After another four days scouts came back to report that the free Mrem had been spotted. The Clan of Ranowr greeted this news with joy and trepidation mixed.
Krar, Tral, Mahssa and Canar Trowr went forward to meet them in one of the wagons.
At first all they saw was the dust cloud, even a heavy rain didn’t keep the ground damp in this heat. In what seemed like a very short time they were in sight of the great caravan of Mrem and their stock. From out of the cloud strange vehicles came towards them, pulled by strange creatures.
Krar pulled the wagon to a stop and stared anxiously, not certain they wouldn’t be met with weapons instead of welcomes.
“What are those things?” he asked Canar Trowr?
“Chariots!” the wounded scout answered. “And unless my eyes deceive me that is Rantan Taggah himself coming to greet us!”
“He is your leader?” Krar asked.
“Talon Master of the Clan of the Claw,” Canar Trowr answered. “Just as you are Talon Master of the Clan of Ranowr, and so you must identify yourself.” He put his hand on Krar’s shoulder. “My people will welcome you, I think. Be happy! Be proud!”
“Yes,” Krar said quietly. “I am.”
Song of Petru
XXXIV
Heart
Lost and alone
Amid Liskash hordes
They sought the path
The way to home
Instead they found
A Sacred Path
A Blessed Home
Song of Petru
Sanctuary
Eric Flint
Chapter 1
Sebetwe
Knest died toward the beginning of the durre kot, the witching time before sunrise.
It was a dangerous period. Not as dangerous as midnight, but still perilous—especially this early into durre kot. Knest's soul would have to withstand the assault of pejeq and milleteq and whatever other demons might be lurking on the great mountainside until the sun finally rose above the horizon and Huwute's brilliance drove the demons back into their lairs.
Even the strongest disciple would be hard-pressed to survive that long. As the sky brightened, the demons would be driven to greater and greater fury in their assault on Knest's soul. That was especially true of the pejeq, who were undoubtedly in great numbers at this altitude. Milleteq were often sluggish, but not their hungrier and more ethereal kin—and the greater danger the pejeq faced when Huwute's rays began piercing the heavens would make them frantic toward the end.
Only the firmest disciple's soul could hope to pass through that ordeal intact. And Knest.…
"He was a weakling," Herere said harshly. "He won't last even halfway through the durre kot."
Aqavo stared down at Knest's corpse, hissing softly as her eyes traced the long wound left by the grek wadda. The venom had left the flesh pale, putrid-looking, altogether horrid. Fortunately, the plant's venom rendered its victim unconscious before it began its deadly and hideous work. Knest had at least not died in great pain.
The fourth member of the party, Nabliz, gazed at the horizon where—much too late—Huwute would finally rise. "Herere is right," he said softly. "You know she is, Sebetwe."
Sebetwe did know it, but he hesitated to give the order. Aqavo, probably the kindest of the group, put his reluctance into words. "That would be the true death for Knest. His soul gone forever."
Herere shifted her weight on her haunches. "When his soul is taken by a demon he will also suffer the true death—and we will be at great risk ourselves."
She was right. A pejeq riding a captured soul or a milleteq enlarged by devouring one would be able to attack them throughout the night. At dawn and dusk also—any time except when Huwute's glory filled the sky.
"We must do it, Sebetwe," said Nabliz.
Aqavo said nothing, but her slumped shoulders indicated her agreement. Herere glared at Sebetwe, then down at the corpse of Knest. After a moment, she drew her knife.
Sebetwe raised a hand. "I will do it," he said. "Aqavo, start the fire."
He drew out his ax. It was typical of Herere that she would think to use a knife to cut open a skull. The huge female was always prone to displaying her great strength. Sebetwe, average size for a male Liskash, would use a more reliable tool for the purpose.
Delay was dangerous. So, with none of the ritual formality he would have preferred, Sebetwe smashed open Knest's skull. Two more blows of the axe were enough to expose the narrow brain case. Then, using a taloned hand, he scooped out the brain. He laid it on a bare rock, since Aqavo's fire was only starting to build.
While he was busy at that task, Herere sliced open Knest's chest and abdomen. With Nabliz's help, the dead disciple's heart, lungs and liver were soon removed from the body.
The heart and lungs, they would eat, to keep what might be left of Knest's valor and spirit in their midst. Could they have done the same with the brain, they might have been able to save Knest's soul as well. But that would be perilous. Devilkins usually infested the brains of dead people; not powerful ones like pejeq or milleteq but sly and malicious ones who sought to infest those who ate such brains.
So the brain would have to be burned. Had Knest died at home, or at least in safer surroundings, they could have performed the rites and embalming rituals that would have preserved his soul long enough for it to pass into a newborn.
The liver would also be burned, lest whatever sins and evils had lurked within Knest should escape into the world with his death.
* * *
By the time they were done, Huwute had fully risen. The goddess' splendor was still dim enough that one could gaze upon her without danger, but that would not last long. Huwute was vain and thus dangerous, as deities so often were.
Sebetwe knew that most Liskash tribes actually worshipped Huwute. Primitives, not much more than savages, who could not distinguish the manifestations of the Godhead from itself. In truth, it was sloppy thinking to visualize the sun as a "goddess," though most disciples did it anyway.
Sebetwe knew that Huwute was not really a deity, simply the manifestation—not the only; but certainly the greatest—of the Godhead's self-consideration. Dangerous, not in the way that a conscious beast is dangerous but in the way a fire or a rockslide is dangerous.
It was not always easy to remember the teachings, though. Sebetwe found it hard not to resent Huwute’s stately and self-satisfied progression. Could the goddess not have hastened her steps a bit, to keep Knest's soul in the world?
* * *
The work was done, all their belongings back in their packs. Sebetwe straightened and gazed up the mountain. They still had a long way to go before they reached their destination. The trek up the slope would be arduous. The thin and cold air of the mountainside would sap their energy, making them more sluggish as the day passed.
That was how Knest had died, in late afternoon of the previous day. His brain had become dulled; so dulled that he had not noticed the filaments of the grek wadda lying in wait against the rocks until the monster struck.
They would have to be careful—and ever more so as they neared their goal. The gantrak of the mountains guarded their nests fiercely.
Achia Pazik
Lavi Tur slid down the slope to come to rest beside Achia Pazik. Despite the peril of the moment, the dancer was amused by the young male's graceful flamboyance. Because of his age, Lavi Tur was not formally a warrior yet—a fact that aggravated him no end because he felt, probably rightly, that he was as strong and agile as almost any warrior in the clan.
"Probably" rightly? Achia Pazik asked herself silently. The question was a bitter one. After the disastrous outcome of the battle three days ago with Zilikazi's army, Lavi Tur was almost certainly as strong and agile as any warrior in the tribe. She didn't think there many left who weren't dead or captured or so badly wounded that they were unavailable for any more fighting. For a time, anyway. And the casualties among the dancers had been worse than those suffered by the warriors.
> Zilikazi had targeted the dancers from the very beginning of the battle, sending massed units of mounted warriors at them. The mind power of the Liskash noble who lorded it over the lands bordering on the great southern mountains had been incredible. No scaled noble they'd encountered before had been nearly as domineering.
The dancers had been stunned, the warriors even more so. The battle had been over within two hours. Only small groups of the tribespeople had escaped; the rest, killed or enslaved. Most of those who had escaped, Achia Pazik thought, had fled back in the direction from which they'd come, to the northeast. But she and the handful with her wound up, in the chaos and confusion, being separated from all others and making their escape to the south. They'd apparently moved completely around the huge Liskash army, although they'd had no conscious intention of doing so.
But it was too late now to do anything more than continue south. Trying to retrace their steps would surely be disastrous. Achia Pazik wanted no further contact with Zilikazi until and unless she could figure out some way to counteract his incredible mental force. And how was she supposed to do that, with no more aid than could be provided by one other dancer, five warriors, one not-quite-a-warrior, four other females—one of them elderly, albeit hale and vigorous—and three kits?
Their only chance was to make it into the mountains. Hopefully, the dropping temperatures would deter Zilikazi's soldiers from pursuing them. Liskash didn't like cold; it made them sluggish.
"Chefer Kolkin says the way is clear as far ahead as he can see." Lavi Tur spoke in a hissing whisper, which Achia Pazik thought was a bit dramatic given the very content of what he had to say. If the way was clear, why worry about being overheard?
But she didn't chide or tease him. Like most younglings, Lavi Tur was sensitive to criticism.
"All right," she said. "Pass the word to the others. We've rested long enough. We have to get higher before nightfall."
After Lavi Tur left, Achia Pazik looked up the slope. She was in a slight depression and couldn't see the peak of the mountains whose side they'd been climbing. But she knew they still had a long way to go.
A screech somewhere in the distance caused her to tense. That had been made by some sort of animal, not a Liskash scout. A big animal, from the sound.
What animal? She had no idea. To the best of her knowledge, no Mrem had ever gone into the great southern mountains. There had been no reason to. Mrem were more resistant to cold than the reptiles, but they still didn't like it—and with the plains available, why go into the mountains?
But the plains weren't available now. There might never be again. Not those plains dominated by Zilikazi, at least, and they were the only ones within reach.
So, up they would go, no matter what dangerous animals might live up there. Achia Pazik didn't see where they had any choice.
Zilikazi
"Kill the injured," Zilikazi said. "Any who can't move without assistance."
He gave one final glance at the huddled mass of Mrem captives, and then decided he'd better qualify that. His underlings were prone to interpreting his orders excessively. He could hardly complain about that tendency, given that he'd fostered and encouraged it himself. But he saw no reason to waste captives unnecessarily.
"By 'assistance' I mean any who need to be carried on a litter. If they can walk with the support of one or two other Mrem, we'll keep them alive. For now, at any rate."
He didn't bother to wait for his lieutenants' gestures of assent before turning away and moving back toward his pavilion. That abruptness was another trait he'd fostered over the years. For him to wait to accept an underling's sign of obedience would suggest there was a possibility the underling might not obey Zilikazi, which was unthinkable.
Zilikazi's dominance resulted mostly from his immense power. But he'd buttressed that innate ability with shrewd methods of rule as well.
As he moved toward the great pavilion in the distance, his palanquin followed in his wake. The four Liskash who bore that palanquin were lucky that Zilikazi was still young enough to be energetic and chose to demonstrate that vigor publicly on most occasions. The palanquin was already heavy due to its construction and ornamentation, even without someone riding in it.
As he walked, the Liskash ruler contemplated his next move in the great conflict that had erupted since the sea broke through the eastern mountains and began flooding the lowlands. The migrations of the Mrem clans had unleashed war all across the lands to the north. Wars between Liskash nobles, often, not simply clashes with the furred barbarians. In the nature of things—Zilikazi was no exception—Liskash nobles were always alert to opportunities to enlarge their domains. A noble weakened by Mrem was like a bloody fish in the water, drawing predators from all around.
Now that he'd crushed the Mrem who had dared to invade his own territory, Zilikazi was tempted to send his army north, to seize what lands he could from other nobles. Keletu was badly weakened, he was sure; so, most likely, were Giswayo and Sakki.
But, in his cold and calculating manner, he suppressed the urge. Unlike most Liskash nobles, Zilikazi had trained himself to patience. His mental power was greater than that of any noble he knew—or had ever heard of, for that matter. So what was the hurry? He was still young; still had plenty of time to forge the greatest Liskash realm ever known. It was better to continue the path he'd always followed; the patient path, that consolidated gains before adding new ones.
That meant he had to anchor his position against the southern mountains before he sent his army to the north. The Kororo Krek probably posed no real danger to him, since the religious order seemed disinclined toward conquest. But who knew what ideas might come into the heads of fanatics?
Their overly complex, phantasmagorical notions belonged in the addled brains of Mrem, not sensible Liskash. If those notions spread more widely, mischief might result. Zilikazi hadn't been able to make much sense of the prattle of the Kororo disciple he'd had tortured. But one thing had emerged clearly out of the muddle: the Krek placed no great value—perhaps none at all—on the established customs of the Liskash.
Not even the most powerful noble—not even Zilikazi himself—could rule without those customs. If one had to maintain control by the constant exertion of sheer mental force over each and every underling…
Impossible! One had to sleep, after all. What made orderly rule possible was accepted and entrenched custom. Once a noble demonstrated his or her power, those who were inferior acquiesced in their subordination. Willingly, if not eagerly. Thereafter, the nobles needed only to demonstrate, from time to time or in clashes with other nobles, that their power had not waned.
So. The Kororo Krek had annoyed him long enough. It was time to crush them and bring those who survived under his rule. The soldiers wouldn't like campaigning in the mountains, of course. They would complain bitterly in private to each other. But what did that matter? Soldiers always complained. As long as they kept their grievances to themselves, Zilikazi could safely ignore them.
As for the conditions in the mountains, they couldn't be that bad. The Kororo had been up there for at least three generations now. And they weren't a single sub-species which might have become hardened to the environment, either. They were a mongrel breed, accepting Liskash from everywhere. If such could survive up there, so could Zilikazi's soldiers.
Njekwa
“What news?” Njekwa asked quietly, after Litunga entered the cooking tent and came to her side.
“The warriors I spoke to said we are marching south, starting tomorrow.” The old shaman lowered her voice still further. “Zilikazi plans to crush the Kororo, they think.”
Njekwa grunted skeptically. Litunga would have spoken only to common warriors, not officers. Such were hardly likely to be in the godling’s confidence. Rumors were generated and spread in the ranks of the warriors like weeds.
Still…
“What should we do, Priestess?” asked Litunga.
“There’s nothing we can ‘do,’ and y
ou know it as well as I do. What you really mean to ask is ‘what is our attitude’? Do we support the godling or stand apart?”
Which was also a rather pointless way of putting it, thought Njekwa, although she didn’t say it out loud. Zilikazi was barely aware of the Old Faith’s existence. He didn’t care one way or the other whether its adherents considered the Kororo to be heretics—and he certainly didn’t care if they supported him or stood aside when he marched against the Krek. As far as Zilikazi was concerned, the only proper religious belief was the one that recognized him as a god. All others were beneath his contempt.
Nonetheless, the question mattered to the Old Believers. Ever since the rise of the Kororo Krek, a few generations earlier, they had wrestled with the issue.
On the one hand, as members of the Krek themselves freely acknowledged, the Kororo creed had arisen from the Old Faith. It rejected outright the pretensions of the nobility to divine status. Spurned the notion with scorn and derision, in fact.
On the other hand…
The Kororo rejected much of the Old Faith as well. They considered ancestors worthy of respect, but not veneration. They did not seek their enlightenment, much less their intervention in current Liskash affairs. They placed no special status on the female nature of the Godhead—indeed, they argued that the Godhead had no gender at all.
For them, so far as Njekwa had been able to determine, the Godhead was more in the way of a disembodied universal power than anything she or her shamans would call a deity at all. The Kororo even went so far as to claim that all the goddesses and gods—even mighty Huwute herself!—were illusions. Figments of the imagination; names given to a mystery so vast that no mortal mind could ever grasp more than a shard at a time. And that shard was more likely to be distorted than true.
Quite interesting concepts, actually. In certain moods—usually after one or another misfortune—Njekwa found herself half-agreeing with them.
Some of them. The notion of a genderless Godhead was preposterous, of course.
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