for over a year, one of the many changes in the city now that the Yilanè were gone and the Tanu had taken their place. He climbed over a litter of windblown branches and up onto the dock. The guard should be close by. The one thing that he and Sanone agreed upon was that watch should be kept from before dawn until after dark at the sea approaches to the city. The enemy had been driven away; that did not mean that they would never return. There was the guard, sitting with his back against a tree. Kerrick did not want to talk to him so he started toward the track to the city. The Sasku did not move, sat slumped, took no notice of him.

In sudden fear Kerrick stopped, fell to the ground, looked around him hèsotsan ready. Nothing moved. A bird called out: there were no other sounds. On elbows and knees he crept forward under cover of the brush until he could see the hunter clearly. Slumped down, eyes closed, his fingers resting lightly on his spear. Asleep.

Kerrick stood up, smiled at his own irrational unease, walked forward and started to call out.

Then saw the dart in the side of the hunter’s neck and knew that all of his worse fears had been realized.

The Yilanè had returned!

He dropped back under cover, looking around wildly. Where were they, where had they gone? Before panic took over he forced himself to think, not react. The Yilanè were here, that was certain. This was no accident — or possible murder by another hunter. They all made their own darts now, took patient care with their construction so they would be more accurate in flight. Yet the one before him that had killed the guard, this one had been grown on a bush. Picked by a fargi — and fired by a Yilanè. They had come from the sea. But how many? He had to give the warning. Where were the nearest Sasku working? As warily as he could he hurried toward the center of the city, making a swing away from the most direct route.

There were voices ahead — speaking Sasku! He ran toward them, ready to call out when he saw the two warriors among the orange trees. There was a sharp cracking sound and one of them stumbled and fell. The other turned about, startled, kept turning and fell on top of the first hunter.

The words caught in Kerrick’s throat and he hurled himself to the ground, dropping behind the trunk of a tree, seeing the two Sasku dead before him. Dried leaves crackled in the small grove while he lay motionless, not breathing, staring at the dark form that slowly emerged into the sunlight.

A Yilanè!

She stopped, motionless, just her eyes moving, looking about but not seeing him. Her arms were half-lowered in the gesture of fear, the hèsotsan pointed at the ground. She was young, just a fargi he realized. But there would be others with her. He was right, for a moment later he heard an irritated voice say Forward. The fargi writhed with fear and indecision and finally moved. Two others emerged from cover behind her, showing the same overriding fear as the first. Then a fourth figure became visible in the shadows, erect and commanding, familiar. Stepping forward into the light.

Vaintè.

Kerrick shook with the wave of fierce sensations that swept over him. Hatred and loathing — and something else, he couldn’t tell what it was, did not want to know. Vaintè had returned, there were invading forces, he had to give the warning.

He had to kill her, that was all that he knew. Once before he had plunged a spear into her and she had lived. Now, a single bite from his dart, an invisible drop of poison on its tip — and instant death. Yes!

Raise the weapon slowly, sight along it, a touch of moving air on his cheek, allow for it, she was turning toward him, how well he knew that face…

Squeeze…

The weapon cracked loudly in his hand just as one of the fargi stepped forward. To receive the dart in her flesh, stumble and fall.

“You!” Vaintè said, staring at his face, hatred coloring the word, rippling her flesh with its strength.

Without conscious thought Kerrick fired again — but she was gone. The two remaining fargi turned to follow her. His weapon snapped again and one of them dropped. Loud footsteps crashed away through the trees.

They were running, fleeing. It was not the invasion then, perhaps only a scouting party.

“They are here!” he shouted as loudly as he could, then howled the Tanu war cry. Then shouted in Yilanè “Kill, kill, kill — Vaintè, Vaintè, Vaintè!” in the hope that she would get the meaning.