"Ghaxtak" was an Utuku word. The Kiktu equivalent was "kuopto." Every barbarian language had an equivalent term, and all of them were based on a derivative of that language's word for fury.
But the word "fury" does not really capture the essence of the concept. The emotions experienced by gukuy are, fundamentally, the same as those experienced by humans. This is, of course, neither surprising nor coincidental. Human scientists, beginning with Darwin, had long understood that the emotions of animals and people are the inevitable by-product of evolution. An animal must know when to flee; when to fight; when to engage in sexual reproduction; when to hesitate; when to ignore. A biochemist can explain the exact chemical processes by which those patterns of behavior are transmitted through the nervous system. But an animal knows nothing of these formulas. It "knows" simply: fear; rage; passion; indecision; indifference. Those animals which evolve intelligence give these feelings names, and call them "emotions." And, as they evolve in a complex interaction with the evolution of their own intelligence, the emotions themselves become more variegated and subtle. But it is inevitable that animals evolving on two planets separated by light years in space would still arrive at the same basic emotions. There is no mystic truth here; simply the requirements of natural selection.
And yet, nothing is ever identical. In their broad range, the emotions of gukuy and humans are the same—certainly if the entire gamut of emotions, which vary considerably between the different cultures of both species, are taken into account. Still, they are different species; and, with regard to emotions, the biggest difference is that one is chromatophoric and the other is not.
There is an expression, among humans, that an individual "wears his heart on his sleeve." The cultural subtleties behind that expression, the product of a species for whom emotional dissemblance is physically easy, would puzzle a gukuy. All gukuy "wear their hearts on their sleeves"—on their entire bodies, in fact. Humans, of course, also express their emotions involuntarily. They burst into tears; they laugh; those with little melanin in their skins even turn pale; or red. But these involuntary reactions are a pale reflection of the rich pallette of a gukuy.
Hence, two significant differences. Gukuy are far more straightforward than humans in their recognition (including self-recognition) of their emotions. And they are far more sophisticated in their understanding of the subtle complexities of those emotions.
Combinations of emotions which, to a human, are a murky blur, are like crystal to a gukuy. A human warrior, in the midst of battle, experiences a confused combination of emotions (fear, rage, indecision) which he does not perceive clearly himself. Not at all at the time, and poorly in the aftermath.
But to the gukuy, these emotions are not a murky blur. A human observing a gukuy battle would see a vast and kaleidoscopic rippling of colors across the serried mantles of the warriors. Blue and red predominate, of course; for a battle is the epitome of rage and fear. But the ochre hues of uncertainty and indecision are often seen, as well. Gukuy battle leaders learn early to gauge the colors of their opponents. A sudden great surge of ochre across the mantles of the foe signals that the moment is perhaps right to press home the attack. And always, of course, the battle leader looks for the wave of scarlet which indicates that the foe has been beaten into pure terror. The time has come for rout and destruction.
Red; blue; ochre—those, the principal colors of a battlefield. But there are others as well, seen more rarely.
Gray is one. Gray is the "natural" color of a gukuy's mantle. A gukuy whose mantle remains gray in battle is one of those unusual gukuy who have learned to master their emotions even under extreme stress. It is an ability which is given a name in every gukuy language. It is always respected; never more than on the battlefield. Such a warrior is invariably a veteran, and a mistress of the art of war. On occasion, tinges of yellow will ripple across such a warrior's mantle. Contempt for the foe.
Black is another. Black is the color of implacability. Not the absence of color, as is the gray of self-discipline; but the sudden suffusion of all color in a ruthless determination to accomplish a task, regardless of cost.
The color is never seen in pure form on a battlefield. Pure black is the color of executioners, not warriors amidst the clash of arms. But it is not uncommonly seen in combination with blue. Never red, or ochre, or even pink. Such warriors are feared, for they have cast aside all fear and caution. They may not be skilled in battle, but they will sell their lives dearly.
And there is another color which is seen on a battlefield, on only the rarest occasion. It is the most feared of all colors.
Green. Color of love, and tranquillity.
It is never seen alone, nor as the predominant color; but rather as a gleam beneath the black and blue of implacable fury. The three colors combine into a hue which has no name in any human language. "Dark cobalt green" is the closest approximation in English.
It is the color of those rarest of all warriors, whom the Utuku call ghaxtak and the Kiktu kuopto. Centuries earlier, on Earth, a culture had flourished briefly which had a name which was strikingly similar. The victims of that culture had gathered in places of worship, crying out: "From the fury of the Norseman, dear God deliver us!"
They were called berserks, and they were the most famed and feared Vikings of all.
Since the first moments of the battle, that color, which the Kiktu called kuoptu, had suffused Guo's mantle. It had never wavered since. Even now, as she rested and waited for the signal to begin the retreat, the color on Guo's mantle did not even fade slightly.
To an opponent, kuoptu was a frightening enough color to see on the mantle of an enemy warrior. The sight of the enormous mantle of a battlemother suffused by the color was utterly terrifying.
Hours after the battle had begun, the Utuku were indeed terrified of her; and their terror was by no means unreasoning. They had seen countless warriors smashed into so much jelly beneath the blows of Guo's mace. The beautiful bronze blades of her mace were now dented and dulled, but it hardly mattered. The titanic strength of the young battlemother was such that she could have been using her palps alone—and had, on several occasions, with much the same effect as a human smashing a mouse.
Guo's flankers, and all the Kiktu warriors within sight, were in awe of her. Never, in the history of the tribe, was there a record of a kuopto battlemother. Mothers were, by their nature, not well suited to battle. Only infanta—young, still infertile mothers—could be trained as battlemothers; and few enough of those. And the training was so arduous and difficult, so opposed to the nature of mothers, that, among the western tribes, only the Kiktu used battlemothers as a regular practice. The custom was not the least of the reasons they were derided as uncouth barbarians by the civilized realms to the south. And hated by the Utuku, to whose culture of total female supremacy the very concept of battlemothers was a despised abomination.
It was still an abomination, in the eyes of the Utuku warriors. But it was no longer despised.
The legend of Guo had begun.
The signal came, in the form of sudden hoots. (The Kiktu, like most of the tribes, utilized a battle language; unlike the Utuku, who gave their signals through drums.) Guo and her flankers were the first to move to the rear, while the other warriors maintained a screen. It would take the slow battlemother longer to reach her position.
Following the scruffy-looking swamp dweller who had appeared as her guide, Guo entered the swamp. With disgust, for the swamp was a dank and noisome place. But she made no complaint. She did not understand the reason for the order, but she had complete confidence in Kopporu. Whatever the reason, she was sure it was a good one.
Within meters (a term which Guo, of course, did not use herself—she thought of it as several goa, a rather loose measure based on the length of a gukuy tentacle), Guo found that she had completely lost sight of the battlefield. The plains were behind her. All around, on every side except the pathway ahead, loomed the tall cycads.
Guo fel
t uncomfortable within the cycads. In part, that was repugnance at the strange growths which seemed to drip from every branch—not to mention the ubiquitous slugs and snails. But, for the most part, it was claustrophobia. She was accustomed to the open stretches of the plain, where the tallest plants (the relatively uncommon fuyu groves) were barely taller than a gukuy female—and much shorter than she.
Soon, to her relief, she entered a large clearing. The ground here seemed firmer than the soggy path she had just traversed. The clearing was roughly circular, approximately eighty goa in diameter. Her guide led her across the clearing and into the thick growth beyond.
"You are to wait here," commanded the guide, "with your flankers. Stay behind this screen of cycads, hidden from the clearing, until the signal is sounded."
Guo felt a slight resentment at taking orders from a clanless one, but she forebore comment. The orders, she knew, must have come down from Gortoku—perhaps even Kopporu. And, as she took the opportunity to examine the surroundings, she realized that Kopporu was laying another clever ambush.
The Utuku will think we are completely routed; stricken with terror. Why else would we flee into the swamp? They will follow us, into this horrid place—where their close ranks and armor will drag them down. By the time they reach this clearing, they will be confused and disoriented.
She watched as warriors continued to file into the clearing and were guided to take their places, hidden in the cycads beyond. Suddenly, the loud noises coming from somewhere behind her, further into the swamp, registered on her consciousness.
Gana! Kopporu has driven the tribe's gana into the swamp!
Guo was amazed—and awed—by the ruthlessness of her battle leader's actions. Very few of the stupid and ungainly gana would survive long in the swamp—especially since the warriors would be too preoccupied to guard over them. The young herders would not, without assistance, be able to prevent the terrified beasts from scattering in fatal confusion.
Guo knew, then, how desperate Kopporu must have been. The gana were the tribe's most precious possession—except the tribe itself. The battle leader had decided to sacrifice them, in the hopes of drawing the Utuku into a catastrophic trap. By driving the gana into the swamp, Kopporu had ensured that the Utuku would follow. Guo herself, on the front lines, had not seen the gana being driven away. But the Utuku scouts would not have missed it. The Beak of the Utuku would arrive at no other conclusion than that the right flank of the Kiktu—which had inflicted more casualties and humiliation upon her army than the rest of the Kiktu and their allies combined—had finally broken. Routed completely. The Beak would command a major and massive pursuit. She would want to slake her legendary vengefulness; and, besides, she would want the gana herself. And the meat of the Kiktu warriors.
A great wave of sadness threatened, momentarily, to wash over Guo. But she thrust it aside.
Kopporu's stratagem would not, she knew, win the battle. Even as inexperienced as she was, Guo had seen enough of the disaster on the Kiktu left and center to know that the tribe was doomed. The most that would be accomplished would be a complete mangling of the Utuku left, followed by a last futile charge out of the swamp in the attempt to rescue the center. Kopporu and her warriors would die in that charge, Guo knew.
But we will cost them very, very, very dearly. The Utuku will never forget the terrible Kopporu. And her warriors. And her battlemothers.
The utter ferocity which filled Guo in that moment caused her mantle to positively glow. For just a second, the green undercolor almost dominated. Her flankers saw, and were astonished; and made their own silent grim vows.
Suddenly, the forces of the Opoktu entered the clearing. Not warriors alone, either—Guo was puzzled, at first, to see the two Opoktu mothers and their consorts in the midst of the allied warriors. Then she realized their presence was inevitable. The Opoktu would not have agreed to Kopporu's plan if it meant sacrificing their mothers. Guo watched as the mothers filed slowly through the clearing and into the depths of the swamp beyond. They would not last much longer than the Opoktu warriors, of course. But Guo had come to admire the Opoktu, in the course of that day. The small tribe was usually spoken of slightingly by the Kiktu—although never, Guo had noticed, by Kopporu or Aktako or Gortoku. But Guo had seen their valor (and cunning) on the battlefield. None of the Opoktu mothers, she knew, would fall alive into the hands of the Utuku, to be made breeding slaves. At the end, the mothers would roll onto their sides, exposing their great underbellies to the mercy strokes of the warriors.
After the Opoktu warriors took their place, the clearing was suddenly filled by the other two battlemothers of the Kiktu right flank, and their flankers. Loapo, she saw with relief, still seemed relatively unhurt (her mantle, of course, carried many fresh flail marks—but those were a trifle, to the vast bulk of a battlemother). But then Oroku entered, and Guo could not prevent herself from hooting with dismay.
The third of the flank's battlemothers was moving slowly, and obviously in great pain. Her left ped was a maimed ruin—some squad of Utuku must have sacrificed themselves, in the singleminded effort to cripple the battlemother. They had come close to succeeding. And Oroku's visor was a tattered wreck. Even by the standards of a battlemother, Oroku was slow and clumsy. Where Guo had managed to catch most of the darts piped at her on her shield, Oroku's visor had borne almost the entire brunt of the missiles. The tough wicker-like visor could only withstand so much punishment, even from light and flimsy blow-darts.
There are two darts sticking in her eye, realized Guo. She must be totally blind, now, on her left side.
Suddenly, she heard a great drumming from the plain. The Utuku, watching their enemy retreat into the swamp, had finally made their decision. Guo recognized the meaning of the drumroll. She had heard it three times earlier that day—attack.
The last of the Kiktu warriors were now filing through the clearing, moving past the creeping Oroku, toward their positions of ambush beyond. Not all of the warriors were being positioned on the edge of the clearing—where there would have been no room for them, in any event. Many warriors, in small squads, were being led to other places of ambush by swamp-dweller guides.
Guo suddenly realized that she had seen several eights of swamp-dwellers.
Kopporu has been preparing this trap for days, she realized. She was filled with admiration for her leader's cunning.
The last Kiktu to enter the clearing was Kopporu herself, along with Aktako and her personal guard. As soon as she saw the figure of Oroku—the battlemother was still only halfway through the clearing—Kopporu came to an abrupt halt.
There was no sign in Kopporu's mantle, but Guo knew the emotions that coursed through her leader's heart. Dismay; uncertainty; what to do?
Guo came to a sudden decision. She laid down her mace and shield and re-entered the clearing. Kopporu turned and stared, as she lumbered her way forward.
When Guo reached the center of the clearing, she said simply:
"She can no longer fight, Kopporu. I will take her to safety."
Guo did not even wait for Kopporu's agreement. She simply reached out her tentacles and picked up the huge form of Oroku.
"Leave your mace here," she commanded. Weakly, Oroku obeyed. Guo turned and carried the wounded battlemother out of the clearing.
Even had Kopporu opposed her action—which she did not—she would have been unable to speak, so great was her astonishment. Not so much at the action itself, but at the very fact of it. She would never have believed any being could be strong enough even to pick up a battlemother, much less carry one.
Yet, when Guo returned to the clearing, after placing Oroku in the cycads beyond, she was not even breathing heavily. Upon reaching the center of the clearing, Guo picked up Oroku's mace. It was a common flint-bladed mace, she saw. But it would do.
"Leave it there," commanded Kopporu. "When the Utuku see it, they will be convinced we are routed."
For the first time in her life, Guo defied her batt
le leader.
"No, Kopporu. They will be convinced, anyway. And I will need the mace."
"Have you lost—" Kopporu stopped, realizing the truth. Guo would cast aside her shield, and wield a mace in both palps.
Guo turned, then stopped. A gukuy had suddenly entered the clearing. A Kiktu, not an enemy. The carvings on her cowl identified her as one of the Great Mother's attendants. The gukuy came to a halt before Guo, breathing heavily. Guo was astonished to see the tiny figures of several males. Two of the males were riding within the attendant's mantle cavity. The other four (one of them a eumale, as was Kiktu custom) were perched atop the attendant's cowl. Somehow, on that strangest day of her life, Guo was not surprised to see that they were bearing pipes and darts.
She recognized them, of course, although she did not know their names. They were the Great Mother's own childcluster—the young and still-infertile males, bonded together, who were destined to be the Great Mother's most precious bequest to her successor.
After catching her breath, the attendant extended her arms. Held in their grasp was a small bundle, wrapped in precious layers of oucloth. She proferred the bundle to Guo.
"The Great Mother bade me give this to you."
Guo had no need to open the bundle to see what was contained within. It was the Mothershell—the beautiful, jewel-encrusted, ceremonial shell of an orkusnail. Symbol of the Great Mother's guardianship of the tribe.
Stunned, she extended her arms and took the bundle. Dimly, she heard Kopporu whisper: "She knew." But the remark did not register on Guo's consciousness, at the time.
"And these also," said the attendant. Before Guo realized what was happening, the attendant reached up and grasped Guo's great cowl with her palps. Across the bridges of flesh thus made, the six males scampered. By the time Guo was able to gather her thoughts—and register a protest—the childcluster was perched atop her own mantle.