THE MIGRATION


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, June 2003. Permission is granted 
to distribute this story via normal Usenet means (but no 
reposting, please; I can do that myself); to include it in 
the official Web archive for alt.sex.stories.moderated, as 
well as such Usenet archives as Google; and to retain one 
hard copy and two electronic files for your own use. If you 
want your friends to see it, don't email it to them; 
instead, direct 'em to my archive (URL below). All other 
rights reserved under the Berne Convention.


Mandatory Warning: not a prescription for real life (would 
be bloody hard anyway), all characters and places are 
strictly fictional, no animals or electrons were harmed in 
the making of this story, yadda yadda.

Self-Indulgent Author's Notes: a dear friend challenged me 
to write an erotic roasting-and-cannibalism story, not a 
kink I share. At the Muses' behest, it jumped the rails and 
turned into something else, something that was more about a 
clash of cultures than about kink.

The real-life basis for the Migration is the astonishing 
yearly journey of the white-eared kob, recorded in full for 
the first time in a BBC episode "Mysterious Journey" (and a 
Discovery Channel version as well). But since kobs aren't 
familiar to most readers, and because I've taken a few 
liberties with my Brr'ema, I have the Lion Folk calling 
them simply "Antelopes."

The other source of inspiration was a Bill Fawcett story, 
"After the Comet," in the anthology "Dinosaur Fantastic" -- 
from which I took and adapted the idea of the Song.

Thanks again to Ron/Lionus and Windrunner for their editing 
assistance. Plug for Lionus' furry art: 
http://www.furnation.com/lionus/

You can read more of my erotic stories at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html



The Migration

By Maureen Lycaon



Dry summer was in full sway, warm and arid. Already in the 
sun-scorched lands to the south, the grass had withered, 
turning brown and dry and tasteless. 

The main vanguard of the Abha Herd of the Brr'ema Folk, two 
hundred thousand strong, was approaching the great valley 
of the Northwest River.

Each year, the Brr'ema journeyed twice across the face of 
the world: north and west toward the mating grounds as the 
southern dry season threatened; then, south and east before 
the cold and snow of the northern winter could arrive, 
returning to the warm southern lands as the rains began 
there and the does prepared to give birth.

Always, predators both two-legged and four-legged dogged 
their trail and laid traps for them. After the madness of 
the Rut, when the bucks neglected to eat, drink and rest 
properly in their overwhelming need to mate and do battle, 
hundreds of the oldest and weakest of them collapsed by the 
wayside and died. Sometimes the rains failed, either on the 
northward journey or the southward one, and thousands of 
Brr'ema died of thirst and exhaustion.

Thus it had always been. There had never been any time when 
it had been different. The Brr'ema wasted little time on 
regret for their countless dead. In any case, the Herd Song 
preserved their memories and experiences forever, so 
nothing was ever truly lost.

Nevertheless, they protected themselves in such ways as 
they could. With four legs and hooves instead of grasping 
paws, they could not wield bows or blades. But wherever 
they traveled, they sent brave scouts one or two days' 
journey ahead to search for where their enemies gathered: 
the Lion Folk, the Dog Folk, leopards. Wherever they found 
the hunters gathering, they returned and shared the 
knowledge in the Song, and the Herd veered away from that 
valley or canyon or pass to use another route.

The Herd also changed its route every year, to let the 
grass recover as well as to confuse its enemies. It had 
last passed through the Northwest River Valley five years 
ago.

So vast was the Herd that it stretched from the beginning 
of that valley to nearly its end seven days' journey north, 
where it joined the Northwest River Valley. The Brr'ema 
traveled at a gentle walk, spaced out across the flat open 
ground between the hill slopes and the river that ran 
through Red Clay Valley. This pace allowed them to graze a 
little even while walking. The whole Herd stopped at midday 
to rest and eat, and again at night to share the Song and 
sleep.

Half-grown fawns walked beside their placid does, and 
friends and kin journeyed together, enjoying each other's 
companionship. Each Brr'ema drew comfort from the massed 
presence of the entire Herd, knowing himself or herself to 
be part of a great and eternal People whose origins 
stretched back to the unknown times of the beginning of the 
Song, a People who would continue after his or her death.

Individual Brr'ema lived and died, transient as the sands 
of the deserts, but the Herd and the Song were eternal.



Excitement roiled in the camps of the flesh-eaters of the 
Northwest River Valley. All tribal hostilities ceased when 
the Migration approached, even those between the eternally 
feuding Lion Folk and Dog Folk, so that all could take part 
in the bounty the Antelope provided. The word had been 
passed from one Folk to another, from one tribe to another 
along the route of the Migration, spread by runners and by 
nightly fire signals from one hilltop to the next.

It had reached the Amagarri tribe of the Lion Folk two 
nights ago, and now their summer villages bustled with 
activity as they prepared to join together and journey to 
the end of the Valley for a grand hunt.

Eager lionesses knapped fresh stone spearheads and 
arrowheads, prepared shafts and fletched arrows. The 
shamans stayed in their tents through most of each day, 
working magic for the success of the hunt, while the elder 
lionesses discussed different strategies.

Ramar had been only twelve winters old when last the 
Migration had come, but she remembered vividly what it had 
been like to feast and feast for a whole season after a few 
days of work, and the savory smells from meat-stuffed 
smokehouses had lingered over the entire Valley.

During the last winter rains four moons ago, she and the 
rest of Meev's pride had passed the test of adulthood all 
lionesses went through: they had captured a warrior of the 
Dog Folk alive and dragged him back to their summer 
village. Older lionesses had then bound him and taken him 
to the village's gathering place to be publicly tortured 
and killed. His bleaching skull now rested with the skulls 
from other Dogs and Lions from enemy tribes, and Meev's 
pride were all full-fledged huntresses and entitled to take 
part in the impending hunt.

Today, she sat with Meev, Worrang and Kaung along with the 
lionesses of three other prides in a great rough circle on 
the grass. They listened as Maueng, one of the elder 
lionesses, explained the plan she and the other elders had 
agreed upon to trap a portion of the Antelopes in the 
canyons at the northwest end of the Valley. The main body 
of the Migration was now only four days' ride away, already 
pouring through the mouth of the Northwest River Valley.

"Two other groups of prides will try to fool them," the 
hoary-muzzled elder explained. For all her age, Maueng's 
voice was deep and growling, commanding the respect due her 
position. "They'll hide in Narrow Canyon, but they won't 
hide very well -- just enough so the Antelopes will think 
the real ambush is there. The fogs there keep it lush, so 
it's the place the Antelopes would most likely pass through 
-- and so their scouts will expect us to be waiting for 
them there."

Ramar listened, not only with respect but also with deep 
interest. Unlike some of the beasts the Amagarri hunted, 
such as buffalo and wild horses, the Antelope Folk could 
think, even though they were four-legged and used no 
weapons. Canny Folk, they sent scouts ahead of their march 
to spot hunters. The elders had to outthink and outguess 
them. It was like planning an attack on the Dog Folk -- 
except, of course, that the Antelopes could not fight back.

Maueng began using the stick she'd been holding to sketch a 
diagram in a bare patch of earth. "If the trick works," she 
went on, "the western part of the Migration will go through 
either Red Rock Canyon" -- she sketched a line to her right 
-- "or Cold Canyon, here", and a line to the left, running 
east and west. "Cold Canyon is where you all will be."

Ears flattened all around. Maueng grinned without sympathy. 
"Yes, I know it won't be comfortable."

The old lioness looked around, catching each huntress's 
eyes in turn, making sure each one understood.

"Meeza, Gauree -- your prides will hide on the north wall 
of Cold Canyon, halfway beyond the mouth." Ramar realized 
where this was going, and stifled her groan of dismay. 
"Aunglarr, Meev, your prides get the south wall, halfway 
beyond the mouth." The elder grinned again as two other 
huntresses actually did groan. The south slope of Cold 
Canyon stretched up into the White Mountains, ensuring 
chilly days and cold nights; their wait would be a 
miserable one. "You're the youngest prides, so that's just 
your luck. Ronang's pride will wait in the far end. 
Ngaurai's and Haimar's prides will be helping you set up 
the nets." Maung stood up, signalling that the meeting was 
over.



At nightfall, as darkness took over the Valley, the Brr'ema 
lay down, slender legs curled against pale bellies. No one 
fell asleep, even the weariest fawns. Instead, they 
remained motionless, heads lifted, as if listening. The 
Herd Song swelled.

In a sense, the Song was the very soul of the Herd. It was 
a thing that existed in their minds and souls, not in the 
flesh.

The Herd Song held the collective sum of everything its 
members had known or experienced: all the migration routes 
the Herd had ever taken; every enemy and predator it had 
encountered; times of great drought and great rains and 
flooding and fires and plagues and seasons of plenty 
stretching far back beyond living memory. Those memories 
extended back to the very origin of the Abha Herd, when it 
had split away from another Herd uncounted lifetimes ago . 
. . and even beyond, into the memories of that other long-
ago ancestral Herd.

Into the Song were woven the collective experiences of its 
members: their earliest memories of milk and dam; of 
learning the Song and the ways of the Brr'ema; of the 
tastes of different kinds of grass and herbs; the bucks' 
mad joy and the does' delight in the sweet frenzy of the 
Rut; the pain and the deep fulfillment of birthing that the 
does knew; the sorrow of losing a fawn; the joy of watching 
one grow up to become another member of the Herd, the chain 
of generations continuing.

Because of the Song, the Brr'ema needed very little spoken 
speech; it forever vibrated in their souls, though it was 
strongest now, during this evening ritual. The Song, more 
than anything else, bound the Herd together.

Each individual Brr'ema was one thread in the vast weave of 
the Song. Not to share in it was to be exiled -- a fate 
worse than dying at the claws of hunters.

It was while they were joined in Song that the Herd 
determined what routes it would take during its yearly 
migrations.

At the end of the rainy season this year, with the fawns 
old enough to keep up with the Herd and the once-lush green 
grass of the Birthing Grounds eaten down almost to the 
roots, the Brr'ema had once again considered their paths 
north and west.

This year, they had taken note of the vast gray clouds that 
had been seen drifting to the east. Drawing upon the Song's 
memories of the past, they knew that the most easterly 
migration route they could take would be flooded and 
impassable. For the Herd to go that way meant death. The 
more usual northern way remained, but the Herd had passed 
through it so many times over the past few years that the 
grass was becoming exhausted and the predators too thick.

Thus, while in the depths of the Song, they had chosen the 
northwest route, the one that ran through the great valley 
of the Northwest River.

That had been four moons ago. Now, in one more moon, it 
would be the time of the Rut.

This evening, as it had done every evening since leaving 
the Birthing Grounds, the Herd recalled its memories of the 
northwestern route, remembering each detail of the next 
part of the journey.

The foremost members of the Herd had already reached the 
end of the narrow Red Clay River Valley, and entered the 
valley of the Northwest River. There, the steep walls of 
the hillsides opened out into a vast level plain, grassy 
and green even at this time of year.

The Brr'ema would now journey slowly through the Valley. 
They would ascend the canyons at the Valley's far end to 
reach the great Goldengrass Plain.

The Northwest Valley's grass would help them build up 
reserves that would sustain them during the Rut. It was one 
of the most comfortable parts of the journey. It was also 
the most dangerous part.

Lion and Dog Folk inhabited the Valley. A day's travel in, 
trees dotted the grassland -- trees that clumped together 
into true woods along the banks of creeks that were 
tributaries to the river. The trees grew thicker the 
further one went into the Valley. Woods and forests held a 
peculiar horror to the Brr'ema; they were potential death 
traps where a predator could sneak up and remain unseen 
until it was too late.

Yet, the Northwest River Valley was the only way through 
this land. East of it lay only a great desert, so 
completely barren that a Brr'ema could not survive more 
than two days in the scorching, waterless heat; to the west 
reared a high, bitterly cold mountain range, with pine-
covered slopes and vast glaciers -- and almost no grass.

In any case, predators were a fact of life. The Herd could 
never wholly avoid them. Brr'ema were prey; they lived all 
their lives in the shadow of violent death.

Each time they passed through the Northwest River Valley, 
Dog Folk and Lion Folk awaited them, preparing ambushes to 
catch many Brr'ema. There had been a time, many generations 
ago yet still remembered in the Song, when the hunters had 
simply driven Brr'ema into deep dead-end canyons to 
slaughter them at leisure. Like most eaters of grass, the 
Brr'ema panicked easily, running before thinking. That 
panic saved their lives more often than not -- but 
sometimes it was their greatest weakness.

Eventually the Herd found ways to evade the drives 
entirely. Now the Lion Folk of the Northwest Valley laid 
well-camouflaged nets and tried to frighten the Brr'ema 
into them.

The Herd was already sending its scouts ahead -- young 
unmated males and females who were the swiftest of foot and 
bravest of heart, who were willing to sacrifice a few 
nights of joining in the Song and even risk dying alone to 
satisfy their urge for adventure. Even now, those scouts 
traveled toward the wooded lands ahead, searching for signs 
of nets or hunters.



Ramar and her pridemates bedded down on the floor of Cold 
Canyon, close to the south wall. Their horses -- which 
would have been a dead giveaway to the Migration's scouts -
- had been sent back to their village, led by cubs too 
young to hunt, hugging the slope all the way to avoid the 
Antelopes' smelling their trails.

Cold Canyon deserved its name. The glacier-dotted White 
Mountains reared above, pouring an endless flood of icy air 
into the canyon floor. Even in summer, it was chilly enough 
at night that the lionesses' fur cloaks gave little 
comfort. They snuggled together for what little warmth they 
could give each other, like young cubs. Not far away, they 
knew, slept the members of Aunglarr's pride.

They would all simply rest tonight, and remain under cover 
throughout the day tomorrow. Antelope scouts would probably 
arrive the next day, looking for traces of their presence. 
But the Antelopes didn't move at night, not being able to 
see well in the dark. The huntresses would set the nets 
tomorrow night. The main body of the Migration would come 
within the next three days.

Ramar woke. She'd been snuggled up against Worrang, spooned 
against her, back to her belly, but now she rolled over 
onto her back underneath the cloak, enduring the cold for a 
little while to gaze up at the multitude of stars. She lay 
quietly, listening to the faint tinkle of a creek somewhere 
nearby.

She felt a start beside her; Worrang had come awake. Now 
Worrang rolled onto her back as well.

Ramar nudged her, and she opened her eyes. "What?" she 
asked.

"Do you ever wonder why some Folk can think and talk, and 
others can't?"

Worrang simply shrugged. "Not really. Maybe the will of 
Arrangi?"

"Maybe. Or . . . maybe it's some task He never finished -- 
or He made a mistake, just like when He made the Dog Folk."

They shared a brief giggle, as they usually did at the 
mention of the Dog Folk. Slovenly, ugly, stupid, completely 
lacking in morals -- these words most easily came to mind 
when one thought of the Dogs. They were also accused of 
sexual perversions, although Ramar had never been able to 
get anyone to tell her exactly what those perversions were.

"Maybe," Worrang mused, "it wasn't Arrangi at all. Maybe it 
was Ungarr."

"What do you mean?" Ramar asked.

"I mean, maybe She wanted to make sure we didn't get too 
lazy or stupid to hunt. So She made some of the hoofed ones 
able to think."

Ramar thought it over. It was as good a theory as any, she 
decided. In fact, she rather liked it.

She smiled. "Perhaps you're right." She had another 
thought. "But then, why do some of them -- the ones that 
think, I mean -- not have any speech, like the Antelope 
Folk? Why don't they talk?"

Worrang shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe that really *is* a 
mistake."



The vanguard of the Herd had traveled half a day's journey 
into the Valley before lying down for the night. At dawn, 
as the Valley floor began to fill with golden light and the 
Brr'ema were just beginning to wake, their scouts began 
their missions.

Lightfoot had been no more than a fawn, three-quarters 
grown, the last time the Herd passed this way. Since then, 
his horns had grown long enough that they flared out and 
then extended upward and back. His flanks had long since 
begun to darken from the tan color of his childhood to the 
mahogany-chestnut of a mature buck. Already, when a doe 
wandered close by him and raised her tail, even if it was 
just to flick at flies, he felt the stirring of urges he 
had often watched other bucks satisfy. In one more moon, he 
would join in the Rut.

The previous night, as the Herd spun the Song out of its 
collective members, as usual the question arose from all of 
them: *Who will scout tomorrow?* And this time, as he had 
done on two other occasions this past year, Lightfoot had 
answered, *I will*, along with a dozen others.

Now, at dawn, the sun was just rising above the eastern 
hills that marked the start of the Valley. Its golden rays 
threw impossibly long shadows across the grass as unseen 
birds called and chattered their morning songs. Lightfoot 
could just catch the scent of the great Northwest River 
itself, broad and slow-flowing, in the distance.

He yawned, slowly rose to his hooves, and stretched each 
long limb carefully. Walking over to his dam, Paleflank, he 
nuzzled her a farewell. She lifted her head, her dark eyes 
soft, to return the gesture. There were no spoken words and 
no need for words, only a brief surge of the Song, as they 
shared their affection for each other. The half-grown fawn 
at her side, not yet named, barely roused; if she survived 
her first three years, she would earn a name.

After that, he found three of his closer friends nearby, 
and greeted each of them in turn in the same fashion. 
Darkhorn and Scarflank barely raised their heads to 
acknowledge him, only a faint surge of Song marking their 
well-wishing. White-ring -- so named for the unusually 
bright white ring of hair around each of her eyes -- craned 
her long neck to exchange a true nuzzle with him before he 
left.

Lightfoot wondered if he would be able to couple with her 
this Rut. He hoped so.

Perhaps he would also have to do battle with Darkhorn.

Normally the migrating Brr'ema drifted slowly from place to 
place, with many stops and starts and full rests. An 
outside observer could have mistaken it for random, aimless 
movement. Lightfoot did not walk. Instead, he trotted 
purposefully north and west up the Valley.

Soon he had left the Herd behind, and the thread of the 
Song faded to a ghost. Every now and then, the tawny flanks 
of other scouts flashed almost pink in the rising sun as 
they paralleled him, trotting away on their own missions.

By the time the sun was high, he had lost sight of those 
scouts as they dispersed into the Valley. For a while, the 
morning breeze -- blowing crossways to him -- still brought 
him their scents now and then. By the time the clumps of 
trees were beginning to thicken, he was truly alone. Even 
the ghost of the Song was now silent.

Instead of the Herd Song he experienced every day of his 
life, he knew only lonely silence and darkness behind his 
eyes. The Herd followed behind, he knew, but it was too far 
away for even a distant murmuring to be felt.

Loneliness was not a pleasant sensation for even a young 
Brr'ema. The first time he had scouted, it had driven him 
away from his duty and back to the Herd, and he had been 
soundly censured by his elders and in the Song for that 
night. But young Brr'ema often failed thus. The second 
time, he had not abandoned his task. Since then, he had 
grown accustomed to the sensation, so that it no longer 
overwhelmed him.

If luck were on his side, Lightfoot would return to the 
Herd within three days' time.

As he trotted throughout the morning, the Valley widened 
until he could no longer see the hills that formed its 
walls. He veered away from the Northwest River itself; its 
murmuring could drown out the sounds of approaching flesh-
eaters.

The sun rose slowly overhead as he traveled, trotting 
tirelessly. At midday he rested, but only briefly, to graze 
and chew his cud. The sun sank ahead of him afterward, 
throwing light into his face and making the task of keeping 
watch for enemies more difficult. Yet he trotted almost 
continuously throughout the afternoon as well, intent upon 
his destination.

Once, he passed a small gurgling creek, a minor tributary 
to the Northwest River. He plunged his muzzle into its 
gurgling waters, drinking his fill, then leaped neatly 
across it and went on.

At last, the sun neared the horizon, and he halted. He 
grazed a little while before bedding down for the night.

Sleep proved difficult without the murmur of the Herd Song 
enwrapping him. Eventually Lightfoot managed to fall into 
dreams and stillness, sleeping through most of the night.

In his last dream, he was Rutting for the first time. The 
Goldengrass Plain stretched all around, flat and yellow in 
the harsh sun. Brr'ema dotted the Plain in every direction, 
the dark males spaced out evenly in their Circles. 

A doe had entered the Circle he guarded against all other 
bucks. In the dream, he never knew her name, but it didn't 
matter. What mattered was that she smelled of the ripe 
readiness of femaleness. The smell filled him with power 
and ecstasy -- the ecstasy of mating, the ecstasy of 
battle. He nuzzled her rump, feeling his penis stir in its 
sheath. She stopped for him, lifting her tail to give him 
more of her enticing scent.

A flicker of mahogany hide at the corner of his vision 
warned him; he turned away from her to look. Another buck 
stepped into his Circle, white ears lowered in menace, dark 
hard eyes fixed upon his. Challenging.

He didn't know who the buck was. He didn't have to. The 
other had declared himself a rival the moment he had 
entered Lightfoot's Circle. He was big and muscular, his 
flanks so dark they were almost black, his horns long and 
flaring . . . but Lightfoot felt no fear, only rage and 
readiness to do battle.

He strutted slowly forward, his ears down as low as they 
could get, almost trembling with rage. The other buck 
glared back, and took two more steps toward him.

Lightfoot leaped forward, lowering his head. They met with 
a thunderous crack of horns.

The sensation was glorious, as glorious in its own way as 
coupling. He felt his phallus emerge from his sheath as he 
braced himself, horns locked with the other buck's, and 
pushed back savagely against him, grunting with effort.

At first they were evenly matched, and Lightfoot's every 
push, his every shove, was matched by the other's strength. 
Nor could the other buck force him backwards; his hind legs 
were planted in the earth like the trunks of mighty trees. 
His phallus, fully engorged now, swayed as he shoved and 
grunted.

All the while, the doe stood watching -- waiting for him to 
prove himself worthy of mating with her. He caught a 
glimpse of her face as the battle forced him to turn about 
the Circle; her eyes were sparkling with excitement as she 
watched.

The other bucks watched from their own Circles. Younger 
bucks who as yet had no Circle stopped their wandering to 
stand motionless, watching also.

He enjoyed his knowledge of their eyes upon him as he 
shoved and twisted, snorting with effort. Let them watch. 
Let them see how mighty he was in combat. Let them fear to 
enter his Circle.

His challenger slipped, missing his footing. Lightfoot 
bored in, forcing him two full steps backward, then 
another. The other buck began to falter, his muscles 
shaking with effort. Exulting, Lightfoot pressed his 
advantage and forced him back and back, to the very edge of 
the Circle.

At last the other buck broke, twisting out of the horn 
lock. Even as he turned to flee, Lightfoot lunged forward, 
driving his horns into that momentarily unguarded flank, 
and the buck grunted in pain and staggered sideways with 
the impact.

Lightfoot actually drove them both a few paces into another 
buck's Circle. Its buck stalked forward, whistling angrily, 
but Lightfoot stepped back into his own Circle.

The loser slunk away quickly, head down. Two patches of 
scarlet were spreading on his flank.

Lightfoot had never felt so powerful. His penis, still 
erect, dangled from its sheath.

He returned to the doe for whom he had fought. He looked 
all around, ready for any and all other challengers, but 
the other bucks remained at a respectful distance.

The doe's eyes shone even brighter; the combat had aroused 
her as well. With no more preliminaries, she turned her 
back to him and lifted her tail. Her pink, ready vulva 
filled the air with its voluptuous scent. Moisture dampened 
and matted the white fur there.

Lightfoot reared upon his hind legs and mounted her. As he 
entered her moist, ready depths, his entire body seemed to 
explode with sensation.

He thrust his hips a few times and orgasmed, passing his 
seed into her, as the other Brr'ema all around fought and 
rested and coupled and watched.

Lightfoot awoke, eyes blinking open, feeling the throbbing 
of his relaxing organ. He'd spilled his semen as he 
dreamed.

With an almost guilty start, he rose and looked around 
quickly, listened and scented the air, but there was no 
sign of danger. Dawn had nearly come, and the still-unseen 
sun was filling the eastern horizon with pale light.

All his body felt twice as sensitive, deliciously so. He 
performed an especially voluptuous morning stretch, 
enjoying the movement of each muscle.

This Rut, he would be a contender. If he were very lucky, 
he would even win himself a Circle, and mate.

He grazed for a little while, until the sun had cleared the 
horizon. Then he resumed his journey toward the northwest.



The sun was nearly at its zenith as the trees began to 
thicken from scattered clumps into bigger patches.

Lightfoot slowed down his steady trot, nostrils twitching 
and ears swiveling as he strained to catch the sounds or 
scents of lurking flesh-eaters. Once in a while he would 
stop to risk putting his head down and feed on a clump of 
sweetgrass or o'enna, always tense, always alert.

When he could not avoid passing through a stretch of trees, 
he slowed to a walk and became still more alert and 
anxious. He couldn't see more than a short distance in any 
direction while he walked through them. His imagination 
created a hungry leopard behind every tree trunk, waiting 
to spring.

Twice, he actually did smell leopard scent. Each time, he 
froze in place, nostrils distended, ears spread wide. Both 
times, the scent proved to emanate from scratch marks on 
the bark of the trees, and the traces were at least a day 
old if not more.

Leopards hunted alone. They had no Song, nor even the crude 
spoken speech of more barbaric folk. A Brr'ema could simply 
outrun and out-dodge a leopard, so long as he saw it in 
time. What Lightfoot feared even more than leopards was 
walking into an ambush of the Lion Folk.

He emerged into a meadow fringed by oak trees. It was the 
largest meadow he had seen in some time, so he stopped for 
a rest, a meal and a look around, free of interfering 
trees. When he gazed to the north, he saw his destination 
in the distance.

The Brr'ema had names for only a few parts of the Northwest 
River Valley. They spent no more than a moon in any place 
before moving on, except during the Birthing Time and the 
Rut. But from the Song, Lightfoot knew the place he was 
seeking, and he recognized it by sight: the steep rocky 
sides of a distant canyon, one that the Brr'ema (like the 
Amagarri) called Red Rock Canyon.

By mid-afternoon, he had reached its wide mouth.

True woodland covered the vast, level canyon floor -- 
mingled trees and grass that obscured Lightfoot's vision. 
Red Rock Canyon ran almost due north, and between the trees 
shadows were already gathering, thrown by the slanting 
light of the sinking sun.

In the far distance, to each side, the floor gave way to 
rough slopes where rust-red rocks stuck out and the oaks 
were reduced to occasional tangles of young, slender trees. 
Though he'd seen it in the Song before, Lightfoot felt a 
sinking sensation in his belly as he faced the prospect of 
going in. It was a good place for an ambush.

He knew he was not the only scout examining this canyon, 
that others were here as well, too far away to be seen or 
smelled but here all the same. Nevertheless, he studied the 
trees ahead as if he alone were responsible for deciding 
whether the Herd would pass through this place.

He stood at the mouth of the canyon for a very long time 
under the afternoon sun, nostrils questing, seeking for the 
faintest scent of Lion or Dog People, a glimpse of tawny or 
splotched hide. He saw nothing, smelled nothing -- save a 
whiff of the distant scent of another scout, a doe, who had 
stood similarly off to the right earlier in the day.

After a time, he cautiously entered the wood in the mouth 
of the canyon.

Nothing moved or stirred in the shadows. Lightfoot kept his 
head lifted, scanning all around him as he slipped 
carefully through the trees.

As he walked, he caught the soft babbling of the small 
river that ran through this canyon and eventually emptied 
out into the Northwest River. Ears still straining -- 
water's edge, noisy with its song and dense with 
vegetation, was always a likely spot for a leopard's ambush 
-- he made his way to the river bank and drank deeply.

When he moved on, he veered away from the river, angling 
west until he could barely hear the sounds of running 
water.

The rocky walls on either side rose higher and higher as he 
walked. The shadows drowning the canyon floor grew ever 
deeper. It was time for him to search for a safe place to 
sleep, but he didn't want to stop among the trees. He felt 
buried alive; he longed for a wide, open place where he 
could see clearly in all directions.

Finally, just before it got too dark to go on, he emerged 
into a meadow dotted with large patches of green emma 
grass.

Lightfoot walked slowly into the center of the meadow, 
relishing its openness. He fed on the emma for a little 
while, until he could barely see the distant tree trunks in 
the gathering darkness. Then he lay down carefully upon his 
belly, legs tucked neatly under him to be ready for running 
if need be, and closed his eyes to sleep.

For a few moments, he tried to imagine what it would be 
like to live entirely without the Herd, without the Song, 
alone all one's life. Some Folk did live that way, 
especially in the vast, rain-drenched forests far to the 
south, where there was never drought and no need to move 
from one place to another for food. He couldn't imagine 
what it would be like to live alone and not perish from 
loneliness, though. Finally he shivered and thrust the 
horrid thought from his mind.

He fell into a shallow sleep, ears alert even now for the 
sound of approaching paws. This was the time of greatest 
danger for him, when he was most vulnerable.

No flesh-eater, two-legged or four, disturbed his rest. He 
roused at dawn to birdsong and the sounds of a trio of Boar 
Folk rooting and snuffling in the earth at the lower end of 
the meadow, where a large patch of tubers grew. The high 
canyon walls hid the sunrise, but the light in the meadow 
had already changed from nearly black to gray dawn.

As he rose and stretched, the boars lifted their heads. 
They stared at him for a moment out of their small black 
eyes, realized he was merely another hoofed one, and 
returned indifferently to their feeding.

Lightfoot spent a little while grazing again. Emma grass 
did not taste as well as o'enna or sweetgrass, but it was 
nourishing and would keep his strength up.

The Boar Folk snorted and talked softly to each other in 
their own language -- they had no Song. They paid no 
attention to him. 

When he had eaten, Lightfoot resumed his mission.

As he journeyed deeper into the canyon, the sheer red walls 
of the canyon drew no closer together, but the ground began 
to rise and became hard and rocky. The trees grew thinner 
and more spaced out. Lightfoot's small, neat hooves found 
purchase easily enough, but the shifting, unstable rocks he 
sometimes had to cross made a clatter that he was sure 
could be heard by every flesh-eater within a day's journey. 
Whenever possible, he tried to set his hooves into the 
spaces between them instead, but he had to keep his head up 
to watch for predators. If he tried to run here, he stood a 
good chance of breaking a leg.

Late in the morning, the cliff walls at last began to 
narrow. He had passed Red Rock Canyon's midpoint. The sun 
had risen high enough to pour its full light and warmth 
onto the canyon floor where he walked.

Lightfoot slowed down, his every instinct and his knowledge 
shrieking that he was entering a deathtrap. Detecting no 
sign of Lion or Dog Folk, he kept on walking, forcing down 
his fear.

He did not stop to rest at midday. He had no wish to spend 
any longer than necessary in this terrible place.

He slowly climbed as he walked, passing through more trees 
and more rocky patches and little meadows, but the trees 
were growing thicker again. If the Lion Folk had set their 
nets in Red Rock Canyon, it would surely be here or only a 
little farther on.

Reaching a little miniature rocky ridge, no more than a 
swell in the ground that bisected a meadow, Lightfoot 
headed toward a thick patch of stone-pine trees ahead. Then 
a small breeze wafted past, and an odd glimmer in the 
darkness under the trees caught his eyes.

He stopped dead, perched atop the rise. As he stared into 
the darkness ahead, another light breeze stirred, and he 
saw it clearly: the strands of a net glinted between the 
tree trunks. It was artfully concealed, the strands 
darkened to match the earthy dark tones of the bark of the 
pines; but it had swayed ever so slightly in the breeze, 
revealing it to Lightfoot's eyes.

Lightfoot jerked nervously, almost uttering the Brr'ema 
whistling alarm call before he could stop himself. No doubt 
hungry eyes watched him even now. The Lion Folk concealed 
on the slopes might not choose to expose themselves by 
giving chase, but he couldn't count upon that. His skin 
seemed to want to crawl off his flesh with terror.

Was that really the first net? Or had he walked right past 
others without seeing them, and avoided falling into one 
only by chance?

Muscles shaking with fear, he turned around and began to 
walk slowly and carefully back down the canyon, giving 
those unseen watchers no further sign that he had detected 
their trap.



By sunset, Lightfoot had returned to the mouth of Red Rock 
Canyon and passed through, leaving it behind. Now he was 
back in the main valley, still almost too agitated to eat. 
But he forced himself to graze on a patch of sweetgrass in 
another meadow, and to drink from a narrow stream, before 
seeking a bedding place for the night. The trees were still 
thick here, with not enough open ground. In the end, he had 
to settle for a meadow that was smaller than he would have 
liked, one only a few leaps across.

One more lonely, frightened night, away from the Herd. 
Tomorrow morning he would rejoin it, and know the Song once 
again.



Lightfoot almost didn't awaken in time.

He awoke abruptly and completely to a faint sense of 
something *wrong*, something he could not identify -- 
perhaps a small sound. He knew at once that a predator was 
creeping up on him; the only question was from which 
direction. His ears turned this way and that, nostrils 
questing for any scent.

He could see almost nothing in the darkness of night. Only 
the distant tree trunks glimmered under the light of the 
stars. Lightfoot began to tremble, cold gripping his legs 
and his belly. He dared not simply leap to his hooves and 
bolt -- he might run right into his unseen stalker's jaws.

Finally, his keen ears caught another tiny sound -- the 
sound of a cushioned paw falling just a little too heavily 
on bare earth, in front and to his left, very close.

Letting panic have its way, he leaped up, whirled and 
bolted so quickly and gracefully that it was like one easy 
motion. The leopard exploded from the trees and bounded 
after him.

Lightfoot couldn't help the terrified whistle that broke 
from his mouth as he bounded out of the meadow and plunged 
into the greater darkness of the trees on the other side, 
the leopard only three jumps away and closing. His heart 
felt as though it hammered in his throat as he raced 
through the trees, dodging the barely visible tree trunks 
and saplings as much by luck as by sight.

The leopard was just behind him now. He actually felt the 
wind of its paws brush his flanks as it tried to seize him 
and its killing leap fell barely short. Had the leopard 
been wise enough to snatch at his hind legs instead and 
trip him . . . Panic speared through Lightfoot, forcing a 
fresh burst of speed from his pumping legs.

The leopard fell behind as its endurance ebbed. Lightfoot 
reached full speed as he broke into another meadow, and now 
he was pulling safely away, outdistancing the hunter.

Lightfoot kept running even after the leopard gave up, 
panting, and let him vanish into the distance.



He didn't stop to sleep again that night, preferring to 
risk the dangers of traveling in darkness. By the time the 
first morning birds were calling, he was far south of Red 
Rock Canyon. By midday of that day, he had left most of the 
trees behind. He could sense the Song in the distance, no 
more than a soft indistinguishable murmur far away. The 
vanguard of the Herd had reached the halfway-point of the 
Northwest Valley.

By mid-afternoon, the Song had swelled to a great chorus, 
and Lightfoot spotted the first forerunners in the 
distance, making their leisurely way north. He trotted 
toward them, letting his own thread of Song mesh with 
theirs as he gratefully rejoined the Herd.

As he filtered his way through the ranks and the Song in 
search of his dam, Scarflank and Whitering greeted him. 
Each one nuzzled his face intently, showing their relief at 
his safe return. From them, he sensed that Darkhorn was not 
present -- that he had departed on his own scouting mission 
the day after Lightfoot himself had left and had not yet 
returned.

Finally, Lightfoot reached his preferred place near 
Paleflank, and exchanged greetings with her as well. She 
licked his neck, glad of his safe return.

He found his place in the Herd, a little ways from 
Paleflank, and fell into step with it, walking slowly north 
and west once again.



When the evening sharing of Song began, the Herd formally 
welcomed back the scouts who had safely returned that day, 
enfolding them. Lightfoot's thread of the Song joined that 
of the others, conveying what he had learned from his 
journey.

His was not the only narrow escape, and some scouts had not 
returned at all. As the surviving scouts shared their 
tales, the rest of the Herd joined in celebration of their 
bravery, and relief at their safe return.

The Herd weighed and considered the news: the nets that 
Lightfoot and other scouts had seen; the places where the 
Lion or Dog Folk or leopards had been seen or scented -- 
the sum total of all that the scouts had found.

In the western portion of the end of the Northwest River 
Valley, both Red Rock Canyon and the narrow, lush-grassed 
canyon held concealed nets. That left only the chilly 
canyon that ran beside the mountains. The scouts had found 
no signs of nets or hunters there.

The Herd weighed these things, and made its choice. Its 
western portion would take the route through the cold 
canyon.



Last night, the lionesses in Cold Canyon had at last set up 
the nets and concealed them as well as they could. Now 
there was only the waiting as they sat shivering in their 
fur cloaks along the walls of the canyons, their spears and 
bows and arrows lying beside them, ready to paw.

The Migration was pouring through the Northwest River 
Valley now, uncountable thousands strong, a feast of meat 
that would keep the Amagarri fed for weeks -- provided that 
this hunt succeeded. If not, they would have to pursue the 
canny Antelopes through the wooded canyons in single hunt-
and-chase, and there would be no grand feast or bulging 
smokehouses.

Ramar huddled in her cloak, perched on a small more or less 
level spot. Concealed by three big and smelly pesen bushes, 
she silently cursed the bitter morning cold and gazed down 
the canyon, watching. Her pridemates had spaced themselves 
along the south slope in their own hiding places. The 
drivers waited in ambush at the edges of the canyon mouth, 
waiting for as much as possible of the Migration to pass 
them before leaping out to goad the Antelopes into blind 
panicked flight.

Ramar hoped the Migration would choose Cold Canyon. It was 
better for an ambush than Red Rock Canyon: longer, the 
walls a bit steeper, the trees a bit thicker, offering 
better concealment for the nets. And she didn't want the 
last two cold nights to be wasted effort.

No bird song broke the waiting silence. The whole canyon 
seemed to hold its breath as the early morning sun's golden 
light crept down the walls of the cliffs on the opposite 
side. Ramar envied the huntresses stationed there -- her 
side of the canyon would remain in shadow until late 
morning.

Then, looking southeastward down the canyon for what seemed 
the hundredth time, Ramar glimpsed a faint, distant cloud 
of yellow dust. As she watched, it drew slowly closer. Her 
pulse thudded in her throat.

The Migration *had* chosen Cold Canyon, after all!

She got up and moved into a ready crouch, holding her cloak 
around her while being careful not to lose her balance on 
the steep slope. She stared at the approaching dust cloud, 
ears perked, listening tensely and trying to hold her 
breath as the long moments passed. Finally, she felt it as 
much as she heard it: the faint rumble of thousands upon 
uncounted thousands of hooves.

She moved one paw closer to her bow, eyes fixed eagerly on 
the southeast. She felt her tail lash, and stilled it.



The mouth of the canyon loomed ahead as the first Brr'ema 
approached.

For the whole of the last two days, opportunistic Lion Folk 
had harassed the Herd's flanks, seeking to pick off 
stragglers and the unwary. Whenever and wherever they did, 
nearby Brr'ema fled, and then resumed their journey north 
and westward.

A few of the more foolish or weak or simply unlucky had 
been caught and killed. Those who had known them mourned, 
but continued on.

Death had not been on Lightfoot's mind last night. For the 
first time, he had sparred with Darkhorn, who had at last 
returned from his own scouting trip. They had locked horns, 
pushing and shoving at each other with more vigor than ever 
before, but neither had gained any certain advantage.

In the end, they had both wearied, and ceased the struggle 
by mutual agreement. Afterward, Lightfoot had licked his 
erection down, then joined in the Song.

The first Brr'ema moved forward, entering the canyon, and 
paused to look and listen and smell through distended 
nostrils. Finding no danger, they relaxed and resumed their 
slow walk, and the rest followed.

Once inside, the Brr'ema could no longer space themselves 
out; they were funneled into a dense mass by the canyon 
walls. They walked slightly faster, eager to pass quickly 
through this dangerous place.

Though Lightfoot had never been in the cold canyon before, 
he recalled images of it from the Song: the vast bulk of 
the mountains to their left; the grass more green than 
yellow, spared some of the drying of summer because of the 
cold; its juicier, richer taste.

Nervousness lent anxiety to the faint thread of the Song. 
Lightfoot stopped only occasionally to snatch a mouthful of 
graze as he walked into the canyon, following the others. 
He glanced about less often to keep track of Darkhorn or 
Paleflank nearby; instead, he looked up uneasily at the 
walls, at the path ahead, searching for anything amiss -- 
the glistening of a net or of sunlight off a flint 
arrowhead or spear point, a flash of splotched or tawny 
flank from a Dog or a Lion.

Suddenly a fresh burst of tension, then actual alarm, 
thrilled through the Song. Lightfoot caught a glimpse of 
movement out of the corner of his eye, from the rear, and 
turned his head to see Brr'ema behind him burst into 
bounding flight.

The Herd exploded into movement, whistles sounding up and 
down the canyon. Lightfoot leaped forward without thought, 
and began to run. He could guess what had happened: 
hunters, concealed at the mouth of the canyon, had somehow 
escaped all of their keen ears and eyes and noses, only to 
burst out of hiding once enough Brr'ema had passed.

They had been fooled. The flesh-eaters lay in wait in this 
canyon just as they did in the other two, and now the 
portion of the Herd already trapped within it would lose 
hundreds of Brr'ema before the survivors could escape 
through the far end into the Goldengrass Plain.

Fear seized Lightfoot -- the hoofed animal's all-consuming 
terror that demanded flight. With thousands of others, he 
fled straight ahead into the depths of the canyon, without 
ever having seen the hunters.

The Brr'emas' worst natural enemy was not the Lion or Dog 
Folk or leopards, but always and forever their own 
instinctive panic. So the Song instructed every fawn, and 
still they often could not control it. The powerful reflex 
of flight that often saved their lives was also sometimes 
their bane.

Lightfoot bounded through the trees, heedless of nets or 
other hidden dangers ahead. Only when his breath began to 
come in harsh gasps did his terror ease, slowing his blind 
flight.

Then the true desperation of their situation sank into him. 
They were all trapped in this canyon. Turning around and 
trying to escape out the mouth meant he would have to face 
the certain danger behind. To reach the other end, he would 
have to run a gauntlet of hunters and, most likely, nets. 
Lightfoot thought of trying to scale the canyon walls, but 
Brr'ema weren't sure-footed on slopes. He might break a 
leg, which would mean certain death from thirst and 
starvation if the hunters didn't get him first -- and 
worse, falling behind the Herd and dying alone.

No, he would have to try for the end of the canyon along 
with the rest of the Herd, and risk the hunters.

With an effort of all his will, he forced himself to halt, 
his pulse and the hoofbeats of still-stampeding Brr'ema all 
around him seeming to cry: *Flee, flee, flee*. The scent of 
fear hung thick in the dusty air. He shivered.

Then he braced himself and began moving again, this time at 
a gentle trot, ears flared out, nostrils twitching.

With thousands of other Brr'ema, he headed up the canyon 
toward the hunters that awaited them there.



Ramar exulted. She could see the pale and dark flanks 
flickering in and out of the trees below her, a seemingly 
endless flood of nervous Antelope Folk bounding and 
trotting through the bottom of Cold Canyon -- enough to 
feed the Amagarri for weeks.

She knew what had happened. Once the Migration was pouring 
into Cold Canyon, the lionesses in hiding to either side of 
the canyon mouth had leaped out from behind the concealing 
bushes. Roaring and shouting and waving their spears at the 
Antelopes, the hunters drove them to stampede blindly into 
the canyon, too afraid of the certain danger behind to 
think of what might lie ahead.

The Antelopes' numbers were too great for any of them to 
turn around now if they wanted to. They would head right 
into the nets, if the gods would favor the huntresses only 
a little more.

Ramar watched the canyon floor -- and listened. Her whole 
body was taut with anticipation. The first Antelopes were 
passing below her, their tails raised nervously as they 
trotted. Still, she and the other huntresses waited, 
silent, motionless.

It seemed that there would never be an end to the flood of 
Antelopes, stretching back and back toward the mouth of 
Cold Canyon, filling the entire canyon floor below from one 
wall to the other, veiling the slopes with dust. More mind-
boggling still to think that this multitude was just one 
part of a greater whole which stretched through the long 
length of the Northwest River Valley, from end to end.

No Folk could count high enough to number all those 
Antelopes. She doubted even the Antelope Folk could. Those 
the huntresses took today would not even make a dent in 
their numbers. The thought filled her with an odd sense of 
helplessness.

She wondered how other hunters would fare elsewhere -- the 
other Lion tribes elsewhere in the Valley, even the Dog 
Folk.

At last, she heard a far-off roar echoing across the 
canyon. Meeza on the opposite wall was signaling to begin 
the attack. Other roars followed.

Braving the cold, Ramar threw off her cloak and dropped it 
on a nearby rock, and began making her way slowly down the 
treacherous slope. Out of the corners of her eyes, she 
glimpsed other lionesses emerging from concealment -- her 
pridemates, the members of Aunglarr's pride.

As she descended, she threw back her head and uttered her 
most powerful roar. The other huntresses were roaring as 
well, the canyon hurling back the tremendous echoes until 
it was filled with a confused clamor of sound.

The Antelopes exploded into flight, bounding away. Those 
who were already past the lionesses simply bolted forward. 
Those who had not yet reached the midpoint either bounded 
forward, counting on their superior speed to get them 
safely past the huntresses, or spun around and tried to 
flee back to the southeast, against the stampeding herd. 
The entire canyon was filled with leaping long-legged 
shapes, churning dust into the air and filling it with 
their whistles of alarm.

Yet, by the time Ramar reached the bottom of the slope, she 
could see no Antelopes. They had all fled past her, or had 
veered away from the south wall, toward the river running 
through Cold Canyon's middle. Still, the dust hovered in 
the air, and she could hear distant hoofbeats and whistles, 
and the occasional roars of other huntresses.

Now it was time for quiet, careful stalking through the 
trees and grass, forcing the Antelopes toward the hidden 
nets and picking off unwary stragglers. Ramar pulled her 
powerful hunting bow from her back, pulled an arrow from 
her quiver but did not nock it yet, and glided into a 
nearby patch of trees.



Lightfoot was running blindly, panicked. Seared into his 
mind was the quick glimpse he'd gotten of one hunter: a 
Lion, descending the south slope on two legs, her bow in 
her paws as she stared directly at the Herd, her face 
intent and eager.

He didn't see the net until it was almost too late, when it 
loomed just ahead in the shadows between two trees.

He twisted, almost in mid-leap, and his rump actually 
brushed against the net as he skidded to a halt. He pulled 
away, feeling the clinging glue tear hairs out of his rump. 
A doe running near him wasn't so lucky. She slammed 
headfirst into it and was caught, her head and neck and 
front legs tangling irrevocably in its quivering strands. 
Whistling in terror, she bounded and struggled, her every 
bound brought up short by the gripping cords, the net 
shaking as it held her.

Lightfoot bolted back toward the canyon mouth before coming 
to his senses and realizing his mistake. The Lions were 
following close behind; he stood little chance now of 
escaping through them back into the Valley.

With an effort of all his will, he paused, listening, nose 
questing, trying to calm himself, hearing the pounding of 
others' hooves and of his own heart. The faint thread of 
the Song that thrummed even now was full of panic and 
confusion. An older buck almost slammed into him as he 
stood there, then hurtled past, the whites of his eyes 
showing in a ring all around the darker center. Lightfoot's 
muscles quivered with the urge to follow.

When he had regained a measure of self-control, he turned 
again, this time back to the west and the end of the 
canyon. He sprang into another gallop, but no longer in 
panicky flight. In his mind was a piece of knowledge from 
the Song: he could escape alive, even now. He had to spot 
each net as he ran, and circle around it. If he could do 
that while still dodging the Lions, he could survive until 
he reached the end of the canyon.

Around him, other Brr'ema hurtled toward the nets, still 
caught in the grip of blind panic, soon to be caught fast 
in the flesh as well. Others, coming to the same 
realization that he had, were slowing down, turning to one 
side or another to avoid the nets that loomed ahead of 
them. He glimpsed them flashing through the trees, giving 
the flight an air of chaos as they leaped and turned 
unpredictably.

He wondered where his dam was, and Darkhorn, and Scarflank. 
He wondered only for a few breaths; he could do nothing to 
help them just now, nor could they help him.

His swift gallop slowed to a trot as he once again entered 
the trees, listening and scenting and peering into the 
shadows ahead, just as he had as a scout. He had to dodge 
panicked Brr'ema as he went, closing his ears to their 
piercing whistles: *Run! Flee!*

Another net loomed ahead of him. He had to fight the terror 
the sight of those barely-visible strands struck in him. He 
turned to run along its length, seeking the end.

The fleeing Brr'ema were thinning out now, and a new terror 
arose, of being left behind. Lightfoot refused to give into 
it. He found the end of the net, tethered to an ancient 
white-nut tree, and passed it to turn west once again.

The first anguished scream from behind pierced his fragile 
calm and sent him into another series of bounding leaps; 
only good fortune kept him from falling into another net 
then. Behind him, someone was dying, perhaps shot with a 
Lion's swift arrow; or perhaps they were caught in a net 
and they saw the hunters approaching them, and the scream 
was only of horror as they saw their impending death 
approach. Lightfoot struggled with his terror and barely 
overcame it, forcing himself to look ahead and only ahead, 
searching for a safe path west.

A second scream sounded, and a third. 

When the Lion appeared, stepping out from between two trees 
as he passed, his tenuous control finally snapped. He heard 
the thrumming twang of the bow, the *swish!* of the arrow 
as it streaked toward him. A line of fire flared along his 
back: the keen edge had actually carved a scratch through 
his hide, before smacking into a tree trunk.

Lightfoot whistled loud and shrill and bolted forward, all 
thought driven from him. Behind, the Lion shouted, and 
there were the thudding sounds of her feet on the earth as 
she ran after him.



Ramar cursed her aim as the young buck streaked away. He 
suddenly swerved, uttering that loud whistle again, as 
Worrang loomed up in front of him on the other side, 
lifting her bow. Amazing how they could turn and twist in 
mid-leap like that, Ramar thought. Even as she thought this 
she was running toward the Antelope, determined not to let 
him escape. Her pridemates would taunt her for a moon if 
she did.

The buck bolted sideways, toward the canyon wall. Worrang 
lowered her bow without firing and ran alongside Ramar, hot 
on the trail, but the buck was swifter than they were. He 
plunged into the trees and disappeared from sight.

The two lionesses slowed to a walk, then halted side by 
side, staring silently after the place where the buck had 
vanished. There was little point in pursuit; they would 
never pick his tracks out from all the others that 
thousands of Antelopes had left in the dust.

Ramar gritted her teeth, already imagining the mockery of 
her pridemates. Mercifully, Worrang said nothing to her. 
They turned back to their task of walking up the canyon, 
chivvying the survivors toward the nets.

Some distance back, other lionesses were already dealing 
with the netted Antelopes. They would kill some right away, 
especially if the captives seemed unlikely to survive the 
journey back to the hunting camp the Amagarri had set up in 
the main Valley. Most, they would take alive out of the 
nets, hamstring them and tie them onto the backs of the 
horses that were even now being driven into the canyon. 
That way, their meat remained fresh -- and the best, 
tastiest Antelope flesh was always from animals roasted 
alive over the fire.



Lightfoot's panic was uncontrollable. Even a Herd elder 
might well have been unable to resist that much terror, and 
he was but an adolescent who had not yet known the Rut.

The sights and sounds of the trapped Brr'ema he passed only 
fueled his fear. Caught fast by horns and legs and necks, 
they fought the tough clinging strands that imprisoned 
them, the nets rippling and swaying wildly as they made 
short half-leaps and lunges in every direction, trying in 
vain to free themselves as they whistled. Some had broken 
legs in their struggles, and screams of agony sounded above 
the whistles.

Other Brr'ema stood or lay still, no longer struggling. 
Some of those had gone into shock, catatonic with fear, 
panting, the whites of their eyes glimmering wide. Others 
had snapped out of their panic and simply stood quietly, 
realizing that they were doomed and accepting their grim 
fate.

Flanks lathered, foam gathering at the corners of his 
mouth, Lightfoot plunged on -- until strands appeared ahead 
of him, too late to turn. He slammed hard into the net. One 
leg and one horn went completely through the strands.

He fought as wildly as he had fled, first trying vainly to 
lunge away. The net gave with him but pulled him up short 
as he jumped. He staggered, almost falling. Then, maddened, 
he tried butting his way through, leaping against the net. 
He succeeded only in plastering it over his front and head 
and neck, tangling himself beyond all redemption.

Hardly able to move, he stood panting, head hanging low.

Now that it was too late to do him any good, the panic 
cleared from his brain, leaving him drained. He shivered.

When he lifted his head -- with some difficulty, because of 
the heavy net clinging to his horns -- his eyes fell upon 
another buck, caught fast in the same net some distance 
away.

The other buck was old, his flanks dark with the fullness 
of his maturity, his muzzle silvered with white hairs. He 
lay quietly upon his belly, his free legs half-tucked under 
him almost as if resting peaceably. As Lightfoot gazed upon 
him, he lifted his head, and their eyes met. The old buck's 
eyes showed clear, with no ring of white around the pupil; 
he was not in shock.

The old buck looked back at Lightfoot, and there was dark 
knowledge in that gaze, understanding and acceptance of 
fate.

Death came to all Brr'ema, sooner or later, and usually 
unpleasantly. Death would now come to the old buck, and to 
him. There was nothing more that they could do to survive.



The afternoon sun poured into Cold Canyon, filling it with 
its light. Ramar and Worrang were walking back toward one 
of the nets, enjoying the pleasant weariness of their 
exertions, grinning at each other now and then.

The hunt had succeeded. Antelopes filled the nets, wild-
eyed and struggling like unthinking beasts, or motionless 
and panting. The Amagarri would feast, as they had feasted 
the last time the Migration had passed through.

For Ramar, the only thing marring that success was her 
missing that accursed youngling. She knew Worrang and the 
others would mock her about it later.

Other lionesses, too young to be huntresses, had brought up 
the horses that would be used to pack the Antelopes out. 
Meanwhile, the huntresses went to each net in turn, tending 
to the catch.

Ramar reached the net. She crouched beside a buck who had 
broken a foreleg in his struggles and now lay half on his 
side, half supported in midair by the tough strands of the 
net. He watched her uncomprehendingly, his eyes wide and 
glassy with shock, the broken leg twisted at an unnatural 
angle.

There was no use in binding him; he would never survive the 
trip back to the camp. Instead, Ramar drew her long 
obsidian-edged hunting knife and seized one horn to steady 
his head. Then she carefully drew the blade across his 
throat, pushing hard into the yielding flesh.

The mouth-watering tang of fresh blood filled the air as it 
sprayed from severed carotids, splattering her. She 
released the horn and stepped back. The buck's three good 
legs kicked mindlessly as he shivered in his death throes.

Then followed the delicate matter of peeling the net 
strands off of the carcass, with Worrang's help. When they 
had finished, Ramar hefted the dead buck over her shoulders 
with some effort -- he weighed at least half as much as she 
did -- and carried him to a waiting horse. The horse 
snorted nervously at the blood scent thick in the air, one 
eye rolling; the young lioness holding its reins reached 
out to calm it, patting its neck, and it stilled. It was 
already laden with two other dead Antelopes, a doe and a 
fawn; with the buck, it would have all it could carry.

The young lioness grinned in congratulation at the two 
huntresses before turning the beast and leading it away, 
back toward the camp. All three of the Antelopes would be 
eaten tonight, before their meat had time to spoil.

Ramar and Worrang exchanged grins as they walked up to the 
next net side by side. It held no less than four Antelopes, 
two bucks and two does.

The first doe they came to was still fighting, eyes wild, 
whistling piercingly as she made a last vain attempt to 
leap free of the clinging strands.

"Feisty one, that," Worrang commented. "Bet she'll keep a 
while."

"Yes," Ramar agreed as they reached her. "Two days, at 
least."

They had practiced the technique often; they didn't need to 
discuss it. Ramar seized the doe's head with both powerful 
paws, then transferred her left paw to the muzzle to get an 
even better grip. The doe uttered a shriek of terror, her 
eyes bulging, as Worrang stepped around to her rear. The 
hind legs were totally enmeshed with the net, making it 
impossible for the doe to kick Worrang as the lioness 
squatted down, reached out and gripped one slender hind 
leg, and drew her own knife.

The cut Worrang made drew only a narrow line of blood that 
scarcely trickled, but it severed the hamstring. The doe 
screamed again and struggled all the more frantically, but 
Worrang repeated the process with the other hind leg. Then 
the Antelope went limp, offering no further resistance as 
the two huntresses carefully worked her out of the net.

Once she had been freed, Ramar once again held her while 
Worrang bound the forelegs together with narrow leather 
thongs, then the crippled hind legs. Meev appeared just 
then, walking up from behind. The pridemates exchanged 
brief smiles; she silently hefted the Antelope onto her 
shoulders to carry her back to a horse, while Worrang and 
Ramar went on to the next victim.

The other doe had suffered a broken leg. Ramar slit her 
throat, and they handed the body over to another lioness.

The first buck did not struggle as they approached. He was 
clearly an old one, with flanks turning to near black. 
Ramar took a closer look; was he simply too badly injured 
to move? But he had no obvious wounds, and none of his legs 
seemed broken.

"What's wrong with him, do you think?" she asked as she 
walked around to his hind legs.

Worrang grunted, gripping the horns. "Nothing, probably. 
They say the older ones sometimes do this. They know they 
can't get away, so they just give up. We'd better kill him 
-- they sometimes just will themselves to death before you 
can get them back to the camp."

Ramar turned from the hindquarters to go around to the 
neck. "Will themselves to death? What does that mean?"

Worrang tried to shrug, an ineffectual gesture while she 
still clung to the beast's horns. "Don't know. But Ganung 
was telling me: there'll not be a wound on them, no blood, 
and still they'll die right on the horse, even if it's not 
a hot day."

"I guess we'll have to eat him tonight, then," Ramar said, 
as she slit the throat open. The old buck's neck relaxed in 
death as his muscles went limp.

When they had dealt with him, and yet another lioness was 
carrying the body away, they turned to the last victim. 
This buck looked much younger, perhaps too young to have 
even rutted yet -- his flanks had almost finished darkening 
from tan to the rich chestnut of maturity. He stood 
trembling, as if ready to either spring into action or go 
into white-eyed shock.

As they reached him, Ramar saw a darker line of clotted 
blood on his back. Taking a closer look, she saw that it 
came from a long scratch that crossed his spine just above 
the rump. Her heart leaped.

"Look at this! I think he's the one I shot at!"

Worrang took a closer look at the wound on his haunches.

"I think he is!" she agreed, eyes twinkling -- she looked 
just as delighted, even if she'd lost an excuse to tease 
Ramar later.

"That'll teach him to get away from me!" Ramar exclaimed. 
They both laughed.

"Young, too!" Worrang said. "Young and tender. Bet he'll 
last a while -- and taste really good over the fire!"

As if he understood their words, the buck tried to jump 
back, then away, twisting wild-eyed in the grip of the net, 
but he was held fast.



When they had killed the older buck, Lightfoot had begun to 
tremble. Now, as one Lion seized his head, his vision 
darkened and the clarity of despair gave way to panic.

Gasping out a half-choked whistle of terror, he tried to 
twist to one side out of her grasp, but staggered as he 
lost his footing in the net. He couldn't break her grip on 
his horns; she had the strength of a river in full flood.

Would they slit his throat, as they had the old buck's? Or 
would they simply bind him and carry him off to an unknown 
fate, as they had that doe?

Their talk was little more than growling in his ears. He 
could barely recognize it as speech, let alone understand 
it. The Lion Folk had no Song with which to share their 
lives and memories with each other; like the Boar Folk, 
they used spoken speech.

The other Lion crouched by his hindquarters and one paw, as 
powerful as the ones that gripped his horns, seized one of 
his hind legs. Then he felt a sharp streak of pain cross it 
above the hock.

Maddened with fear more than the pain, Lightfoot screamed. 
He surged in his bonds so powerfully that he tore muscles 
he didn't even feel, and almost managed to break the grip 
of the Lion holding his horns.

The wounded hind leg would not obey him. Because he did not 
feel the injury, he didn't know it until the leg collapsed 
under him and he spilled onto his side, pulling the net 
down on top of him with his fall. Brilliant sunlight, 
glimmering through the tree limbs, left glowing streaks in 
his vision as his head turned.

The Lions uttered more words and pounced on him again. This 
time, they held him down firmly on his side, and there was 
no possibility of getting up, let alone of escaping.

The paw gripped his other hind leg, and there was another 
burst of pain that faded quickly.

They drew away then, and Lightfoot made one last attempt to 
get up, but neither of his hind legs would obey him now. He 
pulled himself up on his forelegs, uttering a shriek as the 
lionesses' paws seized him again, claws digging into his 
hide as they dragged the clinging strands of the net from 
him, pulling out tufts of hair.

He went into dull shock then. He didn't even feel it when 
they bound him, or when he was hefted onto the shoulders of 
a third Lion to be taken away.

When he emerged from his stupor, he didn't know where he 
was. He couldn't feel earth under his hooves, but something 
big pressed against his belly and the smell of a strange 
animal filled his nostrils. 

Instinctively, he tried to kick, but found that he was 
bound in place. Another spasm of panic gripped him, and he 
struggled in vain to free himself. His hind legs still 
would not work.

At last, flanks lathered, gasping open-mouthed, he felt his 
panic ebb again. He regained awareness of his surroundings.

His legs were still bound. Struggling would avail him 
nothing. He tried to give up the idea of escape. But what 
was going on now? The Lions had not yet killed him.

Nothing in the Song told what happened to Brr'ema who were 
caught in the nets of the Lion Folk. No one had ever 
returned to share that with the Herd.

Only now did Lightfoot become aware of the sharp ache of 
his strained muscles, muscles that had been injured when 
he'd fought the net and his captors.

Another Brr'ema's warm flank pressed against his; he turned 
to look at her. She was bound just as he was. She had 
slipped beyond panic into dazed shock, like that which had 
held him until a few moments ago; her neck and head hung 
apathetically.

Lightfoot inhaled the odor of the beast on which they lay, 
and realized what it was -- a horse. The Herd shared its 
northernmost ranges with the Horse Folk, who had neither 
thought nor any language, not even spoken speech. Like 
leopards, they were purely and only brutes, but less 
cunning. This was why some two-legged hunters had been able 
to tame them, such as the Lions and the Dogs.

Lifting his head, Lightfoot looked around. The horse they 
lay upon was one of dozens who stood quietly about in a 
grassy meadow. They flicked their ears and their strange 
tails that were mostly long hair, and either simply stared 
dumbly into space or pulled at the green grass with lowered 
heads. On almost every horse's back lay at least one 
Brr'ema. Some were still alive and unhurt, and some were 
dead, but each Brr'ema was bound tightly by the legs over 
the horse's back, a helpless captive.

Among the horses moved Lion Folk, all females. They were 
doing something with the horses, something Lightfoot 
couldn't understand. Now that he looked more closely, he 
saw that each horse's head seemed to be caught in a little 
net, but the strands looked different from those of the net 
he had been captured by. Why didn't the beasts panic?

Maybe this was how the Lion Folk's tamed horses differed 
from wild ones; they knew no fear and so accepted being 
caught in nets. Or perhaps they were too stupid to be 
afraid of being trapped.

The Lions were going from one horse to another, and with 
each horse, a Lion would attach another single strand of 
net. Then she would pull upon the strand, and the horse 
would move, following her as if it were the most natural 
thing in the world for a hoofed one to follow after a 
flesh-eater.

As Lightfoot watched, the Lions led the horses about so 
that they stood nose to tail, one behind another. The 
hunters used more strands of net to bind them thus to one 
another. Still the horses did not panic. Even when a 
captured Brr'ema began to struggle and whistle and scream, 
its bearer paid no more mind than to stomp a front hoof and 
utter a nervous snort. Then a Lion would come to it and pat 
its neck or speak in softer growls to it, and it would 
subside into dumb calmness again.

All this, Lightfoot saw, and comprehended. And then the 
strangeness, the sheer unnaturalness of what he saw and was 
enduring, sank into his mind, and panic returned. He fought 
his bonds desperately, tossing his head, not even feeling 
the fresh pain of his overtaxed muscles. The horse 
underneath him never moved, even when he shrieked.



As the afternoon sun sank below the canyon rim, Ramar rode 
her roan mare back to the rendezvous point near the mouth 
of Cold Canyon, grinning and proud. The huntresses had 
taken the last Antelopes from the nets, then taken the nets 
down, rolled them up and put on horseback. The hardest 
portion of their task was finished.

Tonight, the Amagarri would gorge on the Antelopes already 
slain until they could hold no more. They would not hunger 
for the rest of the summer, or even into the winter rains. 

They had not caught every Antelope that entered Cold 
Canyon, of course. They hadn't even caught more than a 
fraction. Thousands more had successfully eluded all the 
nets and huntresses and were now ascending out of the 
canyon onto the safety of the dry plains beyond.

Who knew where that multitude would journey from there? 
Ramar wondered about it as she helped to tether the horses 
together for the trip home, but only briefly before her 
mind turned to other thoughts. Perhaps her pride would 
enjoy a small orgy tonight, away from the males.

Meev and Kaung were already mounted. They talked softly 
with each other as they waited. Other huntresses were 
finishing their own work, or already leading other horse 
trains back to the camp. Ramar checked the last horse in 
her pride's train, the one bearing the young buck she'd 
wounded during the Hunt. The Antelope was struggling in his 
bonds, eyes rolling with terror. The doe beside him still 
did not move, lost in shock.

Ramar paid the buck's struggles no mind. The thongs would 
hold. Even if they didn't, and he fell off the horse, he 
wouldn't even be able to stand on his hamstrung hind legs -
- let alone run. The only danger to her was of being 
accidentally gored by a sharp horn tip as he tossed his 
head.

She helped Worrang bind one more dead doe beside the 
writhing young buck, holding his horns as Worrang tied the 
thongs. By the time that was done, the buck had subsided 
again, though white still showed in a circle around each 
dark eye.

Ramar couldn't resist a playful bit of cruelty. She walked 
around to the horse's other side and gave the buck a hearty 
smack on the rump. That brought a fresh burst of struggling 
and eye-rolling and whistling, drawing laughter from both 
her and Worrang. Meev and Kaung chuckled, still watching 
from horseback.

"Lively one!" Ramar said, grinning. "He'll be fine eating." 

But Worrang shrugged. "A bit over the age I like."

"Worrang," Meev's amused voice sounded from atop her horse, 
"if you wanted them any younger, you'd have to challenge 
the males." By tradition, the fawns belonged to the male 
Amagarri; the live ones would be hung by their heels and 
their throats slit.

Worrang chuckled dryly. "Sometimes I think the out-pride 
huntresses have the best of it. They don't have to share 
their kills with anyone."

"Yes, but that's when they have a kill at all," Ramar 
answered. She walked back with Worrang to their riding 
mounts. "You think they eat as well as we do?"

"Enough," Worrang grumbled mildly. "Or I'll start telling 
everybody about your missing that buck!" She grabbed the 
reins of her own horse, a piebald gelding, and tapped its 
knee so it would kneel down to let her mount.

"She *missed* one?" A toothy grin spread across Meev's 
face. "Do tell!"

"Yes, do!" Kaung chimed in, with a smirk of her own.

Ramar glared at each of them in turn, with a double dose 
for Worrang. "Not for long. We caught him anyway!"

"Yes, we did," Worrang said, still smiling imperturbably. 
"So let Ramar tell it, tonight."

Ramar grumbled as she reached her roan mare. Count on 
Worrang to rub it in . . .



Lightfoot spent most of the journey to the Lion Folk's camp 
either fighting his bonds in panic or slumped in shock.

By the time the horses stopped, his panic had exhausted 
itself at last, leaving him so weary that he couldn't have 
stood even if he were untied and not crippled. His flanks 
were matted with sweat. When the two lionesses untied his 
legs and pulled him off the stinking horse, he barely 
reacted beyond a roll of his eyes. He made no attempt to 
regain his hooves as he was laid upon the grass, nor did he 
struggle when a lioness picked him up by the legs and slung 
him over her shoulders. Too exhausted to panic, he simply 
accepted the indignity, his mind beginning to clear. He 
never saw what happened to the doe.

The Song held some memories of a Lion camp, but only 
glimpsed from a safe distance by scouts. Seen from within, 
it was a grim reminder of how unlike the Brr'ema and other 
hoofed Folk the Lion Folk really were.

He had known that they lived in strange structures that 
they created themselves. As the lioness walked by them, he 
caught the odor of the tents. They reeked of smoke, Lion 
musk, and something else vaguely animal -- leather, a scent 
he'd never smelled before.

All around, little fires smoldered in hollows dug into the 
earth itself. The Lion Folk had even tamed fire for their 
use. Over the camp hung a dreadful stench -- a smell 
mingling the separate stinks of blood, death, and roasting 
flesh. Had it been possible for a ruminant to vomit in 
disgust, he would have gagged on it. As it was, he 
shuddered again, almost slipping back into a daze.

The lioness carried him to an open grassy area surrounded 
by tents. There, dozens of other still-living Brr'ema lay, 
gasping and staring-eyed. Why did they not run?

The lioness carrying him laid him down almost gently on the 
grass, then stepped back.

Seeing this unexpected chance, Lightfoot leaped to his feet 
-- at least, he tried to. His front legs obeyed him, 
pulling his forequarters up. His hind legs did not.

He fought to get up. The powerful muscles of his 
hindquarters bunched and tensed, but his hind legs still 
would not work. After a few moments, he gave up. The 
lioness was already disappearing among the tents.

Craning his neck to look down at one hind leg, Lightfoot 
saw the line of clotted blood crossing the hock. In a flash 
of understanding, his mind went back to the dreadful moment 
in the net when the lionesses had held him fast in their 
grip, and pain had streaked across each hind leg in turn. 
He guessed what had happened, and knew he would never stand 
or run again.

Small wonder the other captives did not flee. They 
couldn't.

He fell back in despair, still too weary to panic. He lay 
on the grass apathetically like the other captive Brr'ema, 
and wondered how long it would be before the Lions killed 
him.



By the time early evening brought the first stars out and 
Cold Canyon was earning its name once more, the Amagarri 
were already feasting. Ramar's pride roasted their first 
slain Antelope on their own cooking fire, turning the 
carcass as it browned. Her belly rumbled its hunger as she 
watched Kaung turn the spit.

They'd spent the remainder of the daylight hours in more 
work -- helping the other lionesses in finishing the huge, 
crude smokehouses in which they would hang the carcasses to 
be smoked, and butchering the dead Antelopes. Now the work 
was nearly done. In the morning, after gorging themselves 
and sleeping, the huntresses would help hang up the 
remainder of the dead animals to smoke -- and begin dealing 
with the living ones.

Taking as many Antelopes alive as possible took extra work, 
but the Amagarri had good reasons to do so. For one, they 
had difficulty simply butchering so much fresh meat and 
getting it into the smokehouses before it could go bad. A 
live Antelope did not go gamy while the huntresses dealt 
with those already dead.

For the other, an Antelope roasted alive over the fire 
tasted better than one already dead and dressed out.

The carcass was ready now, sending out a delightfully 
savory aroma. Ramar watched hungrily as Kaung and Worrang 
carefully hoisted it off the fire onto the wooden cooling 
rack set up nearby. After it had cooled a little while, the 
feasting began.

Using her stone knife, each huntress hacked off as large a 
portion as she could manage. Ramar cut off a piece of 
haunch meat and carried it to a spot on the grass nearby, 
then sat down. One by one, the others of Meev's pride 
joined her. They sat without speaking for a long time, 
devouring their well-earned suppers.

The meat tasted every bit as delicious as she remembered: 
more tender than buffalo flesh, saltier and less sweet than 
that of Boar Folk. She chewed and swallowed hungrily, 
stilling the growling of her belly.

As the huntresses finished their portions, they returned to 
the carcass to cut off more meat. Between them, they 
gradually whittled the Antelope down to the bones.

Small scuffling noises sounded in the distant bushes, where 
they'd thrown the offal from the gutted carcasses: foxes 
and jackals, small nonsentient scavengers come to share in 
the feast. A burst of barks and growls marked some unseen 
dispute before it stopped.

The still-living Antelope were guarded, of course, or they 
would have shared the fate of the discarded offal. 
Lionesses too old or too young to hunt would watch over 
them through the night.

As she licked the juices and grease from her fingers, Ramar 
reflected on the day that had gone by. It had been a truly 
epic hunt, the sort of thing she would tell her cubs about 
even if the Migration never passed this way again. A warm 
glow of pride filled her chest.

"Do you ever wonder why the Antelope Folk come through 
here?" Meev asked, breaking into her thoughts.

Ramar frowned in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm sure they remember that we wait for them at 
the end of the Valley. Why don't they pick another way to 
migrate, and stay safe from us?"

Ramar had wondered about that herself at times. "There must 
be hunters wherever they go," she suggested. "Perhaps they 
feel one place is as bad as the next."

"Who knows how they think?" Worrang asked, as she lay on 
her back on the grass. "Not like us, that's for sure. If 
they did, they'd fight us."

Ramar pictured that -- a vast herd of Antelope Folk, not 
fleeing but stampeding toward their pursuers, with sharp 
horns and hooves for weapons. She shuddered. "Lucky for us 
that they don't."

"Yes, indeed," Meev agreed, the same picture no doubt 
playing itself out in her mind.

"I wonder where they go," Ramar mused. "They must see so 
many places we don't."

No one responded -- not because they didn't think it worth 
pursuing, but because Amagarri had speculated on that since 
before her granddam was born, and no one had ever had an 
answer. Some shamans said the Antelope Folk spent part of 
the year in the Spirit World. No one knew for certain.

Instead, the pride sat together in a companionable silence, 
watching the afternoon shadows lengthen, enjoying the 
comfort of full bellies after a memorable hunt.



The captive Brr'ema lay together in the meadow, helpless. 
Lion Folk guards stood around them, throwing rocks or 
roaring at the occasional jackal that tried to slip in to 
steal a bit of living flesh. Otherwise, the Lions ignored 
their captives.

Lightfoot had recognized Scarflank among them. The two had 
gazed silently at each other for a time, communicating 
their mutual sorrow and friendship. He knew none of the 
other Brr'ema, and that was a small relief. So far as he 
knew, they had either died cleanly or had won free of the 
deadly canyons and had reached the safety of the 
Goldengrass Plains.

His muscles still ached, and as the night passed he began 
to grow thirsty as well. The others in the meadow shared 
his discomforts, but could do nothing about them. They 
merely waited for whatever death the Lion Folk would 
eventually deal out.

As darkness fell, the captives comforted themselves the 
only way they could. Enough of them lay together in the 
meadow to create a semblance of the Herd Song. They Sang of 
the Abha Herd, whose origins none could remember, and how -
- even though they would all die -- it would continue on 
through eternity.

Wrapped in the Song, they no longer felt their thirst, or 
their fear and despair.

The Lion Folk who stood watch over the Brr'ema never heard 
the Song, as deaf to it as the horses were. 



Ramar awoke the next morning, still clasped in Worrang's 
arms inside their warm tent. They'd fallen asleep while 
making love, their bellies stretched too tight with meat to 
stay awake even for the promise of another orgasm.

She yawned and stretched, and saw Worrang's eyes open. The 
two shared a contented smile, enjoying each other's 
company. Then Ramar rolled away out of Worrang's arms, 
getting to her feet, and emerged through the tent flaps 
into the cool morning.

After performing her toilet in a nearby clump of bushes, 
she helped her pridemates and the other huntresses hang the 
remaining butchered carcasses in the huge freshly built 
smokehouses. After that, they sorted through the living 
Antelopes, searching for those who had died in the night -- 
whether of shock or some hidden illness or simply giving 
up.

The young buck with the scratch across his back still 
lived, though he no longer moved or tried to get up when 
Ramar came up to him. His great dark eyes held a faraway 
expression. She recognized the look; it was the same look 
she'd seen in the older buck's eyes when he had calmly 
awaited the knife. This one was ready to die.

"Have to take care of you quickly, don't we?" she remarked, 
as she looked at the scratch on the youngling's back. He 
stared back uncomprehendingly. The cut showed no signs of 
infection that would spoil the meat, and she went on to the 
next Antelope.

Most of the other captives had the same look about them. 
That was not uncommon for Antelope Folk after a night in 
captivity. The tribe would have to deal with them today, or 
by tonight they would begin dying in droves.

After they had examined the last captive, and all the dead 
ones were headed for the smokehouses, the pridemates 
returned to their private tent and fire, roasting another 
carcass for a late midday meal -- one of the last remaining 
dead Antelopes from yesterday. The huntresses didn't stuff 
themselves the way they had last night; they still had work 
to do.

Standing up to stretch her limbs, Ramar looked around her. 
Everywhere she gazed, tents and roasting spits dotted the 
huge camp. Lionesses walked between the tents on unfinished 
errands, or huddled together in their prides to feast.

The male Amagarri were nowhere in sight. They would remain 
in their own little encampment on the edge of the temporary 
village, feasting on the slaughtered fawns, and leave the 
females to their labors.

Satisfied, Ramar rubbed her belly, then walked away. Still 
more tasks needed doing: slaughtering the dying captives 
and butchering them, tending to the smokehouses.

In the afternoon, an emissary from the Dog Folk came to the 
Amagarri camp to exchange news, taking advantage of the 
temporary peace between the Lion and Dog Folk. He reported 
that the Migration had turned north, streaming through the 
canyons there toward the plains beyond. Good luck for the 
Dog Folk, no doubt, since that was the part of the Valley 
where they hunted. The Migration would take days to pass 
through the Valley.

The word passed from one Amagarri to the next, reaching 
Ramar's ears as she carried yet another freshly butchered 
carcass toward a smokehouse. Remarkable, she thought, how 
the Antelope Folk could do that without tribal councils or 
leaders. No one knew how they governed themselves or how 
the Migration could change its movements so quickly.

The air hung heavy with the smells of blood, discarded 
entrails, roasting meat and smoke, a heady mixture that 
Ramar inhaled with every breath. The aroma of prosperity, 
of full bellies.

Covered with blood, their fur soiled and smoke-smelling, 
the members of Meev's pride adjourned to a nearby creek to 
bathe. They relaxed for a while, playing, splashing water 
at each other. Finally, they enjoyed a four-way wrestling 
bout that turned into yet another orgy, celebrating the 
euphoria that came with full bellies and the knowledge that 
they would have no need to hunt for many days to come.

At last, the sun sank behind the far-distant Valley's rim 
to the west. The shadows lengthened and joined as dusk 
fell. It was time for the best part of the feast after the 
Migration, the part for which all the huntresses eagerly 
awaited and toiled.

While Meev and Kaung went to ready the fire, Ramar and 
Worrang walked to the meadow where the captive Antelopes 
were held.

"I'm going to look for the one I wounded," Ramar said.

Worrang grinned. "Sure."

The buck smelled weaker when they reached him, but he was 
not yet dead. He lay passively on the grass, the dried 
blood flaking off his limp hind legs, forelegs half-curled 
under him, head raised, eyes still distant.

He offered no resistance as Ramar heaved him up and onto 
her shoulders. Nor did he struggle or whistle on the way 
back to the tent and the fire.

Ramar lowered him to the ground close to the fire. Meev's 
eyes lit up with amusement as she saw the traces of blood 
still on his back.

"Don't tell me you're still angry at him for getting away 
yesterday?" she teased.

Ramar mock-growled. "Leave off, Meev! He didn't really get 
get away!"

She tensed and went into a crouch, ready for a playful 
sparring match. So did Meev. Their eyes locked, tails 
twitching.

"Talk, talk. You'll miss the next one, too, I'll bet." Meev 
mocked.

Growling again, Ramar leaped at her. They went into a 
tussle, slapping at each other with their claws sheathed, 
snarling and roaring as if they were bitter enemies. 
Worrang and Kaung got to their feet, laughing and calling 
out encouragement and advice to the combatants, as the buck 
waited upon the ground.

At last, Meev pinned Ramar on her back. Ramar ceased to 
struggle, going limp in Meev's grip, acknowledging her 
dominance. Meev uttered one more bloodcurdling growl, rose 
to her feet and stepped off of her, grinning.

Slightly crestfallen and fur-mussed, but grinning too, 
Ramar got up. Then she turned and walked back to her 
Antelope.



Lightfoot did not panic as he watched the lioness approach. 
He had resigned himself to die last night, and he was 
beyond terror now. All he saw and felt was through a kind 
of haze, as if this were a dream with no meaning.

No memories in the Herd Song said anything of what he was 
seeing today. It didn't take much understanding to know the 
reason: no Brr'ema who had been held captive by the Lion 
Folk had ever survived to pass their experiences on to the 
Herd.

His dreamy detachment held even when the lioness stood over 
him.

He knew he was about to die. He wondered how they would 
kill him -- the lioness hadn't drawn her knife.

His muscles twitched as she crouched over him, the instinct 
to flee spiking through his calm, but with his hind legs 
crippled it accomplished nothing.

The lioness took hold of his forelegs and then rolled him 
onto his back, so that his belly was exposed to the sky. 
Lightfoot had never been on his back before; disoriented, 
he fell into a deeper trance, vaguely aware of what was 
going on but incapable of pain or fear.

A great, long, straight stick appeared above him, held by 
two of the other lionesses. A spear? But they merely held 
it over him while the first lioness once again grabbed his 
legs.

He barely felt her bind his legs to the pole: first his 
crippled hind legs, just above the hocks, with the pole 
running between them. Then she did the same with his 
forelegs, binding them together above the knees and 
threading the pole between them so that it ran parallel to 
his back. As she worked, she and the other lionesses talked 
to each other in their growling spoken language.

The trance gripped Lightfoot's mind still more tightly as 
the lionesses hoisted the pole upon their muscular 
shoulders, leaving him hanging by his stretched legs, head 
dangling, hooves in the air.

They carried him over to the fire, and set the pole upon 
the upright sticks so that he was suspended in midair. The 
bizarre position kept him dazed, by now barely conscious. 
He barely felt the heat that even now was beginning to 
singe the hair on his ears and at the base of his horns.



Meev stepped in close to lift the young buck's dangling 
head and hold it next to the cooking pole. Ramar loosely 
tied another thick, water-dampened thong around his neck 
behind the ears, then to the pole itself, keeping his neck 
stretched out parallel to the pole so that his head 
wouldn't scorch as he roasted.

The buck did not fight, for all the trouble he had given 
them yesterday. Most prey never did, once they had been 
rolled upon their backs. Ramar stepped back, and sat down 
with her pridemates to wait.



Lightfoot felt the sudden heat of the flames upon his back 
and flanks not as pain but as a feverish warmth. His legs 
contracted, moving slightly in a vague, reflexive impulse 
to escape. The motions soon died away, leaving him hanging 
limply by his legs, as the heat muddled his remaining 
senses and turned his thoughts hazy and dreamlike.
 
Barely aware of his fate, he gasped open-mouthed, eyes 
glazing, as his hair burned away and his skin darkened. He 
remained wrapped in his peaceful trance as he slipped down 
into unconsciousness.

When he shivered and died, it was without a whistle or 
scream.



Ramar sat down with a carved-off piece of haunch meat, 
chewing slowly, enjoying the taste. Live-roasted Antelope 
meat had a flavor to it that cleaned, butchered carcasses 
never had, even after long smoking. And for her, there was 
a special savor to this buck, recaptured after escaping her 
arrow.

The pridemates did not talk as they decimated the roasted 
young buck, silently relishing the harvest of their 
hunting.

All over the Amagarri camp, other prides sat around their 
own fires, roasting their own living prizes.

As dusk darkened into true night, the waxing moon sank 
below the horizon, leaving the camp lit only by firelight 
and starlight. Unseen scavengers still snapped and snarled 
and barked as they quarreled over the leftover bones flung 
away from the camp.

When they had finished Ramar's buck, Meev's pride sat in 
contented silence, enjoying their full bellies once more.

Ramar's voice broke the silence. "I wonder if they mourn 
their dead."

Worrang shrugged. It was Kaung who finally responded.

"Who knows? They're a strange people." She mused in silence 
for a moment, then: "You know, I've never seen one look at 
me with a plea in its eyes, the way some prey will, or a 
cowardly enemy you've cornered. They just go into trance, 
like a shaman."

Worrang belched, nodded. "Maybe they don't mourn their dead 
at all."

Ramar thought upon this. Finally, she said, "If they spend 
part of their time in the Spirit World, like the shamans 
say, they must visit with their dead then. Maybe they never 
have to mourn."

"You know," Kaung said, "I never thought of that."

Later, Meev and Kaung made love, purring and calling. Ramar 
and Worrang, still too gorged to feel properly lustful, 
decided to sleep under the stars instead of in the tent, 
despite the cold. So they wrapped themselves in their fur 
cloaks and settled down to sleep.

As the nearby squalls and purrs dwindled, Ramar gazed at 
the stars above her. Occasional bursts of smoke-smell 
reached her nose, savory with the tangs of roasting and 
curing meat.

*If they don't have to mourn their dead,* she thought, *if 
they see them every year . . . in a way they're luckier 
than us.*

She thought of the great Migration, of the uncounted 
numbers of Antelope Folk still pouring through the 
Northwest River Valley; of how, even after the Dog Folk had 
hunted too, their numbers would be hardly diminished. Of 
how they would go on journeying under strange skies and 
through strange lands that she would never see.

*They know what it's like to journey far,* she thought. 
*But they don't know the glory of the hunt and the kill.*

It was a comforting thought. With it, she drifted off to 
sleep.



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