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!"
r /> 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.
Chapter 22
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 pe
rfect, 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.