Part IV

"I've got a bad feeling about this," said Julius, watching the procession approach.

"Why?" asked Indira.

"Because I think we've become famous. And I think we'd have been better off if we'd just remained a small little bunch of happy-go-lucky, obscure, inconspicuous, fly-on-the-wall, nobody-type demons."

He chewed his lip. "Mark my words. I speak from experience. Somehow or other, we Jews got famous early on in the game. We should have listened to the Speckites."

"The who?"

"The Speckites. The Hebrews' next-door neighbors. You never heard of them?"

Indira frowned suspiciously. "No, I haven't."

"Imagine that! And you—an historian. Just goes to illustrate my point. The Hebrews went for the bright lights of Broadway and the Speckites stayed anonymous. Guess which one of us caught hell for the next few thousand years?"

Indira snorted. Privately, she thought Julius was probably right. But—

What's done is done.

She couldn't begin to estimate how many gukuy were in the column approaching them. Hundreds, she thought—possibly thousands. The head of the column was just entering the village; the tail of it was still not in sight. All down the valley, three or four abreast, marched the Pilgrims.

On either side of the column, scattered along its length, members of Takashi's platoon acted as an honor guard. The platoon had been stationed in Fagoshau (as the gukuy called their settlement in the big valley) when the huge column of new Pilgrims arrived. After observing the progress of the column up the eastern slope of the Chiton, Takashi had sent a runner to the council requesting orders. The council, after a quick deliberation, had passed on a formal invitation for the newcomers to come and visit.

And they had—all of them.

At that moment, Takashi trotted up. When the young lieutenant drew up before her, Indira saw that he wasn't even breathing hard—despite the fact that he had just finished running up and down the entire column at her request. As was so often the case now, she felt a contradictory mix of emotions. Admiration for the young man's excellent physical condition; uneasiness because she knew it was the result of Joseph's relentless military training.

Still, she wished Joseph were there. The Captain had been gone for days now, leading yet another punitive expedition against a party of slavers which had been spotted the week before on the southern plain near the Chiton.

"Punitive expedition," thought Indira. There's a euphemism for you. "Extermination squad" would be more accurate. Not one of Joseph's expeditions—and there had been many, these past two years—has failed to massacre every slaver they caught.

Indira sighed. And so what? Would you feel better if the owoc were dragged into slavery?

Takashi interrupted her musings.

"I count almost fifteen hundred of them, Indira. But that's just the number in the column. There are more Pilgrims, further back. Scattered groups of stragglers. All told, I'd guess there's around two thousand new Pilgrims on the mountain."

"Holy shit," muttered Julius.

"Have they told you what they want?" asked Indira.

The gaze which Takashi leveled at her was hard as stone.

"Yes. They want to talk to the Mother of Demons. About the secrets."

Indira uttered a silent curse. She had feared as much. Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Julius' face twist into a grimace.

Where did it get started? she wondered. This myth of the secrets—and the mother who holds them back from her children?

When she first heard of it, from one of the gukuy Pilgrims, she had blamed Joseph. Had gone to him, in fact, and accused him hotly. Joseph had denied it, with equal heat. After a few minutes of argument, Indira had become convinced he was telling the truth.

She had never known Joseph to lie to her (or to anyone else, for that matter). Still, she had been confused and exasperated.

"How did this silly rumor get started, then?" she had demanded. "If you didn't start it?"

She would never forget the look on Joseph's face when he gave his answer. Like an ancient gold mask of Benin.

"It is not a rumor. It is the truth. Everyone knows it—gukuy and ummun alike."

It had not taken long to discover that Joseph was right. At the next council meeting, Indira had proposed that Anna Cheng replace her as the Admiral of the Ocean Sea. Anna had immediately refused, and was supported in her refusal by the entire council except Julius.

"Until you teach us the secrets, Indira," commented Ludmilla, "there is none who can take your place."

"There are no secrets!" she had protested angrily. The young members of the council had simply stared at her in silence. Even Julius had looked away.

The column was now close enough to examine the individual Pilgrims who were leading it. At the very front, in the center, marched a small and elderly gukuy. She was wearing none of the decorative strips of cloth with which southern gukuy generally adorned themselves. For that reason, Indira at first assumed she was from one of the barbarian tribes, who eschewed any clothing except armor. She was puzzled, however. There were a number of barbarian converts to the Way, many of whom had been trickling onto the Chiton for the past several months. But the religion had originated in Ansha and all of its leaders, so far as she knew, were from the civilized southern prevalates.

Then, when the column drew closer, she saw the elaborate carvings on the gukuy's cowl. The pigments which would normally have colored the carvings had been scoured clean. But she recognized the carvings themselves, from descriptions which she had been given by Anshac Pilgrims. They were the insignia of the prevalent clan of the Ansha.

Shocked understanding came to her.

"Is that—?"

Takashi nodded. "Yes, it is. Ushulubang herself."

"Holy shit," muttered Julius.

"Can't you say anything else?" snapped Indira.

Julius eyed her, then looked back at the column. A rueful grin twisted his face.

"I say it again: holy shit."

The audience which followed, in Julius and Indira's hut, was one of the most disconcerting episodes in Indira's life. In Julius' life, as well, he told her later.

Extremely intelligent and well-educated people like Julius and Indira do not, really, believe there is such a thing as a "sage." Until they meet her.

That Ushulubang was extraordinarily intelligent became obvious immediately. The chief opoloshuku—a term which translates loosely as "disciple/teacher"—of the Pilgrims of the Way remained silent until she entered the hut. Then, she thanked Indira and Julius for their hospitality. In perfect English.

Indira was too surprised to respond with the customary phrases. Instead, she blurted out:

"You speak English!"

Ushulubang made the gesture of affirmation, with a subtly humorous twist.

"Certainly. How could I be certain the scribes have captured the true spirit of Goloku's teachings if I could not read the holy tongue myself?"

She reads English, too. And her accent's extraordinarily good—especially given that she must have learned from another Pilgrim.

Suddenly, Indira was filled with—not anger, exactly, but extreme exasperation. She had had more than enough of these bizarre new myths and legends which seemed to be springing up like weeds.

"English is not a holy tongue," she said harshly. "It is simply a language like any other. A ummun language, true. But the ummun have many languages."

The two other gukuy who had entered the hut with Ushulubang registered ochre/pink confusion/abashment. But Indira was surprised to see an emerald tint appear on Ushulubang's mantle. Green, Indira had learned, was a very complex color for the gukuy. The various shades carried subtle differences in meaning, which, though they all had love and tranquillity at their base, could express those fundamental emotions in a multitude of permutations.

Emerald is the color of contentment.

"As I surmised," said Ushulubang. The old gukuy made the gesture of profound respect. "I had hoped, but I could not be certain until I came here and spoke with you myself."

"Be certain of what?" demanded Indira.

The opoloshuku gestured to her two companions. "My apashoc"—the word meant "kin of the road"— "had told me that you were the guardian of the secrets. A jealous guardian, they said, who would not impart the secrets to the people."

Indira suppressed a sharp retort.

"But I did not believe them. I thought instead—"

Ushulubang paused for a moment.

"What have the apashoc told you of Goloku?"

Indira was taken aback by the question. She fumbled an answer: A holy person; a saint; a sage; possessor of all wisdom; embodiment of goodness; teacher of—

Ushulubang whistled derision.

"What nonsense! Goloku was a crude boor; a rascal; a drunk; a teller of lewd jokes; and most of all, she was a tyrant, hard as bronze."

Indira's eyes widened. The gukuy on either side of Ushulubang flashed bright ochre. Ushulubang glanced at them both, and again made the gesture of derision. (But the subtleties of the arm-curls contained also, in some manner Indira could not determine, the connotation of affection.)

"They did not know Goloku, as I did." For a moment, Ushulubang's mantle turned a deep, rich shade of brownish-green.

"I am the only one still alive," said Ushulubang sadly, "of Goloku's first apashoc. All that is left of that small band of sisters. There are not even many still alive of the later apashoc. Very few, of those who knew Goloku personally, survived Ilishito's persecution."

Indira knew the tale. She had heard it many times from the Pilgrims on the mountain. During Goloku's lifetime, her disciples had been few in number. After the founder of the Way died—of poison, it was said—the Paramount Mother of the time, Ilishito, had ordered the extermination of the sect. Guided, according to proclamations of the Anshac officials, by the divinations of the priests. From what she had been able to learn of Anshac society, Indira suspected that the decision had actually been made by the awosha—the ruling council of the Ansha females. Although, by all accounts, the Paramount Mother Ilishito had been more than cruel enough to have ordered the persecution herself.

Of the inner circle of disciples—those who had learned directly from Goloku herself—only Ushulubang had survived. Due, Indira thought, to the fact that Ushulubang was herself a very high-ranking member of the dominant clan. She had been officially expelled from the clan, and her clan markings scoured clean with caustic substances. But her life had been spared by the priests.

To their everlasting regret, I suspect.

Ushulubang's mantle returned to gray. "These young apashoc have never really understood Goloku. I do not criticize them, you understand." The pinkish tones in her two companions faded. "They have tried, and tried very hard. Under the most severe circumstances. But—they always lapse into the great error. The error which Goloku flailed us for committing, mercilessly, every day of her life."

"What error is that?"

Ushulubang's huge-eyed stare was piercing.

"The belief that Goloku brought us the Answer. When what she really brought us was a thing much greater. She brought us the Question."

Ushulubang rose. "And now, with your permission, I will leave you. Tomorrow, perhaps, we can speak again. But I fear I am old and weak, and it has been a long journey from Shakutulubac."

Indira nodded. That human expression was now familiar to the gukuy on the mountain. Ushulubang's reaction to it demonstrated, once again, that the old sage had prepared well for this meeting.

"I thank you." She turned to go.

"One moment, please," said Indira.

Ushulubang looked back.

"You did not answer my question. What did you mean—when you said that you were not certain until you met me?"

"When I heard that demons had come to us, and that there was one among them who knew the Answer, I had thought the tale must be wrong. But until today, I was not sure. Until you denied that Enagulishuc is the holy tongue, in words as sharp as stone."

"I do not understand."

"Just so did Goloku flail us, when we fell into error. When I heard your words, I understood why the Coil sent demons to the world, and my soul was filled with love. I had feared, in the depths of my heart, that we would lose the Way. Without a flail to lash the error of the Answer, it is so easy to fall aside."

"I do not understand."

Green ripples marched across Ushulubang's mantle.

"Just so. You have seen the statue of Goloku in the temple at Fagoshau?"

"Yes."

"It is no longer there. I smashed it with my flail when I saw it." A whistle of derision. "These spawn"—a gesture to her companions— "were shocked and aghast. That is because they had fallen into the error of the Answer."

A faint brownish ripple went across Ushulubang's mantle.

"Yet I should not be proud. I too had fallen aside, without realizing it. Until you flailed me, great mother of demons."

"I do not understand."

The gesture of profound respect. "Just so. Enagulishuc is indeed not the holy tongue. It is the tongue that will pave the road of holiness."

"I'm impressed," said Julius softly, after Ushulubang left. When she looked at him, Indira saw that there was no trace on his face of whimsy.

"So am I," she replied. "I always wondered what it would be like to meet the founder of Christianity."

Julius frowned. "What do you mean? Ushulubang's impressive, but she hardly seems divine."

Indira shook her head. "I wasn't talking about the Christ. Jesus inspired the religion that took his name. But Christianity was founded by St. Paul."

Julius stared out the doorway at Ushulubang's receding figure.

"You think so?"

Indira shrugged. "It's an analogy, and like any analogy it's suspect. For one thing, the Way of the Coil is a totally different doctrine than Christianity. Insofar as there's a parallel on Earth, it reminds me more of Taoism than anything else."

"You've always said Buddhism was the closest parallel."

"Yes, I have. But now that I've met Ushulubang, I will no longer say it."

Julius attempted to pursue the matter further, but Indira was clearly distracted. More than distracted, Julius eventually realized. She was completely lost in her own thoughts.

Indira met again with Ushulubang the following day. But the meeting was brief. Although Indira was burning with the desire to pursue what she had glimpsed of the sage's philosophy, practical matters had intervened—in their usual, overwhelming manner.

"How long will you stay?" she asked Ushulubang.

The sage made the gesture of completion. "I will die here, on the Chiton." A whistle. "Though not soon, I hope."

Indira shook her head. (Another human gesture which had become familiar to the gukuy.)

"I did not mean you personally. I meant—" She waved her hand, encompassing the huge throng outside the hut.

"We have come to stay," replied Ushulubang. The gesture of respectful inquiry. "With your permission, great mother of demons."

"Don't call me that!"

The gesture of obedience. "As you wish. May I ask why?"

"I am not the ruler of my people."

"So I was told. That is why I did not call you Paramount Mother."

Indira's irritation was replaced by curiosity.

"I do not understand the distinction."

Ushulubang whistled humorously. "There is, in some ways, no distinction. The Paramount Mothers of the tashop arren do not rule their peoples, in all truth, despite the hootings of the awoloshu."

Indira mentally translated Ushulubang's terms. The Anshaku term tashop arren meant "the thickness of the meat." All of the gukuy religions which she had so far encountered, except that of the Pilgrims, based their cosmological concepts on the analogy between the world and a huge clam. In all the languages she knew, in fact, the term for "world" was actually "The-Clam-That-Is-The-World." The earth itself, rich and fecund, was "the Meat of the Clam." The pearly gray sky above was "the mother-of-pearl." The shell of the Clam protected the world from the unknown terrors which lurked in the Infinite Sea beyond. (When the gukuy had learned that the humans had come to Ishtar from somewhere in that Infinite Sea, their nature as "demons" had been confirmed. Who but demons could survive such a voyage?)

The religion of the Pilgrims did not seem to be much preoccupied with questions of cosmology and cosmogony. Like the ancient religions and philosophies of China, the Pilgrims were far more concerned with questions concerning social life and ethics. They accepted the basic cosmological concepts of their time—except for a slight twist. Goloku had said, once, that the world was not a clam but a snail. The distinction, to Indira, captured the essence of what made the religion of the Pilgrims such a new and revolutionary factor in gukuy history. Clams are passive. Filter feeders. Whereas snails—far more so on Ishtar than on Earth—were active animals who hunted for their food. To the traditionalists, the world simply was. To the Pilgrims, the world was going somewhere, in search of something.

Much like the ancient Chinese, the civilized realms of the south viewed themselves as the center of the world. The Chinese had called their land "the Middle Kingdom;" the southern gukuy called theirs "the thickness of the meat."

She had greater difficulty with awoloshu. The prefix "a" simply indicated the plural. "Wolosh" was the stem of the word. From the context, she assumed that Ushulubang was referring to the priests of the southern societies. But, in Anshaku, the term for priest was "wulush," not "wolosh."

She understood, suddenly. The word used by the sage was a pun. There was a type of snail on Ishtar, called oloshap. It was a scavenger and, as such, considered unclean by the gukuy. It also produced, when startled, a loud and ugly-sounding noise. (The Anshaku word for "fart," in fact, was a derivative—shapu.)

Chuckling, she shook her head. "I still do not understand why a paramount mother is different—"

"Are you familiar with the customs of the barbarians?"

Indira nodded. "To some degree. There are a number of former tribespeople among the Pilgrims."

Ushulubang made the gesture of agreement, which shifted to the gesture of regret.

"Not so many as I would prefer. The barbarians, despite their crudities, are a better-souled folk than the dwellers of the tashop arren. Especially the Kiktu. I raise this matter because the barbarians do not have the custom of Paramount Mothers."

Indira nodded again. "No, they call them the Great Mothers. They are not revered; but, I think, have more real say in the affairs of their people."

The gesture of respectful disagreement.

"To a degree, that is true. But the difference is much more profound. The Paramount Mothers of the tashop arren are the source of the people, the embodiment of the people's life. Among the barbarians, however, the Great Mothers are also the protectors of the people."

Indira frowned. "The protection of my people is in the hands of our Captain, Joseph Adekunle." (She pronounced it in the Anshac manner: Yoshefadekunula.)

"Just so. Yet . . . you are called the 'Admiral of the Ocean Sea.' The term may be translated, I believe, as the 'Leader of the Journey Through Infinity.' "

Indira gritted her teeth. God damn Hector Quintero and Julius Cohen. Men and their stupid jokes.

She attempted to explain the actual origin of the term in the colony's history, but Ushulubang interrupted her with a whistle.

"Males—and their stupid jokes. But Goloku taught us that humor is the palp of wisdom. A rough and heavy palp, at times. But such is often necessary, to open the valves of truth."

Once again, that piercing huge-eyed stare.

"The title is, I believe, most appropriate. Tell me, gre—Inudiratoledo: what is the principal means by which a being protects itself?"

Indira shrugged. "It depends on the being. Tentacles, for gukuy. Arms, for an ummun. And for both, the swiftness of their peds."

Ushulubang made the gesture of negation.

"No. The principal means by which a being protects itself is its eyes. For you must first see the danger, before you can deal with it."

Indira hesitated. "That is true. But—"

"What is the danger which always faces a people?"

"I—it depends."

"No. It does not 'depend.' It is always true—at all places; at all times."

She understood, suddenly. "The future."

"Just so—Admiral of the Ocean Sea Inudiratoledo."

Indira shook her head fiercely.

There is no time for this now.

"We must return to the original subject of our discussion."

"As you wish."

"How will your Pilgrims live on the Chiton? And where?"

"You have not yet given us permission to stay."

Indira frowned. "You do not need my permission. I do not own this mountain, nor do my people. If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to the owoc."

"You misunderstand. The Chiton is vast, with many valleys. There is more than enough room here for all of us—owoc, gukuy, and ummun alike." A humorous whistle. "The Pilgrims number among them both civilized and barbarian people. There is not a skill in the world which they do not know. Skills which, from what I have seen, you ummun often seem to lack."

Indira nodded. It could not be denied. In truth, over the past two years the humans had learned far more from the gukuy, in the way of practical skills, than the other way around.

"You, on the other hand, possess arts and skills which we lack. Most of those arts—sciences, you call them—are not yet of any use to my people. In truth, we do not even understand them. But I believe those arts will be necessary for us, in that dangerous place called the future."

The gesture of regretful affirmation. "And in the meantime, you possess a great knowledge of that skill which is most necessary of all. In this perilous place called the present."

"And what is that?" But she already knew the answer.

"The art of war."

* * *

"Is that why they came here?" asked Julius later. "To learn how to fight their persecutors?"

"Partly. But it's more than that. Ishtarian society has reached the stage where the old ways are rupturing at the seams. In all societies—civilized and barbarian alike. The emergence of the Way is itself a symptom of that upheaval. So is the rise of this monstrous tribe from the far west."

"The Utuku?" He shook his head. "Well, let's root for the Kiktu."

Indira shook her head. Grimly: "It's too late for that, Julius. The Kiktu were utterly destroyed by the Utuku. Months ago, in a great battle on the other side of that huge jungle southwest of the Chiton. The Pilgrims learned about it from refugees fleeing the disaster. That's why they circled the mountain and came in from the east, in fact—to avoid the oncoming army of the Utuku. A number of the refugees are here with the Pilgrims. I was able to talk to one of them today myself."

Julius was pale. "The Kiktu were destroyed? Completely?"

Indira nodded. "Apparently so. Well, the refugee I spoke to said that some of the Kiktu fled into the swamp. But she seemed to view that as no more than a protracted death sentence. That aside, yes. And not just the Kiktu, but all of their tribal allies. They were surrounded and pinned against the swamp. Crushed. The tribes' mothers would have been crippled and enslaved. All others butchered for meat, except for young females conscripted into the Utuku army."

"Conscripted?"

"Yes. It's the Utuku custom to force young warriors and females to join their army."

Julius shook his head. "Sounds like a chancy proposition to me. What's to keep them loyal?"

"They are required to participate in a ceremony which guarantees they will not go back to their old tribe."

Julius turned even paler. "I don't think I want to hear this."

"Yes. They are forced to eat their tribespeople in the victory feast."

He looked away. "I knew I didn't want to hear it."

"You must, Julius. As Ushulubang said, there is the danger of the future—and the peril of the present. The entire Papti Plain is now open to the Utuku. They will be sweeping across it like army ants. With nothing between them and us but the slopes of the Chiton. And whatever army we can build to defend those slopes."

"Maybe they'll turn south."

"Toward the prevalates?" She shook her head. "I don't think so. Neither does Ushulubang. The Beak of the Utuku is reputed to be cold and calculating, as well as vicious. As powerful as the Utuku have become, they are still not ready to match flails with the Anshac. Not yet. They will need to consolidate their rule over the Papti first. And in order to do that, the Beak will see to the elimination of any possible threat in the vicinity. Such as demons living on the mountain that overlooks the plain."

She stared out the hut.

"Where are you, Joseph?" she whispered.

To her relief, Joseph returned the next day. With, for the first time since he began the raids, a prisoner.

That is easily the biggest gukuy I have ever seen, except a mother, thought Indira, gazing at the figure on the litter. Also, if I've learned to assess gukuy standards of beauty, the ugliest.

Then she noticed the small figure of the male inside the warrior's mantle cavity.

That's strange. The males usually don't associate closely with warriors. I wonder what happened to his mate?

The female gukuy was unconscious, and horribly injured. Her left eye was a ruin, and there were two great puncture wounds on her mantle.

Spear wounds.

Nor was the gukuy the only injured member of the returning expedition. Jens Knudsen had been hurt as well. But it was merely a flesh wound, Indira was relieved to see.

"Merely," she thought ruefully. God, how this life has changed us all.

Maria De Los Reyes was examining the wounded gukuy, with a fierce frown on her face.

"Why didn't you just dismember her completely, while you were at it?" she demanded crossly.

"Can you save her life?" asked Jens.

Somewhat hesitantly, Maria nodded. "I think so. Her mantle cavity's obviously infected, but those poultices you put on the wounds have probably kept her from dying. It'll be touch and go, but—if this warrior's as tough as she looks, she'll survive."

Joseph smiled. "She's even tougher. Judging, at least, from the damage she caused—four wounded, two of them with broken bones."

Indira stared at the unconscious gukuy on the litter.

"All those injuries were caused by her? Alone?" She was genuinely shocked. Since the very first fight with slavers, none of Joseph's expeditions had suffered more than minor wounds to one or two warriors.

"All. The other slavers died like papakoy. This one—was terrible."

Jens winced and held up his right arm, which was heavily bandaged. "That's where I got this. She damn near tore my arm off. Her name's Nukurren, by the way, and—"

"Why did you let her live, then?" demanded Indira. "You've never done that before with any slavers you caught."

For a moment, the faces of the young human warriors assumed an expression which Indira had not seen on them for a long time. Uncertainty, hesitation; almost childlike confusion.

"I'm—not sure," replied Joseph. "Partly it was because one of the owoc slaves insisted."

"What?"

Ludmilla nodded vigorously. "It's true, Indira. We were astonished. Of course, the owoc are never—" She hesitated.

Bloodthirsty. Like we are.

"But still, I've never seen an owoc show any real concern for a slaver. As long as we bury the bodies. But the owoc was quite firm about it. She said this one was different."

Jens was frowning. "But that's not the only reason we let her live. It was also . . . I don't know. She was so incredibly brave."

Indira sighed. She understood, even if Jens didn't. The culture of the human colony was rapidly being shaped by its necessities.

A warrior culture. One of whose inevitable features is deep respect for courage, even the courage of the enemy.

It was an aspect of warrior cultures which many people admired, even in the 22nd century—including professional historians. Romantically seductive, unless you understood the corollary.

When the Mongols took Kiev they spared the life of the commander of the garrison, out of admiration for his courage. They did the same, later, at Aleppo.

Then they slaughtered everyone else.

Her musings were interrupted by the male in the wounded gukuy's mantle.

"Please. Do any of you—demons—speak my language?" The male was speaking Anshaku.

"Yes," replied Indira immediately. "I do."

Ochre and red rippled across the male's mantle, in the delicate, complex traceries of which only males were capable.

"Are you—are you the Mother of Demons?"

Indira sighed. It seemed she was doomed to that title.

"You may call me so, if you wish."

The male—a truemale, she now recognized—made the gesture of obedience. Then spoke again.

"Will Nukurren live?"

"She will live, according to our healer. Her recovery will be difficult, however. And—" A quick question to Maria. "—her eye cannot be saved."

"So long as she lives," said the truemale softly. To Indira's astonishment, the little male began stroking his companion's head. His mantle was flushed with that shade of green which, for gukuy, was the sign of romantic attachment.

Now this is something I've never seen. A romantic attachment between a female and a truemale?

She pondered the situation. Julius had long been puzzled by the active sex life enjoyed by the gukuy, the vast majority of whom were sterile females. Sex, he had explained to her, takes up a lot of biological energy, and he couldn't figure out why a species would evolve such an orientation when there was no possibility of reproduction between sterile females. Among the owoc, a cousin species, there was little sexual activity except between mothers and males. He had eventually developed an explanation which satisfied him. Though it was based on an elaborate (to Indira's mind, arcane) web of neurological reasoning and kin selection game theory, his hypothesis amounted to: "They're smart, sex is fun, and how are you gonna keep 'em down on the farm when they've been to gay Paree?"

Still, the sex life of gukuy followed definite rules. Sterile females coupled with other sterile females. Truemales with mothers. (Eumales with no one.) Indira had never observed a romantic relationship between a truemale and a sterile female. Even among the relatively tolerant barbarian tribes, such an attachment would be considered unnatural and perverted. And among the far less tolerant civilized cultures—such as the Ansha from which the truemale obviously came—such a coupling would be anathema, for which the priests would demand the death penalty.

There's a fascinating story here. I must learn it from him.

"What is your name?" she asked. To her surprise, the answer came from behind her. In the voice of Ushulubang.

"He is called Dhowifa."

She had not heard the sage coming. Ushulubang, she had already learned, was not given to ceremonious parades. At the moment, she was only accompanied by one of her pashoc—a young gukuy named Shurren, who, like Ushulubang, came from the Anshac capital of Shakutulubac.

Indira looked back at the truemale. Dhowifa had withdrawn further into the mantle cavity. Stripes of ochre and orange rippled along his mantle.

"Hello, great-nephew," said Ushulubang softly.

A moment later, the truemale replied: "Hello, great-aunt Ushulubang."

How many more surprises are there going to be today? wondered Indira. The two gukuy were not actually "nephew" and "aunt," of course—not, at least, in the precise sense of the English words. But those were the nearest equivalents for the Anshac terms. Closely related members of the same clan, separated by sex and two generations.

Indira saw that the mantle of Ushulubang's companion was dappled blue and yellow.

"What is the pervert Dhowifa doing here?" demanded Shurren. The tone of her voice was extremely hostile.

Ushulubang eyed her companion, then said mildly: "I should imagine he and his lover have come to live among the demons. Where their—arrangement—would seem natural."

Shurren's mantle turned ochre.

"Or have you forgotten, Shurren, that among the demons the males couple with the females?"

Shurren's mantle turned bright pink.

Indira felt a sudden surge of affection for the old sage. And the tiny hope which she had found the day before grew brighter.

Perhaps. Perhaps . . .

"That is not the same," protested Shurren. "The demons are—different from gukuy."

Ushulubang made the gesture of respectful submission—the traditional salutation of a student to the master.

"Ah. I am enlightened. Before this moment, I had always thought gukuy were different from each other as well. But I see now that it is not so. Truly, the pervert Dhowifa possesses a monstrous soul. Why else would he have chosen the organs of Ansha's greatest warrior to those of the Paramount Mother Ilishito?"

"Ilishito?" exclaimed Indira. "The same—"

"Just so. The same Ilishito who tortured the Pilgrims and slew all my apashoc."

Indira was confused. "But—this truemale does not seem old enough—"

Ushulubang made the gesture of negation. "Dhowifa was born long after the persecution. Ilishito lived to a great age, Indira. A cruel but vigorous mother. And much given to replacing old husbands with young malebonds."

Dhowifa spoke.

"Have you—what has happened with my bondbrothers?"

"After you fled with Nukurren, they were disgraced. Almost executed, in fact, but their lives were spared in the end. I do not know what happened to them after. I am not myself in the good graces of the clan, as you know."

The truemale's mantle turned deep brown.

Ushulubang made the gesture of acceptance. "What did you expect, nephew?"

"I don't know. I—could only leave."

Indira understood, then. Dhowifa had not simply violated accepted standards of sexual morality and abandoned his lawful mate. He had also abandoned his malebond.

The anguish must have been incredible. She stared at the huge, scarred body of Nukurren. There must be something else inside that fearsome figure, to have won such love and devotion.

"Take good care of her," she said to Maria suddenly. The doctor gave her an unfriendly sidelong glance. As if I wouldn't?

At Maria's order, four of the warriors picked up the litter and began carrying it toward her "hospital," a large hut which the colonists had recently built next to the long houses. As the litter began to move away, Ushulubang called out:

"Have you continued to practice your dukuna?"

The truemale's voice came back:

"Yes, great-aunt. It has been a comfort these past eightyweeks. I thank you for instructing me."

Shurren's mantle flashed orange.

"You instructed him?"

"Just so, Shurren. He was perhaps my best student. Of the clan, at least. He might well have become my best student of all, except that I was unable to visit him often. I was not welcome in the Divine Shell, you know. My visits were infrequent and surreptitious."

"But—why? Even though he is of your clan, I do not understand why—"

"Why I would waste my time instructing a foolish male?"

Ushulubang made the gesture of abject apology.

"I have forgotten. Only females—and not even most of them; no, only those who follow the Way—feel sorrow at the evil of the world. The rest are dumb beasts."

Shurren's mantle rippled pinkish-brown. (A color frequently found upon Ushulubang's disciples, Indira noted—with great satisfaction.)

"I have offended you."

"Nonsense! To the contrary, Shurren, you have brought me sudden joy. Your words recall to my memory a long forgotten episode from the days I wandered the streets of Shakutulubac in the company of Goloku. Come, I will tell you about it."

Ushulubang and Shurren began moving away. Indira heard the sage's voice drifting back.

"It was a miserable night. The more so because Goloku had gotten drunk. Again." Indira smiled at the sound of Shurren's shocked hoot. "Oh, yes—it's quite true. Goloku was excessively fond of ashuweed. Often made a fool of herself. This night was no different. We encountered a small pack of eumales in one of the back alleys. Six or seven of the disgusting creatures. Beggars and thieves. Would you believe that drunken fool invited them to spend the night in her mantle?"

Shocked hoot.

"Oh, yes—it's quite true. I was appalled, of course—especially when it was discovered they couldn't all fit inside Goloku and she insisted that I accept half of them."

Shocked hoot.

"Oh, yes—it's quite true. Then, no sooner . . ."

The voices became indistinct. Indira was left alone with Joseph. Joseph was watching her, with the look he usually held in her presence. Reserve—no, deep anger, held in check.

Suddenly, as she had not done in a long time, Indira smiled at Joseph. Slowly, a hesitant smile came in return.

Maybe, thought Indira. Maybe.

It was still a faint hope, murky and uncertain. But for a woman who had felt no hope in years, it was as if a ray of sunshine had broken through the everlasting clouds of Ishtar.

Nukurren regained consciousness the next day, and never lapsed back thereafter. Under the ministrations of the healer demon Mariyaduloshruyush and her assistants, the wounds began to heal quickly. Most of the assistants were demons, but two were gukuy Pilgrims from Anshac. One of them, a former helot named Ertatu, told Nukurren than she was healing much more quickly than the demon herself had expected.

"Mariya says you are the toughest gukuy she's ever seen," commented Ertatu, as she changed Nukurren's poultices.

"You can say that again."

Nukurren swiveled her good eye and saw the figure of Dzhenushkunutushen standing in the entrance to the hospital. The white demon advanced to Nukurren's side.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her. To Nukurren's surprise, he spoke in Anshaku. Very good Anshaku. During the long trek up the Chiton, Dzhenushkunutushen and the female demon Ludumila had spoken only Kiktu, and seemed not to comprehend Nukurren and Dhowifa when they spoke to each other in Anshaku.

Shrewd. The demons are cunning as well as ferocious.

Nukurren made the gesture of acceptance.

"I am alive and it seems I will remain so. That is unexpected."

"I am sorry about your eye," said the demon.

"It does not matter. It is a just punishment for my sins. It is only right that I should lose an eye, in payment for the Old Ones I helped enslave."

The demon opened his—mouth, Nukurren had learned, was the name for demon beaks (except the demons claimed their real name was ummun)—and began to speak; then fell silent.

After a pause, he said: "I would like to talk to you, but I cannot. I must return to the training field."

"You are a trainer of warriors?"

"I am the—" Nukurren made him repeat the term until she could pronounce it. Sharredzhenutumadzhoru.

She understood the meaning of the title at once. So I suspected. He is a centurion of the human legion. As was I, before I was sent to the Motherguard.

(The actual term which Nukurren used, of course, was not "centurion." It was gurren otoshoc, which translates roughly as "chief troop leader." But the essence was the same as the ancient Roman term, which, over the centuries, was duplicated in different words in different human languages. Whatever the word, it referred to the sinew of all great armies—top sergeant.)

"You are preparing for war?" asked Nukurren. Interpreting the strange movement of the demon's face as hesitation, suspicion, she made the gesture of indifference. Then repeated it in words, realizing that the demon might not understand the curl of her arms.

"It does not matter to me, Dzhenushkunutushen. I am no longer a warrior, nor do I care what happens to any realm on the Meat of the Clam. It is true that you are demons, but—" The gesture of resignation. "You can be no crueler than any gukuy."

Dzhenushkunutushen stood. "There is no reason not to tell you. We will be fighting the Utuku soon. Very soon, I think, and we are not well prepared."

"The Kiktu have been defeated, then?"

"Destroyed completely, by all accounts."

Nukurren made the gesture of regret.

"I am grieved to hear it. Of all the peoples I encountered, the Kiktu were the best. Barbarous and crude, but rarely evil."

"So it is said. But they are gone now. Slain in battle, or food for the Utuku."

"Go then, Sharredzhenutumadzhoru." The gesture of amusement. "I would not wish to see you in the bellies of the Utuku."

Dzhenushkunutushen turned away, saying: "Any Utuku who bites me will die horribly."

Nukurren appreciated the humor of the remark. Then, after further thought, wondered if it was a joke.

Two days later, the white demon reappeared in the hospital. He was accompanied by the female demon who was skilled in the healing arts, Mariyaduloshruyush.

"Mariya tells me that you are now able to move about," said Dzhenushkunutushen.

"That is true. Not easily, and not very well. But I am able to walk."

"I would like to ask you—" The female demon began rapidly speaking in the human language. Enagulishuc, it was called. Nukurren thought she was displeased.

"She is angry with me," explained Dzhenushkunutushen.

"Why?"

"Because what I wish to ask of you will not be good for your health."

"Ask."

The female demon left abruptly, after making that odd motion of spreading her arms which Nukurren suspected was the demon equivalent of the gesture of disgruntled acceptance.

"I would like to ask you to come to the training field and observe."

"Why?"

"You are the best gukuy warrior we have ever encountered. I think you could teach us much. Yoshef—he is the" (Nukurren made him repeat the term until she grasped it) "kapitanu of our army—did not like the idea. He is suspicious of you. But I insisted."

"Why?"

The demon paused. Two small, bright blue demon eyes stared into one large, iron gray gukuy eye. Then:

"You know why—Sharredzhenutumadzhoru."

Three days later, feeling her health returning quickly, Nukurren went to the training field. She was accompanied by Ertatu, but Nukurren had no need of her guidance to find the way. The harsh sounds of demon voices were the only guide she needed. Much harsher sounding than usual. It was the demon battle language, she knew.

At the edge of the open field, Nukurren squatted and observed the demons racing back and forth in complex maneuvers. It took her some time to separate the logic of the actions from the sheer dazzling display of speed. By now, of course, she had come to understand the demon way of moving, and so they no longer seemed to flicker. Still, they were so fast; so agile; so—different.

And then, as she watched, not so different. They were practicing tactical maneuvers, and once Nukurren became accustomed to the blinding speed of the demons, she was eventually able to discern the basic patterns of the exercises.

Nukurren's only previous experience with the demons in combat had been the attack on the slave caravan. That episode had been too chaotic for her to have made any assessment of the demons' tactical methods. Now, seeing those methods displayed in training exercises, Nukurren was puzzled by what she saw.

Eventually, the demons paused in their exercises and made that bizarre folding motion with their bodies which enabled them to rest on the ground. The word for that in Enagulishuc, Nukurren had learned, was sitting. She was fascinated to see water (at least, she thought it was water) dripping down the faces of the demons, and quickly deduced that such was the demon method of eliminating excess heat. It seemed bizarre to her, as well as messy and slightly disgusting. Gukuy expelled excess heat through increased evaporation in their breath.

Soon, Dzhenushkunutushen approached and sat down facing her.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Nukurren considered her reply. It would be unwise to offend the demon. He, and to some extent his lover Ludumila, had been the only demons to show some signs of friendship toward Nukurren and Dhowifa. On the other hand . . .

Nukurren decided. Whatever else, Dzhenushkunutushen was gurren otoshoc, and thus entitled to respect.

"A question. How many of you will mobilize for war with the Utuku?"

The demon hesitated. Then: "Triple-eighty."

"So few?"

Silence. The demon looked away for a time. It was, Nukurren realized, a critical moment.

Dzhenushkunutushen turned back. His bright blue eyes were unwavering.

"There are no more ummun than that on this world, Nukurren. Except a very few too old to fight."

Nukurren made the gesture which, in Anshaku, is called unnudh wap kottu. The gesture expresses a sentiment which is not readily translatable into English. A different human culture had an equivalent—that particular bow by which one samurai acknowledges another.

"I am honored by your trust," she said.

Suddenly, the demon rose partly erect. His stick-peds (legs, Nukurren had learned) were strangely bent, and he rested on the joints. He clasped together his forelimb extremities (hands) and nodded his head. Nukurren immediately understood that Dzhenushkunutushen was reciprocating the unnudh wap kottu. It did not seem a practiced gesture, and she thought that the demon had invented it on the spot.

Her surmises were confirmed.

They are terrible in war, yet they are not really warriors. They use the tactics of barbarians, yet they are more civilized than Anshac. Their arts and crafts are crude, judging from the poorly built hospital, yet their knowledge seems immense. They are a mystery beyond any I have ever encountered.

"Your tactics are crude and stupid. That would not matter, if your numbers were great. Against equal numbers of gukuy warriors, of any people, you will always win, because you are so much faster. After a time, however, when gukuy become accustomed to your skills, you will suffer losses which you cannot afford. Against Kiktu, you will always do well because the Kiktu fight much as you do. Stupidly. Against a good Anshac legion, you would be defeated by the third battle. Against an excellent legion, by the second. You have no chance against the Utuku. The Utuku tactics are crude, but they always send huge numbers into battle, and they are highly disciplined. You will break against them."

The white of Dzhenushkunutushen's mantle (no, the demons call it "skin,") was flushed with pink.

He is embarrassed, interpreted Nukurren, but this time, I think, he is not pleased.

The demon took a deep breath.

"I guess I asked for that," he said softly, looking down at the ground. He raised his eyes. As always, Nukurren was struck by their dazzling color.

"Can our chances be improved?" he asked.

Nukurren made the gesture of uncertainty.

"The question has no simple answer. It depends on many things. Some of these go far beyond battle methods. But—insofar as your question involves tactics, the answer is: perhaps."

"Perhaps? Why—perhaps?"

"Because the true question you must ask of yourself. Are demons willing to learn? Or are they as full of their pride as most gukuy?"

Suddenly, Dzhenushkunutushen was laughing, and making that side-to-side motion of his head which Nukurren had learned was the demon gesture of negation.

"You still do not understand, Nukurren. We are not demons. We are ummun, and barely beyond childhood. If there is one thing we know how to do well, it is learn."

Nukurren was unconvinced. "Of you, that may be true. But I do not think it is true of your kapitanu, Yoshefadenukunula."

Again, Dzhenushkunutushen made the gesture of negation.

"You do not understand him, Nukurren. It is his color which confuses you. You think he is implacable. He is actually the most uncertain of us all, but because we depend on him so, can never show it."

Nukurren was silent, unconvinced.

"You will see," said Dzhenushkunutushen.

That night, in the hospital, Dhowifa prattled happily of the events of the day. Again, as had been true since they arrived among the ummun, Dhowifa had spent most of his time in the company of Ushulubang. Only at night did he return to the hospital.

Nukurren did not begrudge Dhowifa his absences. It had been the worst of Dhowifa's pain when they fled Shakutulubac, other than losing his malebond, to lose the company of Ushulubang. And now he had found her again, and was able to spend entire days in the sage's company, instead of a few hours snatched from under the watchful eyes of the Ansha.

On this night, however, Nukurren would have preferred it if Dhowifa had been silent. His incessant chatter was distracting her from her own thoughts, which were focussed on the problem Dzhenushkunutushen had set before her.

By what tactics could a few demons defeat the Utuku hordes?

That night, Nukurren found no answer. But she did find many useful questions.

The next day, and for five days thereafter, she squatted silently by the training field, watching the demon exercises. She said nothing to Dzhenushkunutushen, and he, as if guided by some unspoken understanding, said nothing to her.

On the seventh day, Nukurren decided that her health was sufficiently restored. She told Dzhenushkunutushen to take her to the armory. Asking no questions, the ummun led her to a large wooden hut located some distance away. There, laboring with simple and primitive tools, Nukurren found several Pilgrims. Most of them were Anshac. To her surprise, she recognized the leader of the group. Her name was Utguko, and she had been, long before, the armorer for Nukurren's first legion.

Nukurren turned to Dzhenushkunutushen.

"I will need certain things to be made here." Dzhenushkunutushen made the gesture of assent and gave instructions to Utguko. Nukurren was interested to see that they conversed in Enagulishuc instead of Anshaku. They did so, she knew, not to keep secrets from her but because it was the wishes of the sage Ushulubang that Enagulishuc become the language of the Way.

"It will be done," said Dzhenushkunutushen to her, speaking now in Anshaku.

"Is good," she replied, in Enagulishuc. She interpreted Dzhenushkunutushen's stillness as surprise that Nukurren was learning Enagulishuc so quickly. Nukurren herself began to stiffen then, feeling the old hurt return, that she should be thought stupid simply because she was big and ugly. Then, after a moment, she relaxed. In truth, Nukurren was learning more quickly than would most gukuy.

"Tomorrow," she continued, still speaking Enagulishuc, "at training field. We see if demon can learn. If will learn."

After Dzhenushkunutushen left, Nukurren explained to Utguko her requirements. The old armorer was surprised, but she made no objections.

Early in the morning on the following day, when Nukurren returned, the materials she had requested were ready. Thoughtfully, Utguko had wrapped them in a reed-bundle, which made the bulky items easier to carry.

Hoisting the bundle onto her mantle, Nukurren made her way toward the training field. Her route took her through the demon village, past the longhouses of the warriors and the small huts of the older leaders. As she passed through the village, many demons emerged from the longhouses and began following her. To Nukurren's surprise, the Mother of Demons herself emerged from her hut and joined the crowd.

By the time she reached the training field, it seemed that every demon was present. On the field, in a small group, were those whom Nukurren had learned were their battle leaders. The kapitanu, Yoshefadekunula; the three liyutenanatu, Ludumilaroshokavashiki, Anadurumakfurrushen, Takashimitodzhugudzhi; and the Sharredzhenutumadzhoru, Dzhenushkunutushen.

Nukurren advanced to the middle of the field and stopped before the small group of demons. She unrolled the reed-bundle and selected, from the pile, a training fork and flail. The instruments were designed much like actual weapons, but were deliberately blunted and wrapped in resinous cloth to prevent serious injuries.

For a moment, Nukurren was tempted to speak in Enagulishuc. But she decided to use Anshaku instead. It was important there be no misunderstandings.

"First, you must learn you can be defeated. I do not believe you know this yet. Now you will learn. I do not know if you have such things as training spears. It would be better to use them. If you use real spears, I will be forced to move very quickly, and I may not be able to keep from harming you seriously."

The demons stared down at her. After a moment, the kapitanu called out a command. Soon thereafter, a male demon came onto the field, bearing spears which were simply blunted wood instead of metal-tipped.

The five battle leaders each took a spear.

"Your armor also," instructed Nukurren. Seeing the hesitation, she whistled derision.

"You are fools," she said.

The five demons donned their battle armor.

"Which of us do you wish to practice with?" asked Dzhenushkunutushen.

"All."

"All? That's ridiculous!"

"Great fools." Nukurren fell upon them.

The combat which followed was savage and short. This time, Nukurren had the advantage of surprise, and she used it ruthlessly. Before the demons had even begun to react, Anadurumakfurrushen and Takashimitodzhugudzhi were sprawled half-senseless on the ground. Ludumilaroshokavashiki was able to avoid Nukurren's first flail-blow by virtue of her incredible speed, but, as Nukurren had foreseen, she was temporarily off-balance. Nukurren now pivoted against Dzhenushkunutushen, forcing him against Yoshefadekunula, and then hammered the white male mercilessly with both fork and flail. As she had suspected, Dzhenushkunutushen was very strong, but he was not as strong as Nukurren. He went down under the blows, entangling the demonlord in his fall.

That allowed Nukurren the time she needed to finish Ludumilaroshokavashiki. Again, she was impressed by the speed and dexterity of the female warrior; but it availed Ludumilaroshokavashiki nothing. She was overconfident, as Nukurren had known she would be. The demon lunged in with a headthrust of her spear. It was a clever feint, designed to draw forth a missed fork-stroke. But Nukurren's battle-experience was by far the greater. Instead of the fork-stroke she expected, Ludumilaroshokavashiki found her spear entrapped by Nukurren flair; and then, helpless, came the fork-stroke which spilled her to the ground, her armor splintering under the impact.

Nukurren spun about and, without even looking, rolled to the side. The demonlord's spearthrust missed her completely. She lashed with the flail and then, pleased beyond measure, saw that Yoshefadekunula had again avoided it by that impossible upward spring.

But I know it now, demonlord.

She could not deny the satisfaction it gave her to swat the demonlord in midair, with a stroke of the fork which was, perhaps, excessively harsh.

She spun about. Three of the demons were beginning to rise, but Nukurren stilled them with quick touches of the flail. These were not blows, simply touches. But they were enough to drive home the lesson. All were now at her mercy, and there would have been nothing, had they been using real weapons in a real battle, to prevent her from slaying them.

She stepped back and set down her fork and flail.

"That is the first lesson. There will be no other today. Tomorrow I will begin teaching you the Utuku way of war, so that you may learn how to combat them. But today's lesson is the most important lesson of all, and you must think upon it."

She rolled up her instruments in the reed-bundle and carried them back to the hospital.

Late that night, Dzhenushkunutushen came to the hospital and sat by Nukurren's pallet. He said nothing for a time, nor did Nukurren.

At length, Dhowifa spoke.

"Are you hurt?"

Dzhenushkunutushen's face crunched. The ummun crunched their faces many different ways, but Nukurren thought this was the gesture of ruefulness.

"I hurt all over."

"Good," said Nukurren. "It will prepare you for tomorrow. Where you will hurt again, but will be wiser."

Again, the crunch. Slightly different.

"Some friend you are!"

Only her long years of shoroku kept Nukurren's mantle gray. For some time, she did not trust herself to speak. Dzhenushkunutushen rose and began to leave.

Softly, to his back, Nukurren said: "I have never had a friend. Except Dhowifa."

The demon stopped in the doorway. He turned around and came back to Nukurren's pallet. As always, she was struck by the strangeness of his colors, the white passion of his skin and the blue fury of his eyes.

"I have never known loneliness," he said. "I think you have never known anything else."

"That is true. Except Dhowifa." She felt her lover's soft touch.

Dzhenushkunutushen lay down on the floor next to the pallet. "Tonight I will sleep here, Nukurren. There are lessons which you need to learn also."

Soon, Dzhenushkunutushen fell asleep, as, shortly thereafter, did Dhowifa. Nukurren remained awake long into the night. Never once did her shoroku waver. But the time came when one of the great palps which had brought terror and death to so many over the years reached out. Reached out, and gently touched the soft yellow hair of the demon lying next to her.

In the days after the shocking defeat which the huge new gukuy had delivered to Joseph and his lieutenants, Indira found herself, much against her natural inclination, visiting the training field. She said nothing to anyone, simply watched as the new arrival—Nukurren—began showing the human warriors the Utuku methods of combat.

On the second day of the new training regimen, Ushulubang arrived. She was accompanied by Dhowifa, riding in her mantle cavity, and a large number of Pilgrims. Indira immediately knew, by some subtlety in their bearing, that these Pilgrims were former warriors. They were carrying reed-bundles laden with unusually designed weapons, including shields. From descriptions she had heard, Indira realized that these were replicas of Utuku weapons. After a brief consultation between Ushulubang and Nukurren, the Pilgrims donned the Utuku armament and began acting as the mock opponent for the human platoons.

Ushulubang then came to Indira's side. With Ushulubang was one of the Pilgrim warriors, older than the others. Although Indira could not interpret specifically the clan carvings on her cowl (which had all the arcane intricacies of medieval heraldry), Indira was sure that this new gukuy was of some high-ranked Ansha clan.

Ushulubang immediately confirmed her guess.

"Inudira, this is Ghodha. She is a new Pilgrim. Until our flight from Shakutulubac, she was a high commander in the Ansha legions. She is the most experienced war leader amongst the Pilgrims."

Ghodha made the gesture of respect. More properly, since the gesture of respect was generic, she made that specific version of the gesture of respect which signified respect by a high subordinate of one realm toward the august ruler of another.

In return, Indira bowed. Her bow contained none of the subtleties of Ghodha's gesture, however. Indira had realized that the humans would have to develop appropriate gestures with which to respond to gukuy, and so she had instituted the bow. The bow given to gukuy as a gesture of respect, however, was different from the one given to the owoc at the time of feeding. Much shallower—closer to an exaggerated nod than a deep bow. And she had insisted that there be no gradations in the bow.

But, as she had known would happen, the gradations were creeping in regardless. And she had immediately noted the different gesture which Jens Knudsen was using toward Nukurren, and which was almost immediately adopted by the other human warriors. The fact that the gesture resembled, in its outward appearance, the humble hand-clasping of a medieval monk toward an abbot did not fool her for a moment.

Within a generation, she thought wearily, we'll be a proper bunch of samurai and mandarins.

"You are distressed, Inudira," commented Ushulubang. "May I ask why?"

Indira stared. She had already come to recognize that Ushulubang was easily the most intelligent person—human or gukuy—that Indira had ever met in her life. But she was still astonished by the old sage's uncanny ability to interpret subtle nuances of human body language.

"I—it is difficult to explain."

Ushulubang gestured toward the training field.

"Would it ease your spirit if we desisted from this action?"

Indira immediately shook her head. "No, no. You will be a big help for my—children. I should have thought of it myself."

Then why didn't you? she asked herself. The idea was obvious.

But she knew the answer. Because I cannot bear the future I can see—no matter where I look.

"It is what will come of this that disturbs you," said Ushulubang.

Indira nodded.

"I believe I understand. Some day we must speak on this matter, Inudira."

Again, she nodded. But her nod contained, in some subtle way, the implication of hopeless resignation; and she knew the sage recognized it.

She tried to shake off the black mood.

"What is your opinion?" she asked the war leader Ghodha, pointing to the training field.

Ghodha hesitated.

"I would prefer to reserve my opinion, for the moment. I am not familiar with the tactical methods and abilities of dem—ummun."

Indira turned and gazed back onto the training field. By now, the human platoons were fully engaged in maneuvers with the Pilgrims. The Pilgrims were arrayed in a tightly knit formation. In essence, it was a phalanx. But Indira saw that the phalanx was much shallower in depth than the formations of the ancient Greeks and Macedonians. The difference, of course, was due to the weapons involved. The many-ranked phalanxes of Hellenic warriors had been designed to take advantage of the great reach of their long spears and pikes. The Utuku, using flails, were limited to a three-deep formation.

"Is that how the Utuku fight?" she asked Ghodha.

"Yes. It is very crude and primitive, and allows for no subtlety of maneuvers. But if the discipline is sufficient—and Utuku discipline is like bronze—then their—" Ghodha hesitated. "I do not know the Enagulishuc word. The Utuku call this formation a kabu buxt. We Ansha call it arrut kudh pakta."

Arrut kudh pakta. Indira made the translation. Crest of the shell, essentially.

"We call it a phalanx," she said.

"Falanuksh," repeated Ghodha. "With their great numbers, and discipline, the Utuku can be a terrible foe. Many armies have broken against them."

A long silence ensued. For the next four hours, Indira watched as the young human leaders, consulting frequently with Nukurren, began changing and adapting their tactics. They were fumbling, at first; grew more assured as time went by. But still, Indira knew, they were groping for answers.

The voice of Ghodha interrupted her thoughts.

"You are fortunate to have Nukurren. She was the greatest warrior of the Anshac legions."

Indira turned and looked at the Pilgrim war leader.

"I did not realize you knew her."

Ghodha made the gesture of negation.

"I did not really know her, Inudira." A faint ochre ripple, with a hint of brown. "The caste divisions in Ansha are rigid. I was high caste—not Ansha, like Ushulubang or Rottu, but very high. Nukurren belonged to no caste, not even a low one. She was born into a helot slave pool. Clanless and outcast." Another ripple, the brown now predominant. "As such, and despite her incredible prowess, she was despised by such as—myself. In my former time, as a high commander."

Ghodha paused, took a deep breath. (In this, humans and gukuy were quite alike—a thing difficult to say was usually prefaced by a full intake of oxygen.) The brown ripples spread and suffused her entire mantle. That shade of brown which signified remorse.

"All my life, before I decided to adopt the Way and follow Ushulubang, I have been trained in arrogance. It comes very easily to me. I have tried to combat it, but it is often difficult. I shall try harder in the future. I will not always succeed, I fear, but I will try."

Indira began to speak, but was interrupted by Dhowifa. The little male's voice was even softer than usual.

"Nukurren thought you were the best of the legions' high commanders," he said.

An orange ripple broke up the brown of Ghodha's mantle.

"It's true," added Dhowifa. "She told me several times." The quick, complex wash of ochre/pink/azure which suddenly colored the little male's mantle was exquisite in its subtlety. Indira was not certain, but she thought it was a brilliant emotional exhibition of diffident apology, leavened by humor (no, not humor—good feeling).

"Actually, she thought the best tactical commander was Ashurruk."

"Of course!" exclaimed Ghodha. "Ashurruk was superb on the battlefield."

"But she thought you were the best thinker. The best—I can't remember the word, I'm not a warrior—the best—"

"Strategist?" asked Ghodha.

A lightning-quick ripple of greenish color. "That's the word!" said Dhowifa.

Ghodha turned and gazed down at the training field.

"So." A whistle. "I must apologize to her."

"Oh, you needn't," said Dhowifa. "Nukurren was never offended by you."

"Perhaps not," replied Ghodha. The former Ansha commander's mantle was suddenly replaced by a dull, matte black. (Stolid determination, Indira knew, closely related to the ebony sheen of implacable purpose.) "I hope not. But my offense is much deeper. Until this very moment, I had never realized that common warriors thought about their commanders. Assessed them, even, much as commanders assess their troops." A short silence; then, a ripple of yellow contempt. "As if commanders are the only ones who think. As if warriors are but brainless beasts."

Indira felt a sudden wave of immense affection for Ghodha sweep over her. In that one moment, she felt a deep regret that she had no way of showing her feelings on her skin as could a gukuy.

She was born into an Anshac upper caste, and trained as a high commander of the legions. For such as she haughtiness and condescension and insult are as natural as breathing. Yet only such a one who also possessed a great soul would have left it all to follow a despised and outlawed sage, for no other reason than devotion to some higher purpose.

She turned away and gazed back onto the training field. The tactics which the young human leaders were developing, working with Nukurren, were beginning to crystallize. But it was also obvious to Indira that they were still hesitant, still uncertain, still unsure of themselves.

She watched as Jens Knudsen, passing by Nukurren during a pause in the action, casually stroked the huge warrior's scarred mantle. She watched as Ludmilla exchanged banter with the outcaste veteran. She watched as Joseph stood by the despised pervert, the former helot, the soulless monster whose mantle never showed any color; stood by her, deep in conversation, his brow furrowed with thought.

Young humans, barely beyond childhood, of every color; allied to a soulless monster whose mantle never showed any color; desperately seeking to forge an instrument which could stave off destruction.

And doing very well, thought Indira, given their handicaps. They are almost there. They need only the finishing touch. And, most of all, the confidence that they are right. The confidence which the Mother of Demons could give them. The Mother of Demons, who knows the secrets.

There are no secrets! she heard her own voice shrieking. But it was a lie.

This secret I do know. It was discovered long ago, in another time, on another planet.

A vivid image flashed through her mind, the superimposed vision of a dark forest in Poland, and the Utuku defeated. No, more than defeated. Shattered, slaughtered, butchered. Their blood soaking the needles of pine trees which never existed on Ishtar; their entrails strewn beneath the branches of an alien growth. Death and destruction in a demon forest.

At that moment, Indira almost spoke. Almost stepped forward and went onto the training field.

But other visions came, and paralyzed her. Vision after vision after vision.

Yes, I know the secret. And all the secrets which come with it.

She saw the horsetail standards of the Mongol tumens, shivering with triumph in the forest. And the pitiless faces of the horsemen and their generals. And the cities like hecatombs. And the peasant woman lying in the doorway of the wretched hovel in which she had toiled her life; her short life, now ending, as she lay there, naked, violated, bleeding to death; her last sight the disemboweled bodies of her children. Lives which had no meaning to the warriors who rode away, toward new triumphs, beyond the brief pleasure they had taken from ending them. But lives which had been as precious to their victims as the life of the Great Khan had been to him, in his grandeur at Qarakorum.

Indira turned and walked away. Her steps were quick, very quick, almost running; the pace of a mother abandoning her children. She was glad, then, that she had no way of showing her feelings as could a gukuy. For her skin would have fairly glowed with brown misery—that particular shade of brown which signified guilt.

* * *

As soon as she left, Joseph and his lieutenants broke off the exercises and trotted over to Ushulubang. Jens Knudsen followed, after a brief exchange of words with Nukurren. Soon thereafter, all the human warriors and gukuy Pilgrims came as well, until the old sage was surrounded by a silent crowd. Only Nukurren remained behind, standing alone on the training field.

Ushulubang said nothing, until Joseph spoke in a voice filled with youthful anguish.

"Why will she not tell us?" he demanded.

"How to defeat the Utuku?" asked the sage mildly. Joseph nodded.

"Maybe she doesn't know," said Jens.

Ushulubang made the gesture of negation. "She knows. It is quite obvious."

Joseph's face was filled with fury. His body almost shook with rage.

"Then why will she not speak?"

Ushulubang's mantle flashed blue/black—the color of furious condemnation. The color of execution.

"Be silent, spawn!" bellowed the sage. The young humans stepped back, astonished. They had never seen Ushulubang in this state. The Pilgrims froze, their mantles flashing red fear. They, as well, had never see that terrible color on Ushulubang's mantle.

Ushulubang fixed her gaze on Joseph. And now the huge eyes of the sage had none of their usual gentleness and wisdom. Hers was the pitiless scrutiny of a prophet.

"Do not judge your mother, spawn. You do not have the right. You demand from her the Answer, when she is demanding from herself the Question. You do not understand how terrible that Question is. You do not even understand that there is a Question."

Ushulubang made the gesture of rejection. "Go, spawn. All of you. Return to your training."

Again, the color of execution. "Go!"

The crowd fled. Except—after a few steps, Jens Knudsen stopped. Stopped, hesitated, then turned. He made his uncertain way back to Ushulubang.

The sage, mistress of shoroku, had to fight hard to maintain control. Else her mantle would have been flooded with green.

I thought it would be this one. (A mental whistle of amusement.) Whose soul bears, in truth, the passion of his color.

Jens Knudsen began to speak, could not find the words. Ushulubang made the gesture of acceptance.

"Tonight," she said. "I will await you in my hut."

After Jens Knudsen left, and Ushulubang was certain he was beyond hearing, she made the whistle of amusement she had so long repressed.

"I thought that went quite well," she said to Dhowifa.

The little truemale's mantle rippled with ochre.

"You are so sure, Ushulubang? Things are—much as you predicted. But, still—it is so dangerous."

"Dangerous?" demanded the sage. "Of course it is dangerous! The Way is dangerous, Dhowifa. There is nothing so dangerous as the Question. The way of safety is the way of the Answer. Safety—and oblivion."

"I know, I know. At least, I think I know."

Dhowifa fell silent. Ushulubang completed the thought.

"But you think it is too perilous. To goad the Mother of Demons until her soul shatters?"

"Yes."

"There is no other way, Dhowifa. In this, I am right. She must be forced to tell the secrets."

"Are her secrets really so terrible?"

Ushulubang whistled derision. "Stupid spawn! Have you learned nothing? She has no secrets."

Dhowifa's mantle rippled orange surprise.

"But—"

"There are no secrets, Dhowifa. That is what she knows, and her children do not. How can the Question be secret? Only the Answer can be secret. And that is why she is so terrified, and cannot tell them what answers she does know. For fear of what questions those answers will bring."

"Then why did you say she must be forced to tell the secrets, if there are none?"

"It is the telling that is important, Dhowifa, not the thing told. The answer given is momentary, a vapor dispelled by the wind. But the telling—that is what lies at the center of the Coil."

"I do not understand why that is true."

"Because it is only in telling the answer that the Mother of Demons will finally accept the Question."

Dhowifa hesitated. "Is it so wise? To bring demons to the Way?" He gestured at Jens Knudsen. "That one, perhaps. He is young, and—very kind. He has meant much to Nukurren, these past days. But—the Mother of Demons? And the black demonlord? Can such fearsome beings really be—"

Ushulubang whistled derision.

"Be what, Dhowifa? 'Tamed'? Of course not. I do not wish to tame them. Quite the contrary. I wish to convert the demons in order to show the truth to the gukuy. Which is that we too are demons, and must be, and shall be. Because only demons have the courage to seek the Question."

Again, silence fell. After a moment, Ushulubang gestured at Nukurren.

"Soon, we must heal her."

Dhowifa's mantle rippled orange. "She is already healed, Ushulubang. Almost, at least. There will be scars, of course, and she will always be blind in one eye, but—"

"I was not speaking of those recent wounds to her body, Dhowifa. It is the great open wound in her soul which must be healed. The ancient wound which has bled all her life."

Dhowifa made the gesture of uncertainty. "She has seemed happy to me, these past few days. It has meant much to her, even though she will not speak of it, to find a friend in the demon Dzhenushkunutushen."

"You are wrong, Dhowifa. The friendship is a blessing, and a boon to her. As you have always been a boon to her. But there must be more. She must find the center of her Coil. She must find her life."

That night the demon Dzhenushkunutushen came to the hut of the sage Ushulubang, and spent many hours there, learning the Way of the Coil. The next night, he was accompanied by his lover, the demon Ludumilaroshokavashiki. Two nights thereafter, they were joined by Yoshefadekunula. The demonlord said nothing, but simply listened to the sage.

Night after night, Indira watched her children enter the hut. Night after night, she watched them leave. They did not speak to her, nor she to them.

And every night, after they were gone, Ushulubang emerged. The sage and the Mother of Demons would stare at each other for long minutes, saying nothing. The one, filled with anguish, wishing she too could enter the hut; the other, filled with love, barring the way.

Soon, Mother of Demons, thought Ushulubang. Soon. Soon you will find the courage to break your soul.

A scout arrived at the village, out of breath despite her excellent physical condition. She had run all the way from the big canyon with the news.

Two armies had been spotted approaching the Chiton. Each with thousands of warriors.

A few minutes later, "the Pentagon" was packed with all the members of the council, as well as the scout and Jens Knudsen. They were standing around the three-dimensional clay model of the Chiton which Julius had made.

"It's a good thing Joseph insisted on expanding this hut," muttered Julius. "We'd never have fit in the old one."

Indira forebore comment. She had opposed Joseph's plan to tear down the old hut and build a much bigger one in its place, around the clay model. It had been one of the many, minor clashes between she and Joseph over the past two years. And, as was usually the case, Joseph's will had prevailed.

And, as usual, thought Indira, the boy was right.

A rueful little smile came to her face.

Stop thinking of him as a "boy," Indira. Old fool. The youngsters have matured rapidly in this new world—just as they did in the ancient days on earth.

None more so than Joseph. How old was Alexander when he defeated the Persians at Issus?

She looked across the table at Joseph, who was staring down at the map. There was a frown on the Captain's face. Not a frown of worry, however. Simply the frown of calm, collected thought.

God, he's impressive. In my entire life, I've never met anyone who exudes so much—sureness.

Except Ushulubang.

The last thought brought a sudden decision.

"Someone go get Ushulubang," she said.

Joseph raised his eyes and stared at her. For a moment, Indira thought there would be an argument. Joseph's thoughts were obvious: Why Ushulubang? She's a sage, not a warrior. But then, within seconds, Joseph looked at Jens and nodded. Jens raced out of the hut.

Joseph looked back at Indira.

"I just have a . . . feeling, Joseph," she replied to his unspoken question. "Founders of new religions have to be great politicians, in addition to everything else. And the Way is not a pacifist creed."

Sooner than she expected, Jens returned with Ushulubang. The former legion commander Ghodha was with her, as well as another Pilgrim whom Indira had never seen before. As soon as the sage entered the hut, Indira rapidly sketched the situation for her.

Ushulubang made the gesture of recognition (the one which indicated "recognition of current reality"; there was a different gesture for personal recognition).

"I suspected something of the sort was occurring, from the sudden activity."

Ushulubang gestured toward the gukuy at her side, the one Indira did not know.

"For that reason, I took the liberty of bringing Rottu with me, as well as Ghodha. She is—my other eyes." A humorous whistle. "Not, perhaps, the most subtle of philosophers. But very aware of the world, and uncommonly shrewd."

Indira stared at Rottu. The gukuy was slightly larger than average. And much older than most of the Pilgrims, although not as old as Ushulubang. Like Ushulubang, she bore the cowl-carvings of a high-ranked member of the Ansha. Rottu's carvings, however, had not been scoured clean. Other than the bright pigments in the carvings, there was not a trace of any color on her mantle.

Her shoroku is perfect, thought Indira. Which is what you'd expect—of a spymaster. Spymistress, rather.

Joseph looked at Rottu. "Can you tell us anything?"

"Describe the appearance of the armies." Indira was not surprised that Rottu's Enagulishuc, though heavily accented, was excellent.

The scout—Jauna Horenstein—quickly presented what details of the two armies had been observed.

Rottu extended her palp and pointed to the little wooden piece which represented the army approaching directly from the south.

"These are Utuku. From your estimate of their numbers, it is one of their ogghoxt. Such is the name of the major divisions of their army."

"You are certain?" asked Joseph.

"Absolutely. Only the Utuku, of all the peoples known to me in the world, equip and organize their armies in that manner. A few other peoples use shields instead of forks, but none of them could muster such a great force. And those peoples are far to the southeast, in any event. Beyond Ansha."

"How many warriors?"

"Approximately eighty-eighty triple-eight eighty. The number varies, from one ogghoxt to another, but not by much. The Utuku are highly organized, for barbarians."

Indira translated the numbers in her mind. The gukuy numerical system was based on the number eight, rather than ten. The term "eighty" meant the same thing as the human "hundred"—base multiplied by itself. Sixty-four. "Eighty-eighty" meant that multiplied again. Sixty-four times sixty-four. Plus "triple-eight eighty:" three times eight times sixty-four.

Five and half thousand warriors, she thought with a sinking feeling. How can we possibly face so many? Even behind the protection of Adrian's Wall? And the fortifications are not finished in the other canyons, in any event. The Utuku would have only to choose a different route.

Joseph spoke then, with not a trace of despair in his voice.

"And the other army?"

Rottu made the gesture of ironic surprise.

"Now that is what is interesting." She looked at Jauna. "You are certain that they are north of the river?"

Jauna nodded vigorously.

Rottu stroked her arms together in that gesture which was the equivalent of a human scratching her chin. Her next question was addressed at Joseph.

"Do you maintain scouts on the western side of the Chiton?"

"Yes."

"And they saw nothing?"

"No."

"Thus this other army appeared out of nowhere. Already across the river. It can only have come from here."

She pointed to the pile of moss on the map which Julius had used to indicate the huge jungle that stretched southwest of the Chiton.

"From the Lolopopo Swamp."

Anna Cheng gasped. "But—the swamp's impenetrable!"

Rottu again made the gesture of ironic surprise.

"So it is always said. But I know that there have been some gukuy who have lived in the swamp. Escaped helots from the south. They must have provided guides for this other army to cross the swamp. After they were defeated by the Utuku many eightweeks ago."

She made the gesture of profound respect.

"It must have been a heroic trek."

Realization came simultaneously to everyone in the hut. Joseph vocalized it:

"The Kiktu."

"Yes. There is no other possibility. Logic tells us so—and then, there is your scout's description of the one who marches at the front of the army. That can only be a battlemother."

Joseph's face was impassive. "All accounts I have heard say the Kiktu were destroyed in the battle. Those few who survived were scattered refugees. Yet this is not a horde of refugees. It is a well-organized army, and big."

He looked at the scout. "How many again, Jauna?"

"More than two thousand. Probably three."

Joseph began to translate for Rottu, but the gukuy made the gesture of understanding.

"More than four eight-eighty," mused Rottu, "Probably six. Incredible."

She made the gesture of profound respect.

"I would not have thought it possible. Even for Kopporu."

"Explain," commanded Joseph.

"It is true that most of the refugees from the battle say the Kiktu were utterly destroyed. But I have heard a different rumor, from a few. They say that after the battle was lost, the leader of the right flank led a retreat of the entire flank into the swamp. An organized retreat, not a panicky rout. The leader's name was Kopporu, and she was reputed to be the greatest battle leader of the Kiktu."

Rottu's armstrokes were now rapid and vigorous.

"I discounted the rumor, at first. But recently I have spoken to a new refugee, who hid in a fuyu grove after the battle. By luck, she was not discovered, even when the Beak of the Utuku established her command yurt nearby. The refugee remained hidden in that grove for three days. And watched, while the Beak of the Utuku ordered the execution of more than double-eight of her battle leaders."

Rottu whistled with humor. "The death of Utuku battle leaders is naturally a blessing. But why? And why so many? True, the Beak is perhaps the cruelest ruler on the Meat of the Clam. Even so, her army had just won a great victory for her. One would have expected rewards, not executions."

Rottu stared at the map. "There must have been a great disaster in the middle of that battle. I wonder. Kopporu was, among other things, famous for her mastery of the art of ambush."

A moment's arm-stroking. Then, with the tone of assurance:

"It must be so. I can think of no other explanation. Several Kiktu refugees have told me that it was well known that Kopporu was opposed to the Kiktu clan leaders' plan of battle. She had predicted disaster beforehand, and then demanded the command of the right flank. She was admired for that nobility of spirit, it seems. But the truth was different. She hatched a plot, and carried it out. Led the retreat of her flank into the swamp. Set a terrible ambush for the Utuku who pursued. And then—led the remainder of her tribe across the Lolopopo Swamp. Seeking refuge, I expect, in the Chiton."

"Treason, you are saying?" asked Joseph.

The gesture of questioning.

"Treason, yes. Or—supreme loyalty."

Joseph took command of the meeting then.

"Our options are clear and simple. From what the scouts report, the two armies will contact each other at the base of the Chiton, before either can reach any of the canyons. A battle will inevitably ensue—in two days, at the earliest. Probably three."

He stared at the map.

"The Kiktu are outnumbered, but if we throw ourselves on their side, it may be enough to turn the tide."

"And the other option?" asked Takashi.

"We marshall our forces behind Adrian's Wall and wait—while the Utuku and the Kiktu fight it out. The Utuku will probably win, but the Kiktu will inflict massive casualties upon them. Very massive, I would think— if Rottu is right and they are still under the leadership of this Kopporu. Massive enough, probably, that the surviving Utuku will not be able to force their way up the canyon. They will retreat, and return to the main army for reinforcements. That will take some time, which we can use to prepare ourselves."

The other Lieutenant in the hut, Andrew MacPherson, spoke for the first time.

"So. If we join the Kiktu, we risk everything at once. If we wait on the sides, we give ourselves some breathing room. That, I think, sums it up."

Joseph nodded.

"Which do you prefer?" asked Takashi.

"It is not for me to decide. The decision is not simply a military one. It involves the fate of the entire colony—and everyone else on the Chiton, gukuy and owoc alike."

Indira took command.

"Joseph is right. The council must make the decision. And we should—"

"No!"

She was stunned into silence. Joseph's voice had been like a thunderclap.

She stared at him. "But, Joseph—the council is the only—"

"No."

"But—"

"No."

Silence filled the hut. Indira looked around. The faces of all the young members of the council mirrored Joseph's—even the face of Anna Cheng. She looked at Julius. After a second, he looked away.

Joseph's voice drew her back to him.

"This"—he said, pointing to the map, "is not a decision like any other. It is the decision that will change everything. It is the decision that will make the future. It is a decision which can only be made by that person who understands the future, and its perils."

His face was like stone.

"And its secrets."

Indira's mind was blank. Like a bird, paralyzed by the gaze of a cobra.

Black as night. Implacable.

Joseph's face softened, slightly.

"I'm sorry, Indira. I am not angry with you, as I was before. I have been listening to Ushulubang, these past nights, and—"

He took a deep breath. "I know that I terrify you. I even think that I understand why. Some part of it, at least. This decision—" He pointed to the map "—seems obvious to me. As simple and easy to make as—as whether to cherish the owoc. But you see deeper than I. Than any of us."

Joseph paused, groping for words. He glanced at Ushulubang. Then said:

"This decision is not simply an answer. It is a question. A great question. Maybe the greatest question of all. The answer may be obvious, but the question is not. Therefore, only you can make the decision."

She started to protest.

"It is true—mother."

Desperately she scanned the room. Every face was like stone—even, to her horror, that of Julius.

No, not every face.

"Leave," she commanded harshly. "All of you—except Ushulubang."

Without hesitation, the young humans filed from the hut, Joseph leading the way. As Rottu and Ghodha turned to leave, Ushulubang said to them softly:

"Gather the apashoc. Tell them the flails of the Pilgrims are now under the command of the Mother of Demons."

Julius hesitated at the doorway, and turned back.

"I'm staying," he announced firmly. Seeing Indira's hard gaze, he shrugged.

"Indira, Joseph's right. For years, we've been able to stay on the sidelines. A cozy little colony, in a cocoon. But all things come to an end. Whatever decision you make, we are going to plunge into the mainstream of history. To sink or swim. And if we sink, we'll pull others down with us."

"Don't you think I know that?" she demanded angrily. "But why do I have to be the one to make the decision?"

"Because you're the only one who can, love. Joseph's right about that, too."

"That's nonsense!" shouted Indira. "The decision is obvious. Tactically, strategically—even morally."

Julius shrugged. "Then make it."

Indira opened her mouth, then closed it. Desperately, she looked at Ushulubang.

"How may I be of service?" asked the sage.

Indira whispered, "Do you understand?"

Ushulubang's mantle flooded brown with grief.

"Yes, Inudira, I understand. You cannot bear taking responsibility for the future. You cannot bear being—the Mother of Demons."

Tears began pouring from her eyes. "Let me tell you the truth about the future, Ushulubang, and its secrets. And its agony."

She spoke for three hours, without interruption. Her words were disjointed, at times. She made no attempt to present her thoughts in an organized and scholarly manner. Had she done so, it would have made no difference, in any event. Much of what she spoke were names which were completely new and unfamiliar to the gukuy who listened.

So many names. So many, many, strange demon names. Names of places, for the most part.

Places of infinite slaughter:

Auschwitz. Dachau. Hiroshima. Tuol Sleng. Dresden. Nagasaki. Verdun. The Somme. Bokhara. Sammarkhand. Rwanda.

Places where the strong savaged the weak:

Rome, and its victims. Rome, sacked. Jerusalem, sacked, and sacked, and sacked. Magdeburg. The Mfecane. Amritsar. Wounded Knee. Nanking. Sharpeville. Vietnam.

Places where the rich battened fat on the misery of the poor:

The helotry of Egypt and Sumeria and Sparta. The slavery of Athens and Rome. The knout of the Tsars and the boyars. The Middle Passage. The plantations of the Caribbean and the South. The Belgian Congo. The sweatshops of the industrial revolution. The Irish potato famine. The coal mines of Appalachia. The German slave labor factories of World War II. The Gulag. The Great Leap Forward. The International Monetary Fund.

Names of cruelty:

Hitler. Stalin. Tamerlane. Ivan the Terrible. Pol Pot. Nazis. Einsatzgruppen. Ku Klux Klan. Inquisition.

Deeds of cruelty:

Kristallnacht. The pogroms of Russia. The lynchings of the American south. The Albigensian Crusade—and all the other crusades.

Name after name after name—in a babble, at the end, until she finally fell silent.

Throughout, Ushulubang had not even moved. Now, she stirred slightly.

"So. Truly, a terrible road. Worse than I had hoped. But not, perhaps, as much as I have sometimes feared, in the darkest nights of the soul. You are here, after all. On this world which we call Ishtar, because the name given to it by demons is one which we can all agree upon."

Indira snorted. "Demons. It's a good name for us. Who but demons could be so cruel?"

"Yes. And who but demons could be so courageous?"

The sage stared up at the ceiling of the hut. "It is such a wonder to me. To be so brave and powerful. To cross the Infinite Sea."

Indira shrugged. Ushulubang gazed at her for a moment, before speaking again.

"Tell me, Indira. Is it true, as I have been told, that you did not flee to our world? That you came here of your own will?"

"Yes."

"What was your purpose, then?"

She explained, as best she could. Of an Earth ravaged, but at peace. Of a humanity which was struggling to rebuild a planet. Of those few, among the many preoccupied with immediate necessities, who had yearned for the stars. Who had managed, after much labor and effort, to equip a single expedition to come to the one star in the vicinity of Sol which had been determined to possess a habitable planet.

"Just so. A terrible road—but a road of beauty, also."

"I suppose. Yes."

"Another question. Of the many names which you told me, there seemed to be one name which appeared more often than any other." The gesture of apology. "It is difficult for me to pronounce. The—Natushishu?"

"Nazis."

"Yes. Truly, a terrible tribe. Worse than the Utuku, even. Or, perhaps, simply more powerful. You said they swept across the land like a fire, leaving nothing but death and destruction behind."

"Yes."

"But you did not tell me what happened to them, in the end."

Indira stared out the doorway.

"They came to a place called Stalingrad."

"Another place of horror?"

Indira thought of the soldiers of the Wehrmacht Sixth Army, encircled by the Soviet counterattack. Over three hundred thousand of them, caught in a maelstrom they had never created. Years later, a few thousand would return to their families. The rest—part of the unknown multitude washed away into the ocean called History.

"No," she said. "It was a place of glory, and beauty."

"Did the glory last? And the beauty?"

She thought of Stalin's purges. Of the Gulag.

"No. But—"

"It was a place when the road forked. And the right fork was taken. Horrors along that road, as well. But not so many as along the other."

"Yes. Yes, but—"

Ushulubang made the gesture of understanding. "You are terrified, not by the agony alone, but by its inevitability. Not by the decision which fork of the road to take, but by knowledge that all roads must lead through horror. And that by choosing one fork it will be you yourself who creates the horror of that road."

She nodded.

"Just so. Do you remember when I smashed the idol at Fagoshau?"

Again, she nodded.

Ushulubang whistled derision. "Did you think I was so foolish as to believe I could smash idolatry? Did you think I failed to understand that, after my death, new idols of Goloku would be erected?" Another whistle of derision. "And of me as well, I expect."

Indira stared at the sage. "I did not . . . I don't know."

"Just so. Many years ago, Inudira, I found myself at a fork in the road. Much like the one which you face here. I saw the fork coming, long before I reached it. In my confusion and fear, I went to Goloku.

"I told her that the day would come, after her death, when the apashoc would be savagely persecuted. I thought that because of my position in the Ansha that I might be able to survive. I alone, perhaps, among my sisters. If I debased myself, and groveled, and wriggled through the anger of the clan leaders like a slug.

"The idea was—loathsome. But, I thought, perhaps it would be my duty. So I went to Goloku."

"And what did she say?"

"She told me I had understood nothing of what she had ever said. She flailed me mercilessly, with words like stone."

Ushulubang's huge eyes were pitiless. Her mantle flashed black as night. Implacable.

"I shall now flail you with the same words. There is no Answer, fool. There is only the Question."

Suddenly, Julius spoke.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" he asked Indira.

The question took her completely by surprise.

"What?"

"The first time we met. We had an argument. Do you remember what you said to me?"

Her mind was like a field of snow. Empty.

"I don't—remember. Why?"

His rubbery face twisted into a grin. "How strange. I have never forgotten it."

She shook her head, clearing away the confusion caused by Julius' odd question. Then, suddenly, remembered.

If there is one thing that historians know, it's that nothing great was ever achieved except by those who were filled with passion. Their passion may have been illogical, even bizarre to modern people. Their understanding of the world and what they were doing may have been false. It usually was. But they were not afraid to act, guided by whatever ideas they had in their possession. Do not sneer at such people. You would not be here without them.

Moments later, Indira left the hut and walked into the center of the village. Joseph was waiting. He stood alone, apart from the others of the council. Whatever decision Indira had made would now fall upon his shoulders.

Before speaking, Indira looked around. The village was packed with people—gukuy and ummun alike. Even some of the owoc had come, understanding, somehow, that a great turn had come in the Coil of Beauty.

She looked up at the sky. The same sky, years before, had been colored with a huge red mark. All that was left of a man who had tried the impossible. Tried, and failed. But not before giving the future to his children.

She looked down at her boy, and spoke.

The story would be told for generations after, by chantresses across a continent. Of the day when the Mother of Demons matched flails with her soul.

So terrible was that soul!

So great a struggle!

Even the Mother of Demons

would not have conquered it

Without the sage Ushulubang.

So terrible was that soul!

Its cry of defeat shook the world!

You did not hear?

Listen.

Listen.

It echoes still.

The sound of that cry will never end.

Indira watched the battle from the southern slope, standing on a rocky outcropping which overlooked the plain. Four beings stood there with her: Julius, Andrew MacPherson, Rottu and Ghodha.

They were the nucleus of what Indira had told them was one of the secrets of war.

Create a general staff.

She would have preferred to have Joseph himself alongside her. But, reluctantly, she had agreed with Joseph's argument that his personal command was necessary in the colony's first full-scale battle. Of the three lieutenants, Andrew had been selected as the future Chief of Staff. It was a good choice, thought Indira. Andrew was a quiet and thoughtful young man. Not flamboyant, but very hard-working. And, while he had done the job capably, he did not have either Ludmilla or Takashi's flair as a platoon leader.

Indira watched Ludmilla's platoon racing in a loop around the right flank of the Utuku army. Ludmilla herself was leading the platoon, and setting a brutal pace. The ranks of the Utuku were already becoming ragged, as they tried to reform in the face of this new and utterly bizarre foe. Their attempts were hopeless, of course. Gukuy were faster than owoc, but they were still much slower afoot than humans. Any humans, much less the young warriors trained under Joseph's brutal regimen.

Not brutal enough.

"Andrew—make a note. We must emphasize long distance endurance as well as wind sprints. The Apaches could run a hundred miles a day. Faster, over long distances, than the cavalry of the US Army."

"Yes, Indira." He jotted in his notebook.

Still, there's a problem. Food. What good will it do for our warriors to be able to run a hundred miles a day—if they starve at the end of it? Our army cannot remain tied to the slow owoc.

"Julius—make a note. Resume the experiments with puke jerky."

"But—ah, yes, Indira." He jotted in his notebook. Muttering, under his breath. He was not altogether sure what to make of this new Indira. He had always adored her thin-featured face. Why did that face now remind him of a sword?

As Indira watched, Ludmilla's platoon suddenly wheeled and raced directly toward the Utuku right. Even from the distance, she could hear the drums, transmitting orders from the battle leaders. Raggedly, she thought. And it was obvious that the Utuku ranks were beginning to unravel.

Now.

But she had misjudged. Ludmilla had a better grasp of the immediate tactics. She held the charge for another few seconds, before she suddenly halted and cast her javelin. A split second later, the rest of the platoon followed.

The volley sailed over the front rank of the Utuku and fell among the battle leaders beyond. Like so many lightning bolts. Utuku shieldwork was designed to protect against looping flail-blows, not spears. And the wicker-like visors protecting the battle leaders' heads were like matchsticks when struck by heavy spears instead of blowpipe darts.

"Andrew—make a note for general consideration. Most of the great armies of human history placed a premium on low-echelon initiative and tactical flexibility."

"Yes, Indira."

Ludmilla's platoon was now racing away from the Utuku. Their assegais were strapped to their backs. In their hands they carried javelins. Each warrior in Ludmilla and Takashi's platoons had been given four at the beginning of the battle.

The javelins had been invented by Joseph, in the course of the new training which he had developed in consultation with Nukurren and Jens Knudsen. They were better designed for casting than the heavy-bladed assegai. And the blades were made of bronze obtained from the Pilgrims at Fagoshau. The irreplaceable steel-bladed assegai were saved for close-in work.

"Rottu—a question. How much bronze can we make every eightday?"

The gukuy hesitated before responding.

"I am not certain, Inudira. Not much, at Fagoshau. We can expand the bronze-works, of course. But there is no copper on the Chiton, and very little tin."

"Make a note, then. We must immediately establish reliable sources for the two metals. And expand the bronzeworks."

"Yes, Inudira."

Down on the plain, Ludmilla's sudden retreat had achieved its purpose. Large sections of the Utuku right were lumbering in pursuit. Very unevenly. Confusion and the sudden killing of many leaders were eroding the famed Utuku discipline.

And it is very hard to resist the temptation of chasing what appears to be a foe in flight.

She watched, gauging the moment.

Now.

But, once again, Ludmilla was right. The platoon leader did not order the counterattack for several more seconds, until the pursuing Utuku were strung out even further. Suddenly, her platoon divided and curved sharply right and left, racing back toward the Utuku. The bewildered barbarians were thrown into utter confusion.

Now.

Once again, Ludmilla was right. Two more seconds elapsed before she gave the command. The ensuing volley came at pointblank range, ripping through the Utuku like a scythe.

"Andrew—that last note?"

"Yes, Indira?"

"Emphasize it."

Racing off again, the platoon reformed in files and curved back around to the southeast. Discipline in the Utuku right flank was disintegrating. The warriors were little more than a mob now, all of them turning to face these terrible demons who were circling them. Within moments, they were faced completely away from the center of the battlefield.

Indira looked to the center. Takashi's platoon was drawn up there, holding the attention of the Utuku center while Ludmilla harrowed the right. They had no difficulty in doing so. Takashi's first volley had had a catastrophic impact on the battle leaders of the Utuku center. Since then, he had kept the attention of the warriors by trotting his platoon back and forth across their lines, feinting and lunging.

Her eyes moved to Joseph. The Captain was standing back, on a small knoll rising slightly above the plain, high enough to give him a view of the entire battlefield. Twenty young human warriors stood at his side, Jens Knudsen looming above the others.

Not far from them, off to the side, stood Nukurren. Gazing down at the huge, scarred figure, Indira felt a sudden sadness. They were deeply in debt to Nukurren, and had tried to express it. Ushulubang herself had offered Nukurren the command of the Pilgrim warriors who were even now approaching the battleground.

But Nukurren had refused. Had even refused to explain her refusal.

Yet, in the end, she had chosen to come to the battleground. The morning the little human army set off, Jens Knudsen had entered Nukurren's hut. In his arms he bore the great flail and twofork Nukurren had won years before in the Anshac legions, and her armor. He had saved them from the wreckage of the slaver caravan where he and Nukurren had first exchanged wounds, he explained, and now it was time to return them to her. Saying nothing else, he had left the hut.

Some minutes later the column of human warriors set off, followed by more than a thousand Pilgrims. All of the Pilgrims were armed with flail and fork; some with armor. Most were former warriors. Some were former helots, fumbling with the unfamiliar weapons in their palps, but determined to do their duty.

As the column passed Nukurren's hut, she had emerged. In armor, bearing her great flail and two-fork. To the humans, she had been awesome. To the gukuy . . . The Pilgrims had begun hooting then, in a fierce and wavering manner which Indira had never heard, but had no difficulty recognizing. So had the Bedouins ululated, saluting their champions.

But Nukurren had refused to acknowledge the salute. Had returned the admiration with bleak isolation. Had spoken to none. Had not taken a place in the column, neither with human nor gukuy. Throughout the long march which followed, she had remained to one side, parallel but alone.

As the march progressed, the Pilgrims lagged further and further behind, unable to match the speed of the human warriors. Of all the gukuy marching to battle, only Nukurren had been able to keep pace. But, always, she marched to the side. What role, if any, she intended to play in the coming battle, no one knew.

She least of all, thought Indira now, watching Nukurren standing alone on the slope.

Indira tore her eyes away, and looked back at Joseph. Stretching on either side of him were the remnants of Andrew MacPherson's platoon. Most of the warriors in Andrew's former platoon had been reassigned to the other two. But a small number had been organized into a new formation, led by Jens Knudsen. They were to serve as Joseph's reserve, for the critical moment of the battle.

Gazing down at Jens' new formation, Indira began to feel the old, paralyzing anguish. She fought it desperately. It had been she herself, after all, who had commanded its creation.

The warriors in the new formation were more heavily armored than the other humans. They carried no javelins, only the largest assegai. Theirs was not the role of Ludmilla and Takashi's platoons, the fluid ravaging of the opponent. Theirs was the role of shock troops. It was they who would be thrown into the schwerpunkt. Not for them the rapid maneuvers of the platoons; not for them, the tactical subtleties; for them—the shattering smash of the hoplite.

They had been selected, as individuals, for that purpose. The emphasis had been on sheer strength, rather than speed. Upper body strength, in particular. Only that kind of strength could sustain a warrior in the savage close-quarter combat for which that formation was designed.

They were all male. For the first time in the history of the human colony, the sexes had been segregated. Indira herself had commanded it. She had hated the truth, but would not shy from it. Only Ludmilla, among the human women, had the strength to serve in Jens' new formation. And Ludmilla was needed as a platoon commander.

She gazed down at Jens Knudsen. Even covered with heavy armor, his golden hair and milk-white skin was easy to spot. Indira thought that of the younger generation of humans, Jens' was perhaps the gentlest and kindest spirit, for all his brutish size and musculature. Indira herself had named the new formation the "shock squad." Jens, with his usual self-deprecating humor, had called his squad the "meatheads."

"Too slow to run, and too dumb to figure out anything else," he had joked. But Indira could not mistake the pride in his stance, and that of his new squad, as they stood by Joseph's side.

Alexander's Companions.

They would suffer the highest casualties, and they knew it. But they were not afraid, because a new emotion was insinuating its way into their souls, like a serpent.

For the first time in the history of the human colony, an elite had been created. At Indira's own command. She began to look away, then forced herself to look back.

Not now, no. Not with Jens, never. But—Jens will die, and his children, and their children, and their children—and then, someday ... the Diadochi. And the Praetorian Guard, and the Janissaries, and the knights who savaged Jerusalem.

Nightmare visions flashed through her mind, ending with the Waffen SS. She felt her face grow stiff.

Julius gazed at her quizzically. Indira pointed to Jens.

"I was just thinking how the old Waffen SS would have drooled over him." A rueful grimace; trying to cast off despair with humor. "He could have served as the model for their recruitment posters."

Julius looked down.

"Oh, I don't know. He's much too ugly, with that great beak of a nose, and besides—" He looked back at Indira, his expression oddly cold. "Did I ever tell you my family's history?"

"Not really."

He shrugged. "Nothing spectacular. And most of it's long forgotten. But there's one episode, from two centuries ago, that was passed on from generation to generation. My family was in Denmark during the Second World War. They lived in Copenhagen, as a matter of fact, the same city where Jens was born."

Julius pointed down the slope to the young warrior.

"I stand here today because of his ancestors." His voice suddenly shook with anger. "Damn your fears, Indira! Damn them all to hell!"

His words were like a sudden, brilliant ray of sunlight, shattering all the darkness of the future. The nightmares fled from Indira's mind, gibbering in terror; and new visions came.

She remembered the small nation which, conquered and occupied, had still managed to save almost all its Jews from the Nazi butchers; had, through the unorganized and spontaneous actions of thousands of ordinary Danes, smuggled the Jews to safety. The blond-haired, blue-eyed people who had hurled defiance into the face of their racial brethren.

The kindness of that deed, toward a people of a different race, had come from the common pool of human decency. But the courage had come from their own history, and their own legends, and their own heritage.

They too had remembered Barbarossa. And if the Germans had chosen to remember the sword of the conqueror—had even named their brutal invasion of Russia after him—the Danes had chosen to remember the shield of the lawgiver.

The Nazi vision, she knew, had been closer to the truth of the past; but the Danish vision had been true to the future. If, in reality, kings had been unjust tyrants, yet, still, it had been within the shell of kingship that nations forged their justice. The kings were gone, long gone; but justice remained. And if the kings had been hard as iron, the justice was harder still. For justice had been long in the making, and it was not a feeble reed. It was the gleaming steel sword Excalibur, born of ancient dreams, shaped by myths and legends, forged by human struggle, and tempered in the blood of centuries.

As Indira watched the battle unfold below her, she felt as if her mind were split in two. One half observed the present carnage—attentively, coldly, objectively. The other half ranged across the breadth of human history, like a shaman taking the form of an eagle, spotting all the possibilities of the future. And, finally, leaving all fear behind, filled with the joy of flight and the glory of distant vision.

Joseph's powerful baritone suddenly rang above the din of battle. Refocusing her attention, Indira saw that Joseph had sent Takashi's platoon plunging into the fray. The Pilgrims had finally arrived, and were taking their place before the Utuku center. Takashi's platoon made a sudden lunge. The Utuku drew back, clustering their shield wall. The feint had succeeded, and Takashi's platoon was now racing across the enemy's front, toward the east.

As planned, the warriors of the Utuku center were paralyzed. The Pilgrims surged forward, to keep them immobile. The Utuku center would be completely out of the action when Takashi fell—

Indira looked back to the southeast.

—on the rear of the Utuku right. Whose attention was completely fixed on Ludmilla's confusing maneuvers.

Takashi was setting an even more brutal pace than Ludmilla. He and his warriors seemed to fly across the ground, as if possessed by a determination to match the exploits of Ludmilla's platoon.

"Andrew, take a note. We must give each platoon a name, or a number. Some title by which they can be remembered, and to which their soldiers can identify. In human history, that was called the regimental tradition. It will help develop the morale of the army."

"Yes, Indira."

A minute later, the slaughter began. Watching the ferocity with which Takashi's platoon ripped into the Utuku, Indira felt a moment's fear that they had forgotten what she had told them.

But, again, the commander on the spot had simply gauged the timing better. When they broke off and raced away, not one of the human warriors was more than slightly scratched. But they left a mound of bodies behind them.

"Andrew—that note. The one concerning low-echelon tactical control."

"Yes, Indira."

"Carve it in stone. Better yet, cast it in bronze."

Ludmilla's platoon now copied Takashi's maneuver, from the other side. Lunge in, at a speed which was almost incomprehensible to the gukuy, and butcher the front ranks. Race away before the ranks behind could overwhelm you with their numbers.

Working from two sides, Ludmilla and Takashi's platoons were ravaging the Utuku right. Their javelins were now used up; they were wielding the assegai. Fifteen hundred gukuy warriors were now nothing more than a hooting mob, milling about in confusion, their mantles rippling red and ochre, while less than two hundred and fifty human warriors continued their systematic slaughter. Only three human casualties had been suffered so far—and Indira had been relieved to see one of them hobbling off the field under her own power. Winny Mbateng, she thought it was.

Thank God. Even if your daughter's crippled from the injury, Janet, there will be a place for her. Adrian has been howling for help.

Indira saw an Utuku piper take aim at one of the human warriors. She caught her breath—then released it a moment later, when the piper's aim was thrown off by the press of the mob around her.

It's ironic. The gukuy consider pipers nothing more than auxiliaries. But they're what I fear most. Those darts have a range of thirty yards, blown by a gukuy with a powerful siphon. And they're quite accurate within half that distance. Light, of course. Even against a thin-skinned human they can't do much damage unless they strike the eyes or the throat. The light armor which our warriors wear is probably enough to turn most darts, as well as absorbing some of the shock of a flail-blow.

But if they ever learn how utterly vulnerable we are to animal product—

"Ghodha—and Rottu. Do any gukuy armies use poisoned darts?"

Rottu's mantle remained gray, but Ghodha's rippled orange.

"No, Inudira," replied Rottu. "There are a few small clans of savages in a swamp far to the southeast who are reputed to use poisoned darts. But no civilized people does so. Not even the barbarians. Not even the Utuku. It is a foul abomination in the eyes of Uftu and Kaklo alike. And the war goddess of the Utuku as well."

Indira was simultaneously relieved—and intrigued. Goloku, in her teachings, had not attempted to deny or undermine the existence of the old religious pantheons. She had simply absorbed them within a new and profoundly more philosophical approach to reality.

Like Vedanta Hinduism. Sort of. Oh, stop trying to find an exact analogy, Indira. There is none. The Way is unique to itself—and better, I think, that any of the great religions of Earth. I can think of no Terran religion, at least, which from the outset based itself on the principles of dialectics rather than formalism.

She remembered the schismatic Patriarchs of the later Roman empire. The persecution of the Arian heretics, and the Nestorians, and the Monophysites. And the rigid Aristotelean logic of the medieval churchmen. And the Inquisition; and Bruno burning at the stake. And Galileo's trial.

Perhaps that much we can avoid. Ushulubang and I, together, can sow much salt in the ground of future dogma.

Then she remembered the statue at Fagoshau which Ushulubang had shattered with her flail.

But neither she nor I will live forever. And it is indeed true, as Goloku said, that beings will always lapse into the error of the Answer.

She straightened her slender shoulders.

But we can try. And, in failing, shorten the road to the future. And its pain.

And stop day-dreaming about the future! There's enough agony on today's road.

She forced her eyes back to the plain. The human platoons were continuing their butchery, like a well-oiled machine of destruction.

God, these kids are good. It's amazing how well they're carrying out my proposal—which they only heard two days ago.

The night she made her decision to throw their strength to the aid of the Kiktu, Indira had spoken to the little army of human warriors. She had told them the story of the battle of Liegnitz, in a place called Poland. There, Subedei's Mongols had met the forces of European chivalry under the command of Duke Henry of Silesia. Those forces included knights from all the major militant orders as well as Henry's own troops—Knights Templar, Teutonic Knights, Knights Hospitaler.

She had described the European knights. Heavily armored, dangerous at close quarters. And—very slow; easily confused by any tactics beyond a simple, direct charge.

She had described Subedei's Mongols. Lightly armored; extremely fast; extremely disciplined; shrewd and cunning; well coordinated in battle.

Then she described the battle itself. And told them how the Mongols had cut to pieces the flower of chivalry.

Joseph and his lieutenants had taken over from there. The new tactics which they had been developing recently, with Nukurren's advice, fit perfectly into the plan which they developed for the coming battle. The plan which they were now implementing on the plain below—with, it was obvious to Indira as she watched, the same result that had ensued centuries before, on a planet light years away.

After another minute, Indira looked away. Even from the distance, it was impossible not to hear the hoots and whistles of the Utuku being butchered.

Not a trace of what she was feeling showed on her face.

And what am I feeling, anyway? Joseph and his lieutenants would have arrived at the same plan on their own. With Nukurren's help, they were already almost there. My lecture on Mongol cavalry tactics only added some polish.

No, that's a lie. Don't hide from it, woman. They're not superhuman. Only the Mother of Demons could have given them the confidence they needed, in their first real battle.

She took a deep breath.

So be it. There will also be hospitals. And medical academies. And trade. And religious toleration, enforced by the demons. All that the Mongols gave—and more. We are not, after all, Neolithic barbarians. Whose cruelty derived, in part, from their naive understanding of the world.

When she now spoke her voice, for the first time that day, had a trace of its usual softness.

"Julius—make a note. We must found a university. At once—regardless of other things."

He smiled. "Yes, Indira. Does that mean I get to go back to research?"

Indira looked at him; and reached out and stroked his cheek. But she did not smile in return.

"Yes, love. But the first thing you must study is the problem of making puke jerky."

She looked away. "And the problem of poison darts. Abomination or not, they will be used soon enough. We must try to find an antidote, if possible. If not—"

Her voice was like iron.

"—we will develop our own poisons. Remember the gukuy who killed Adams—and then died herself? As you said at the time: it cuts both ways, asshole."

She heard Julius sigh, and mutter something. She was not sure, but she thought she heard the words correctly. She suppressed a laugh.

"Like Damascus steel," he had mumbled. "No, worse—like a damned blade of Toledo."

Indira turned her eyes to the west. That part of the battle which the humans were waging was progressing well. She now had time to study the methods of their new—allies? She was not sure of their status, for there had been no opportunity to establish communication with the Kiktu. By the time the human platoons had reached the plain, the battle had already started.

Crude and primitive, was her first thought. The battle on the Utuku left seemed nothing but a swirl of confusion, so unlike the precision she had watched on the human side.

Her eyes were almost immediately drawn to the huge figure at the center of the Kiktu lines.

"Ghodha—a question." Indira pointed. "Is that a battlemother?"

"Yes, Inudira. There is another, as well. Further along the Utuku lines."

Indira followed Ghodha's gesture.

"Yes, I see her now." A moment later: "But—she seems different from the other one. The one in the center."

Ghodha's whistle combined, somehow, humor and awe.

"All battlemothers in the world are different from the one in the center, Inudira. The one in the center is a—what is the word, Rottu? The one the Kiktu use?"

"Kuoptu."

Indira was not familiar with the term. Rottu explained.

She looked back. And felt a certain awe herself. She had seen gukuy mothers before. There were several of them among the Pilgrims. Huge beings, as big as elephants. Immensely strong, she imagined. But extremely slow-moving and awkward.

The battlemother on the plain below bore a certain generic resemblance. Huge—bigger than any gukuy mother Indira had yet seen. Almost as big as an owoc mother. And, compared to the warriors around her, slow and awkward.

There the comparison ended. If a normal mother could be likened to a gigantic St. Bernard, the battlemother on the plain below was like the Fenris wolf of Nordic mythology. Indira winced, watching an Utuku warrior smashed into jelly beneath the battlemother's club. And another. And another.

"She fights with two clubs, I notice. But the other battlemother only with one."

"Yes, Inudira. The other battlemother is fighting in the usual manner, with mace and shield. Battlemothers need shields to protect them from darts. They are always the main target of pipers. The one in the center is taking a great risk. She seems to be relying on her visor alone—and that odd shield on her cowl."

Indira looked for the Utuku pipers. She spotted one almost immediately. Sure enough, the piper was taking aim at the battlemother. Indira held her breath. Suddenly, however, the piper reared back, clawing at her eyes.

At her side, Indira heard Ghodha's hoot of surprise.

"Look! I did not see them earlier! There are males on the battlemother's cowl—with pipes! Behind that strange shield. They are protecting her from the pipers."

Indira looked back. A moment later she saw another Utuku piper reel back.

"Is that common?"

"It is unheard of! True, the Kiktu have the custom that a mother's consorts are her personal guard of pipers. But it is not taken seriously, even by the Kiktu. Not even the barbarians, for all their loose habits regarding males, allow the silly things to participate in battle. Males are too emotional for battle. They would lose their heads."

Indira watched another piper blinded. When she spoke, her voice was harsh.

"Welcome to the new world, Ghodha. Where Answers are falling, and Questions are being asked."

From the corner of her eye, Indira saw Ghodha's mantle ripple ochre and pink.

Between Ushulubang and myself, she thought fiercely, I intend to see a lot of those colors in the future.

A moment later, she relented.

Ghodha is not, after all, one of Ushulubang's close apashoc. A new Pilgrim, hoping that there may be an end to evil, somewhere. Selected for her new post not for her profound grasp of the Way, but simply because she is the most experienced war leader among the Pilgrims.

Do not sneer at such people, Professor Toledo. However often they fumble the task, they are the creators of the future.

"Explain to me what you are seeing, Ghodha. You are more experienced in such things than I."

The warrior's scarred mantle became tinged with faint green. She began pointing with her palps.

"The Kiktu are fighting better than I have ever seen barbarians fight before. Not as well as the Anshac legions, of course. But better."

The gesture of grudging admission.

"Much better, in fact. You see how they are not simply swarming mindlessly, as usual?"

Indira looked again. After a moment, she saw what Ghodha was pointing to. Order began to appear out of chaos.

"They are fighting in organized groups. I can see it now. Sloppy, I think, but—organized."

"Yes. They are very sloppy." A whistle of derision. "You should see the Anshac legions!"

Again, pink and ochre rippled.

"What am I saying? Even the Anshac are nothing, compared to your own ummun apalatunush."

Ghodha turned and looked to the south. Indira's eyes followed. Ludmilla and Takashi's warriors were racing back and forth, slicing the Utuku flank to ribbons. The platoons had broken into squads, now, each of which operated independently—but still within the organized control of their leaders.

Indira turned and pointed back to the west.

"Explain further."

Ghodha looked away, slowly. Indira was amused at the veteran warrior's obvious reluctance to forego the pleasure of watching master craftsmanship in her trade.

A moment later, Ghodha continued.

"The Kiktu possess three strengths in the art of battle. As individuals, their warriors are excellent. It cannot be denied. There are none on the Meat of the Clam who surpass them in the use of fork-and-flail, and few who can claim to be their equal. Look there! You will see what I mean."

Indira followed Ghodha's pointing palp. She saw, at the edge of the battle, that a Kiktu had somehow managed to lure a single Utuku away from the lines. The single combat which followed was horrifyingly brutal, but illuminating. The Kiktu warrior picked apart the Utuku's clumsy defenses. Within seconds, the Utuku shield was stripped away by a flail-blow that was almost too fast for Indira to follow. Seconds later, the Utuku's right ped was a bloody mass of shredded flesh, and the Utuku slumped. A split-second later, the Kiktu's fork slammed into the left side of her opponent's mantle. The Kiktu threw herself to the side, levering the Utuku onto her back. The four flail-strokes which followed completely disemboweled the doomed warrior.

More than disemboweled, thought Indira, repressing a sudden taste of vomit. All the vital organs of a gukuy, except the brain, are located right under the belly, with no cartilage or shell or thick integument to protect them. That's not just guts being strewn all over the plain. That's her heart, her liver, her inner lungs—everything.

Somewhat shakily, she asked Julius: "This is what you were telling me, isn't it?"

Julius' face was pale, but his gaze was steady.

"Yes, love. Although—I won't be so smug about it, anymore. Not after seeing that."

He took a deep breath.

"The gukuy pay a price for the way their bodies evolved. In their manipulatory limbs as well as their peds. For reasons I can only guess at, gukuy evolution put almost all their fine control into their arms. Wonderfully precise and delicate organs, those are. Maria told me she's planning to train gukuy surgeons. She thinks they'll make better surgeons than humans, once they learn the skill.

"But their tentacles lost something in the bargain. They're very strong, and fast. But they don't begin to have the fine coordination of human arms and hands. That's why the gukuy can't really use weapons like spears. Or swords. With spears, they'd miss their targets. And with swords, they'd be more likely to hit with the flat of the blade rather than the edge. What results is—"

He pointed to the battlefield. Then, suddenly, turned away. Indira could see him struggling with his own stomach.

When Julius turned back, his face was even paler.

"But, like I said, I won't be so smug about it any more. Never having seen a gukuy battle, I expected something much more clumsy. I never dreamed that you could do so much damage with a flail."

Indira turned back to Ghodha.

"Continue, please."

"Their second strength is their speed."

Somehow, watching the battle, Indira no longer found the term "gukuy speed" an oxymoron.

"The Kiktu are very swift and agile. Nothing, of course, compared to"—a quick, admiring glance to the south— "ummun, but for gukuy—very fast. Very fast. You see how they lure Utuku after them into little traps?"

Indira watched for a minute or so, and nodded.

Ghodha made the gesture of admiration.

"The Kiktu excel in the art of ambush. Many foolish and arrogant Anshac legion commanders have led their warriors to disaster, from underestimating the cleverness of the barbarians."

Ghodha now pointed to the center of the Kiktu lines.

"Finally, they have the battlemothers." Faint ripples of blue and yellow appeared on the warrior's mantle.

"It is a barbarous custom. But—"

The blue and yellow vanished.

"—I admit, it is terrible to face a Kiktu battlemother in battle. Especially one with good flankers."

Ghodha paused, examining the battle.

"The flankers of this battlemother are excellent. You see how they force the enemy to face their battlemother's maces? Leaving them nowhere to dodge aside?"

Indira nodded.

"Nothing can withstand the strength of a battlemother. The strongest armor is like paper beneath the blows of her mace."

Indira winced. Just that moment, an Utuku warrior burst—like a ripe tomato—under the mace of the battlemother.

"Faced with a battlemother, a warrior can only rely on speed and agility. That is the purpose of the flankers—to nullify the enemy's maneuvering room."

The sound of Joseph's bellow drew her eyes back to the center. He had decided, Indira saw, that the climatic moment of the battle was upon them. Quickly scanning the field, Indira thought his judgement was correct. The Utuku right had been shredded by the platoons; the left, forced to fight the Kiktu alone, were on the verge of collapse; there remained only the huddled center to be—smashed.

Joseph was already racing off the knoll, straight toward the Utuku center. Jens and his squad kept pace with him. A moment later the human warriors drew even with the Pilgrim line. The Pilgrims immediately followed the charge.

The drums of the Utuku center began beating frantically.

Ordering what, I wonder? What orders do you give your butchers—when the demons come?

Of the human warriors plunging toward the Utuku center, only Joseph held a javelin. At the last moment before reaching the enemy line, he cast his weapon.

Indira watched—first with surprise, and then with awe—as Joseph's javelin rose higher and higher into the sky. Higher and higher. Beyond its flight, far back, stood the figure of the ogghoxt commander.

I don't believe it.

"I don't believe it," whispered Julius. "That's a gold medal in the Olympics."

The javelin reached the top of its arc and began sailing down.

"No, Julius," she said.

Straight toward the ogghoxt commander.

I don't think she even sees it coming.

The javelin struck right between the commander's eyes, and sank at least two feet into her head. She fell like a stone.

"That spear cast belongs to an earlier time. Only Homer could have done it justice."

Joseph and Jens, side by side, smashed into the Utuku. The other members of the shock squad formed a wedge behind them. As the ferocity of their attack split open the Utuku center, the Pilgrims poured in behind, widening the breach.

On the left, Ludmilla and Takashi now ordered a change in tactics. The platoons abandoned all subtlety and fell onto the Utuku, assegais flashing. The Utuku right flank, already demoralized, began to give way completely.

On the right, Indira heard a sudden burst of gukuy voices, speaking in a tongue she did not know.

Kiktu battle language, she realized. Far back, perched upon a battlemother who had remained out of the fray, she spotted the figure of a gukuy. The new commands were issuing from her, and being passed forward. Suddenly, the Kiktu warriors abandoned their fluid maneuvers and smashed directly into the Utuku.

That must be Kopporu. She, too, realizes that the decisive moment is here.

The Utuku left began to collapse.

"Oh, shit," she heard Julius whisper.

She looked to the center, and held her breath. Joseph, Jens, and their small squad of shock troops had become isolated. Inexperienced in a large battle, using combined forces, they had overestimated the ability of the Pilgrims to keep pace with them. They were surrounded now by Utuku warriors. Here, in the relatively unblooded center, the Utuku battle commanders had been able to maintain a semblance of discipline and control. Now, seeing the demons finally immobilized, the Utuku took courage and began a frenzied assault.

The Mother of Demons watched her children begin to die. The combat was furious, the carnage incredible; and for every human boy who fell, a dozen Utuku were slain. Some strange, new, cold part of her mind took satisfaction in the fact. But—

Indira watched the blood gush from Harry Jackson's neck, half severed by a flail blow, and knew he would be dead within seconds; and remembered the time she had held him in her arms, trying to console a sobbing eight-year-old boy desolated by the death of the little owoc spawn he had tried to shelter. She watched an Utuku warrior, with her dying effort, wrestle Esteban Sanchez to the ground. Watched as the flails of other Utuku rained down upon him. Watched Jens try to save him, be driven back, then rally. Watched the methodical fury with which he butchered the Utuku assailing his comrade. Watched his heroic effort fail of its purpose. For even at that distance Indira could read the lifelessness in Esteban's body, when Jens finally reached him. Watched a cluster of Utuku surge over Ahmed Khoury and Ed Kincaid, stripping flesh from bones. And saw them recoil, their murderous work done, from Joseph's terrible vengeance.

The Pilgrims pushed forward, trying to break through to the isolated humans. The shield wall held them back. The Utuku warriors in the center were regaining courage, seeing the demons finally die. The Utuku flanks were now caving in completely, and Indira thought the battle would be won. But not in time to save the handful of boys trapped in the center pocket.

And now we're learning the oldest secret of war, she thought bitterly. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.

Were it not for Joseph and Jens, she knew, the little pocket of human warriors would have been overrun by now. But those were the two strongest of the human warriors, the greatest, and they were now in the fullness of their rage, and their power, and their glory. And while a part of Indira's mind wept for her dying children, and another part quailed at the fearsome slaughter Joseph and Jens were wreaking in their downfall—

Some other part, some ancient part, some grim and savage part she had never known existed, tracing its long and twisted lineage back to the Incas and the Mahabharata, howled its banshee triumph and shrieked fierce exultation.

Die, cannibals, die. You face the true demons now. The great ones! The old ones born anew! The ones from the deepest pits of damnation. You do not know their names? I will name them for you, cannibals. Tremble! Wail! The one, you may call Shaka Zulu. The other, Ragnar Lothbrook.

It was only that part of Indira which kept her gaze steady, and her eyes dry. The Mother of Demons had sent her children into battle, and she would not flinch at their death.

A sudden movement to the side caught her eye. A figure was racing down the slope. Was already at the bottom. Was already crossing the plain. Was already approaching the battle zone.

"No gukuy can move that fast!" protested Julius.

"Watch, ummun," commanded Ghodha. "We too have legends."

To Indira, what followed seemed a slow-moving dream. Her mind felt suspended.

To the Pilgrims, Nukurren passed through their lines like a wraith, sweeping them behind her in sudden hope, hooting renewed confidence and determination. The Pilgrims poured into the great gaping hole Nukurren was tearing in the Utuku center, ululating, their mantles blue and black. Hesitation was cast aside, uncertainty scorned, all fear abandoned. Of high caste or helot birth, it mattered not at all. They were the Warriors of the Coil, now, the Flails of the Way, and there were none who could withstand them, led by their champion.

To Julius Cohen, biologist, Nukurren struck the shield wall like a charging grizzly bear, scattering warriors like so many leaves. During the carnage which followed, as Nukurren ripped through the Utuku ranks with mind-boggling ferocity, Julius found it impossible to think of her as a gukuy warrior armed with weapons. All his learned theories vanished. All his professorial estimates of the limitations of the molluscan Bauplan seemed a mirage. Watching Nukurren now, he could think of nothing, at first, but some great predator from the Terran past, a tyrannosaur stalking the earth of an alien planet. Until a different image came, of that dragon which lives only in the dark imagination of mankind.

To the Utuku also she was a monster beyond belief, whose fork struck like a flail and whose flail struck like the very lightning. Under Nukurren's blows, their shields shattered, their armor splintered, their tough mantles shredded like jelly, their blood gushed forth like fountains and their entrails shrouded the earth. Every blow of her flail, every stroke of her twofork, was kutaku. They could no more withstand her than they could have withstood the Great Kraken itself, and, in the mounting terror of her passage, their courage fled with the wind. Scarlet-mantled, half-paralyzed, they fell like gana beneath the flails of the Pilgrims who followed.

To Joseph Adekunle, and Jens Knudsen, and the other young men in the center who still survived, Nukurren came like something out of their distant past. An alien creature, bringing to life the history which they had learned, but not really understood; had heard, but not truly grasped. A misshapen, tentacled, colorless form, who brought them all the rainbow hues of their ancestry.

Separated from their origins by light-years and centuries, orphaned, cast adrift save for a handful of adults, the human youth finally came into their inheritance. All of it. The truths, the myths, the legends; and, foundation of them all, that bleak, unyielding, boundless courage which made all myths, all legends, and all truths possible.

They knew, now, the Spartans at Thermopylae; and the sunken road at Shiloh; and the impis at Isandhlwana; and Chuikov's 62nd Army in the shattered factories on the Volga. Despair and exhaustion vanished. Bleeding, bruised, maimed, they hurled themselves upon the shield wall which surrounded them. And broke it; and then slew, and slew, and slew, and slew.

The young men, fiery savage children of a gentle civilized mother, slew with neither ruth nor pity. Because they knew, now, in the freshness of their youth, what their mother was only beginning to accept, in the fullness of her wisdom.

Watching Nukurren come, they knew Horatius at the bridge, and heard Roland's horn at Roncevalles. They hailed Musashi's honor, saluted Pendragon on his throne; and knelt to Saladin's mercy. And felt, beneath their feet, shaking the very mountain, the giant Barbarossa, waking from his sleep.

But all Indira saw, or ever remembered, was floating beauty on a plain of death. The strange grace of an huge and ugly gukuy, scattering destruction like seeds of grain. The utter silence of a warrior, in the bedlam of a battlefield.

Above all, throughout the years to come, she remembered the shoroku of a helot born to hopelessness. That royal, imperial shoroku. The color of that scarred mantle, bearing the burden of a new world's hope as if it were but a feather. That gray, that beautiful gray, that glorious gray, that impossible gray. That gray which never wavered.

Indira scanned the battlefield. A vast scarlet wave swept across the mantles of the entire Utuku army, a tsunami of terror. The same color was everywhere, within seconds. And followed, moments later, by a cacophony of hoots and whistles. The Utuku ranks dissolved completely before her eyes. Most of the enemy warriors were still alive, but they were nothing but a panicky mob. Even as she watched, she saw an Utuku battle leader trampled underfoot by a mass of warriors seeking nothing now but their own lives.

Dimly, she heard Ghodha say, with a tone of great satisfaction: "The battle is won. And wonderfully! The Utuku have been defeated before, on occasion. But there is no record of them being routed. Today, we have done it!"

Wonderful, yes. New legends were forged this day, and will be chanted, again and again. And will give courage in the future. Courage we will need.

Courage I need now.

The next voice was the one she dreaded—that of Andrew MacPherson. Born in Scotland, not twenty years ago. Hardly more than a boy. The Chief of Staff of the Mother of Demons, and her army:

"What are your commands?"

She postponed the moment.

"Rottu—a question. I have asked it before, but . . . I will ask again. The Utuku warriors who have been recruited from other tribes. They can—"

Rottu immediately understood the question.

"Yes, Inudira. Their old clan markings will have been carved off their mantles. They can be easily recognized by those scars."

Rottu answered her next question before she even asked.

"And, yes, it is easy to determine which are recent recruits. And which have been long accustomed to the Utuku savagery."

The moment could be delayed no longer.

"Any of the recent recruits who surrender will be taken alive."

"And the others, Indira?" asked Andrew.

She thought of the Sixth Army, dying in the Russian winter. Nazis, some. Most—ordinary workers and farmers, many of them barely beyond childhood. Each of them a unique universe, never seen before, never to exist again; in all the eons of the galaxies. Her voice froze in her throat; until, far below, she saw Nukurren standing over her bleeding children, guarding them from the swirling chaos; and found the color gray.

"Kill them," she said, in a voice that never wavered. "Kill them all. Make certain they are all dead. Spear the wounded. Spear the mortally injured. Spear any of which there is any doubt at all. There must be no survivors from this battle, except the captive new recruits. Perhaps those can be salvaged. If not, we will kill them later."

The eyes which she turned on Andrew were like ice.

"Do you understand, Andrew? Not one survivor. No Utuku who can bring the tale of this battle back to the Beak. That monster must be kept in darkness, for as long as possible. We need as much time as we can create for ourselves, to prepare for the future battles. And—if this army simply disappears, even the most hardened Utuku warriors will be filled with terror. We will need that terror."

"I understand." A moment later, he was racing down the slope.

Indira turned away and began walking up the slope. After taking a few steps, she stopped. Julius enfolded her in his arms, and she began sobbing like a child.

Behind her, Rottu watched. Very carefully. She had never witnessed it before personally, but she had listened to reports from the Pilgrims who had spent time among the ummun. She knew she was seeing the ummun equivalent of brown grief. Dark brown, she judged. Very dark brown.

Satisfied, Rottu turned away. She had learned much, this day. Her report to Ushulubang would be long and full. And even the old sage would admit that some questions have answers. Answers, at least, which are good enough for the perils of the present.

The answer to one question was obvious. The Mother of Demons was, indeed, as Ushulubang had suspected, the mistress of the art of war. Rottu had thought the sage was probably correct, in this as in most things. But she had not been certain—until she watched triple-eighty ummun warriors destroy half an Utuku army.

But that was a small question. Now, she would be able to answer Ushulubang's big question as well.

She gazed down at the plain. Below her, the massacre was already underway. The Kiktu and the Pilgrims were methodically butchering the mass of the enemy, milling in stunned confusion, while the fleet warriors of the ummun apalatunush relentlessly brought down those Utuku who tried to flee.

She looked away—not from horror, but from the indifference of long experience. She was an old gukuy. Not as old as Ushulubang, but old enough. Old enough to have seen more cruelty and brutality than she could remember. The world had always been so. She had thought it always would, until she met Ushulubang.

I have your answer, Ushulubang. A good enough answer, at least, to lead us forward to the questions of the future. And the Way is no longer a narrow path. It has suddenly broadened into a wide road. Full of pain, as ever. But also, I think, a glory beyond description.

She looked up at the gray canopy of the sky, trying to imagine the things which the demons said lay beyond. Trying to imagine the splendor of that Great Coil of Beauty.

* * *

Indira might have found some small comfort, then, in that terrible moment, had she turned back. For she would have seen Rottu, for the first time in years, relax her shoroku. And allow rich shades of green—in all of that color's many hues—to wash across her mantle, like great waves in the sea.

When it became obvious that they were nearing their destination, Kopporu approached Guo.

"I believe we are almost there now, Guo. The place where the Mother of Demons waits for us."

"I hope so," replied the infanta. She was breathing heavily. For any gukuy, much less a mother, the long climb up the canyon to the top of the Chiton was tiring. Since they reached the plateau above, the way had become easier. But it was still an arduous march, even for an army hardened by many eightweeks in the Swamp.

At least we are done with that, thought Kopporu.

Yet, in some strange way, she felt a regret.

The swamp had been horrible, even beyond her worst dreams. They had lost many warriors there. Lost in mudholes; lost to predators, big and small; lost to hideous parasitic infections; and some, lost in ways they would never know. Warriors who simply—disappeared.

The worst time had come crossing the river. Gukuy generally avoided large bodies of fresh water—and almost never ventured upon the ocean. Terrible predators lurked in water. Small predators in any body of water beyond the size of a stream or little pool. In larger bodies—certainly in big rivers—the predators were huge and fierce.

They had lost almost double-eight warriors crossing the river. Most of them to poisonous water-slugs.

We would have lost many more, had it not been for Guo.

Of the many legends which would emerge from that incredible trek across the swamp, Kopporu knew, none would be chanted so often as the day the battlemother Guo slew the great kraken of the river. Kopporu herself had been paralyzed with fear, for a moment, when she first saw the monstrous form of the kraken plowing up the river toward the Kiktu army. Twice the size of the biggest mother who ever lived—the biggest owoc mother who ever lived—with palps as big as a gana and a beak like a cave.

But Guo had not hesitated. She had lunged down the river and battled with the monster, after ordering her flankers away. For once, Guo fought something bigger and slower than she, and the young battlemother had used the advantage shrewdly. Eluding the kraken's palps, luring it back downstream, she had given the army the time it needed to finish the crossing.

Kopporu looked up at the five little males who were proudly riding atop Guo's cowl, behind their shield of battle. Pipes in arms, as always.

Guo's preconsorts had secured their own place in legend, that day. The Kiktu had had to make another shield afterward. The kraken had made splinters of the one that had been there before. But Guo's malebond had remained at their posts. And had managed, finally, to blind the kraken in one eye.

From that moment, Guo had pressed the fight. In the end, while the entire army watched from the safety of the riverbank, the kraken had tried to flee. To no avail. Guo was in full kuoptu, and had pursued, hammering the monster with her maces, until the great beast was nothing but a mass of bloody flesh drifting with the current.

No, thought Kopporu, the Swamp was not simply a place of horror. It was also the place where the people recovered their soul.

She looked back at the long column behind them. Looking, partly, to reassure herself by its great length that she had saved many people for whatever lay in their future. But also, and more, looking for the signs of that new people's strength.

For it was a new people. Kiktu, still, somewhere at its heart. But Kopporu saw the files of the Opoktu, marching with a dignity they had never possessed, in the days when they had been merely the smallest tribe on the Papti Plains. The Opoktu were small in no one's eyes, now.

She saw also many swamp-dwellers—former swamp-dwellers—scattered here and there, a part of many different battle groups. A cherished part, not a despised one. The southern ex-helots might still—so much could not be denied—remain less adept at battle than Kiktu or Opoktu. But their courage was doubted by none. The tribespeople would have perished, many times over, had it not been for their guides.

Scattered through the battle groups, as well, Kopporu saw many former members of other tribes. Refugees, once; no longer. Honored and respected members of—

—of what? Kopporu asked herself. What are we now? The tribe called Kiktu? No, no longer. We are not even a tribe, in any proper sense. No clan leaders, outside the Opoktu. Even the clans themselves have gotten vague at their edges, with so many new adopted members.

How many eightdays has it been since I heard a warrior even use the name "Kiktu"? The Opoktu still, on occasion, call themselves by their own name. But, even among them, I have noticed that it is only their clan leaders and old warriors who do so. The rest of the Opoktu simply use the phrases which have become common to the army as a whole.

Kopporu's army. And, more and more often, the Guoktu.

Guo's people.

Ranging further down the column, Kopporu's eyes fell on still another group of gukuy. The sight of them removed all fond memories, and brought the harsh realities of the present back to her mind.

The Utuku captives. And Guo's temper.

If that young fool cannot restrain herself, we will all die.

Guo was not only young, and still given—on occasion—to childish tantrums. But what was worse, knew Kopporu, was that she had not witnessed the demons in battle. Guo herself had been preoccupied throughout the battle, too busy smashing the Utuku before her to pay much attention to anything else.

But Kopporu had seen. Kopporu had commanded the entire battle from the rear, instead of the front lines. It was an unheard of practice among the tribes, but it was one of the Anshac methods which Kopporu had finally been able to implement. And there had been no demurral; not even any whispered private remarks. Aktako would have heard, and told Kopporu, if there had been. The warriors knew that Kopporu's courage had been proven many times before, on many battlefields. And the disaster on the plain had—finally—taught even the proud Kiktu that courage alone was not enough.

So Kopporu had watched—from atop the mantle of the crippled battlemother Oroku. That had been Oroku's own proposal. In such a manner, she had explained to Kopporu, she would still gain honor from the battle, which her maimed and useless ped prevented her from joining directly.

It had proven to be an excellent idea. From that high perch, Kopporu had been able to follow the entire course of the battle. She had been able to send commands to the battle groups, taking advantage of every opening she saw in the Utuku formations.

And she had also been able to watch the other half of the battle. She had been able to see everything. From the moment the first demons began flickering down the slopes of the Chiton and hurled themselves onto the right flank of the Utuku.

It was—like nothing Kopporu had ever seen. Utuku warriors had begun falling dead, eights at a time. By magic, Kopporu thought at first. Until she finally realized what the demons were doing with those strange, huge—darts?

Within moments after the demons appeared, the Utuku right flank had been driven back—the Utuku battle line broken in half. From then on, Kopporu had only to face the Utuku left flank. Even the Utuku center had remained out of action, paralyzed by a small number of flickering demons.

At first, Kopporu had been vastly relieved. It had been such a horrible shock, to come out of the Swamp and run into an Utuku army at the foot of the Chiton, blocking their access to the mountain's hoped-for sanctuary. The despair which had swept over Kopporu in that moment had been the worst she had ever felt in her life. The Utuku army was almost twice the size of her own, and the terrain favored them. The battle would take place in the narrow stretch of land between the slope of the mountain and the river. No way, even, to retreat this time. A river crossing would take far too long, even if another kraken was not encountered.

Seeing no choice, she had ordered the battle groups into line. And prepared to sell their lives dearly.

Until the demons arrived.

Great relief, and gratitude—at first. And still, Kopporu admitted to herself, to this moment.

The demons saved us. Never doubt it.

But, as she watched the demons in battle, another emotion had come to take its place beside the relief and the gratitude.

A great, growing, terrible fear.

I must make Guo understand! She is still so full of pride, because we defeated half of an Utuku army. Routed them. Destroyed them.

But we could not have done it without the demons. And what is more, she must understand that the demons destroyed the other half. A small battle group of demons turned double-eight their number of Utuku into so much scavenger-meat.

And suffered only a few casualties in so doing! Most of them in the center, at the fiercest point of the struggle.

Whereas we—lost many warriors.

Kopporu's greatest moment of fear had come when she saw the killing of the Utuku commander. She had seen a new demon appear, racing down the mountain like the wind. Black as night. Implacable. Racing toward the Utuku center. Other demons had surrounded it and followed. Then had come the—dart.

The black demon had—hurled?—its dart high into the air. So very high. So very far.

At first, Kopporu thought the demon had simply missed its mark—and missed it badly. Until, watching the dart begin its downward course, she realized the truth.

It is not possible, she remembered thinking, as she watched. It is not possible.

But it had been so. The Utuku commander was slain. Struck by lightning from the sky. Dead, Kopporu knew, without ever realizing what caused her doom.

She had known, then, that these were truly demons.

Already, Guo's temper had almost caused disaster. After the Utuku were routed, Kopporu's army had begun slaughtering the survivors. There would be no mercy for any Utuku—especially not for any Utuku with fresh cowl scars. Recent recruits, those were—some of them even former Kiktu, who had eaten their own people to save their worthless lives.

Kopporu's warriors had been particularly vigilant in their search for any such. Vigilant, and vengeful.

Until a demon had arrived before Kopporu, where she stood with Guo, overseeing the massacre. Not the implacable demon, but one which seemed overcome by misery.

In tribal trade-argot, the demon had ordered Kopporu to halt the killing of the new Utuku recruits.

"Others must be kill," the monster had said. "Not new Utuku. New Utuku take alive. Our mother say so."

Guo's mantle had turned bright blue, then. The battlemother had bellowed with rage, and raised her maces.

"No one—no demon—no one—will stop my people from avenging themselves upon those who ate the flesh of their own tribe!"

In a movement too fast for Kopporu to follow, the demon had flickered back, out of range of Guo's maces. But it had not fled. Nor could Kopporu see the slightest tinge of pink in the brown misery of its hide.

Guo's words of rage could have been heard all over the battlefield. Kopporu's eyes scanned the field. And, within a heartbeat, saw the sight she feared most.

A file of demons was racing toward them. At their head sped the one who had slain the Utuku commander. The implacable one—black as ever.

Sooner than Kopporu would have thought possible, the demons stood before them. Ranging themselves in a half-circle, their darts held ready.

The implacable demon stepped forward. Its way of walking was still strange to Kopporu, although she was beginning to see how the demons moved. But, strange or not, Kopporu could not miss the poise and sureness of the monster's stance.

The demon spoke—in Kiktu, to Kopporu's relief. Trade-argot was a crude language.

Much too crude for negotiations. And if there was ever a time to negotiate, Guo—you young idiot!—it is now.

"Why have you threatened my battle leader?" demanded the black demon.

Before Guo could erupt again, Kopporu explained the situation quickly. From the corner of her eye, Kopporu saw that Woddulakotat was whispering rapidly and urgently into his future-mate's tympanus. She felt some relief, then. The eightweeks in the swamp had taught Kopporu much. Not least of those lessons had been to remove her prejudices concerning the wisdom of males. Especially the eumale Woddulakotat, who, young as he was, had proven to be a shrewd and quick-witted adviser.

The demon pondered Kopporu's words for a moment, and then spoke softly.

"I can understand your emotions. But—are you the battle leader Kopporu?"

Kopporu made the gesture of affirmation.

"We had thought it must be so. Let me take the moment to extend my admiration to you, battle leader Kopporu. And that of my mother, and all my people. The exploit which you and your people have accomplished in crossing the Lolopopo will live for ever. And you have proven your worth—again—on this field of battle."

Kopporu relaxed slightly. She recognized diplomatic flattery when she heard it, of course. But that was all to the good. A demon which was willing to extend some flattery was not, hopefully, given to the same temper tantrums as the fool Guo.

But flattery, as always, served only to sweeten the sour food which followed.

"But I must still insist that you stop the killing of the new Utuku."

Kopporu could not restrain Guo in time.

"Why?" roared the battlemother. "And who is this mother—who can give commands to my people?"

Kopporu emitted the soft whistle which serves gukuy as a sigh of exasperation.

Who do you think—idiot?

The answer came as no surprise.

"Her name is Inudiratoledo. She is my mother—and the mother of us all."

The Mother of Demons. Whose children are like bolts of lightning.

The demon's—head?—turned away. Kopporu saw its little eyes scanning the field of battle.

"As to your first question—why? I do not know the answer. Although," the demon added slowly, "I am beginning to understand. This—and many things about my mother which were not so clear to me before."

Strangely, its eyes began to shine. As if there were a sudden film of water upon them.

But the moment passed, almost before it began. With a quick gesture, the demon wiped its eyes. Then it stepped forward, and there was no mistaking the meaning of that motion.

The Law will now be spoken.

"What is your name, battlemother?"

It was not a question, really. It was a command. Spoken in such a tone that even the fool Guo answered without hesitation.

"Then, listen to me, Guo. Listen carefully, and never doubt what I say. This—"

A quick gesture encompassed the battlefield.

"—is how it is for one reason. And one reason only. It is not so because of the flails of your warriors, nor the power of your own mace. You fought well. Very well. But you would now be nothing but meat in the bellies of the Utuku—"

Guo began to protest, but the demon's voice overrode even hers.

"Except for one thing, battlemother! Except that our mother told us a secret. A terrible secret. A secret which destroyed an army."

The blue in Guo's mantle faded, replaced by dappled ochre, pink and orange.

"It is true, then?" the battlemother asked uncertainly. "She is the one we have heard of? The one who knows the secrets?"

The demon hesitated. Kopporu saw something change in the monster's shape. She was not sure what it was. Something in the way its—tentacles?—attached to its upper body. The attachments seemed to move downward somehow, and the demon suddenly looked smaller.

"Yes," it said softly. "She is the one. The one who knows the secrets—and what comes with them."

It pointed again to the battlefield.

"This resulted from one of her secrets. But there was another result as well. This—also caused my mother a great and terrible anguish. I know it is so. I have been told by those of my warriors who saw her leave."

All softness vanished. The demon's next words could have forged the bronze blades of a flail.

"I will not visit further grief upon my mother, nor allow others to do so. Do you understand, battlemother? I hope so. I have heard much said of the Kiktu, and all of it good. I would welcome you as friends—and perhaps more. And so—I know this to be true—would my mother. But that is for the possible future. For the present, the matter is simple. If you do not stop the killing—"

The last words struck like the flail itself.

"—then the only gukuy who will survive this field of battle will be the Pilgrims and the new Utuku. You, and all your people, will join the other corpses."

Kopporu had turned on Guo, then. She herself knew the tones of authority, and she explained to Guo in the simplest of terms that, Great Mother or no, Guo was still nothing more than a warrior under her command. Did she understand?

Even Guo, even the young fool Guo, who had forced the black demon to declare his authority over them, had finally understood. The battlemother had remained silent, while Aktako and the rest of Kopporu's guard carried the word to the warriors.

The warriors had obeyed. Reluctantly, true. But Aktako and her cohorts knew how to enforce commands, and the slaughter of the new Utuku stopped. Or, at least, the slaughter of those Utuku whose cowl-scars were very fresh. "New" Utuku, after all, is a term which can be interpreted in different ways; and the warriors were in no mood for any but the most literal interpretation.

Kopporu suspected that the young demonlord knew how often the Kiktu warriors were violating the spirit of the command, but the monster said nothing. After a time, Kopporu decided that the demon was not, in truth, seeking a confrontation. Simply a lessened pain in his mother's heart.

Do demons have hearts, I wonder?

The Mother of Demons would never know how many Utuku could have been spared. But she would see captives—several eighties of them, in the end—and would perhaps be satisfied.

I hope so. I hope so.

And now the moment had come. At the head of her army, Kopporu entered a clearing in the center of a small—village, she thought. On three sides of the clearing stood oddly-built, square yurts. On the fourth side was a grove of those plants which the Old Ones called "oruc."

And in the grove itself, to Kopporu's amazement, were several owoc. Feeding on the leaves. Their mantles rippling with green.

The tension in her body eased, slightly.

The Mother of Demons cannot be a cruel monster, then. No owoc would remain in the vicinity of such. Certainly not with that color on their mantles.

Then Kopporu saw the Mother of Demons herself, and was unable to prevent orange from glowing in her mantle.

She is so small! Smaller than any of them!

She had been expecting an enormous creature. As big as—as what? How big would a Mother of Demons be? Like a kraken, Kopporu had thought.

Kopporu did not doubt for a moment what she was seeing, however. There was no mistaking the stance of the demons in the clearing. The small one was clearly the center of authority and respect.

There were many demons in the clearing, she saw. Most of them with darts in their palps, but not all. She saw a number of very small demons, clutching the peds of the big ones, peeking around at the new arrivals.

Children. Like new-spoken spawn. Shy, but filled with curiosity.

The tension eased further.

Surely not even the Mother of Demons would order a massacre in front of such.

There were gukuy in the clearing as well. A good number of them. Several were standing near to the Mother of Demons, one of them—an old gukuy—at her very side. Clearly, these gukuy also occupied positions of respect and authority.

Kopporu was not certain, but she thought most of the gukuy were Pilgrims of the Way. Perhaps all of them. She had no doubt that the old gukuy standing next to the Mother was a Pilgrim. It was somehow obvious.

Her tension eased still further. The Kiktu had always approved of the new religion, since they first became aware of it. Even the old clan leaders. The ideas of the Pilgrims were strange, of course. Difficult to grasp. But one thing had always been clear about them. Unlike all other southerners, the Pilgrims venerated the Old Ones. Not, Kopporu thought, for the same reasons as the Kiktu. But the veneration itself was enough. The Kiktu had granted permission for the Pilgrims to pass through their territory, which many of them had. Seeking refuge, they said, in the Chiton.

I had not realized there were so many of them.

Over time, a number of the Kiktu themselves had adopted the Way. Young warriors seemed especially attracted to the new creed. Kopporu knew that, during the trek through the Swamp, many more had become converted by their sisters. There were no clan leaders to give them stern lectures about hallowed tribal ancestors.

Kopporu knew little, herself, of the beliefs of the Pilgrims. She had been curious, and had felt the desire to investigate. But the necessities of command had driven all other thought aside.

One thing she did know, however. The Pilgrims would defend themselves, flails in palps, against attack. But they were not given to violence. Indeed, they were known to speak against it. Kopporu looked again at the old gukuy.

A Pilgrim sage. I am certain of it.

Surely the Mother of Demons would not order a massacre in front of such.

Kopporu and Guo were now alone at the head of the column, except for Guo's preconsorts. Kopporu could see Woddalukotat and Yurra, peering out from under Guo's cowl.

Advise her, young males. Advise her.

When she was still a few goa from the Mother of Demons, Kopporu halted. Guo drew to a halt beside her.

The Mother of Demons advanced. Alone, Kopporu saw with surprise. Closer and closer, until she was standing at tentacle's length away, directly in front of Kopporu.

"You are Kopporu, the battle leader of your army."

Her voice was odd, and her accent harsh, but her command of Kiktu was excellent.

Kopporu made the gesture of affirmation.

"I am Inudiratoledo. The being who is sometimes called the Mother of Demons. You and I will speak at length, battle leader, and soon. But first, I must speak to another."

Suddenly, in the quick and flickering manner of demons, she was standing in front of Guo. Very closely, looking up at the huge head of the battlemother looming above her.

Kopporu felt a moment's fear. Guo's maces were in their halters, of course—not even the young fool was so stupid as to have marched into the lair of the Mother of Demons with her maces in her palps. But she would not need maces. Whatever terrible power the Mother of Demons wielded, it was obviously not a power of the body. The Mother of Demons would be like a tiny slug in Guo's great palps, her life crushed out of her body in a moment. With her arms alone, Kopporu thought, Guo could kill the Mother of Demons.

Then, to both Guo and Kopporu's astonishment, the Mother of Demons reached up her—palps?—and stroked Guo's arms. Guo began to flinch, then—at a sharp whisper from Woddulakotat—froze.

"And you are the Great Mother Guo. So young. I had not realized how young. My warriors did not tell me."

The demon continued stroking Guo's arms. After a moment, the arms began to relax.

"So very young, to have taken such a burden on yourself. So much courage that must have taken. And much wisdom."

Kopporu repressed a whistle of derision.

Courage—yes. Too much, even. But wisdom?

Kopporu began thinking many unkind thoughts concerning Guo's "wisdom." Until she remembered the day, eightweeks before, in the big clearing of the Swamp. When the young fool Guo had shown more wisdom than the rest of the people combined. Guo alone—and, Kopporu knew, her young preconsorts.

As long as she keeps her temper. And listens to Woddulakotat, and Yurra.

The Mother of Demons made a strange gesture with her head. Pointing, Kopporu realized, with that oddly flat, armless face.

"And who are these two? Introduce me, if you please."

Guo's mantle was rippling with many colors, now. Orange and ochre predominated. Blue—Kopporu saw with relief—was completely absent.

Guo's voice was hesitant.

"They are named Woddulakotat—he is the eumale—and Yurra. They are my preconsorts. And my close advisers."

Petulantly, then: "My closest advisers, and the dearest to my heart. Even if some of my people don't approve."

Kopporu repressed a whistle. One of the old warriors had made the mistake of lecturing Guo, a few days earlier, on the impropriety of allowing her preconsorts to remain in her mantle once they were out of the Swamp. The necessity of protecting the little males could override custom in the swamp, she had allowed, ponderously, but once they were out of it—well. It just wasn't done. They were not, after all, properly wedded.

Guo's answer had been short, to the point, and very rude.

It really isn't proper, thought Kopporu wrily. But I'm afraid it's too late, anyway, to save Guo's morals. I've heard the noises she's starting to make at night. With her preconsorts nowhere in sight. Not even mature—neither she nor they! She'd deny it, of course, but I know the truth. They're starting to—practice.

A strange noise was coming from the Mother of Demons. Her face was twisted into a bizarre shape.

Humor. That must be the way the demons whistle amusement.

"People are often foolish, Guo. My own husband"—the demon gestured toward a large, roundish-shaped demon nearby— "is my closest adviser also. And, always, the dearest to my heart."

Guo's mantle was suddenly tinged with green. Slowly, her own arms began to return the caress of the Mother of Demons.

Kopporu knew, then, that her people would live. And forgave Guo all of her many, many, many sins.

By the end of the first eightweek, Indira knew that the critical moment had passed. There was still much to be settled, and much, much more to be done. Her life seemed to have become nothing but an endless round of meetings and discussions, and she knew that there was no end yet in sight.

But the details—details! she thought—were not important, now that the central concept for which she had battled had been accepted by all parties.

They would become a single people. United, as one flesh, within the shell of this strange new idea the Mother of Demons had brought to the world, from beyond the sky. The—nashiyonu, she called it.

Already, Indira knew, in all the valleys of the Chiton, the strange new word was being spoken, from the siphons of gukuy from many different tribes and peoples. Many of whom—most of whom—had barely begun to learn the Enagulishuc from which the word derived.

A strange demon word, belonging to a strange demon language. What other word could describe such a strange idea? A people which is not a people. A tribe which is not a tribe. A prevalate in which no clan prevails. (Even, it was whispered, in which the clan themselves barely exist.)

Who, then, is a part of this—nashiyonu? Anyone who chooses to belong. Yes, chooses. It has nothing to do with clan status or birth.

Anyone. Even owoc.

Indira repressed a grin. The gukuy who were squatting in the command circle were all very intelligent beings. Even the recently arrived tribespeople were rapidly learning to interpret human facial expressions and body language. Ushulubang and Rottu, she knew, were already mistresses of the art.

When it came to diplomacy, humans had the great advantage of being naturally adept at shoroku. Indira had no intention of losing that advantage, so she allowed no signs of her feelings to show. But it was difficult not to grin, thinking of the owoc.

In truth, the owoc had not really chosen to become citizens of the new Nation. The concepts would have meant absolutely nothing to them. Indira had simply decreed that all owoc were nashiyonuc by nature. All owoc, everywhere in the World-That-Is-A-Clam, not simply the owoc on the Chiton.

She had expected some resistance to the idea, especially from the Kiktu. The tribespeople venerated the owoc, true. But, as Indira had suspected, the veneration stemmed from ancient totemic concepts. It had nothing to do with any notion that owoc were equal to gukuy.

But Ushulubang, as she so often did, had immediately supported Indira's proposal. Very vigorously. The Kiktu had been uncertain, but they had acceded to the wishes of the old sage and the Mother of Demons.

For a moment, Indira's eyes met those of Ushulubang. The sage was, as always, squatting across from her in the command circle. The two of them were careful not to give the impression that they were acting in collusion. Which, in the narrow sense of the term, they were not. Indira met privately with Ushulubang, but no more often or for longer stretches of time than she did with Kopporu, or Guo, or the Opoktu clan leaders.

The fact remained that they were conspirators. The vision toward which they were each groping was different—or, perhaps more accurately, seen from different angles. But their goals, in some fundamental sense, were identical.

The question of the owoc illustrated that unity of purpose perfectly. Goloku, in her teachings, had often spoken of the need to cherish the owoc, and to oppose their oppression. In this, as in so many things, most Pilgrims interpreted her words simplistically. As a statement of ethical principle.

As such, of course, it was an excellent principle—one of which Indira heartily approved. But Goloku's teachings also carried a more subtle and sophisticated thought, under the simple morality of the precept.

If you allow the weakest to be oppressed, you open the valves to your own oppression. If you flail one who is weaker than you, you will be flailed yourself, by one who is stronger. Do not complain then, fool. Was it not you who blessed the flail in the first place?

Indira had, finally, accepted the awful responsibility which had fallen on her shoulders. But she took this much grim satisfaction in the taking—whatever else, she would ensure the survival of the owoc. It might well be true, as Julius often said, that all species were doomed to extinction. So be it. But the owoc would be granted their rightful time in the universe, to live out their gentle lives in peace, free of fear.

Indira knew what forces she was unleashing on this planet. Those forces would do much that was good. But they would also wreak havoc and destruction. Often, she would wake in the night, trembling. Julius would hold her in his arms, until she finally fell back asleep. Always, then, one thought would enable her to face the nightmares.

Soon enough, the word would spread to all the peoples of all the lands of the world. Abuse the owoc, and you will incur the terrible wrath of the Nation. For all owoc, it is said, belong to the Nation.

Watching Indira and Ushulubang, Julius made no attempt to restrain his own grin.

Look at the two schemers. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, no sirree. Ha! Machiavelli's Daughter Meets Cardinal Richelieu. Love at first sight.

Feeling eyes upon him, Julius turned his head and met the calm gaze of Rottu.

Oh, yes. Let's not forget "Tentacles" Borgia.

But, the moment the quip came to him, he dismissed it. Not without a certain feeling of shame. He had come to know Rottu rather well, over the past two months. To know her, and to grow to like her. And, as he learned her history, be somewhat awed by her.

Hard as steel, yes. But never evil. Would you have survived her life, Julius Cohen? With your soul intact—as she did?

He looked away. After the meeting, he would spend the rest of the day in the company of Rottu. He saw more of Rottu than he did of Indira, now. Somehow—Julius never did understand how Indira had maneuvered him into it—Julius had become Rottu's partner in crime.

"Research," Indira had called it. "You and Rottu will jointly organize a research team."

Yeah, right. "Research team." Such a nice phrase. It brings to mind starry-eyed visions of Julius Cohen, paleontologist, plumbing the secrets of the unknown.

Treacherous, sneaky, conniving she-devil. An historian, to boot, who knows perfectly well what the phrase really means—and could have said so in plain language.

Manhattan Project Marries Peenemunde. Absent-Minded Professor of Death and Destruction, Meet Your New Associate—Her Squidness, the Spy.

Julius grinned again, very widely. Unlike Indira, he had no fear of having his emotions easily understood by the gukuy. For two reasons. First, he didn't give a damn. Second, he had a secret weapon whenever needed. The gukuy possessed, as a rule, very good senses of humor. But Jewish jokes baffled them completely.

Except, possibly, Rottu. Julius glanced at his partner again.

When I told her I was making her an honorary Jew, she immediately replied that she was too old to convert and besides, she didn't want to be circumcised. Now, where the hell did she learn about that? I think she's getting coached by Indira on the side.

Treacherous, sneaky, conniving she-devils—the lot of them.

Rottu met his glance. A second later, the Pilgrim spymistress looked away, conveying in some subtle manner the message: Stop daydreaming, Julius. The meeting is about to come to the key point.

Julius snorted. He wasn't in the slightest concerned about that. He should worry? When Indira, Mistress of the Dark Secrets, was running the show?

Paying little attention to the meeting, Julius began pondering the real problem he had on his plate. Wasn't there anything on this miserable soft-wooded planet that would make a decent bow?

He mimicked Indira in his mind. "The Mongols made composite bows." That's great, sweetheart. How? I'm a 22nd century paleontologist, not a 13th century nomadic bowyer.

He dismissed the problem from his mind. Rottu had heard vague rumors of some kind of sea-monsters whose weird innards might make suitable material for a bow. She said she would look into it, but it would be a long time before she discovered anything. Very few gukuy peoples had anything to do with the ocean, because of its dangers. And those were far away, and little known.

So forget bows, for the moment. We don't have enough time for long-range planning. The main armies of the Utuku will be here within a few months, by Rottu's estimate.

Chemical warfare, by God. There's the thing.

He began chewing his upper lip. By now, he had completely blanked the proceedings of the session out of his mind.

Greek fire. Or its Ishtarian equivalent. Rottu's already sent an expedition back into the Swamp. O-doddo-ua says there's a kind of oily quasi-vine there which burns like nobody's business. She promised to bring back a pile of the stuff. If we can concentrate whatever the active substance is, we've got the makings of a nice firebomb. By then, Adrian should have finished building the catapults—no, what's the right word? Trebuchet, I think. I'll ask Indira. She ought to know. The Wicked Witch of the Sky designed the damned thing, after all. Like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, the way she hauls things out of that chamber of horrors called History.

Feeling a sudden tension in the air, Julius focused his attention back on the meeting.

He stared at Indira. He could tell, by subtleties in her posture he could not begin to analyze consciously, that she was poised to strike.

I love you, she-devil.

"Pay attention, Guo!" whispered Woddulakotat fiercely. "Stop daydreaming. They're getting around to the meat of the question."

Guo repressed a whistle of derision. She adored her preconsorts—especially Woddulakotat—and would under no circumstances reprove them publicly. The fact remained that they were still, in some ways—especially Woddulakotat—a bunch of silly males. Fretting over foolishness.

For an eightday, now, since the discussion had finally turned to the problem of building a new army, her preconsorts had been agitated over the issue of the army's commander. A wrong decision here, they insisted, would be disastrous.

Guo must see to it that the right decision is made!

Silly males. The right decision will be made. As always. And I won't have to do anything.

The Goddess will not fail us.

Her preconsorts, she knew, were much taken by Ushulubang and the teachings of the Way. Most males were, especially eumales. Had not Goloku taught that all gukuy are equal within the Coil? Did not Ushulubang flail his Pilgrims with that precept, every day? In the most outrageous manner possible? Imagine! Allowing that pervert Dhowifa to ride about in her mantle, and proclaiming him the best of the new apashoc.

Guo did not object, actually. She rather liked Dhowifa. The pervert had begun to spend much time with Guo's preconsorts. He missed, Guo knew, the company of his own long-lost malebond. After an initial hesitation, her preconsorts had allowed Dhowifa to become a bondfriend. True, Dhowifa was an unnatural gukuy. But—after the Swamp, and everything else, it no longer seemed of much importance. And he was close to Ushulubang, and wise in the Way himself.

Guo did not object to the Way, either. She knew that the new religion was sweeping through the ranks of the Kiktu, pushing aside the old tribal beliefs. But she didn't care. She was inclined to the opinion that beings should believe in whatever they wished. And, even if that had not been her own inclination, she would not have objected. For the Goddess herself had decreed that all must respect the beliefs of others, and their right to advocate that belief.

Guo herself, however, was not moved by the Way. She found its logical intricacies boring. Her husbands-to-be could chatter all they wanted about the subtleties of the Question; she would have none of it. Even if Guo had lost her respect for the clan leaders, she had lost none of her respect for the old beliefs of the Kiktu.

The truth was simple and straightforward. The Goddess Uk had created the world, and rained life upon the Meat. She had given all to the gukuy, and told them to enjoy the bounties of the world. But the gukuy had fallen into sin, and displeased Uk. So the Goddess had returned to the world, to set the gukuy back on the road of righteousness.

It was well known, of course, that no gukuy could gaze upon the sight of the Goddess and live. So the Goddess, in her mercy, had assumed a different form. She had returned in the guise of a demon. A Mother of Demons. With her children, and their glistening spears, to enforce her will.

Let foolish males and others believe in the tales of the demons. The demons were full of tall tales—especially the old fat one, the Mother's mate. Tales of great coils in the sky, beyond the Mother-of-Pearl. Tales of a double coil within every living thing, which created it and shaped it as it grew. Tales and tales and tales.

All nonsense. Guo knew the truth. The Mother of Demons had come to the world to explain the secrets to the people. The greatest secrets of all—the secrets of the future. She said it was not so, of course. The Mother of Demons said she had no magic power over the future. Only the knowledge of the past, of a different world, which enabled her to see the forks in the road ahead. But Guo knew she was lying. The Goddess would blind the gukuy if she told them the secrets all at once, as they really were. So, in her mercy, the Goddess lied, and told only some of the secrets. And only part of those secrets.

It was enough. Once, Guo had meant to force the truth from the Mother of Demons. Remembering that time, she almost flushed red. She would have been destroyed. But the Goddess Uk had loved Guo, and spared her.

"Stop daydreaming!" hissed Woddulakotat.

Guo brought her mind back to the present. The Pilgrim Ghodha was speaking.

"There remains the question of who will command the new army. I believe it can only be"—she pointed to the implacable demon sitting next to his mother—"Yoshef. My reasons are as—"

"No," said the Mother of Demons. "It must be Kopporu."

"You see?" whispered Guo. "Did I not tell you?"

Foolish males. As if the Goddess would fail.

There had been no sign in Kopporu's mantle of her tension. Thus, when the tension suddenly vanished, there was no sign of her relief.

But Ghodha had little of Kopporu's mastery of shoroku. The Pilgrim warrior's own mantle rippled with colors. Predominantly ochre.

"I—do not agree, Inudira. At least I must be convinced."

Ghodha turned toward Kopporu and made the gesture of respect.

"I have the greatest admiration for Kopporu's capabilities as a warrior, and a battle leader. But I watched the battle with the Utuku. It is a simple fact that Yoshef and his apalatunush caused as much destruction as Kopporu's warriors, despite their much smaller numbers. And suffered few casualties in so doing—whereas the Kiktu suffered many. For a barba—for a gukuy, Kopporu is an excellent battle leader. Even a great one. But Yoshef is beyond comparison."

Indira leaned forward.

"I will try to convince you, Ghodha. But it would be better, I think, if Kopporu could convince you herself. Kopporu has said nothing, so far, in this discussion. Out of—not modesty, perhaps, but a desire not to seem self-serving."

She looked at Kopporu. "But this is no time for such pretense, Kopporu. I know full well that you agree with me on this matter. Explain why."

Kopporu hesitated for a moment. What she was about to say would, she suspected, inflame some mantles. But Indira's will was like bronze, as she had demonstrated many times over the past eightweek.

"I also watched the battle, Ghodha. And I do not disagree with your assessment of the relative roles played in it by Yoshef's people and my own. But the question before us regards the future, not the past. We must be guided by different considerations."

Ghodha interrupted. "If by that you are referring to the sensitivities of your tribe, I think—"

Kopporu whistled derision. She respected the Pilgrim warleader's talent, but she was becoming more than a little irritated by her superciliousness toward "barbarians."

"My people, Ghodha—who include far more than Kiktu—would have no difficulty accepting Yoshef as a commander. They would accept it in the same way that they have accepted Enagulishuc as our common language—and for the same reasons. No, more than accept it. They would feel a great sense of confidence, knowing they were led by the demon who slew the Utuku commander with a single cast of his spear."

Kopporu drew a deep breath. Here it is.

"But it would be a false confidence. The army would not be stronger with Yoshef as its commander rather than me. It would be weaker."

Another deep breath.

"Much weaker."

A small uproar followed. Quickly quelled, however, by Indira's firmness.

"Explain, Kopporu," she commanded.

Kopporu held up an arm.

"One. The incredible success of Yoshef's apalatunush in the recent battle was due primarily to surprise. The Utuku had never seen dem—ummun before. Suddenly, monsters were upon them, fighting in a manner which they had never experienced. The ummun had won half the battle before it even started. But this element of surprise will not last forever. We will enjoy it in the next battle, because no Utuku survived this one. Over time, however, the gukuy of all lands will become familiar with ummun and their battle tactics."

She held up a second arm.

"Two. The ummun are by no means invincible, or indestructible. You, Ghodha, are impressed by the fact that the ummun suffered few casualties in the battle. I was impressed by that also. But, since I have spent some time now with the ummun, I have been impressed by another fact.

"There are very few ummun. Not more than triple-eighty warriors. It is true, the young ummun will eventually be able to take their place in the apalatunush. And, over time, their numbers will grow. But there will always be far more—far more—gukuy than ummun. Once that fact becomes known—which it will, there is no way to keep it a secret forever—our opponents will understand that they need only kill a few ummun to cripple the apalatunush."

A third arm. And a fourth.

"Three. And, closely armed, four. Our opponents are powerful in numbers. Does anyone doubt that the Beak of the Utuku would sacrifice eighty—or more—warriors in order to kill a single ummun? Or any of the awosha of the south? And that is my fifth reason. The Utuku are our immediate enemy. Soon enough, the Beak will seek to avenge her humiliations upon us. But the Utuku are, in many ways, the most poorly equipped to fight ummun. Given their numbers, their tactics have worked well against the tribes of the plain. But they are very badly designed against the ummun methods."

A little diplomacy, here. Kopporu made the gesture of respect.

"You yourself, Ghodha, are a former battle leader of the Anshac legions. Would the legions have fared so badly against Yoshef's apalatunush?"

Ochre. Then, the gesture of grudging admission.

"Probably not. Certainly not—in a second battle. Where they understood what they were facing."

"Exactly. The Anshac discipline is, in all essential regards, as good as that of the Utuku. But the Anshac are far more flexible and clever."

One of the Opoktu clan leaders spoke.

"But we are not at war with the Ansha," she protested.

"Not yet," replied Kopporu. "But we will be."

Another uproar, quieted by Indira.

"Explain," she commanded.

Kopporu held up a sixth arm.

"The reason loops back to the question. I have listened carefully to everything Inudira has said, over the past many days. Most of it has been strange to me, and new, and difficult to comprehend. But one thing has become clear. I understand it, because I myself spent a lifetime as a warrior trying to change my tribe's methods of war. Tried and, for the most part, failed. Why? Because—as Inudira has explained—the way in which a people makes war is ultimately an extension of the way they live. Tribes will fight like tribes. Prevalates like prevalates. Savages like savages."

Kopporu groped for words.

"I cannot explain this well. Inudira could explain it much better. This much I know. The whole world is changing—and was, even before the ummun came. You all know this is so. You especially, Ghodha. Nowhere is change coming faster than in the south. Why are there so many former helots among my people? Because the lot of the helots is growing worse in the south. More and more helots are becoming outright slaves. The prevalates are going to war with each other more and more often. More and more, they are encroaching on the plains. And now, a great new cloth is being woven. We are weaving it here, on the Chiton. The cloth we call the nashiyonu. The new army we are building is only a single thread in that cloth—and not the most important one. Think of all the other threads we have decided upon. The new yurts for teaching new skills. The new trade routes we will seek to uncover. The new arts and crafts we will create. All of these things, sooner or later, will bring us into battle with the Ansha—and all the southern prevalates."

She fell silent. After a moment, all eyes turned to Indira.

"Is this so, Inudira?" asked Ghodha.

"Yes. Everything Kopporu has said, and more. I will elaborate on her words, at a later time. But Kopporu has stripped the meat from the shell."

She looked at Kopporu.

"Your conclusions, battle leader?"

"The army of the nashiyonu must be a gukuy army, in its essence. It must be built and led according to the best principles that we know, along with the new things which Inudira will teach us. But those must be principles which gukuy can use. Principles of the flail, not the spear. The ummun apalatunush will have a place in that army, for there are special things which they can do which we cannot. But they will not be at the center, when the clash of armies comes.

"The army should therefore be commanded by a gukuy. Whether that gukuy should be myself, or another, is a different question. But it must be a gukuy. We can, and will, learn much of the art of war from the ummun. And there will always be ummun in positions of command and advice. But no ummun could ever understand a gukuy army as well as a gukuy.

"And, it would be a waste. There are so few ummun, and they know so much. Even the young ones, who remember little of any world than our own, know far more than any gukuy. I would not see them wasted on a battlefield, any more than necessary."

She made the gesture of profound respect to Joseph.

"I, too, was awed by Yoshef's cast of the spear. But I would rather see him cast his thoughts into the sky."

In her mind, Ushulubang also made a gesture of profound respect. Not toward Joseph, but toward Indira.

Shrewdly done, Mother of Demons. As always. There will be no hesitation, now, at selecting Kopporu.

With quite a different mental gesture, Ushulubang considered Ghodha.

I believe I shall make a point of talking more often with that one. Rather too full of the Answer, she is. Answers which would have killed her, and them, had it been she who tried to lead an entire people through the Swamp. Even now, she cannot see past Kopporu's crude armor. It has not yet occurred to her to wonder: how is it that a "barbarian" could see things which I could not?

Because the barbarian, whether she knows it or not, follows the Way of the Question.

But that is for the future. For the moment, there is still a matter to be resolved. There is, after all, a core of meat at the center of Ghodha's prejudices.

For the first time since the council began that day, Ushulubang spoke.

"I fully support the proposal to make Kopporu the commander of the army. But a problem remains, which is the nature of the army itself."

She waited, allowing the council to digest her words.

"Is it to be a Kiktu army? No, clearly not. Kopporu has told us herself that she seeks to adopt Anshac methods—and even more. The methods which Inudira has begun to explain. But that will require the tribespeople to learn a whole new way of war. A difficult thing to ask, especially of warriors who are rightfully proud of their accomplishments in battle."

Another pause.

"Then, there is the problem of the Pilgrims. Many of them will want to join the army. Some were warriors themselves, in times past. From Ansha, and other prevalates. But most are helots, with little skill or training in the craft of war."

Another pause.

"And finally, there is the problem of the former Utuku. Warriors all, and brave ones. Do not deny it, simply because of your distaste for their former habits. They have renounced those habits, and they too must somehow be incorporated into the new army."

A long pause.

"You see the problem? It is not enough to have a commander. She must be able to command an army—an army, a whole and well-knit cloth. But we do not have such a cloth, today. Nor do we have much time in which to weave one."

Ushulubang looked at Rottu. "You estimate that the Beak and the main army of the Utuku will arrive at the Chiton in three eightweeks, am I not correct?"

The spymistress made the gesture of tentative affirmation.

"Approximately. The former Utuku whom I interviewed all agreed that the Beak took the main army south after the battle of the Lolopopo. Leaving only two ogghoxt to watch the Swamp in case Kopporu emerged. One ogghoxt we destroyed. The other will remain in its assigned position south and west of the Swamp. In the meantime, the Beak is preoccupied with completing the conquest of the Papti Plain. Not all of the tribes joined with the Kiktu. Several retreated south, and are still opposing the Utuku."

She made the gesture of certainty.

"They will not succeed in that opposition. But they will keep the Beak occupied for some time. Enough time—barely—for us to weave a new army. And there is an added benefit. Refugees from broken tribes are trickling north. Some have already reached the Chiton. At my suggestion, Kopporu has already dispatched small battle groups into the plain to seek for such refugees. We can add their threads to the cloth."

Rottu fell silent. Seamlessly, Ushulubang continued.

"We have everything we need to weave our army. We have the nashiyonu, which is our loom. And we have the warp and the weft—the ummun, the tribespeople, the Pilgrims, the former Utuku, the new refugees. But—"

"We need a shuttle," said Kopporu. "Someone—it will have to be gukuy—who knows the Anshac methods of war. And the ways of the tribespeople."

"Just so."

Kopporu's mantle turned black.

"And someone who will be able to instill discipline of bronze. A warrior so feared and respected that none will dare challenge her."

"Just so."

After a moment, one by one, all who were present began staring at Dhowifa.