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 dar
kness, 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.
Chapter 24
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. br />
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.