Mother of Demons

  Truly, the Mother of Demons, thought Nukurren, after Inudiratoledo left the hospital.

  She, alone, almost understands.

  There was no place for Nukurren in this new world being born, for the chants were absurd. Grandiose, preposterous, ridiculous—lies. That the chantresses themselves, and those who listened to the chants, thought them the truth mattered not at all. Lies, believed, are still lies. And untruth was made even the worse, by the fact it was thought to be true.

  For there was no Nukurren the Valiant. That creature did not exist, had never existed, could never exist. There had been no glory in her charge. Neither glory, nor grandeur, nor courage, nor valor, nor justice, nor hope for the future, nor even the thought of triumph.

  There had been nothing in it. Nothing.

  It had been that nothing which had made her charge truly irresistible. Nukurren knew, had long known, that she was a great warrior. But not the greatest warrior in the world could have carried through that charge. Her charge had been irresistible because it was not a warrior's charge.

  To be sure, she had used all her warrior's skill—and immense skills they were. But the soul of that charge had been the shriek of a newborn spawn, realizing, from the first moment of consciousness, that the universe was a cannibal. Knowing, always, that there was nothing in the world; nothing but pain and solitude, which endured, and endured, simply because the universe was a torturer enjoying its sport. A cannibal, lingering over the feast.

  Nukurren had gone to the battle, but she had not intended to participate. She had come, simply because—she did not know, exactly. A professional interest, partly, to see how well the demons had learned the lessons she had taught them. But, mostly, she had gone because Dzhenushkunutushen had given back her weapons and her armor, and she had never realized he possessed them. She had been moved, then. She had been moved, not by the still-new and uncertain friendship embodied in Dzhenushkunutushen's return of her belongings. No, she had been moved by her astonishment that a monster could exist in the world who would salvage the possessions of a creature who, at the time, had done nothing to him but harm. She had come to the battle, in the end, wondering if such a capacity for friendship was possible.

  Then, at the battle itself, she saw Dzhenushkunutushen die. (He did not die, as it happened. But Nukurren had been certain he would, and had been utterly astonished to find him still alive when she broke through). She watched Dzhenushkunutushen die, and the demonlord he cherished, and the other demons for whom he was their champion and protector, and knew they were dying because they were young. The universe had not given them time. The universe had given them, demons that they were, all the colors of creation. It had given them all the things which Nukurren had never had, and never would. It had even given the demons the power to extend friendship to one whom all others had cast out since birth. And then, had denied them the time to learn from the friendship. Had cast them, in the fearlessness of their youth, into a battlefield that needed the cunning of experience to survive.

  The universe, which had tortured Nukurren all her life, would extract this final, gleeful moment of agony.

  Though it never showed on her mantle, Nukurren's shoroku had broken then. Had shattered into pieces. The one tie which might have held her back, her love for Dhowifa and concern over his wellbeing, had snapped like the slenderest thread. Dhowifa was safe, now, with Ushulubang and the demons, as safe as he could ever be.

  Nothing, now, held Nukurren from her revenge.

  The Utuku cannibals who died under her flail and fork that day, died horribly by eights and eights, had simply the misfortune of being the manifestation, to Nukurren, of that ultimate cannibal. They could not stand against her any more than they could have withstood Death itself, Despair itself, Nothing itself.

  Nukurren had wreaked her terrible rage on the universe, and had taken from it the last, full, bitter measure. Her spirit had blazed the blinding blue of pure fury, and her soul had been filled with the purest black of the most pitiless executioner. But never, not once, had she allowed the universe to see the colors of her vengeance.

  No, she would repay the universe in the same bleak hue with which it had always tormented her. She had not expected to survive the charge, but she had intended, on that last day of her life, to have the grim satisfaction of casting her death into the beak of creation in the same color it had first spewed her forth. Nothing.

  In the event, to her surprise, she had survived. Had survived, she realized later, only because she had not expected to, and had not cared if she did.

  She still did not care. She was glad that Dzhenushkunutushen and most of the other young demons had survived. She was especially glad that the demon Ludumilaroshokavashiki had survived, to bring comfort and joy to Dzhenushkunutushen during the many hours she spent in the hospital with him. (Even, toward the end of Dzhenushkunutushen's convalescence, making love to her mate; and if the demon way of lovemaking was, like so much else, messy and wet and grotesque, Nukurren had not minded.) Nukurren was glad, even, that the demonlord had survived. She did not much care for Yoshefadekunula, but she knew how much he meant to Dzhenushkunutushen, and Ludumilaroshokavashiki, and all the demons.

  But Nukurren's own survival meant nothing to her. She had survived, but so had the universe. Cannibals had died, but the cannibal remained. So it had always been. So it would always be.

  When she heard what Dhowifa had to say, she felt a slight curiosity. Nothing more. Later, in the command circle, after Kopporu explained the proposal to her, Nukurren felt, if anything, even less.

  So. Once again, I am to be a mercenary.

  Then, harshly:

  Be thankful, fool. Not many people would hire a one-eyed, perverted mercenary. And you have no other skills. And nowhere else to go.

  "I accept," she said, and turned away.

  "Stop."

  The voice belonged to the Mother of Demons.

  Nukurren turned back.

  "Yes, Mother of De—"

  "Call me Inudira."

  Nukurren made the gesture of obedience.

  "Tell me how you understand our proposal, Nukurren."

  "You want to hire my services as a trainer of warriors. It is a common job for mercenaries. The pay is not as good as battle pay, but—" she gestured to her eye "—I am satisfied. I do not ask as to the pay itself. So long as Dhowifa and I have food and shelter, I will not complain."

  Inudiratoledo made the demon gesture of negation, a peculiar sideways shaking of the head.

  "That is what I thought. You are wrong, Nukurren. We have no use for a mercenary."

  "Those are my only skills."

  Again, that odd gesture.

  "That is not my point. The skills of a warrior are not the same as the nature of a mercenary. Your skills we need, and badly. But not if they come with the soul of a mercenary."

  "I do not understand."

  "I will try to explain. Has Dhowifa told you what we are hoping to do here? The—nashiyonu—we wish to weave?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you believe it can be done?"

  Nukurren hesitated.

  "Speak honestly."

  There could be no defying that voice.

  "No. I do not believe it can be done."

  "Why?"

  Nukurren made the gesture of resignation.

  "The world is a place of evil. It has always been so. Evil cannot be destroyed."

  "On the world from which I came, Nukurren, there was also much evil. Much evil, and much as you have seen it on this world. There is still some to this day. But not so much as in the past."

  "The demons have conquered evil?"

  "You cannot conquer evil, Nukurren. Evil is not a thing from beyond, a foe to be vanquished. It is a thing which emerges from within the life of a people. It can only be changed, by changing that life. That is what we seek to do."

  Nukurren considered her words. She had never thought of it in that manner.

  Perhaps I should start paying more at
tention to what Dhowifa is saying.

  "How long will it take, this change?"

  "A very long time, Nukurren. It will not happen in your lifetime, or in mine. Not for many generations to come. We can only begin the change. And even in that beginning, we will create new evils alongside the ones we lessen. But we will be on the right road."

  "You are certain—that it is the right road?"

  "Yes, Nukurren. I have spent my life studying that road. The one we travel will be different, in many ways. No two roads are ever the same. But—there are always certain forks, where certain choices are made. We are at such a fork today.

  "Long ago, in my world, such a fork was reached, and a people made a decision. They made the right decision. In so doing, they did not eliminate all evil. By no means. They brought much evil with them, and created still more. Great wars had to be fought, to change those evils. But those wars, and those changes, would not have been possible had they not made the right choice at an earlier fork."

  She hesitated.

  "I do not have the time now to explain all this. Soon we will be creating a new kind of school, where I will explain this—and much more—at great length. I would be glad if you chose to become a student. But for the moment—

  "When that people came to that fork, Nukurren, and made their choice of road, there were many other peoples who were angry at the choice. It was a new choice, and one not to their liking. The new people—the new nashiyonu—were a small people, surrounded by powerful enemies. They had to fight for their existence, knowing little of the art of war. They eventually won their battle, but it was very difficult.

  "It would have been even more difficult had they not had the help of a warrior. A veteran from one of the old and powerful prevalates. A master of the skills of battle. That veteran came and showed them the ways of war. He was not a mercenary, Nukurren. He did not come because he had been paid, he came because he wanted to help create a new road. That is what we need."

  Nukurren was silent, for over a minute. Then, she said: "I must think."

  The Mother of Demons nodded. "Yes. You must. It is not easy to accept hope. Hope is the most terrible emotion of all, Nukurren, for it has no color. It is color itself, and thus we fear it more than any color."

  Nukurren pondered these words. She remembered the face of the Mother of Demons, days past, as she sat in the hospital where her children lay dying. Unyielding, like bronze, where that of all other demons had been twisted and contorted; waterless, where all others had been wet. And Nukurren understood, then, that the words the Mother of Demons had just spoken were words she had torn from her own soul's despairing grasp.

  "I will return," she said. "First, I must think."

  Once outside the command circle, Nukurren found a number of gukuy waiting. For her, she realized. And one demon.

  Most of the gukuy present were barbarian tribespeople, but there were three Pilgrims, as well, and one she thought was a swamp-dweller. She recognized one of the Pilgrims, although she did not know her name. Long ago, the Pilgrim had been a warrior in the Anshac legions, and Nukurren remembered seeing her from time to time in the Warrior's Square.

  She made the gesture of recognition, and apologized for not remembering the Pilgrim's name.

  "I am Rurroc, Nukurren."

  "When did you leave the legions?"

  "Not until we sought refuge in the Chiton. But I had long been a follower of Ushulubang. Since shortly after you and Dhowifa fled Shakutulubac."

  "Why did you become a Pilgrim?"

  "Because of you."

  For a moment, Nukurren's shoroku almost wavered.

  "Because of me?"

  The gesture of assent. "Yes, Nukurren. Many warriors joined the Pilgrims after you fled. At least double-eight that I know of." Sensing Nukurren's puzzlement, Rurroc continued: "It was because we thought it was very unjust."

  "Why? I was a deserter. And I stole one of the Paramount Mother's husbands."

  The gesture of dismissal. "Not that. Everything that went before."

  Nukurren was silent for a moment. Finally, she said, "I had not realized anyone cared."

  "Many cared, Nukurren. But it was impossible to tell you, then. You were not easy to approach."

  Nukurren thought back to the past, and, grudgingly, admitted to herself that Rurroc was possibly right. She had, perhaps—

  One of the Kiktu whistled amusement. Nukurren stared at her. She had recognized the warrior at once, of course.

  "What do you find so humorous, Kokokda?" she demanded, speaking in Kiktu.

  "You! There you are, pondering Rurroc's words. 'Perhaps I was a mite touchy.' 'Possibly I was, just a tiny bit'—what is a good Enagulishuc word, Dzhenushkunutushen?"

  The demon laughed. "How about 'prickly'?" The demon explained the term, while all the warriors practiced pronouncing it. Their efforts were made difficult by the fact that most of them were whistling gleefully.

  Throughout, of course, Nukurren maintained her shoroku. But, at the end, she too joined in the humor.

  "I suppose I have been, perhaps, just a trace—purrikkulai."

  She made the gesture of welcome to Kokokda.

  "I am pleased to see that you have survived."

  "I owe it to you, Nukurren," replied Kokokda. There was no trace of humor in her tone now. "Had it not been for the lesson you gave me long ago, I would also have become as foolish as the clan leaders. It was a hard lesson, but well worth it."

  "Hard?" demanded Nukurren. "Foolish sp—what is the Enagulishuc word for 'spawn'?"

  "Child," replied Dzhenushkunutushen. "The plural is children. Boy, if male. Girl, if female."

  "Foolish dzhiludh. Very stupid gurrul. That lesson was not hard. The beaks of Utuku at the victory feast are hard. The flail tips of Anshac legions are hard. Helotry is hard. Slavery is hard. Life is hard. The universe is hard."

  Again, the group of warriors whistled. When the humor died down, Nukurren scrutinized them carefully. Nukurren knew one of the other Kiktu personally. She had spent a pleasant afternoon in Ipapo's company, long ago, during the time when she and Dhowifa lived in exile among the Kiktu. She made the gesture of recognition, which Ipapo returned.

  Nukurren now examined Aktako. She had seen the Kiktu warrior, but had never spoken to her. Dhowifa said she was Kopporu's lover as well as the chief of her personal guard. Aktako was the oldest gukuy present, and not particularly large. But Nukurren sensed instantly that she was a deadly warrior. Aktako stared back at her, and the two veterans exchanged an unspoken, ungestured, recognition.

  Whether she knew them personally or not, they all had one thing in common, which was immediately obvious to Nukurren's experienced eye. They were the toughest veterans at Kopporu's disposal.

  Tough enough, I think. Aktako certainly. And, of course, Ipapo. And Kokokda as well, if she has truly learned her lesson. Which she must have, or she would not be here. The others? Yes, I believe so.

  She was silent, thinking. Those thoughts, at first, moved far away from the gukuy before her. But, after a time, her thoughts returned and settled upon them. Throughout her long silence, they had squatted patiently. Now, returning her gaze, they remained still and motionless.

  Nukurren understood, and appreciated, and then accepted, their own acceptance of her. And she thought that perhaps the Mother of Demons was right, after all. She was still skeptical, but—the eyes were there, after all, staring back at her unflinchingly. The eyes of outcasts, refugees, exiles, with nothing in their gaze but confidence and trust.

  "Do you think it can be done?" Nukurren asked. She was looking at Aktako, but it was Kokokda who answered.

  "Train a new army? Yes, Nukurren, it can—"

  "That is not the question," interrupted Aktako. "She knows the answer to that question."

  Aktako made the gesture of bemused uncertainty.

  "Who knows, Nukurren? I did not think we could cross the swamp. But I was determined not to give that muck the satisfaction of my defeat. And, af
ter a time, we were through the swamp. Then, we met the Utuku ogghoxt. I did not think we would survive the battle. But I was determined not to give the cannibals the satisfaction of a meal. Then the demons came, and destroyed the Utuku. And perhaps that is what you need to ask yourself."

  Aktako gestured toward the young demon.

  "I think there is more to this world than we know, Nukurren. So I think we should not assume the world will always defeat us. Did not this same world allow demons to exist? And who knows what can happen to a world which has demons in it?"

  Nukurren looked away from Aktako's hard stare, and examined the gaze of a much smaller pair of eyes. Eyes of fury.

  "And why are you here?" Nukurren asked.

  The demon made that strange facial gesture which served them as a whistle of amusement.

  "You are my friend, Nukurren, and I thought you could use some moral support. Besides, my wounds are almost healed, and it's my job. I'm the Sharredzhenutumadzhoru of the apalatunush. We ummun and the gukuy warriors will need to learn to coordinate our efforts." The armless, flat-faced gesture of ruefulness. "We didn't do so well in the last battle."

  "Not true. The Pilgrims did extremely well," said Nukurren forcefully. "The demons were stupid. Especially the big male demons who led them, thinking they were invincible. Mindless sp—dzhiludhurren. Very stupid buyush. I shall tell Ludumilaroshokavashiki to seek another mate. Why waste love on one who is determined to die?"

  Nukurren could not misunderstand the meaning of the gesture which the young demon now made, alien though it was. The slight bow, the clasping hands.

  We were invincible, Nukurren. We had you. And still do. Teacher.

  Suddenly, she was filled with love for the young demon. As always, her mantle remained gray. But she made the gesture of fondness to the boy. With some difficulty, for it was a gesture she knew but had never made herself before. Then, to the assembled warriors, she made the gesture of respect. And finally, to Aktako, she made the unnudh wap kottu.