Part I

As a young warrior, Nukurren had heard the demons come. She still remembered the enormous sound that ripped through the sky above Shakutulubac, capital of the Ansha Prevalate. She herself had seen nothing. The sound had awakened her from an exhausted sleep, and by the time she raced out of the barracks there was nothing to be seen but a huge red splotch on the eastern horizon. The strange mark on the sky was terrifying. The Mother-of-Pearl was always a featureless gray. What could turn it red with fear?

Others in the Warrior's Square claimed to have seen the Great Kraken itself racing east toward the ocean, spewing molten ink across the sky. So great had been its terror! They had pointed, with quivering palps, to the red blotch.

The capital had been gripped with fear. The Paramount Mother had summoned all her priests to the Divine Shell. For days the soothsayers had rolled snails, consulting the whorl patterns and the subtleties of the shellpile. Nukurren had watched them, surreptitiously, from her position guarding the entrance to the Chamber of Mothers. In the end, after much quarreling, the soothsayers announced that the great sound had been a cry of anger from Ypu. The Clam-That-Is-The-World was warning the Anshac to forego sin and corruption. They concluded by calling for eight eightdays of fasting. And, inevitably, for increasing the tithes to the temples.

Looking back on it many eightyweeks later, Nukurren thought it was from that time that she first began to develop her contempt for the priests. She did not particularly question their conclusions. But after watching them from the rare vantage-point of a Motherguard, she had decided their motivations were far from holy. In truth, a venal and avaricious lot.

As she walked alongside the caravan, she remembered that day long past.

I haven't thought of that in years, she mused. Why now? It must be all these rumors of demons. Then, with a mental grimace: Or maybe it's that the rapacity of these slavers brings those priests back to mind.

For a moment, she pondered the question. For a number of eightweeks now, vague rumors had drifted across the meat of the Clam, telling of new demons. Not witches, which were feared but understood, but something else. The stories were vague in all details. But most of them placed the demons in the vicinity of the Chiton.

Which is probably why the caravan master is so edgy, she thought. Not that Kjakukun doesn't have enough reason to be fearful, entering Kiktu territory in search of hunnakaku slaves.

Nukurren looked to the north. The Chiton loomed on the horizon, dominating the landscape like a behemoth. It was not tall so much as it was massive. Great canyons carved the slopes. Its shape had given the great mountain its name.

She whistled derisively. Half of the world's legends belong to the Chiton. These "demons" are just the latest.

Although, the night before, Dhowifa hadn't shared her contempt for the stories.

"It's a fact that folk who've gone to the mountain haven't come back," he pointed out. "For many eightweeks, now."

"It's a big mountain," countered Nukurren. "Huge. Enough danger in that to kill off any number of small parties."

But Dhowifa had not been convinced.

"And what about this last party? That wasn't a small group of Pilgrims, who just vanished. It was a whole slave caravan. They were found dead at the foot of the Chiton. At the foot, Nukurren, not in the mountain itself. The slaves were gone without a trace. And the slavers and the guards were all dead. Great, horrible wounds they had. So people say. Strange, deep wounds—as if they'd been attacked by some kind of giant uglandine."

"Uglandine?" Nukurren had whistled derision. "You'd have to be asleep to be caught by a uglandine! Or crippled."

She stopped and surveyed the caravan.

Not that asleep or crippled doesn't describe this caravan pretty well, she thought contemptuously.

The caravan had stopped for the day, at midafternoon. The yurts had been erected in the middle of the trail, for no one had any desire to sleep amidst the akafa reeds which grew lushly on either side. Akafa was altogether noisome—smelly, and full of slugs.

Kjakukun herself had not wanted to stop before nightfall brought cover from sharp Kiktu eyes. But the helots who hauled the slave cages were exhausted. Not surprisingly—Kjakukun had driven them mercilessly for days. The caravan master had attempted to convince the slavers and the guards to haul the cages, but of course they had refused. It was beneath their status, and they had seen no Kiktu. They were convinced there were none in the area. It was Kiktu territory, true. But everyone knew that the Kiktu were far to the west, organizing themselves and their tribal allies to meet the Utuku menace.

Nukurren did not share their complacency. The Kiktu might be preoccupied, but she knew them well. The tribespeople guarded their territory closely, especially in the vicinity of the Chiton. The area around the mountain had become a refuge for the hunnakaku, whom the Kiktu revered. Slavers would not normally even think of coming here. The Kiktu were ferocious warriors, and they bore a total hatred for slavers.

Still, they were almost out of Kiktu lands. The expedition had been a great success—four slaves captured, when most expeditions nowadays considered a single hunnakaku worth the effort. Hunnakaku slaves were much in demand in the great prevalates of the south. Most labor was done by helots, or gukuy slaves, but it was still a mark of prestige to possess a hunnakaku. The most powerful rulers even ate the flesh of the creatures, on occasion, claiming it to be the world's greatest delicacy.

The world is full of evil, thought Nukurren. Evil without end. I think it must have always been so, despite what the stinking priests say. And I am certain it will never change.

Gazing upon the caravan, she emitted a soft whistle of contempt. She wasn't sure what she found more offensive—the slovenliness of the guards, or the brutality of the slavers. She was a mercenary herself now, of course. Had been for many eightyweeks, ever since she and Dhowifa fled Shakutulubac. But she still had the training and the attitudes of an elite warrior, and she had nothing but scorn for the other mercenaries. She had made no pretense how she felt about them. They resented her deeply, but naturally they did nothing. Except—of this she had no doubt—whisper lurid and disgusting remarks to each other concerning Nukurren and Dhowifa.

A loud hooting from further down the caravan line drew her attention. A half-eight of mercenaries were clustered about one of the cages, whistling with laughter. She moved toward them.

As she drew near, she saw that one of the slavers was amusing herself by tormenting the hunnakaku in the cage with a blowpipe. The slaver was shooting practice darts at the mantle of the pitiful creature, who was cowering against the far side of the cage, hooting loudly, her mantle brown with misery. The four mercenaries apparently found the sight of the sub-gukuy's pathetic attempts to fend off the darts vastly amusing.

The darts were not deadly, of course. The blunted tips could do no more than lightly score the thick mantle of the hunnakaku, and the slaver was being careful not to shoot at the easily-damaged eyes. But the darts were painful; and the hunnakaku were by nature timid and easily frightened.

The gratuitous cruelty of the scene caused a sudden rage to swell within Nukurren. She shoved aside the mercenary before her. The mercenary began to protest angrily. Then, seeing who it was who had pushed her, she fell silent. Ochre uncertainty rippled along the mercenary's mantle, shadowed by pink undertones of anxiety.

Nukurren ignored the mercenary altogether and advanced upon the slaver. Feeling her presence, the slaver left off her amusement and glanced back. Back, and up, for Nukurren was a huge gukuy. At the sight of the warrior looming above her, the green pleasure tones in the slaver's mantle were instantly replaced by the same pink-within-ochre.

"What do you want?" demanded the slaver. She eyed Nukurren's mantle, trying to determine the warrior's mood. But Nukurren had long since learned to maintain the gray of placid indifference, no matter what she was feeling within. Partly that was due to her training as an elite guard, and partly to the male secrets of emotional control she had learned over the years from Dhowifa. It was very difficult to master shoroku, as the Anshac called the art of maintaining a gray mantle. As a rule, shoroku was a skill found only among high-clan gukuy. But Nukurren had persevered in the study for years. She found some spiritual solace in the discipline. And, as a warrior, it had the practical virtue that there is perhaps nothing so intimidating as a gukuy whose emotions can't be determined.

"What do you want?" demanded the slaver, once again.

Nukurren made the gesture of contemptuous dismissal.

"Go," she said. "Leave the hunnakaku be."

The slaver slid back two paces on rigid peds. Pink was now predominant on her mantle, and flashes of red fear were beginning to appear. Without moving her eyes from the slaver, Nukurren could detect the same colors on the four mercenaries standing nearby.

A surreptitious motion in the corner of her eye. Once of the mercenaries had touched her flail. Without looking at her, Nukurren said softly:

"If that flail comes out of its harness, I'll strip the mantle off your body and feed your guts to the slugs."

Casually, Nukurren drew her own flail. At the sight of it unharnessed, the mercenaries and the slaver fell back. Nukurren's flail was truly impressive. Twice the size of a normal warflail, it could only be wielded by a gukuy of her immense strength. And where most warflails were armed with flint or obsidian blades, hers gleamed with bronze. The weapon of an elite soldier. And the mercenaries were well aware that the warfork harnessed on the right side of her mantle was a twofork—the most difficult variety to master. The forks on their own mantles were mere sixforks, or even eightforks.

For a moment, all was frozen. Then the tableau was interrupted by the arrival of Kjakukun.

"What in the name of the Clam is going on?" demanded the caravan master.

Nukurren was silent. The slaver began loudly complaining of her conduct. The mercenaries said nothing, but began a slow withdrawal from the scene.

After listening to the slaver, Kjakukun stared at Nukurren.

"So? What's your explanation?" The caravan master's mantle showed only the dim azure-gray of annoyance.

"Pointless torture offends me. And the hunnakaku are miserable enough."

"What torture?" asked Kjakukun. The slaver's account of the events had not touched upon the darts. Nukurren gave a brief and dispassionate sketch of the scene when she arrived.

The caravan master's mantle flashed blue. But the anger was directed at the slaver.

"Fukoren, I've warned you about this before!"

The slaver cringed back on hunkered peds. Her mantle glowed scarlet.

"But—what's the harm?" she whined. "They're only hunnakaku—sub-gukuy!"

Kjakukun's blue did not diminish. If anything, it darkened.

"They're merchandise. Not to be damaged unnecessarily. If they're frightened too much, they get sick, even die. But that's all beside the point! I gave you an order, and you disobeyed me!"

The caravan master glared around. The four original mercenaries were now drawn far back into the small crowd of mercenaries and slavers who had gathered to watch the scene.

"This trip is dangerous enough," bellowed Kjakukun, "without indiscipline and sloppiness! We're still in Kiktu territory, you fools—and now there are these rumors of demons! I won't tolerate disobedience, do you understand?"

The caravan master was now addressing herself to the assembled crowd. She paused a moment.

"I've heard you grumble at the wages I'm paying Nukurren. Three times what you garbage earn. I'm as tight with copper as any, but for this trip it was worth it. I'll show you why."

The caravan master turned to Nukurren. Kjakakun's mantle flashed black. Implacable.

"Kill her," she said, waving a palp at the slaver.

Until it was seen, it was hard to believe that a gukuy as huge as Nukurren could move so fast. Before the crowd could even whistle with fear, Nukurren drew her fork and slammed it into the slaver's mantle. Driven by Nukurren's great strength, the two razor-sharp bronze prongs were driven completely through the ganahide armor and the tough cartilage of the mantle. With a twist of her palps on the crossbar of the hook, Nukurren flipped the slaver onto her side. The slaver's two tentacles clutched at the hook in a hopeless attempt to pry it loose. The six arms clustered about her beak were knotted in pain.

The killing stroke which followed struck the slaver like a lightning bolt. The blow drove the flail-blades deep into the unarmored soft tissue of the slaver's underbelly. With a great jerk, the slaver's bowels were ripped out and scattered about the ground in a spray of blood. Pieces of gut spattered the crowd. With another quick twist of her right tentacle Nukurren tossed the corpse of the slaver aside, freeing the prongs of her fork.

She squatted down on her peds and began cleaning the fork and the flail with a sponge. Around her she could hear the crowd whistling loudly. It was not the death of the slaver which shocked them, she knew. They were as callous a group of gukuy as you could find anywhere on the Meat of the Clam. It was the manner of it—the incredible display of ferocity, speed and strength. Many warriors boasted of being able to deal the kutaku, the single death-blow, but it was rarely accomplished in actual fact.

"And her gray never wavered," Nukurren heard one mercenary whisper with awe. She found some consolation in that comment, to counteract the great wave of revulsion which flowed through her. Not a trace of her feelings showed in her mantle, but she had to fight not to vomit. She concentrated on cleaning her weapons, slowly and meticulously.

I'm not even sickened by the killing, she thought wearily. The stinking slaver deserved it. No, it's the sickness of my whole life. I think Dhowifa's right. But I just can't find any comfort in his dukuna.

By the time she finished cleaning her weapons, the crowd had disappeared. The body of the slaver was still lying to one side. The pool of blood surrounding it had soaked into the soil. Scavengers were already approaching the corpse. Within a day, the body would be a festering mass of corruption, filled with slugs, snails, worms and larvae.

Typical slavers, thought Nukurren with disgust. Well, if they're not going to bother giving her the rites, I'm certainly not.

She rose and began walking toward her yurt. A soft hoot from the cage stopped her. Turning back, Nukurren saw that the hunnakaku was now standing at the front of the cage, staring at her through the bars. The hunnakaku hooted again.

Long ago, after their escape from Shakutulubac, Nukurren and Dhowifa had spent many eightweeks living with the Kiktu. Nukurren had gotten along well with the tribespeople, but Dhowifa's pampered existence in the Palace had not prepared him for the hardships of barbarian life. So when the old Paramount Mother died, and the fury of the hunt for her escaped consort died with her, Dhowifa had insisted on returning to civilization. Nukurren had not been unwilling, for though she liked the Kiktu, she found their religious beliefs bizarre. And their dietary fetishes and restrictions had been annoying.

But while she was among them, Nukurren had been careful to observe the proprieties. She had even learned some of the strange language spoken by the hunnakaku. For the Kiktu believed that the sub-gukuy were sacred. They called the hunnakaku the Old Ones, and believed that they were the first people created by their goddess Uk when she rained life upon the Meat. They were favored still in her eyes, the Kiktu believed, and their language was difficult to understand because it was holy. All Kiktu learned to speak it—at least, as well as was possible for gukuy.

So Nukurren listened. The hunnakaku hooted again.

must not do
feed
reeds snails beauty

With difficulty, Nukurren translated. The speaking siphon of the hunnakaku, she knew, was fairly similar to that possessed by gukuy. But there were important differences. The hunnakaku lacked the flexible lips and the hard ridges which enabled gukuy to speak their complex languages. Instead, the hunnakaku produced a hoot which contained a single thought couched in various permutations. Dhowifa had once told her it reminded him of a verbal version of the ideograms which the prevalates in the far south used for writing.

The central concept was "feed." She understood that immediately. There was both the positive and the negative imperative which was usually present in hunnakaku hoots. The negative was at the center—a reflection, she thought, of the timid nature of the sub-gukuy. "Not feed snails," then. The positive would surround the center, as an alternative course of action. "Must feed beauty. Do feed reeds."

With sudden understanding, she stared at the body of the slaver.

"But why?" she demanded. "She was your tormentor."

Another hoot.

death not end
give
life not life

Strangely, it made sense. The hunnakaku were plant-eaters. They viewed carnivores, including scavengers, with horror. The horror was not the product of personal fear. Because of their size, the hunnakaku had few natural enemies. (Except us, thought Nukurren.) It was due to their belief that all meat-eaters were parasites, who stole life without returning it back to what they called the "Coil of Beauty." To be eaten as meat was to be denied re-entry into the Coil, to be doomed to eternal non-existence.

Or so, at least, the Kiktu had explained it to Nukurren. And it was certainly true that, within the limits available to their fundamentally carnivorous needs as gukuy, the Kiktu attempted to follow similar precepts. It was these attempts, of course, that produced the dietary rules and restrictions which Nukurren and Dhowifa had found so irksome.

Nukurren's tentacles twitched with irritation.

"You can't expect me to bury her!"

She whistled with derision at the idea, and began to march off.

Another hoot:

horror horror horror
is
horror horror horror

She stopped, arrested by the tone of unmistakable anguish in the voice of the hunnakaku. After a moment, she made a decision and marched to the toolkeeper's yurt. The plaintive hoots of the hunnakaku followed her.

"Give me a hoe," she commanded. Without a word, the toolkeeper disappeared inside and returned a moment later with the tool. Her mantle, Nukurren noticed with bleak amusement, glowed bright pink with apprehension.

Taking the hoe, Nukurren stalked back to the cage. She began digging a trench on one side of the trail, but as soon as she started the hooting began again.

must not waste
root
wrong there reeds

She whistled sharply with anger. The hunnakaku withdrew fearfully from the bars, cowering in the interior of the cage. Her mantle flushed brick red. Fear, allayed by determination. She continued to hoot the same plea.

"You're as bad as the Kiktu and their damned fetishes," said Nukurren. But she abandoned the trench she had begun and waded off into the field of akafa. There, even though the reeds made the work far more difficult, she dug a new trench. Finished, she went over and grabbed the slaver's body. She was tempted to use her fork to drag the body, but she knew it would upset the hunnakaku. For some reason, the thought of causing further pain to the gentle giant was repulsive. So, ignoring her disgust at the snails which were by now crawling all over the corpse, she picked up the body of the slaver in her two great tentacles and carried it over to the trench. She lowered the body down. It was short work to hoe the soil back in.

When she was finished, she stared at the small mound in the reeds.

"You're still garbage," she said softly. "But for whatever it's worth, welcome to the Coil of Beauty. Personally, I hope you come back as a slug."

She left the reeds and went back to the cage. For a long moment, she and the hunnakaku stared at each other. She saw a creature whose basic shape was similar to her own. Bigger, of course, despite the fact that Nukurren was huge for a gukuy. The hunnakaku's peds were very short and bulky relative to its body. She lacked true tentacles. Instead, she had eight arms instead of six. The arms were bigger than a gukuy's, and clumsy-looking—they ended in a simple bifurcation, instead of the delicate triad which made gukuy arms such marvelous instruments for precise manipulation. The beak which Nukurren could see within the hunnakaku's arm-cluster was blunt and ridged, suited for chewing tough plants. Not at all like Nukurren's sharp-edged gukuy beak.

And what does she see? wondered Nukurren. A monster, I imagine.

There was no way to tell. Another wave of world-weariness rolled over her.

In truth, they are a better folk than we gukuy. But they are timid, despite their size and strength. And slow, and stupid. So we make them our slaves, when we do not butcher them outright. And now they are a dying race. The slavers catch fewer and fewer each year, and they won't breed in captivity. And if the Kiktu are destroyed by the Utuku, more slavers will come to this refuge. Kjakukun is just one of many.

She turned away.

And I am Kjakukun's flail. For three wires of copper an eightday.

On her way back to her yurt, she took some satisfaction in the fearful glances sent her way by those she encountered. As she passed Kjakukun's yurt, the caravan master stepped from between the hides which served as an entryway.

"Why did you bury her?" she asked. She seemed genuinely puzzled.

"The hunnakaku asked me to."

Orange astonishment rippled across Kjakakun's mantle.

"Why should you do its bidding? It's nothing but a slave—a sub-gukuy."

Anger boiled over, and this time Nukurren made no effort to control her mantle. Blue blazed. Despite her own impressive self-control, the caravan master could not prevent a pink flush from entering her own mantle.

And when Nukurren stepped suddenly near, the pink was replaced by scarlet terror.

"I work for you, slave-master," said Nukurren softly, "because I have to. I need the money, and—"

She did not complete the thought. Nor, even though she could have, did the caravan master.

Because only a filthy slaver would hire a pervert.

Nukurren waited, wondering if the caravan master was bold enough to sneer the words. But Kjakukun was silent.

Very wise, slave master. Very wise.

The blue faded from Nukurren's mantle.

"I work for you, Kjakukun. But I am much closer to the Kiktu in how I see the Old Ones."

The red faded from the caravan master.

"The Kiktu will kill you as quick as anyone!"

"True. Even quicker, for they would look upon me as a traitor."

Nukurren turned away, then back.

"Do not ever ask me questions, slave-master. I am your bodyguard, no more."

"I am your employer," protested Kjakukun.

Nukurren allowed a tinge of contempt to yellow her mantle, as she walked toward her yurt.

Dhowifa was in his usual place, perched on the cushions in a corner. After Nukurren entered, the two lovers stared at each other in silence.

"It's been a bad day," she said finally.

Dhowifa's mantle rippled with the chromatic complexity of which only truemales are capable. Sadness. Sympathy. Empathy. And, the undertone beneath and the sharpest accents, green love.

"I know. I watched from here."

After some silence, he spoke again.

"I have brought much misery into your life."

"Much happiness, also."

An intricate wave of pastel humor washed over him. "True. True. But still, I wish—"

"Wish what?" demanded Nurukken. "That we hadn't fallen in love?"

"No—never that! But—"

"The world is the way it is, Dhowifa. Why should you complain? Isn't that the heart of your dukuna?"

Dhowifa's arms coiled in a manner suggesting respectful disagreement leavened by good feeling. Not for the first time, Nukurren was struck by the truemale's incredible delicacy of expression.

"Not exactly," he demurred. "The concept of dukuna has a more impersonal philosophical thrust. It's not really—"

"Enough!" barked Nukurren. But the good humor was obvious on her mantle. And, glowing ever brighter, the white of passion.

"You're insatiable," complained Dhowifa. But his own mantle rippled ivory, and there was no reluctance in the way the tiny truemale came toward her, his arms extended.

As he climbed into her mantle cavity, his tentacles gripping her head firmly while he extended his arms deep inside, Nurukken whistled her pleasure at his touch.

Yes, she thought, you have brought me anguish, Dhowifa. But I wouldn't give you up for anything. Joy of my life. My love, who had none.

His arms found what they were seeking. Pleasure turned into ecstasy, and forgetfulness of all pain.

The demons attacked at dawn.

Nukurren was awakened by a shrill hoot of fear and alarm. With a veteran's instinct, she was instantly awake and scrambling for her weapons. She hesitated for a moment at the thought of donning her ganahide armor, but decided she didn't have time.

"Wait here!" she said to Dhowifa, who was stirring to life in his cushions.

She rushed through the hide flaps of the yurt and onto the ground beyond. There, she crouched for a moment in battle stance, fork and flail ready, to gain her bearings.

What she saw, in the faint light of the dawn, was at first more confusing that anything else.

What are those—things?

They were like nothing she had ever seen. Very tall and slender, like reeds. They moved with blinding speed, in a strange, jerky motion that she found hard to follow.

Before she could register anything else, she saw one of the demons spring toward a caravan guard. The guard was crouched, holding up her fork and flail in trembling palps, whistling with terror. In a movement faster than anything Nukurren had ever seen, the demon thrust forth some sort of huge stinger. As the stinger hurtled at the guard, Nukurren saw a brief gleam from its tip.

Metal! But what kind of metal shines gray?

The stinger plunged deeply into the camp guard's head, right between the eyes and into the brain. The guard died instantly, without a sound.

The demon planted a—a ped? wondered Nukurren; was that long and skinny thing a ped?—onto the dead guard's head and wrenched the stinger loose with its two tentacles.

Except they're not tentacles. They're like sticks tied together. And that stinger's a weapon of some kind.

That last thought restored her courage. They might be demons, but if they needed weapons they had to be vulnerable. Somehow.

She had no more time for thought. From the corner of her eye she caught a flickering motion. Then the gleam of a weapon coming straight toward her.

She was totally unprepared for a straight-thrusting weapon. No gukuy could deliver such a blow. But she instantly raised the shield protecting her palp on the crossbar of the fork, in the reflex of a fighter fending off blowpipe darts.

The weapon glanced off the shield and drove along her mantle, gashing a long but shallow wound. Nukurren ignored the pain. Her mantle was already criss-crossed with battle scars, and no mantle-wound was serious so long as the mantle itself wasn't penetrated. But she found time to regret the absence of her armor.

Nukurren whipped her flail around and struck a terrible blow on the lower portion of the demon's ped. The flail-tips did not penetrate. There was some sort of armor there. But she heard a strange cracking noise, and the demon collapsed to the ground, wailing horribly.

She drew back her flail for the death-stroke, but turned away. Her duty was elsewhere. The demon seemed incapacitated, and she was responsible for the safety of the caravan master.

She raced toward Kjakukun's yurt. On the way, she caught glimpses of the chaos around her. The guards and slavers were no longer attempting to fight. They were fleeing every which way in utter terror. But the demons which swarmed everywhere moved much faster than gukuy. Right before her, she watched as a fleeing slaver was overtaken by two demons. Pitilessly, the monsters drove their weapons into the slaver's peds, pinning it to the ground. A third demon flickered around to the front of the shrieking slaver, and drove its weapon straight into her brain.

How do they do that? wondered Nukurren. She recognized the utterly deadly nature of the blow. No part of a gukuy's body was more vulnerable than the soft spot between the eyes, behind which the brain lay unprotected. But the very nature of a gukuy's tentacles made such a direct blow impossible. The dart from a blowpipe could strike there, but very few pipers could drive a dart hard enough to penetrate through the flesh into the brain. Eyes were a piper's target.

She heard a loud hooting from the cages holding the hunnakaku.

Are the demons slaughtering the pitiful things?

But when she risked a glance, she saw that the demons were smashing the locks of the cage. They were releasing the sub-gukuy! And now she recognized that the hoots carried no trace of fear.

Just ahead of her was Kjakukun's yurt. She was almost there. She saw the caravan master step out through the hides, carrying a flail.

Get back inside, you idiot! I can't protect you out here!

It was too late. From somewhere, a demon flickered into view. It drew back the stinger in one of its strange tentacles, and then jerked it forward in a blur. Astonished, Nukurren watched the stinger fly through the air, like a gigantic dart from a blowpipe. It struck Kjakukun right between the eyes. The caravan master was dead before her body could fall.

More than anything else she had seen, in that dawn of terror and chaos, the sight of the flying stinger shocked Nukurren. Except for blowpipes, gukuy almost never used missile weapons. Some of the primitive tribes to the far southwest used slings. The Anshac had experimented with the awkward devices, before concluding they were well-nigh useless. To be sure, the stones struck with considerable impact. But gukuy could withstand a great deal in the way of blunt impacts, and no gukuy had the tentacular dexterity to use the slings with accuracy. Even the southwestern primitives used them rarely.

Despair washed over her. How can you fight such terrible creatures?

But she had no time to dwell on it. A demon was racing toward her. Knowing what to expect, she twisted to one side to avoid the brain-thrust. The stinger drove into the front of her mantle. The wound was harmless; hardly even painful. Nowhere on the mantle of a gukuy was the tissue tougher and thicker than on the edge of the cowl.

She lashed upward with her fork, striking the demon's tentacle. Again, that strange cracking sound. The demon ululated.

Full of fury and triumph, Nukurren whipped her flail around at the monster's upper torso. The blow was fast and powerful, but the demon's uncanny speed enabled it to interpose its other tentacle, which bore some kind of armor. The armor splintered. She heard another crack; the demon was hurled to the ground.

They can be broken! came the thought.

Another demon. Another. And another. Twisting like a slug, faster than she'd ever moved, Nukurren managed to avoid the death-blows. But this time the stingers penetrated through her mantle, into the flesh of her body cavity. The pain was intense. Even more intense was the knowledge of her certain doom. Such wounds invariably caused lingering death, by horrible diseases.

With no thought now but to wreak havoc, Nukurren hurled herself at her tormentors. Her fork and flail struck hard. One of the demons fell to the ground, clasping its side. Nukurren's flail had torn out a great swath of—flesh? A second demon, a huge one, was stripped of its weapon by a smashing blow of the flail on its tentacle. The third demon withdrew, moving with an odd gait, hopping on one of its bizarre peds.

A pause. She spun around, feeling agony as the stingers sticking out of her mantle flapped with her motion.

She was surrounded by demons. They were standing back, however, beyond reach of her weapons. Peculiar sounds were coming from them. Horrible sounds, full of spitting and gasping. A language, she realized, but like no language she'd ever heard. Through the haze of pain, she was finally able to discern some details of their shape, now that the demons weren't moving in a constant flicker.

Those are heads, she realized. Those strange growths on the very top of their bodies. And the sounds are coming from those moving parts in front. Are they lips? Is that tiny thing a beak? It can't be—it only has one jaw.

Then she saw the eyes. Those, at least, she had no difficulty in recognizing. They were almost like her own, except that they were so small.

Why aren't they attacking?

She moved toward one side. The demons there flickered back.

They're afraid of me, she realized. The slavers were butchered like uju. But I injured several. Some may even die.

But the tiny hope faded. She heard a demon's voice, lower-pitched than the others. Turning to face the voice, she saw two demons in the circle surrounding her flicker aside. A new demon appeared, stalking slowly through the ring.

The new demon was much bigger than the others. Taller, and wider in its upper torso. It moved slowly, for a demon, but she instantly recognized the total poise of its stance. As bizarre as the demons were in their shape and their movement, she had no doubt of what she was seeing.

A great warrior. Demonlord.

The thing began circling her. Faster and faster. She spun around. It reversed its circle. She spun again. She could feel the stingers in her body tearing at the flesh. She realized the thing was deliberately forcing her to wound herself further.

She had no chance in a prolonged battle. Suddenly, she hurtled forward, whipping her fork around at the monster's head. With triumph, she saw the demon block the blow with its stinger. She had time to marvel at the strength and—solidity—of the creature, before she brought her flail whipping around at the demon's peds in the same blow which had crippled the others.

But to her astonishment, the demon avoided the blow by—flying? No, he leapt. Straight up, lifting his peds over the whistling flails, and back down on the ground. Still perfectly poised.

She knew, then, that these were truly demons. No natural creature on the Meat of the Clam could do that.

She saw the death-stroke coming. But now she was off-balance from missing her own strike. She could not avoid the blow. She could only make a last, futile attempt to twist aside.

The stinger plunged straight into her left eye. Deep, deep, deep. Bringing an agony so great it left her paralyzed, as well as half-blind.

Dimly, she realized her last twist had avoided the brain-strike. But now she was doomed. She watched helplessly as the demon champion took a new stinger from another demon. Watched as it flickered slowly toward her, the stinger held in strike position. She was even, now, finally able to analyze the strange motion of its peds.

Like sticks, tied end to end. They don't really flicker, they jerk back and forth where the knots would be.

Suddenly her vision was occulted. A small body was swarming onto her maimed head, whistling with fear and anguish.

Dhowifa.

"Go away," she whispered. "Hide, my love. There's nothing you can do but save yourself."

But Dhowifa, normally more clever and shrewd than any truemale Nukurren had ever met, was now utterly lost in a truemale spasm of emotional frenzy. He clutched at her head, desperately trying to pull the terrible stinger from her eye.

It was a hopeless task for his puny strength. But, for some unknown reason, his arrival had caused the demonlord to pull back. The stinger in its stick-tentacle drooped. There was a rapid exchange of sounds between the demonlord and the others. Then, the demonlord advanced again, its stinger held at the ready.

It's going to kill us both, Nukurren realized with despair. Oh, Dhowifa, you fool.

"Go—please!"

A huge shape stepped between Nukurren and the demonlord.

One of the hunnakaku, she realized, even before she heard the hoot.

The concentration necessary to interpret the hunnakaku was beyond her. She was afloat in a sea of pain.

She heard hoots answered by other, strange hoots. The latter, she dimly realized, came from the demons. But she could only concentrate on one thought.

I will not die with these horrible stingers in my flesh.

Gently detaching Dwowifa, she gripped the stinger in her eye. She inhaled deeply. Then, drawing on every reserve of strength and courage, she drew the stinger forth. She whistled from the pain, but never hesitated.

She cast the stinger aside. It rolled toward a demon. The monster stared at the weapon, then at her. It did not move. None of the demons were moving, she realized. The hunnakaku was now standing to one side, silent.

She reached back and gripped the stinger protruding from the left side of her mantle. Again, she exerted her great strength. The pain this time was not as intense, but after she drew out the weapon she felt a great weakness wash over her.

She fought the weakness aside, barely. She reached back and grasped the last stinger. Again, a heave. But now her strength failed her. She could barely see out of the eye left to her. The weariness and the agony were overwhelming.

She felt a touch on her palp. Strange, eerie touch. She twisted slightly and looked back. The demonlord was next to her side, staring at her with its strange little eyes. Dawn was now fully upon them, and there was enough light to see clearly. Much of the demon's body was covered with armor, and most of the rest was cloaked in hides. And there was something very strange, she realized, about the armor on its head. But she could see uncovered stretches of the monster's skin. Black as night. Implacable.

The touch again. She realized that it was the demonlord. The monster pulled her palps from the stinger. There was something bizarre about the shape of its palps, but she was too dazed to make sense of it.

It's very strong, she thought vaguely. But I think, if I were unwounded, not as strong as I.

She was unable to resist. She let her tentacles fall. The demonlord seized the stinger and placed one of its peds on her mantle, next to the wound. A sudden jerk, the sharp pressure of its tiny ped on her body, and the stinger was out.

She lost all vision, then. And almost, but not quite, her consciousness. Around her, she could hear the mingled hoots of hunnakaku and demons. She could feel Dhowifa's warm, trembling little body clutching her head. Reason, always thinly rooted in truemales, had fled completely.

Poor Dhowifa, was her last thought before sliding into oblivion, you were so proud of your mind. Now you see what terror can do.

Rottu waited in the shadows while the patrol passed. She was not especially worried. The warriors in the patrol were auxiliaries, not keen-eyed legionnaires. More concerned with ending their patrol in the warmth of an ashu-chamber than with finding suspicious persons lurking in dark alleys.

As they drew alongside the mouth of the alley, the warriors stopped and made a casual examination of its interior. But Rottu knew they would see nothing. There was only a single glowmoss pillar at the entrance of the alley. An old colony, moreover, whose light penetrated not more than a few steps into the gloom beyond.

Still, Rottu took no chances. Far back in the alley, she pressed herself more closely against the stones. Then, cursing silently, repressed a hoot of pain. She had forgotten. The walls of the tenements were crudely made, with many sharp edges and rough corners. Nothing like the polished, beautiful walls of the Divine Shell.

I'm getting old and sloppy. Too accustomed to the luxury of the Shell. I haven't been outside the clan quarters in—how many eightweeks?

One of the warriors began to make a perfunctory inspection of the alley. But she had no sooner taken a few steps forward than she suddenly recoiled.

Watching, in the darkness beyond, Rottu found it hard not to whistle derision.

She smells the stench of the corpse.

The corpse lay between Rottu and the mouth of the alley. When she had seen the warriors approach, she had deliberately hidden herself beyond the body. If the squad of warriors chose to investigate the alley closely, they would have to edge their way past the thing. Several days dead, that corpse. Crawling with scavengers. Putrid.

A nameless corpse, Rottu knew. Dead of hunger, or parasites; or the wounds inflicted by thieves, themselves desperate enough to rob a nameless one. A former helot, most likely, escaped from the lands of her clan mistresses. Seeking, like so many before her, a new life in Shakutulubac. And finding nothing but death in the slums of the great city.

There are more and more such, now. Driven by the increasing tyranny in the land to seek refuge in a city which is itself hooting louder and louder.

There will be another pogrom soon. The awosha have already given the order. Many Pilgrims will die. We are too many, now, to find safety in a few cellars.

The patrol left quickly, as Rottu had known they would. In eightyweeks gone by, in the time of Rottu's youth, the patrol would have reported the corpse at the end of their night's work. The following morning, a gang of slaves would have been sent by the Mistresses of the City to remove it. But those days were long gone. In the Shakutulubac of Rottu's old age, corpses rotted in the streets. There were so many of them now. The life of the poor and low-clanned had always been cheap. Today, it was worth nothing.

Some time later, when she judged it was safe to do so, Rottu edged past the corpse and left the alley. Allowing no sign in her mantle of the repugnance she felt. There were none to see her color, of course. But Rottu had been a mistress of shoroku for too long to relax her discipline. A lifetime too long.

Once back in the street, she hurried along. Hurried, but took no chances. If she were spotted by a patrol, she would certainly be recognized. The patrol, of course, would not accost her. They would not dare. But they would talk, and the talk would reach the Tympani of the Ansha. Then—disaster. Rottu herself ranked high in the Tympani. But not high enough to avoid the chambers in the cellars of the Shell. Not if it became known that she was seen, late in the night, in that quarter of the city which was known to be infested with Pilgrims.

Some of the Tympani are already a bit suspicious. I have been careful, but it is impossible to make no mistakes. I have made very few, or my mantle would have been stripped long ago. But it has been many eightyweeks since I entered Ushulubang's service.

She ducked into another alley-mouth and examined the street behind her. Then, satisfied, continued on.

I would not have taken this chance, except—there has perhaps never been a parcel more precious than the one I carry tonight. And I have not seen Ushulubang in so long. We must speak together, for all the risk. I must make certain that she understands the truth of the situation.

This pogrom will be—terrible.

Rottu finally reached her destination, and gave the signal. Moments later, she was following a pashoc through the labyrinth of cellars beneath the slums. Now that she was in the relative safety of the underground, she admitted to herself that there had been another reason she had taken the risk of coming here personally.

I must see Ushulubang myself. It has been so long, and my soul needs replenishing.

Ushulubang's quarters were, as always, spare and lean. A simple pallet. A sturdy reading bench. A crudely-trimmed glowmoss colony, which cast barely enough light for the sage to read by. Barely, but enough. Nothing more. Even for a former warrior like Ushulubang, the rigor of her life must sometimes be trying.

But Rottu saw, with relief, that there were no signs of that rigor upon Ushulubang. The sage was old, of course. But she still seemed as vigorous as ever.

After they entwined their arms, Ushulubang stepped back and whistled humorously.

"Why such an air of gloom, Rottu? Your mantle might as well be pure brown."

"Stop making jokes, you old fool." From the corner of her eye, Rottu saw the mantle of the pashoc glow orange and pink. The young Pilgrim was shocked to hear someone speak to the great opoloshuku in such an unseemly fashion.

Let her be shocked. Someone has to speak the truth to this—this saintly idiot.

The green in Ushulubang's own mantle never wavered, of course. Ushulubang enjoyed the rare occasions when someone flailed her. It reminded her, she would say, of the days when she had wandered the world with Goloku. Days long gone. The most precious of days. The days when Goloku had flailed her with the truth, and shown her the road of the Way.

"Always so grim. Always so grim."

Ushulubang made the gesture of rueful acceptance.

"Very well, Rottu. I see I will not be able to avoid your flail. But first—do you have the packet?"

Rottu withdrew the packet from where she had secreted it within her mantle cavity. With considerable relief. The packet was large and heavy. She extended it to the sage. Ushulubang's arms made short work of unwrapping the cloth.

The sage moved closer to the light shed by the glowmoss. Slowly, she examined the sheets.

"You have seen?"

"Yes, Ushulubang. I have made my own copies of the most important sheets."

A tinge of pink came into Ushulubang's mantle.

"Isn't that a bit—"

Rottu interrupted with a rude whistle. The pashoc in the corner of the chamber glowed azure and orange with indignation.

"Stick to philosophy, Ushulubang. Let me worry about keeping things secret."

Again, Ushulubang made the gesture of rueful acceptance.

"I am well flailed. I had forgotten how uncouth you are! But, as you say, you are the mistress of such things."

She gestured to the sheets.

"What do you think?"

"It is perfect. We will never be able to pronounce the language exactly the way they do, of course. But the Pilgrims on the mountain say that the demons themselves are changing their manner of speech to fit our needs."

Ushulubang issued a soft hoot of surprise.

"Truly?"

Rottu made the gesture of affirmation. "And in every other respect, Enagulishuc is ideal. Clear and logical. And the written form is very easy to learn, once one learns the strange method. Even the barbarians at Fagoshau are learning it. More easily, in fact, than the Anshac."

Ushulubang looked back at the sheets. "That is not so surprising, Rottu. The former barbarians do not have their minds cluttered with the arcane complexities of Anshaku writing."

Rottu accepted the reproof without comment. In principle, she agreed with Ushulubang. All apashoc are equal on the Way. Still, it was difficult not to think of barbarians as semi-savage illiterates. Skilled in war, within their limits; and often surprisingly cunning in their statecraft. But—

"You agree, then?" she asked Ushulubang. "We will adopt Enagulishuc?"

Ushulubang made the gesture of hesitation.

"I think so, yes. From a practical point of view, it is ideal. Yet—there is still the deeper question to be resolved. We will be committing ourselves, Rottu. In a sense, at least. We will become identified with demons."

Rottu whistled derision. "And so what? All the better. Let those who oppress the Pilgrims find red in their mantles, for a change. There is no longer any doubt on that question, Ushulubang. No Pilgrim has yet been able to observe the demons in battle, of course. They move much too quickly for our warriors to accompany them. But they have seen the results. Entire slave caravans destroyed. With no casualties suffered by the demons, other than minor wounds."

Seeing the continued hesitation, Rottu pressed on.

"Ushulubang, facts are what they are. It is a world of evil and violence. We may wish it were not so, and speak against it, but the fact remains. And we have become too numerous to avoid attack by simply hiding."

Hesitation.

"Ushulubang, there is a new pogrom coming. It has already been ordered. It will take the Tympani some time to organize, but not much."

Ushulubang made the gesture of postponement.

"I know, Rottu. But we will speak of that in a moment."

The sage laid the sheets down on the bench.

"You misunderstand my concern, Rottu. Goloku was a warrior herself, you should remember. She spoke against violence, true. But she was not reluctant to defend herself when necessary. As you say, if we can learn the skills of war from the demons, so much the better."

"Then why do you hesitate?"

"Battle is a small thing, Rottu. It is the soul which looms large on the Way. And these are, after all, demons."

"Demons who eat nothing but owoc ogoto."

"That is certain?"

Rottu made the gesture of affirmation. "Yes, Ushulubang. It is certain."

She pointed to the sheets on the bench. "You can read the report yourself. Many of the Pilgrims on the mountain have been living among the demons for eightweeks, now. They have watched carefully, as you instructed. Never—not once—have they seen a demon eat anything else. The demons themselves say they cannot."

"Do the demons say why?"

"Yes. They say any other food will kill them."

"Just so. It is fitting. Powerful demons, with the knowledge of great secrets. Yet—they cannot exist without the love of the world's simplest and most gentle beings."

Ushulubang made the gesture of certainty.

"In the end, that is what guides me. The minds of the owoc can be easily fooled. But their souls? Never, I think."

The sage turned to the pashoc in the corner.

"Spread the word, Shurren. Enagulishuc is now the language of the Way. All of the apashoc should begin its study. If they have already begun, they should intensify their efforts."

"Yes, opoloshuku. And the other matter?"

"That too is settled. Tell the Pilgrims to prepare for the journey."

The pashoc hurried from the chamber.

"What journey?" demanded Rottu. "What 'other matter'?"

Ushulubang whistled humorously.

"Excellent! Even the all-seeing Rottu remains in the dark. I am pleased. The secret has been kept. A difficult task, when it involved so many people."

"What are you talking about?"

"We are leaving Shakulutubac, Rottu. All of us, except for a few friars who will stay behind to continue the work of recruitment."

Rottu was dumbfounded. It took all of her mastery of shoroku to prevent her mantle being flooded with orange.

"Leaving? Where are you going?"

"To the Chiton, Rottu. To the mountain of demons."

"But—all of you? You too?"

She felt a sharp pain.

I will never see Ushulubang again. My soul will shrivel and die.

Then, drawing on a lifetime of harsh self-discipline, she repressed her emotions. She stood in silence for a moment, considering the question.

It is a brilliant stroke, actually. I would never have thought of it myself. The Chiton will provide safety from persecution. Long enough, at least, for Ushulubang to weave the Pilgrims into a thick cloth. The coming pogrom will strike at—nothing. I can easily provide enough places of safety in the city for a few friars.

Her cunning mind saw another possibility as well. But she pushed it aside. There would be time enough to deal with that later. For the moment—

Again, she repressed her emotions.

I will not live much longer, in any event. The steps I will need to take to enable so many Pilgrims to flee Shakutulubac will certainly come to the attention of the Tympani. I will be put in the torture cells.

In her mind, she whistled derision.

But they will learn nothing from my corpse. I have carried poison with me ever since I gave my soul to the Way.

And there is this, to bring comfort. Ushulubang will live. Ushulubang will live.

The sage interrupted her thoughts.

"Such an idiot."

Rottu stared at her, surprised.

"What does that mean?"

"Do you really think I would leave you behind? To receive the blue fury of the awosha? You are coming with us, Rottu."

"What? Impossible! I need to—"

Ushulubang's mantle flashed black. The sight of that implacable color on the sage's mantle stopped Rottu in mid-sentence. It was a color she had almost never seen on the opoloshuku of the Way.

"I command, Rottu. In this, I command. We will need your skills to assist us in fleeing the city. But only so much as you can do without throwing yourself into the torture cells."

"I can save—"

"You will save enough, Rottu. And you are not thinking clearly. You are only thinking of the escape. What of the arrival?"

"I don't understand."

"Just so. Just so. I am casting the fate of the Pilgrims into the coil of demons, Rottu. You may be a fool, but I am not. Do you think I would do so—without the assistance of my other eyes? Without your cunning at my side? Fool."

Rottu considered the question in this new light. And concluded, as she had so many times in the past, that Ushulubang was truly a sage.

"You are correct, opoloshuku."

Ushulubang whistled. Rarely did Rottu allow that word of respect to issue from her siphon.

The two gukuy stared at each other in silence for a moment. They had known each other for many, many eightyweeks. Ever since a young Tympani had been assigned as one of Ushulubang's interrogators, following the first persecution of the Pilgrims. A very young Tympani. Old enough to be sickened at the cruelty she had seen in the torture cells. Young enough not to have absorbed the cruelty into her own soul. An interrogator who had found, looking for answers from Goloku's only surviving pashoc, a Question to which she had devoted her life.

Mistress of shoroku, Rottu's mantle remained gray. Ushulubang, though she was an even greater mistress of the art, allowed hers to glow green.

After a moment, Rottu turned away.

"I must be gone, or my absence will be missed."

"A moment, Rottu. I have a last question."

"Yes?"

Ushulubang gestured to the sheets on the bench.

"You have read them. Do the Pilgrims of the mountain continue to claim that the Answer is known? By the Mother of Demons?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe it?"

Rottu whistled. "I leave philosophy to you, old sage. I have enough secrets to keep me busy."

Ushulubang's whistle echoed the amusement.

"Just so. I myself do not believe. I believe the Pilgrims on the mountain have lapsed into the great error. I believe in the teachings of Goloku. There is no Answer. There is only the Question."

"As you say, Ushulubang. In this you are always my guide. We will know soon enough."

She turned and left the chamber.

Back on the streets, Rottu resumed her cautious movements. She thought of nothing, beyond the immediate needs of the moment, until she was quit of the slums. Then, however, she allowed her thoughts to flow freely. If she were seen now, she would be able to explain her whereabouts to the satisfaction of the Tympani. Awkwardly, and not without being the object of derision. An old gukuy, seeking pleasure in an unseemly manner.

Let them whistle. They will not whistle long.

Her thoughts raced down well-known corridors. Weaving her stratagems. It would be a cunning weave—the warp and the weft so utterly tangled that the thugs set loose on the streets would flail themselves. She would see to it that the names of true Pilgrims were lost. In their place, she would insert the names of informers. It would be those informers who would be forked during the pogrom. Their bodies dragged through the streets by the mob.

Let the Tympani of Ansha whistle.

Once only did Rottu's mind drift from her scheme. Dawn was approaching, and the sight of it creeping into the Mother-of-Pearl brought back an old memory.

The same sky, long ago, had once been marked by a strange and terrible sign. Rottu herself had seen it, and had trembled with fear. But, along with all other gukuy, the passing of many eightyweeks had faded the memory.

Until, not so very long ago, word had come to Shakutulubac from the mountain. The first small party of Pilgrims sent to the Chiton by Ushulubang, in search of a place of refuge, reported. Astonishing report. There were demons on the mountain. Demons who said they came from beyond the world.

Rottu had deciphered the strange numbers of the demons. She would never forget the thrill of terror which struck her soul like a lightning bolt, when she realized that the demons had left that mark in the sky, long ago. The world itself had turned red with fear at their coming.

And now, Ushulubang had decided to embrace this new and mysterious power. To seek out the Mother of Demons, and her terrible children.

The Mother of Demons. The one being in the world, said the Pilgrims on the mountain, who knew the secrets of the future. But would not speak of them. Not even to her own children.

So be it. Let mighty Ansha flush scarlet with fear.

Eightdays later, however, when the truth became known, mighty Ansha did not glow red with fear. Blue fury was the color which flushed the mantles of the awosha, when they finally realized how thoroughly they had been duped.

The Pilgrims had evaded the pogrom. They were gone, all of them. Even the accursed traitor Ushulubang.

Gone where? None knew.

Executions were ordered.

Who then were the victims of the mob?

Informers. The mob had destroyed most of the Tympani informers.

Blue outrage. Intolerable incompetence.

The ranks of the Tympani were further thinned.

How was such a fiasco possible?

Investigations were ordered. Scarlet-tinged Tympani pursued the trail of evidence with great zeal. A tangled, twisted trail. But eventually, the culprit was found. Her name reported to the awosha.

Rottu? The awosha mantles glowed orange astonishment. Rottu?

Yes. It is certain.

Arrest her!

With Tympani officials in the lead, a squad of warriors raced through the halls of the Divine Shell. In the quarters of the highest-ranked members of the clan, they found the door to Rottu's quarters. The door was smashed open by the warriors. Flushed blue with fury and black with implacable purpose, the Tympani burst within.

And found nothing. No trace of Rottu, beyond a disgusting, scavenger-covered little pile on the floor.

Rottu's last shit.

"The demons will protect the Old Ones," argued Kopporu. "And even if they do not, how can the Kiktu save the Old Ones if we ourselves are destroyed?"

Even before she heard the derisive whistling, Kopporu knew that she had lost the debate. She was universally recognized as the Kiktu's greatest battle leader, despite her relative youth. But she was not a clan leader, and this was not a battle. This was a full meeting of the tribal leaders, where clan status and venerable age weighed heavily in the balance.

And our ancient leaders have grown stiff in their minds, she thought bitterly. They have come to believe in the myth of Kiktu invulnerability.

Even as the thought came to her, one of the old clan leaders spoke.

"The Kiktu have never been defeated!" orated Taktoko. "Never!"

Not in living memory, no. But we too were once a small and unknown tribe, like the Utuku, until our conquests made us famed and feared. Like the Utuku.

"Does not even the Ansha Prevalate fear our flails?" demanded Taktoko. "Have not even their mighty legions whistled in fear at our onslaught?"

A chorus of loud hoots echoed her sentiments. Encouraged, Taktoko continued her peroration.

"The Ansha Prevalate only survives due to our benevolence! Should we choose, even they would fall before our flails!"

A few, faint hoots greeted this last claim. Most of the leaders present maintained a discreet silence.

At least they are not totally mad, thought Kopporu. Taktoko is an idiot. She cannot see the difference between defeating a few invading Anshac legions and conquering Ansha itself. If the Kiktu ever tried to conquer Ansha, we would be destroyed. For that matter, if the Anshac ever seriously attempted to conquer our lands, we would be forced to give way. Just as we will before the Utuku. Except the Utuku will not be satisfied with our lands. They will devour us whole.

She ignored the rest of Taktoko's speech. She had heard it all before—if not quite so mindlessly put—and there was no purpose to be served in further argument. She had lost the debate, as she knew she would. The clan leaders had scoffed at Kopporu's proposal to withdraw southward, with the aim of defeating the Utuku in the course of a long campaign. That was the traditional tactic used by weaker tribes faced with stronger enemies. Some of the battle leaders had been sympathetic, at the beginning, but the clan leaders had been outraged at the implication that the Kiktu were no longer the mightiest tribe on the plains. They had decided to meet the Utuku in the narrow throat in the Papti Plain between the Lolopopo Swamp and the great bend of the Adkapo. That was the traditional boundary of Kiktu territory. The clan leaders, full of pride, were determined to prevent the Utuku from desecrating the tribal lands.

It was the worst possible position, Kopporu knew, for the Kiktu to face the greater numbers and heavier forces of the Utuku. But the decision was now a foregone conclusion. She must look to the future.

Her course of action was clear to her—had been for days, since it became obvious that the Kiktu would attempt to confront the Utuku invaders directly. The tribe would be destroyed, broken into pieces. The clans and battle groups would be mangled beyond recognition. Her duty was now to salvage what she could.

A rush of emotions momentarily threatened to sweep over her. But she pushed it resolutely aside, maintaining iron control. Not a trace of her sentiments could show in her mantle, if she was to succeed in her plan.

Kopporu's attention was brought back to the discussion by the sound of the Great Mother's voice.

The Great Mother, she realized, had spoken her name.

"—that the demons will protect the Old Ones. Do these demons even exist? Has anyone seen them? They are nothing but a tale for new-borns!"

The Great Mother was glaring at Kopporu, her enormous mantle rippling with blue anger and yellow contempt.

They exist, Great Mother. I have not seen them, but I have seen their work. An entire slave caravan slaughtered to the last gukuy. Dead of horrible wounds, like none I have ever seen. And I have spoken to Pilgrims of the Way, seeking refuge in the Chiton.

But Kopporu maintained her silence. She had already lost much of the prestige with which she had entered the meeting. What little she retained would vanish if she engaged in a futile religious debate with the Great Mother. Most battle leaders believed in the existence of the demons, but it was a difficult thing to prove. Especially to old clan leaders, who did not look kindly upon new concepts.

Eventually, the discussion turned to battle stratagems. Kopporu knew that it would be a distressingly short discussion.

Amass our invincible warriors. Attack.

It was a method of battle which had served the Kiktu well in their various clashes with neighboring tribes. Not only did they outnumber any of the other tribes, but even when faced with combinations of tribes the Kiktu had always been able to rely on the justly famed individual prowess of their warriors and battlemothers.

It was difficult to argue with success. But Kopporu knew that the underlying reason for their victories against other tribes was simple:

Because the other tribes fight as we do.

The Kiktu methods had even served, in the past, to defeat invading Anshac legions. But Kopporu had participated in the last battle with an Anshac legion, as a young warrior. She had been stunned by the military effectiveness of the disciplined and organized tactics used by the legion. True, the Kiktu had won the battle. But they had greatly outnumbered the legionnaires, and, even so, had suffered three times the casualties.

In the years which followed, as she rose in status until she became a battle leader, Kopporu had attempted to adopt Anshac tactics to the extent possible. She had never been able to use the Anshac methods as much as she would have liked, of course. The inveterate individualism of the Kiktu warrior was a constant obstacle, as was their loosely organized tribal society.

Despite her efforts, the traditional tactics still prevailed. And those tactics would be disastrous against the Utuku.

They are the most brutal and vicious tribe which has ever existed on the Meat of the Clam. But they do not fight like savages. Their discipline is even harsher than that of the Anshac legions. The Utuku tactics are crude and simple. But what does that matter—when the Utuku warriors fight like mindless clams? And there are so many of them!

As she pondered these thoughts, Kopporu was waiting for the right moment to speak. It came unexpectedly—a gift handed her by the braggart Taktoko.

"And where does Kopporu wish to muster her warriors? In the rear—guarding the gana?"

Silence fell over the meeting. Only the faint sound of the wind—most of its force reduced by the ganahide walls which surrounded the leaders, isolating them from the curious tympani of the tribespeople—could be heard.

Kopporu rose slowly to her peds. She said nothing; simply stared at Taktoko for a long moment. With amusement, she noted the traces of pink which rippled through Taktoko's mantle.

Taktoko has just remembered that I am the best warrior as well as battle leader in this group. Not the best in the tribe—by a small margin. But more than good enough to peel her mantle.

Taktoko was nervously watching Kopporu's mantle, but Kopporu let not a trace of her emotions show.

Taktoko fears blue rage. Ironic—what I fear is a trace of green relief. The arrogant fool has given me exactly what I needed.

When she was certain that she had her emotions under control, Kopporu allowed black to darken her mantle. Her arms assumed the gesture of command. She spoke.

"I will lead the right flank. I demand the privilege, since my courage has been insulted."

As she expected, there was no argument. Several of the clan leaders spoke sharply on the subject of proper conduct in debate, rebuking Taktoko. In soft voices—still loud enough to be overheard—two of the battle leaders exchanged quips as to the probable position of Taktoko. (The old leader's high clan status was not accompanied by any comparable reputation on the battlefield.) The Great Mother even interjected a remark concerning Kopporu's unquestioned valor.

By Kiktu battle standards, leadership of the flanks was considered the most prestigious position. There were no tribesmen to guard one's unprotected side. True, in this coming battle, the small Opoktu tribe would marshall on the right—but the Kiktu did not consider the Opoktu comparable to themselves as warriors. Kopporu herself did not share that general assessment. She had found the Opoktu as brave as any gukuy, within the limits imposed upon them by their small numbers. She even admired them for their cleverness, and was on good personal terms with their battle leader Lukpudo.

In the coming battle, moreover, the right flank was considered the most dangerous position. The Kiktu on the right would be against the Lolopopo Swamp, with little of the maneuvering room that the warriors preferred.

Uncertain allies, and a swamp at my side. They think me brave because of that, when it is those two factors that I will need in order to accomplish—

She hesitated, grieved, completed the thought:

My treason.

That night, in the yurt she shared with Aktako, she finally told her the truth. She was hesitant, but knew she had no choice. Aktako was her most trusted lieutenant, as well as her lover. Without her conscious assistance, the plan could not succeed.

She had expected resistance, even vehement resistance. But she had underestimated Aktako. After listening to the plot, the old veteran simply whistled softly—not in fear, but in admiration.

"I knew you were weaving some kind of scheme, but I didn't realize how big it was. You always did have a better brain than me."

Kopporu began stumbling through an apology, in which the word "treason" featured prominently, but Aktado cut her off with a rude hoot.

"That's nothing but shit! It's not your fault the clan leaders are idiots. You're just trying to save something out of the wreckage."

Ochre indecision mottled Kopporu's mantle.

"But how can you be so sure I'm right? What if we defeat the Utuku?"

"Then we defeat them, and life is simple. No one will ever know what you were planning except me." A whistle of amusement. "And maybe those swampsnails you've been collecting around you—for reasons which mystified me until tonight."

"They will say nothing. And I told the clan leaders—those few who asked—that I wanted the swamp-dwellers for scouts. To make sure the Utuku didn't surprise us by coming through the swamp."

Aktako's whistle combined amazement and humor.

"And they believed you?"

"I think so. They give almost no thought to the nature of the enemy, Aktako. The Utuku would never come through the swamp. Their tactics are designed for dry land—flat, open areas. In the swamp, they would be at a great disadvantage."

"That's what you're counting on, isn't it?"

"Yes. That and—" She paused, brown misery washing over her. "And the fact that the Utuku will be wallowing in their victory."

Brown rippled across Aktako's mantle as well. But within a short time, the brown deepened to black.

"Life is what it is, Kopporu. We do what we must. I have always taught you that—from the first day you joined my battle group."

The veteran stroked Kopporu's arms.

"So bright and fierce you were. And beautiful. I thought for sure you'd choose one of the younger and better looking veterans."

Kopporu whistled derision. "I may have been young, but I wasn't stupid. Much good it does you to have a pretty lover when the forks are shattering. I knew what I wanted—a scarred old warrior, wise in battle."

The two gukuy gazed at each other lovingly. Theirs was an unusual romance. Most Kiktu warriors went through a succession of lovers, but Kopporu and Aktako had been together for eightyweeks. At another time, under other circumstances, their mantles would already be turning white with passion. But on that night of sorrow, there was only the soft green of long affection.

They fell asleep sometime later, their arms intertwined. Aktako's last words were:

"You know what the biggest problem's going to be, don't you? How to keep Guo alive during the battle."

"I'm not worried about that. Guo's going to be a battlemother out of legend. The real problem will be to keep her from trying to rescue the Great Mother after the battle's lost."

"How will you do that?"

"I don't know, Aktako. I don't know."

Kopporu may not have been worried about Guo surviving the battle, but the infanta herself was sleepless that night.

Not worried about her survival, however, but about her conduct during the battle. She suspected, in the half-cocksure/half-uncertain manner of youth, that she was probably the greatest battlemother produced by the Kiktu in generations. But what she knew, on that eve before the clash, was that she had never been in a real battle before. Her experience was limited to the practice field, and a few minor skirmishes with other tribes. But those skirmishes were meaningless—not least because the opponents had fled instantly upon seeing a battlemother.

The Utuku would not flee. It was not the least of their unspeakable savagery—the contempt in which they held all mothers. Guo knew that the Utuku did not even use the word "mother" in their own language. They simply called them "breeders." Utuku mothers were maimed at birth: the tendons in their peds slashed, so that the pitiful creatures could not even walk. Mothers captured from other tribes were treated likewise. And then condemned to a life of forced breeding.

I shall not be treated so, vowed Guo silently. They will only take my dead body for meat.

She picked up her mace and hefted it. A club, essentially, with six long blades protruding from all sides—edges out, not points out. It was a clumsy weapon, for a clumsy mother. But what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in size and weight. The weapon was huge. A gukuy warrior could barely lift the mace, much less wield it in combat. The mace was a weapon for battlemothers—designed to compensate for their awkwardness by using their enormous strength.

Staring at the mace, Guo's mantle turned suddenly yellow. Contempt—for the weapon and herself.

I wanted to use a flail—from the time I first began my training. Like a real warrior, instead of a giant slug.

She winced mentally, remembering the hard lesson Kopporu had given her. Guo had thought she could use a flail, at first. Was she not quicker and more nimble than any infanta in memory? She was, in fact. But all things are relative. A quick and nimble battlemother is still far too clumsy to properly wield a flail. Guo had not believed it until Kopporu matched her against Aktako with practice flails and forks. The experience had been utterly humiliating.

That same night Kopporu had come into Guo's yurt. The infanta had attempted to fade the brown misery in her mantle, with no success. Like all mothers—and she hated herself for it—she was all but incapable of controlling her color.

Kopporu no sooner saw the brown than she whistled derision.

"Do you wallow in misery because you can't float on the breeze like a puopoa? Or breathe water like a dikplo?"

Guo was silent.

"Foolish child! You are a mother, Guo."

"I want to be a warrior!" exclaimed the infanta.

"And what is that?"

Guo was silent.

"You think a warrior is grace—and speed?"

Another whistle of derision.

"I will tell you what a warrior is, stupid one. A warrior is not agility and reflexes. Mindless. A warrior is brain, and heart—at the service of the tribe. A warrior faces the truth unflinchingly. Do you understand?"

After a moment, miserably: "No."

"Still have the brains of a spawn! Listen to me, Guo. Learn to face the truth, peeled of its shell. The truth is that you are not and cannot be a warrior. If you still don't believe that, then tomorrow I'll put you back on the field and let Aktako make a fool out of you again."

Kopporu had let that sink in before continuing.

"If you can learn to face that truth, then perhaps you can learn to face another truth."

Unwillingly: "And what is that?"

"It is that if you abandon these foolish fantasies of becoming a warrior, and apply yourself, you can become the greatest battlemother in the history of the Kiktu since Dodotpi. Maybe even greater than she."

Orange astonishment flooded Guo's mantle.

"Really?"

A tinge of green entered Kopporu's mantle. The battle leader stretched out her palp and gently stroked the brow of the infanta.

"Yes, Guo. Really. You are very fast and nimble, for a mother. And you are incredibly strong. Aktako told me she could feel the earth shake every time you smote the ground with your flail."

A humorous whistle.

"Fortunately, she was far away by the time the blow landed."

"She would have been just as far away if I'd been using a mace!" protested Guo.

"True. But only a stupid infanta—or a stupid leader—thinks a battlemother can fight like a warrior. Your flankers will keep the foe from dodging your blows. Your task is to crush the enemy in front of you. And for crushing, the mace is a better weapon than a flail."

Kopporu fell silent. After a few moments, Guo had said softly:

"I will try to learn. With the mace."

"And the shield. And the visor."

Yellow contempt rippled across Guo's mantle, but she did not voice the protest. Again, Kopporu whistled amusement.

"You will learn to appreciate the lowly shield and visor, child. When you become a renowned battlemother, every piper in the enemy's army will be aiming at you. Would you rather be blind?"

Remembering that conversation, Guo's mantle was suddenly flooded a deep green. She, like the other two battlemothers and all of the warriors in the group, adored Kopporu. In part, that was because of Kopporu's brilliance as a battle leader. But her charisma had deeper roots. There was a—greatness in the battle leader's spirit. Even a young infanta like Guo could sense it.

Sadly, Guo reflected that Kopporu's potential would never be realized. Kopporu's clan was small, and Kopporu's own rank within it was insignificant. Her battle group, of course, was the biggest in the tribe. Warriors chose their own battle groups. Most chose the battle groups of their own clan. But many warriors sought acceptance into the groups of renowned battle leaders, regardless of clan affiliation. Almost three fourths of the warriors in Kopporu's group were from clans other than her own—an unprecedented figure in Kiktu history, so far as anyone knew. The clan leaders had complained, but the battle leaders had supported Kopporu. Many of the battle leaders were jealous of Kopporu's status among the warriors, but they were united in their determination to protect their traditional rights.

Guo herself was from a different clan—from the dominant clan in the tribe, in fact. It was unlikely, but not inconceivable, that she herself might someday become the Great Mother of the Kiktu.

She did not view that prospect with pleasure. She had no desire to become a mother. She wanted to remain a battlemother, surrounded by warriors.

Like all infanta, she had her moments of curiosity and interest on the subject of truemales. Strange, silly creatures. Flighty; given to emotional excess. But skilled, it was said, in the ways of pleasure.

But such moments were few and fleeting. Had life been as she would have wanted, Guo would have been born a warrior. A female. She would have taken a lover from the ranks of the veterans, who would bring her joy in the yurt and protection on the battlefield.

A sudden image came to her mind of the beautiful Kopporu reaching her arms into Guo's mantle—

She thrust the image away, horrified. Perversion.

She forced her thoughts to the future. She would probably not survive the morrow, in any event. The word had already spread throughout the tribe's warriors, in whispers—Kopporu was opposed to the plan of battle, although she had insisted on the command of the right flank. The deliberations of the tribe leaders were supposed to be held in confidence, but such news could not be contained. Kopporu herself had said nothing, but the word had spread regardless.

The warriors had greeted the news with mixed emotions. Anger at Kopporu's apparent disdain for the invincibility of the Kiktu warriors. Disquiet, because all knew of Kopporu's genius on the battlefield. Determination to prove Kopporu wrong. Fear that Kopporu was right. But, most of all, admiration for Kopporu's nobility of spirit.

Guo herself had no doubts of her own feelings. Her faith in the battle leader was absolute. And thus, she knew the tribe was doomed. But she would follow Kopporu's example.

She grasped the mace in a huge palp. So fiercely that even a kogoclam would have been crushed within.

The Utuku will never take me alive. I will die with the tribe. And I will slay the savages in numbers beyond counting.

She stared at the mace. It was a gift. Kopporu had given it to her on the day the battle leader announced to the tribe that Guo had completed her training and was accepted into the battle group as a battlemother. It was a gift worthy of a great clan leader. Guo had no idea how Kopporu had managed to obtain it. The haft of the club was made of uluwood, beautifully carved. But the treasure was in the blades—made of the finest bronze, honed to a keen edge. The blades of most maces were obsidian. Guo, as a young and untested battlemother, had expected a mace with flint blades.

That night, Guo made a solemn vow. If she and the Kiktu survived the battle, she would see to it that justice was done. Like many of the younger warriors—and even some of the older ones—she was tired of the stifling regime of the clan leaders. She had no wish to become a mother, but when the time came she would do so—without complaint. She would devote herself to rising within the complex, intrigue-filled world of the mothers until she became the Great Mother of the Kiktu.

When that day came, she would see that Kopporu was given her rightful place in the tribe. Traditions be shat upon.

Let the old clan leaders wail.