Return to Eden

movement in the shrubbery and he glanced that way. An animal of some kind, it did not matter, nothing mattered now.
    Kerrick and Herilak had just reached the inlet when Dall burst from the bushes on the other side and hurled himself into the water, thrashed across it sobbing and gasping. Herilak pulled him from the water and shook him.
    "You were beaten before for coming here. Now you will have a beating…"
    "Murgu—out there! They come from the sea, murgu—"
    Herilak took him by the jaw and pulled him close. "What kind of murgu? The kind that kill with death-sticks?"
    "Yes," Dall said, then fell whimpering to the ground. Herilak spun about to follow Kerrick who had hurled himself into the water. Caught up with him on the other side, held him with a restraining hand.
    "Slowly and silently, do not rush or you rush to your death." He fitted an arrow to his bow.
    Kerrick pushed his hand away, ran on, not hearing his words. There were Yilanè here—and they had Arnwheet. He stumbled through the sand with Herilak close behind him. Ran along the shore and past the dune that shielded Nadaske's small campsite. Stopped with a cry of horror.
    Herilak stopped as well, saw the four murgu, two of them armed, the boy there as well. He pulled the arrow to his chin, released it.
    Kerrick pushed his arm aside and the arrow thudded into the dune.
    "Don't! They'll kill him. Drop your bow. Do this for me, Herilak, do this thing for me."
    He laid his own death-stick on the ground but Herilak stood firm, seeing only the ones he must kill.
    Seeing one of them aiming at Arnwheet. If this had been his son he would not have hesitated, although it would have meant the child's death, would have killed them all.
    Arnwheet was Kerrick's son. Because of Herilak the boy had almost died once already. He could not be permitted to die now even if it meant Herilak's own death. Slowly, never taking his eyes off of them, he bent and placed the bow on the ground. The ugly marag behind Arnwheet grunted and quivered, its jaw opening to show the sharp, pointed teeth.
    "You are correct in obedience," Vaintè said, her arms arched in triumph, her jaw agape to sign eating-of-victory.
    "Let the small one go. I will stay in his place," Kerrick said.
    "You value your efensele ahead of your own life?"
    "It could be a matter of great importance to this ustuzou," Akotolp said. "I have studied these animals.
    There is live birth without eggs, great attachment among small efenburu…" She grew silent at Vaintè's sharp command, her victorious speaking.
    "It will end here, Kerrick. You have fought me too long, killed too many. This is my victory. I have my own city now. It will grow and prosper. You and these other two ustuzou now die. But die in the knowledge that your deaths are only the first. For I shall return with fargi and creatures of death grown by ever-loyal Akotolp. I will return and pursue your kind across all of Gendasi*. To seek out every stinking lair of your kind and kill every one of you. Think of that as you die. Think of it, slowly and carefully. I give you time so you will die with that knowledge uppermost in your thoughts."
    Vaintè signed triumph in everything as she lifted her weapon. There was silence, the stillness of horror all about her. Enge could not move or act, gripped hard by the conflict of beliefs and affection. Arnwheet was terrified, Nadaske as unmoving as a statue. Only Akotolp signed understanding, perfection of action.
    Nadaske shifted and Vaintè let one wary eye look at him, then back to Kerrick when she saw that the helpless male was turning away from her, unable to watch.
    Nadaske faced the frightened boy, placed thumbs of sympathy and understanding on his shoulders.
    Vaintè raised the hèsotsan, aimed at Herilak. "You shall be last, Kerrick. Watch your efensele die first."
    Nadaske lowered his hands, seized the metal knife where it hung on Arnwheet's neck, tore it free and turned swiftly about.
    Thrust it hard into the side of Vaintè's neck.
    Time stopped. Vaintè's eyes were wide with pain, she gasped, shuddered, her hands clamped so tight on the hèsotsan that it squirmed in her grip. Nadaske still held the knife tight between strong thumbs. Blood spurted out as he twisted it.
    Vaintè crumpled, fell, turning and firing the weapon as she went down. The sharp crack was muffled as Nadaske dropped on top of her.
    Akotolp, never a Yilanè of action, simply stared in horror at the two bodies. Even before she thought to