Niumak had little difficulty in leading them back in the darkness. But the track was steep and they were all tired when they finally saw the light of the fire flickering between the leaves. There were shouted greetings when they finally stumbled out onto the sand.

“You are here! All is well?”

“Things have occurred, terrible things!”

“Death and blood, creatures unbelievable.”

Kerrick dropped onto the sand, then drank greedily of the cold water that Armun brought to him.

“You are safe,” she said, touching his face as though to reassure herself. “They took you but they are dead. You are alive.”

“I am safe, but what of the others?”

“We will return across the ocean to them. They are safe there by the lake. Do not fear for Arnwheet.”

“I do not mean them. What about all the other sammads, the Sasku — what of them?”

“I know nothing of them, care nothing. You are my sammad.”

He understood how she felt, wished that he could feel the same. They were secure here with the Paramutan — as long as they stayed far to the north and avoided this dangerous coast. In the spring they would be able to cross the ocean again, to bring the rest of their small sammad here. Then they would all be safe. They would do that. The other sammads were strong and could guard themselves, fight the Yilanè if they were attacked. Their existence was not his responsibility.

“I cannot do it,” he said, teeth clamped tight, fists hard, shaking with the strength of his emotions. “I cannot do it, cannot leave them all to die.”

“You can. You are one — the murgu are many. All of this is not your doing. The fighting will never end. We will stay away from it. We need the strength of your arm and spear, Arnwheet needs it. You should think of him first.”

He laughed at that, a laugh without humor. “You are right — I should think of nothing else. But I cannot stop my thoughts. I discovered something in the murgu camp, saw a chart very much like the murgu one that we have, saw on it the place, the murgu city, where the killers come from…”

“You are tired, you must sleep.”

He angrily brushed her hands away, stood and raised his fists to the sky.

“You just don’t understand. Vaintè leads them — and she will follow the sammads until they are finally destroyed. But I know where Ikhalmenets is. Now I know where she gets her weapons and her strength and her fargi.”

Armun fought to control her fear, did not understand the invisible pains that wracked him.

“You have this knowledge — but there is nothing you can do. You are one hunter against a world of murgu. There is nothing that you alone can do.”

Her words disarmed him and he dropped down to sit at her side again. Quieter now, more thoughtful. Anger alone would not drive away the Yilanè.

“You are right, of course, what can I do? Who would help me? All the sammads in the world would be of no help against that distant city on its island in the sea.”

The sammads could not help — but others could. He looked at the dark outline of the ikkergak, at the Paramutan talking excitedly around the fire while they tore at their raw meat with sharp white teeth. Remembered how Kalaleq had looked, how obsessed by hatred of the Yilanè, the murgu, the new, repulsive and unknown creatures.

Could that hatred be somehow harnessed? Was there something that could be done?

“We are tired and must sleep,” he said and held Armun tightly to him. Yet tired as he was he did not sleep at once, heard her breathing softly and regularly beside him as he looked up unseeingly at the stars, his thoughts rushing around in circles.

In the morning he sat in silence looking at the Yilanè chart while the Paramutan loaded the ikkergak for departure. When they were ready to leave he called Kalaleq over.

“You know this chart?” he said.

“It must be thrown into the sea like the rest of the murgu.” His anger had faded during the night, his eyes no longer reddened with rage, but the disquiet was still there. Kerrick shook his head.

“It is too valuable. It tells us things we have to know. Let me show you. Here is where our paukaruts are — here is where we are now. But look, south along this coast, see across this narrow bit of ocean to the large land…”

“Murgu land, you told me so, I do not like to think of it.”

“But here, look here, just off the coast are these islands. That is where the murgu are who kill my brothers. I would like to kill those murgu. This ikkergak could reach the island easily enough.”

Kalaleq stepped back and raised his hands before him. “This ikkergak can sail in only one direction. North. This ikkergak goes quickly away from murgu — not toward them. Do not speak of this to me again for it is not a thing to even think about.” Then he laughed and shuffled in a circle. “Come, we go to the paukaruts. Think of all the rotten meat to eat, the blubber to lick. What good fun! Do not think of these murgu. Never think of them or see them again.”

If he could. If he only could.

It was a fine celebration. No — it was far better than that. Far, far better than that Kalaleq realized when he took a moment to think about it. It had been the greatest celebration the Paramutan had ever seen, that is what it had been. A victory banquet hailing the death of a new and terrible enemy. What tales they had told of the battle! What stabs of spears and ghastly alien death cries had been reenacted. Oh, there had been such screams of terrified delight from the women. Then they had feasted. How they had eaten and eaten, groaned with pain as their skin stretched tight over their stomachs, slept, ate again, slept some more. It had been hot in the paukarut, all of them jammed in together, so skins and furs had been thrown aside. When Kalaleq had woken the next time he found himself jammed tight against Angajorqaq’s warm, pungent body. He had sniffed deeply of the soft brown fur on her breasts, then licked them. Distantly aware of his attention she had moaned in her sleep and excited him greatly. When this had happened he became tremendously worked up and had pulled her out onto the furs and took her there in front of the others who were awake. Their loud cheering and shouts of encouragement had woken the other sleepers, until they had all grown excited and the females screamed with mock fear as they fled, but not too far.

It had been glorious, what fun! He groaned aloud with happy memory, groaned again as he realized how sore his head was. Of course, the fight! That had been glorious too.

Who had he fought with? He had no memory. But he knew that it had been glorious. How had it started? Yes, he remembered that much. It had been the male Erqigdlit, that is who it had been. He was so foolish. All that Kalaleq had done was open his female’s furs. That was for fun. Then the other had hit him and he had been excited and hit Nanuaq who had hit him back. Good fun.

Kalaleq yawned and stretched — then laughed at the pain in his sore muscles. Angajorqaq was still asleep, snuffling to herself, Kukujuk just a mound under his skins. Kalaleq stepped over them and made his way from the paukarut, yawning and stretching again in the morning sun. Nanuaq who was also standing outside his paukarut walked over when he saw the other emerge and held up his large fist.

“I hit you hard with this!”

“Then I hit you hard.”

“That was a real celebration.”

“It was.” Nanuaq laughed into the back of his hand as he spoke. Kalaleq’s forehead wrinkled when he saw this, for laughing into the back of the hand means that there is a secret. More fun.