Hawk thrusts his spear at the tug, but it ducks its head at the last second and the sharp point glances off one of its horns.

Then it charges.

Hawk dives to the side, narrowly avoiding getting gored. Circ’s sprawled out form comes into view. He’s clutching his stomach, like he mighta caught a glancing blow from a hoof, but clearly he didn’t get fully stepped on or kicked, ’cause he wouldn’t be able to stand after something like that. Other’n that, he looks okay. Still, I hold my breath until he gets back on his feet.

The tug turns and starts pawing the ground, staring at Hawk and Circ. The two that tried to kill him. Circ yells something, but I’m too far away to hear what. All I know is that Hawk glances back and nods. With three more years of experience—and a scorch of a lot more natural ability—Circ is the one calling the shots.

They run, the two of them, in opposite directions, circling the monstrous red-and-black-splotched tug. It turns one way and then t’other, bucking around like someone’s on its back. They’re confusing it. Who to attack? Which way to go first? It starts for Circ and then seems to feel Hawk’s presence behind it, so it whirls around and makes a move toward him.

The moment the tug turns its back on him, Circ makes a move of his own, a full out sprint toward the creature. He looks so small as he closes in on the girthy tug, ’specially ’cause of how far away I am. From here I can pinch him between my thumb and forefinger.

The tug stops again, as if realizing that the gig is up, that he’s been tricked. He twists his head to turn, but he’s too late. Circ leaps, lands gracefully on the tug’s back as if he’s tackling an opponent in feetball, hugging the beast around the neck. There’s a gleam of light when the sun goddess’s eye is reflected off the broad side of his blade as he slides it across the tug’s neck.

A normal tug would drop on the spot after a killing stroke like that, but this ain’t no normal tug. It’s a behemoth, prepared to fight even as the life drains from him. With Circ still on his back, he charges Hawk, who’s standing there dumbly. Now this is the good part.

Hawk runs off like a scared little Midder. On the way, he drops his spear, a couple of knives, and every last bit of his pride in a heap on the desert floor. As it turns out, his hasty retreat probably saved his life, ’cause that final burst was all the tug had left. It slows to a stop, dips its head, and, finally, by the will of the sun goddess and Circ’s unmatched ability—collapses, all strength sucked from its legs like venom from a scorpion sting. I sigh.

Circ’s safe, and he’s killed again.

I know the requirement to kill is necessary for our survival, but I don’t hafta like it. The tugs haven’t done anything to deserve such a fate. Like us, they’re just trying to survive, migrating hundreds of miles each year to find diminishing fields of wildgrass to feed their young. ’Fore we kill them. We only take what we need, yeah, but to them we take everything.

I once asked Circ what it felt like to kill a creature as large and full of life as a tug. “Terrible,” he said. “Take the worst feeling in the world and then multiply it by one hundred, and that’s how awful it is.” A single tear slipped from his eye, the first time I’d seen him cry since he was a Totter.

“Then why do you…” I started to ask, but I never finished the question ’cause I already knew the answer, and he never answered although he knew exactly what I was gonna ask. Why do we do anything we do? Why do girls get Called at sixteen? Why do the Hunters hunt? Why do the Greynotes meet and discuss trade arrangements with the Icers? ’Cause it’s the Law, which is our sacred duty to uphold, a requirement for our survival. We don’t hafta like it, just to do it.

It doesn’t have to be like this. Even after watching the vicious Hunting of the tugs, I can’t get Lara’s words out of my head. Who does she know? The Icers? It sounds wooloo, but who knows these days? We could potentially avoid the Call by sneaking into ice country. The Wilds? The thieving, sister-grabbing, feral freaks who ruined my life when they took Skye’s? I hope not, ’cause I consider Lara a friend and if she’s with them I’ll never be able to talk to her again.

A horn sounds and my head snaps around. It’s not the long blast to start the Hunt, but a short series of tones from somewhere atop the bluffs. A warning, from the watchmen. Not a frequent occurrence, but not unusual either. Sometimes the hunched, wiry Cotees’ll hear the initial horn, or smell the blood, and come to investigate. To a lone human, a large group of Cotees can be dangerous, but not to a fully equipped mess of Hunters.

I blink away the daydream and scan the desert, trying to find the gang of furry thieves who drew the alarm. I gasp when I see them. Not a single Cotee flecks the horizon.

Killers.

Chapter Eight

Not Cotees, but Killers. It’s a big pack, too—I try to count them but keep getting confused ’cause they’re moving so fast, flitting in and out of various formations as they rush toward the Hunters. Their movements are practiced. Professional. Twenty is my best guess. A big pack.

Four-legged, with fur as black as night, long, lanky bodies full of muscle and speed, and claws and teeth that can rip and tear through muscle, tendon and bone without discretion, Killers, as their name suggests, are the ultimate killing machines. They’re animals, like Cotees, but a whole scorch of a lot bigger and scarier—smarter too, always planning and plotting.

The spectators on the bluff, comprised of women, Younglings, and the few odd men who are too infirm to participate in the Hunt, are jabbering a mile a moment, some screaming, some waving their hands, all on their feet. Scared. Like me.

Circ.

The Hunters can see the Killers now, too, even from their lower vantage point, that’s how close they are. My eyes flick to the black death squad and then back to the Hunters, who are reassembling themselves, trying to form their own pack, but it’s clear they don’t know what to do. Never in broad daylight. Never so many.

My mind racing, I estimate the distance. At their current speed, the Killers are less’n five desert sprints away, as the crow flies, maybe less.

Circ’s down there. Will he be killed if I do nothing? I don’t know, but I can’t do nothing, it ain’t physically possible for me to sit and watch as he’s torn apart by rabid beasts.

I have no time to think, and anyway, thinking’s not my skill. Nothing’s my skill really, ’cept my speed, and what good’s that ever done me?

My broken arm throbs, as if a reminder.

With no other choice, I give myself over to my legs, knowing full well what a stupid decision it is.

As I dart across the bluff, I see a few startled eyes following me, probably thinking I’m headed back to the village to get help. But I know there’s no help there. Anyone capable of helping is here, and I’m not seeing any of the other women or Younglings in a hurry to do a searin’ thing, so that leaves me. Scrawny. Runty. But fast.

I cut hard to the right, into a narrow passage that slices between the bluff and provides access to the killing fields below. It’s the same path Hawk took earlier.

Running with only one arm is harder’n you’d think. Or at least harder’n I thought it’d be. I expected having one bum arm would be no big deal, ’cause when you run it’s your legs doing all the work anyway, right?

Wrong.

I’m all off balance, which makes me clumsier’n ever, unable to run in a straight line. First I bash into one wall of the passage, bruising my good arm, and then into the other wall. The second time is my bad arm, which, with the Medicine Man’s herbs wearing off, sends scythes of pain through the entire right side of my body.