other way. Even over
these hills. We do not want to be caught off guard.” After
walking some dozens of yards, she added, “You always hear the
herd before you see it. So you always listen.”
The pace remained slow. Marika recovered from her earlier
strain. She wanted to drop back and lend encouragement to Kublin,
but dared not. Her place was with the huntresses now.
The day began to fail as the packs descended toward the
floodplain of the Plenthzo. Scouts reported other packs were in the
valley already. The main herd was still many miles north, but
definitely in the valley. It would be nighting up soon. There would
be no hunting before tomorrow.
They came to the edge of the floodplain in the last light of
day. Marika was amazed to see so much flat and open land. She
wondered why no packstead stood on such favorable ground.
Only Pobuda felt inclined to explain. “It looks good, yes.
Like a well-laid trap. Three miles down, the river enters a narrows
flanked by granite. When the snows melt and the water rushes down,
carrying logs and whatnot, those narrows block. Then the water
rises. This land becomes one great seething brown flood, raging at
the knees of those hills down there. Any packstead built on the
plain would be drowned the first spring after it was
built.”
Marika saw the water in her mind, and the image suddenly became
one of angry kropek. She began to comprehend the nervousness shown
by some of the huntresses.
She did not sleep well. Nor did many huntresses, including her
dam. There was much coming and going between packs, plotting and
planning and negotiating. Messengers crossed the river, though meth
disliked swimming intensely. Packs were in place on the far bank,
too, for it was not known which way the kropek would follow, and
those beasts had no prejudices against water.
Dawn arrived with unexpected swiftness. Pursuant to
Skiljan’s instructions, Marika placed her bedroll in a tree
and memorized its location. “We will be running the
herd,” her dam said.
Marika expressed her puzzlement.
“The herd leaders must be kept moving. If we let them
stop, the herd stops. Then there is no cutting individuals out or
getting to those we might drop with arrows. They would not let us
near enough.”
The packs with which they had traveled moved out. Since first
light scores of huntresses and males had been at work some distance
down the plain, erecting something built of driftwood, deadwood,
and even cut logs. Marika asked her dam about that.
“It is to scatter the herd. Enough for huntresses to dart
in and out of the fringes, planting javelins in the shoulders of
the beasts, or hacking at hamstrings.” Skiljan seemed
impatient with explanations. She wanted to listen, like the others.
But her duty as dam was to relay what she knew to her young.
“They are coming,” Pobuda said.
And a moment later Marika heard them, too. More, she felt them.
The ground had begun to tremble beneath her feet.
The noise swelled. The earth shuddered ever more. And
Marika’s excitement evaporated. Her eagerness went away, to
be replaced by growing apprehension. That sound grew and grew like
endless thunder . . .
Then she spied the herd, a stain of darkness that spanned most
of the plain.
“Both sides of the river,” Pobuda observed.
“Not running yet.”
“The wind is with us,” Skiljan replied. “Thank
the All.”
Pobuda spied Marika’s nervousness, despite her effort to
conceal it. She mocked, “Nothing to it, pup. Just dash up
beside a male, leap onto his shoulders, hold on with your legs
while you lift his ear, and slide a knife in behind it. Push it all
the way to the brain, though. Then jump clear before he goes
down.”
“Pobuda!” Skiljah snapped.
“Eh?”
“None of that. Not from anyone of my loghouse. We have
nothing to prove. I want everyone able to carry meat home. Not one
another.”
Pobuda frowned, but did not argue.
“Do they do that?” Marika asked her dam.
“Sometimes,”
these hills. We do not want to be caught off guard.” After
walking some dozens of yards, she added, “You always hear the
herd before you see it. So you always listen.”
The pace remained slow. Marika recovered from her earlier
strain. She wanted to drop back and lend encouragement to Kublin,
but dared not. Her place was with the huntresses now.
The day began to fail as the packs descended toward the
floodplain of the Plenthzo. Scouts reported other packs were in the
valley already. The main herd was still many miles north, but
definitely in the valley. It would be nighting up soon. There would
be no hunting before tomorrow.
They came to the edge of the floodplain in the last light of
day. Marika was amazed to see so much flat and open land. She
wondered why no packstead stood on such favorable ground.
Only Pobuda felt inclined to explain. “It looks good, yes.
Like a well-laid trap. Three miles down, the river enters a narrows
flanked by granite. When the snows melt and the water rushes down,
carrying logs and whatnot, those narrows block. Then the water
rises. This land becomes one great seething brown flood, raging at
the knees of those hills down there. Any packstead built on the
plain would be drowned the first spring after it was
built.”
Marika saw the water in her mind, and the image suddenly became
one of angry kropek. She began to comprehend the nervousness shown
by some of the huntresses.
She did not sleep well. Nor did many huntresses, including her
dam. There was much coming and going between packs, plotting and
planning and negotiating. Messengers crossed the river, though meth
disliked swimming intensely. Packs were in place on the far bank,
too, for it was not known which way the kropek would follow, and
those beasts had no prejudices against water.
Dawn arrived with unexpected swiftness. Pursuant to
Skiljan’s instructions, Marika placed her bedroll in a tree
and memorized its location. “We will be running the
herd,” her dam said.
Marika expressed her puzzlement.
“The herd leaders must be kept moving. If we let them
stop, the herd stops. Then there is no cutting individuals out or
getting to those we might drop with arrows. They would not let us
near enough.”
The packs with which they had traveled moved out. Since first
light scores of huntresses and males had been at work some distance
down the plain, erecting something built of driftwood, deadwood,
and even cut logs. Marika asked her dam about that.
“It is to scatter the herd. Enough for huntresses to dart
in and out of the fringes, planting javelins in the shoulders of
the beasts, or hacking at hamstrings.” Skiljan seemed
impatient with explanations. She wanted to listen, like the others.
But her duty as dam was to relay what she knew to her young.
“They are coming,” Pobuda said.
And a moment later Marika heard them, too. More, she felt them.
The ground had begun to tremble beneath her feet.
The noise swelled. The earth shuddered ever more. And
Marika’s excitement evaporated. Her eagerness went away, to
be replaced by growing apprehension. That sound grew and grew like
endless thunder . . .
Then she spied the herd, a stain of darkness that spanned most
of the plain.
“Both sides of the river,” Pobuda observed.
“Not running yet.”
“The wind is with us,” Skiljan replied. “Thank
the All.”
Pobuda spied Marika’s nervousness, despite her effort to
conceal it. She mocked, “Nothing to it, pup. Just dash up
beside a male, leap onto his shoulders, hold on with your legs
while you lift his ear, and slide a knife in behind it. Push it all
the way to the brain, though. Then jump clear before he goes
down.”
“Pobuda!” Skiljah snapped.
“Eh?”
“None of that. Not from anyone of my loghouse. We have
nothing to prove. I want everyone able to carry meat home. Not one
another.”
Pobuda frowned, but did not argue.
“Do they do that?” Marika asked her dam.
“Sometimes,”
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