“There is no spearhead trapped in here,” he said. “It is the wrong size, the wrong shape. But there are blades here, one here, see it? Feel it? I now release it.”

Ogatyr carefully placed the bladestone on the ground and struck it with the hammerstone. A sharp chip cracked off the side.

“There is the blade,” he said. “Sharp, but not sharp enough. Now watch closely and see what I do.”

He took a bit of deer antler from his bag, then placed the chip of stone on his thigh and pressed the edge carefully with the tip of the antler. Each time he did this a tiny chip was flaked off. When he had worked the length of it, the blade was sharp and true. He handed it to Amahast who had patiently watched the entire operation. Amahast bounced it in his palm and nodded with appreciation. With practiced skill he slashed an opening in the deer’s hide and cut it from neck to groin.

“No one in our sammad can make the stone yield up its blades as this one can,” Amahast said. “Let him teach you, my son, for a hunter without a blade is no hunter at all.”

Kerrick seized the stones eagerly and cracked them together. Nothing happened. He tried again, with as little success. Only when Ogatyr took hold of his hands and put them in the right position did he succeed in breaking free a ragged chip. But he was quite proud of this first effort and labored to shape it with the bit of deer horn until his fingers were sore.

Big Hastila had been gloomily watching his efforts. Now he crawled out from under the shelter, yawning and stretching, sniffing the air as Ogatyr had done, then plodded up the embankment behind them. The storm was gone, the wind growing gusty as it died down, the sun just beginning to break through. Only the white-topped waves stretching to the horizon still bore witness to the past day’s fury. On the landward side the embankment fell away again down to a grassy marsh. He saw dark forms picking their way through it; he slowly crouched and moved back to the shelter.

“More deer out there. The hunting is good in this place.”

“The boat is full,” Amahast said, slicing away a bit of smoking meat. “Any more and she will sink.”

“My bones ache from lying here all day,” Hastila grumbled, seizing up his spear. “The other thing the boy must learn is how to reach the game in order to kill it with a sharp new point. Come, Kerrick, take up your spear and follow me. If we cannot kill the deer we can at least stalk them. I will show you how to move upwind and crawl close to even the wariest prey.”

Kerrick had his spear in his hand, but looked to his father before he followed the big hunter. Amahast nodded as he chewed the tough meat. “Hastila can show you much. Go with him and learn.”

Kerrick laughed happily as he ran after Hastila, then slowed to walk at his side.

“You are too noisy, Hastila said. “All the creatures of the forest have good ears and can hear you coming long before they see you…”

Hastila stopped and held up his hand in a gesture of silence. Then he cupped his hand to his ear and pointed to a hollow in the dunes ahead. Kerrick listened carefully but could hear only the distant rumble of the surf. It slackened for a moment and the other sound was clear, a tiny crackling from the other side of the dune. Hastila raised his spear and moved forward silently. Kerrick could feel his heart beat loudly as he followed the big hunter, moving as quietly as he could; the crackling was louder now.

As they came to the base of the dune they smelled the sweet and sickening smell of rotting flesh. The remains of the butchered deer carcasses had been dumped here, well away from their camp. The crackling sound was much louder now, as well as the buzzing of countless flies. Hastila signaled Kerrick to wait while he moved up the slope and peered carefully over. He drew back and turned to Kerrick, his face twisted with disgust, and waved the boy up to join him. When they were both below the crest he raised his spear into throwing position and Kerrick did the same. What was there? What creature were they stalking? Filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity Kerrick crouched — then jumped forward just behind the hunter.

Hastila shouted loudly and three creatures looked up from their grisly work, stood motionless for an instant at his sudden appearance. The hunter’s arm snapped down, his spear flew straight, struck the nearest one between the forelegs. It fell and thrashed, screeching loudly. The others fled, hissing with fear, long legs pumping, necks and tails outstretched.

Kerrick had not moved, still stood with his spear held high, rigid with fear. Murgu. The one that was dying, clawing at the spear with sharp-clawed toes, was too much like the marag he had speared in the sea. Mouth open. Sharp teeth. Something from a nightmare.

Hastila had not looked at the boy, did not notice his open fear. He was too obsessed with his own hatred. Murgu. How he loathed them. This carrion eater, blood and bits of decay still on its head and neck, snapped feebly at him as he came up. He kicked it aside, stood on its neck while he pulled his spear free. It was scaled and green-spotted, pale gray as a corpse, as long as a man although its head was no bigger than his hand. He plunged the spear home again and it trembled and died. He waved the clouds of flies from his face as he climbed back out of the pit. Kerrick had lowered his spear and fought to control his trembling. Hastila saw this and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Do not be afraid of them. For all their size they are cowards, carrion eaters, filth. Hate them — but do not fear them. Remember always what they are. When Ermanpadar made the Tanu from the mud of the river, he made the deer and the other animals as well for the Tanu to hunt. He put them down in the grass beside the mountains where there is clean snow and fresh water. But then he looked and saw all the emptiness to the south. But by then he was tired and far distant from the river so he did not return to it but instead dug deep into the green slime of the swamp. With this he made the murgu and they are green to this day and fit only for killing so they can decay back into the swamp from which they were born.”

While he spoke Hastila plunged his spear into the sand and twisted it to remove all the stains of the marag’s blood. When this was done he was quieter; most of Kerrick’s fear had ebbed away. The marag was dead, the others gone. Soon they would leave this shore and return to the sammad.

“Now I will show you how to stalk your prey,” Hastila said. “Those murgu were eating or they would have heard you — you sounded like a mastodon going up the slope.”

“I was quiet!” Kerrick said defensively. “I know how to walk. I stalked a squirrel once, right up so close that I was only a spear length away—”

“The squirrel is the stupidest animal, the longtooth is the smartest. The deer is not smart, but he can hear the best of all. Now I will stand here in the sand and you will go up the bank and into the deep grass. Then stalk me. In silence — for I have the ears of the deer.”

Kerrick ran happily up the slope and through the wet grass — then dropped and crawled away from the camp. He went on this way, as silently as he could, then turned towards the ocean again to work his way up behind the hunter. It was hot, wet work — and to little avail, for when he finally reached the top of the ridge again Hastila was already there waiting for him.

“You must look carefully each time before you put your foot down,” the hunter said. “Then roll it forward and do not stamp. Part the grass and do not force your way through it. Now we try again.”

There was little beach here and Hastila went down to the water’s edge and splashed his spear into the sea to wash away any remaining trace of the marag’s blood. Kerrick once more pushed his way up the slope, stopping for breath on the top. “This time you won’t hear me,” he called out, shaking his spear in defiance at the big man.