Deer. A herd of the small creatures was grazing just an arrow-shot away. Plump with the rich grass of the island, moving slowly, long ears twitching at the flies that buzzed about them. Kerrick sniffed through widened nostrils and could smell the sweetness of their hides.

“Go silently along the shore,” Amahast said. “The wind is blowing from them towards us, they will not smell us. We will get close.” He led the way, crouching as he ran, and the others followed, Kerrick bringing up the rear.

They notched their arrows while still bent low behind the bank, drew their bows, then stood and let fly together.

The flight of arrows struck true; two of the creatures were down and a third wounded. The small buck was able to stagger some distance with the arrow in its body. Amahast ran swiftly after it and closed on the creature. It turned at bay, its tiny span of horns lowered menacingly, and he laughed and jumped towards it, seized the horns in his hands and twisted. The creature snorted and swayed, then bleated as it fell. Amahast arched its neck back as Kerrick ran up.

“Use your spear, your first kill. In the throat — to one side, stab deep and twist.”

Kerrick did as he was bid and the buck bellowed in agony as the red blood burst out, drenching Kerrick’s hands and arms. Blood to be proud of. He pushed the spear deeper into the wound until the creature shuddered and died.

“A good kill,” Amahast said proudly. The way that he spoke made Kerrick hope that the marag in the boat would not be talked about again.

The hunters laughed with pleasure as they opened and gutted the carcasses. Amahast pointed south towards the higher part of the island. “Take them to the trees where we can hang them to drain.”

“Will we hunt again?” Hastila asked. Amahast shook his head.

“Not if we are to return tomorrow. It will take the day and the night to butcher and smoke what we have here.”