A moment later it was gone, sinking beneath the surface in a flurry of bloody foam.

“Pull for the island,” Amahast ordered. “There will be more of these beasts, bigger ones, following after the hardalt. Is the boy hurt?”

Ogatyr splashed a handful of water on Kerrick’s face and rubbed it clean. “Just frightened,” he said looking at the drawn face.

“He is lucky,” Amahast said grimly. “Luck comes only once. He will never thrust a spear into darkness again.”

Never! Kerrick thought, almost shouting the word aloud, looking at the torn wood where the thing’s claws had raked deep. He had heard about the murgu, seen their claws on a necklace, even touched a smooth and multicolored pouch made from the skin of one of them. But the stories had never really frightened him; tall as the sky, teeth like spears, eyes like stones, claws like knives. But he was frightened now. He turned to face the shore, sure that there were tears in his eyes and not wanting the others to see them, biting his lips as they slowly approached the land. The boat was suddenly a thin shell above a sea of monsters and he desperately wanted to be on solid ground again. He almost cried aloud when the prow grated against the sand. While the others pulled the boat out of the water he washed away all traces of the marag’s blood.

Amahast made a low hissing sound between his teeth, a hunter’s signal, and they all froze, silent and motionless. He lay in the grass above them, peering over the rise. He motioned them flat with his, hand, then signaled them forward to join him. Kerrick did as the others did, not rising above the grass, but carefully parting the blades with his fingers so he could look between them.