

## SANYEL

Michael Puttonen

Copyright © 2012 Michael Puttonen

All Rights Reserved

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Cover by Vila Design

**

~~ONE~~

With its wings spread in full grandeur, a razok circles languidly overhead, gliding in graceful arcs, diligently cutting invisible patterns into a clear, pallid sky. Above the bird's flight a high and vigorous sun flames, casting down malignant rays without conscience or compassion. Far below, a perpetual wind streams torrid breath across wretched, arid lands, whispering its secrets to quivering heat ghosts that rise to perform their ethereal desert dance.

It is time. The green hills, the green plains, the green forests are of the past. At fifteen, I, Sanyel, stand on the edge of an unfamiliar world; it is a world bleached of color and scoured of mercy. For the crime of breaking strict tribal and religious law, my clan has banished me to the unforgiving Desert of Bones—in effect a death sentence. When I departed camp, council chief Barkor allowed me a full skin of water and a meagerly filled food pack now draped across my right shoulder. I have three days to find further sustenance. If I fail in that quest, only a circling razok and an aloof sun will witness my last stumble and fall. Then one will remain indifferent to my demise as the other descends to feast on flesh and blood and bone.

The basic framework of a story, no matter its quality, consists of a beginning, an ending, and what lies between those poles. A compelling tale, compellingly told is the narrator's aim—at least according to those skilled in the art. I, Sanyel, do not claim the gifts of a natural storyteller, but I will try to present this account in as engaging a manner as I can.

To begin it properly, I must go back in time. My father, Nanki, often spoke to me in detail of the remarkable events surrounding my birth, and even now I can recite what happened as if from personal recollection. It was on that long ago day that many crucial elements of this tale had their origin. Therefore, I must go back, back fifteen years to the day it all began.

I was born on a dismal spring morning as a hailstorm raged and my mother fought for her life. Irregular chunks of ice, some the size of an infant's closed fist, pummeled the ground outside our family tent. Inside the enclosure, my mother lay upon a thin bed of piled mats, unconscious and bleeding. Unforeseen complications to an already difficult delivery had pushed my father's medical skills to their limit, but by the dim light provided by the tent's open entry, his persevering, trembling hands managed to guide me into this world.

As I drew my first breath and uttered my first defiant cry, the unprecedented storm departed, the sky retrieved its accustomed blue, and Ra-ta, the sun, appeared. Persistent sweat beads dripped from my father's brow as he cradled me in gentle hands and placed me aside. Turning back to my mother, he waged a desperate battle to stem her hemorrhaging.

He did not succeed. The futility of his heroic struggle became clear within minutes, but he continued the fruitless effort long after my mother's final breath. When he, at last, acknowledged his defeat, my father covered his face with bloody hands and commenced to moan, a despairing wail to rival that of the doomed souls drowning forever in the black waters of Fuld.

In time, my plaintive cries broke through his grieving. He turned damp eyes to my squalling form and smiled as he lifted me from the dirt and cleansed me of birth's residue. After wrapping me in a thick-woven blanket, he placed me upon a stack of animal furs far removed from my mother's still body.

Turning his head, he glanced back to where she lay. He wanted to go to her, to look again upon her familiar, reassuring face. However, he knew the vision sought and the one he'd find would not be the same. He knew his eyes would betray him and fail to recognize the quiet form lying on the hard ground as the woman he had loved for the past ten years. Spirit had departed and no longer animated her delicate features, so there would be no response to his smile, no reply to his words, no reaction to his touch. He cursed his inadequate hands for letting her ardent and unwavering light slip through them, and he later described feeling a shudder in his soul as he contemplated a life forever bereft of that radiance.

Fighting his grief, my father bathed, washing away blood and sweat; then he shaved and donned his best shaman's robe. For despite a compelling desire to suspend all outside duties, he could not ignore their pull. Important tribal business demanded his attention. Mourning my mother's tragic loss and celebrating the precious new life she had left in her place would have to wait. He knew that informing the tribe of the events surrounding my birth took precedence, for in the details of those events my father had seen the portentous.

Later that morning, in the large ceremonial tent, he held me close as he faced a group of men unsure why my father had summoned them.

"It is the first sign of the fulfillment of an ancient foretelling," Nanki informed the tribal council. He reminded the council of a prophecy often told around our campfires. All present knew the prophecy well, the story of a shaman and warrior who would come in a white fury, born of ice, only to become as the sun to lead the people in a time of great troubles. The prophecy said this one would enter the world by a healer's hand and the mother would die giving birth.

"All these things have happened, my brothers," my father told the council. "My good wife, Brisa, has given birth. She has—"

My father did not want to say it, for the finality of it was almost too much to bear, but he willed himself to continue and with a strong voice said, "She has died giving birth to our child. I believe my daughter, Sanyel, is the one of whom the prophecy speaks."

The tribal councilors stirred uncomfortably over my father's words but offered no response. From their bench behind a crude wooden table, the faces of these veteran hunters and warriors registered undisguised shock. Brisa had been beloved, but it was not that tragic news that had left them stunned and speechless—it was Nanki's presumptive statement about me. An awkward silence lingered for a moment, and then the spell lifted when the head huntsman brusquely voiced what the others hesitated to utter.

"You are without senses, shaman," scolded Barkor, a foul-smelling, dark-bearded man with a square, brutish face. His long black hair shone from sweat and accumulated grease, with its filthy strands knotted together in matted clumps that would break the teeth of a metal comb. Massive shoulders, no perceivable neck, and a voice that threatened like low thunder reinforced the council chief's intimidating appearance and bearing. "A female tribal leader? A female shaman? Why are you wasting our time with this foolishness? We understand that you have just suffered a tragic loss, but has your wife's death taken your wits? No female will ever become a leader or shaman of any tribe, certainly not this one. The sun god, Ra-ta, has pre-determined their role in life—as you well know. Perhaps you should stop sampling those potions you create for others, for they seem to have made you loose in the head."

Barkor's last remark engendered a slight riffling of laughter from several of the seated men. The humorless council chief turned a baleful eye to those responsible for the outburst, and with them duly silenced, he shifted his gaze back to my father. With an air of dismissal, he said, "Your daughter will content herself with being a good wife and producing strong warriors for the hunt, nothing more. We will celebrate her birth, of course, and we will mourn the loss of your wife—it is our way. But you will speak no more of this prophecy nonsense."

Angry words tugged at my father's throat, but they were words he lacked the courage to voice. So, he said nothing, turned away, and walked out.

My father's reactions to the events of that critical day were significant in that they determined my path in life, a course that would sharply diverge from that of a typical female of our tribe. For on this day my father decided to defy the council and our sacred tribal laws and traditions. For me, the consequences of that defiance would not manifest for many years, but the day would come when I would pay the price for my father's transgressions.

**

~~TWO~~

We Sakita were a simple clan. A tribe of unknown origin, we lived out our days roaming the open plains, low hills, and dense forests our ancestors had roamed. We were nomads who traveled familiar trails, seeking the wild herds that ensured our survival. Our lives unfolded within the boundaries of an enclave ringed by high mountains, and behind those rock walls our ranks grew and shrank and grew again, ever changing over the centuries due to the uncertainties of a precarious existence.

Our climate was a moderate one, with temperatures seldom rising or falling to any extreme, so aside from a few ice storms in early spring and a week or two of uncomfortably hot summer days, the differences in our seasons were barely discernible. Thus, the land held green throughout the year, and we came to know this green complexion as the constant color of our world, with the plains, hills, and forests all eternally cast in its various tints. It was upon, among, and within these that we stalked our prey and gathered what bounty they could provide. They were our sustenance through good years and bad, sometimes generous in their offerings and at other times as miserly as a nut-hoarding starfen.

Our complete reliance on the natural world's life-sustaining elements did not limit its appeal to us in other areas, for we also possessed a keen awareness of the aesthetic fortune of our surroundings. We appreciated the artistry of nature's painter, splashing ever-changing patterns and hues across a morning or evening sky. We thrilled over the rolling splendor of tall grasses bowing in waves before sweeping winds and welcomed the rumblings of a summer storm or the inspiring display of a starlit night. Above all, we admired and strove to reflect in our temperament the calm and stately solitude of the towering Kodor Mountains, the white-haired sentinels that enclosed and protected our domain.

Within the ring-shaped boundary of this Kodor range, the lands of the Sakita formed the flat bottom of a vast bowl. It was a bowl shaped nearly to perfection by the encircling heights. As viewed from the basin's center, these snow-capped mountains formed the bowl's sloping sides, with the only crack in this vessel located to the south. There, a narrow gap opened out into the Desert of Bones, giving the appearance that its very sands had emptied from the bowl fracture. Transecting the bowl and connecting the eastern and western mountains was the mighty river Raso, which snaked its way west and southwest in numerous turns and twists on its way to parts unknown. Exploration showed it vanished into an underground cavern as it reached the base of the western mountains.

Our land lay south of the Raso. North of the river was Raab territory. The Raab were a nomadic people like ourselves and the only other tribe known to us. Naturally, we were enemies. For a majority of the year, the Raso River protected us from Raab raiding parties, for it was too wild to navigate. However, when low in summer, Raab incursions proved inevitable, for their warriors would grasp any opportunity to cross the river in pursuit of slaves and glory.

To be fair, our tribesmen raided their lands as well. Over the centuries, bloody skirmishes established these encounters as a proving ground for individual strength and bravery, as a way to measure personal worth and build a reputation as a warrior. I had witnessed the results of these battles—men returning with broken limbs and torn flesh, often carrying the bodies of their less fortunate brethren.

Though both tribes roamed freely across the ample lands within this Kodor bowl, its boundaries also trapped us there. The mountains that encircled us were too high to cross, so who or what lay beyond them was unknown. Furthermore—even if not forbidden by law—no one from our tribe would dare journey too great a distance into the endless sands of the aptly named Desert of Bones, a seeming death sentence for all who tried.

This, then, was our existence. We followed the Raso River and its branches whenever convenient. From them we probed the lush lands south to the desert during a yearlong trek that would take us from the eastern mountain range to the western and then back. We were hunters, so we followed the game. We grew no crops and tended no livestock, for we knew nothing of such things. Our lives depended on the skill of our men in tracking and taking down with their spears the wild animals that abundantly graced our domain. Apart from fish and the animals we stalked and ate, our only other food source was what grew in the natural world, gathered when it was available to us. Our numbers were not small, but they also did not add up to a sizable community. Thus, each birth raised voices in praise of Ra-ta, the sun god, and each death was as demoralizing as an empty pot at the end of the hunt. For as long as our stories go back, this was the way of the Sakita. I had no idea it would change so dramatically in my lifetime.

My father's humiliation by the tribal council led him to rebel in a direct but subtle way. Only a male could be a spiritual leader and healer in our tradition, with all rituals and practices associated with that role forbidden to female members of our tribe. Those who refused to abide by these strict laws faced harsh punishment. In the most egregious cases that involved a visit to the executioner and along with the rare thief or murderer an opportunity to feel the tickle of a sharp blade.

At best, the offender faced banishment to the Desert of Bones. There, condemned to wander and count hills of sand, he'd survive only until Ra-ta, god of the sun, showed mercy and decided the malefactor had counted enough. My father had no desire to count sand hills, and yet he did desire to teach me all he knew about being a shaman. He felt he could minimize the danger by being prudent about where and when the teaching took place.

My training began not long after taking my first steps, but it was not until I turned seven that my father felt me capable of retaining more than just rudimentary knowledge. We would sneak out as others slept, seeking a flower with a distinctive indigo tint to make a healing salve or perhaps looking for an herb that could dampen the effects of a raging fever. Each time out my father would speak the words, the cautionary words that defined my formative years.

"You must tell no one, Sanyel, ever. This is our secret."

The necessity for that secrecy I have already revealed, but the genesis of our stern and strict laws on the matter is nebulous at best. One chapter from the tales of our tribe's origin—stories that are of hazy origin themselves—forms the basis for our current beliefs. Since we had no written language, our history was an oral one, and this is one of the stories handed down for generations through speakers trained to the task.

In brief, it states that a man, Kator, appeared in the world. Ra-ta, the sun god and the man's creator, presented him with the gift of fire, a connecting link to himself. A woman, Brosel, then appeared, telling the man the fire was not enough and that pursuits existed outside its boundaries that could bring greater satisfaction. The man sought these outside adventures and neglected to tend the fire, which flamed out, condemning them both to endless cold and darkness. Kator pleaded with Ra-ta to restore the fire, the sun god's connection to him in the physical world. Kator promised Ra-ta he would be diligent in tending the fire but in exchange required power over Brosel and her tempting words. Ra-ta saw the sincerity of Kator's request and granted Kator the return of fire and control over Brosel.

It's an interesting story, but is it accurate? This one tale sparked the idea that men should control and women obey. Would Ra-ta grant men such powers at the expense of half the population, in effect forever condemning women to a secondary role? I find that implausible. My father told me these tales contained valuable symbolic and esoteric elements that offered meanings beyond the literal. However, it seemed our leaders preferred the easy comfort of shallow interpretation and had no patience for a more profound or sophisticated analysis.

In any event, that story resulted in men controlling not only all aspects of Sakitan religious life but most others as well. I have always had a problem with many of the tribal laws that have evolved from this dominance, in particular, those that restrict women. It seems that over the years the sacred words have excused some questionable actions and beliefs. To me, if you use those words to fashion laws that sanction discrimination or oppression, then you are not serving Ra-ta's true intent.

Over time, the sacred spiritual knowledge allegedly given to all men through Ra-ta's symbolic fire became entrusted to a select group—the shaman and his chosen apprentices. My father initiated me into this fascinating world of the medicine man by first teaching me how to identify various healing herbs and flowers. He showed me how to mix and match ingredients, making sure I could differentiate between what was benign and what was lethal. My father taught me the proper way to chant, and he instructed me on the significance of each timed step of our sacred dances, important in garnering support from the spirit world. I learned to focus my thoughts and with practice how to go deep within to find answers to questions unanswerable by the conscious mind.

One day, during a deeper than usual meditation, an animal appeared to me. My intuition told me it was a young can-rak. The beast slunk towards me, its green, sinewy body crouching low as if to strike. It had glossy skin, and its fiery mane seemed lit from an inner source. White, razor-sharp teeth lined its open jaws. Its blazing yellow eyes bore into me with such a staunch fervor that the intensity of the experience jolted me back into a waking state.

"A can-rak?" my father questioned. "Are you certain?"

I assured him I was though I had never seen one in the flesh.

Nanki was overjoyed. He informed me that the creature was my spirit animal, and he felt amazed that it had come to me so soon. He knew a shaman's apprentice usually required years of intense training before its animal helper was willing to show itself; it first wanted to determine if the recipient was worthy. It astounded my father that the animal was a can-rak, for as far as he knew, that fearsome creature had never presented itself as a spirit helper to anyone.

"The can-rak will guide you in all spiritual matters from this moment on," my father told me. "Accept its many gifts. It is certain that you will have considerable power over animals of all stripes, Sanyel, for your spirit guide, the can-rak, is the master of the animal realm."

I did not understand what my father meant, but he assured me I would in time.

My father felt learning the ways of the shaman must also include other skills—deadlier skills. He wanted me to learn to defend myself, so he instructed me in the ways of the hunter and warrior. We practiced in secret, day upon day, the physical movements he wished me to master. I learned the most effective offensive and defensive strategies to utilize when engaging opponents. I learned how to spot in short order the tendencies and skill level of an adversary, how to parry an attacker's moves, how to use his momentum against him to gain the advantage, and how to end a conflict with success.

My father insisted I carry boulders from one location to another to build up my strength and to utilize distance running to increase my endurance. In the forest, I learned how to clamber up trees and with confidence steer my way among their heights. By wearing my favorite garment, a short, sleeveless tunic cinched with a cloth band at my waist, and by tying my long blond hair into a tight bun to keep it from catching, my unhindered arms and legs allowed me to climb with speed and to maneuver unimpeded. My strength and agility improved in dramatic form from these activities, and my father was pleased with the impressive results.

My weapons training included practice with both the long spear and the keen-bladed short knife known as the rik-ta. I worked with an incessant dedication until those weapons were as parts of my body. As I practiced, intuitive insights would come to me. These were insights into how to execute a move in a more efficient way than that customarily taught. I was developing techniques never seen before, and my new methods impressed Nanki.

I was so proud when he said, "Sanyel, you astonish me! Not even I grasped so quickly the properties of the healing herbs and the difficult notes of the sacred chants. And praise Ra-ta how you are learning to use these weapons. In time you will be the envy of any male warrior!"

One day, when I was perhaps ten, my best friend, Lillatta, saw us departing camp and followed us to our current training area deep within a forest. My father was numb with fear over Lillatta discovering our clandestine activities, for the council had acute hearing. It would seal our doom if even a whisper of our subversive actions found their ears. However, our indiscretions far from horrified Lillatta.

"I want to train too," she pleaded with my father.

Nanki was reluctant, knowing one slip of Lillatta's tongue could mean death for us all. Lillatta was persistent, however, so only after making her swear an oath of secrecy on the bark of the sacred wettle tree did my father allow her to train with us.

I have to say that those times with Lillatta and my father were some of the best I have known. Every few months we moved our campsite to a new location, moves necessary to maintain contact with the migrating herds. With each new site, my father would find a sheltered area to use for training. These were often in the nearest forest, which were plentiful throughout Sakita lands. Having Lillatta there to share my lessons, my aches and my joys, and having that weighty secret to bind us made the grinding work not only bearable but also enjoyable in many ways. My father would not allow Lillatta to learn the methods and mysteries of the shaman, but the two of us were always together in our physical preparation, attempting to master the weapons and tactics only our male tribesmen had known in our history.

The weapons most familiar to our tribe were the spear and the rik-ta. With my spear, I would practice piercing the center of round wedges my father had cut from wettle trees and placed all over the forest. I could soon hit the marks from almost any reasonable angle or distance. However, it was the rik-ta, my short, razor-sharp knife that I took the greatest pleasure in mastering. I could, after all my practice, remove it from its sheath in the time it took to blink and with lightning quickness slice or stab body parts of a dummy my father had fashioned out of straw to represent a foe. Lillatta's freckled face would get that look, almost of awe as she saw the relish I took and efficiency I demonstrated in stabbing, slicing, and gutting the straw figure.

"At least give it a chance to fight back," Lillatta would joke. I always laughed, but I had to admit to a calm and cold deliberateness that invariably came over me as I attacked the poor dummy's vulnerable areas. It was almost as if I knew I would need these lethal skills somewhere down the road.

One day, mid-journey through our yearly trek, perhaps when I was about eleven, Lillatta and I happened upon a nest of red-footed starfens. They scattered among the forest ferns as we approached. One attempted to scale a tree fifty paces from our position. Without thinking, I cleared my rik-ta from its sheath and let it fly. To my astonishment, the knife sailed as if on a taut string and struck true to its mark, pegging the rodent to the bark through its neck.

"Nice throw!" Lillatta said. Then a mischievous grin split her face. "Of course, you know you have to eat it now."

I was well aware of my father's strict rules regarding eating what one killed if the animal was at all edible. I also knew the starfen's reputation. What could be less appealing than a creature so foul tasting that even a starving hunter would pause before attempting to make a meal of one? However, it did fall into the edible category, if barely.

Lillatta—acting a bit too cheerful if you ask me—started a fire while I gutted and skinned the unfortunate rodent. When well roasted on the spit and dripping its greasy fat into the fire, I ripped off a section of meat (if you could call it that) and tried swallowing it without chewing. At once, I began to gag. Lillatta howled with glee as I struggled to keep this gross abomination from exiting the place it had just entered. At last, I regained control over my throat muscles and swallowed the repulsive flesh. Lillatta was on the ground, laughing hysterically. Her auburn hair flailed about as she rocked back and forth, and as her body convulsed, I grabbed what remained of the rodent carcass and heaved it as far from my sight as I could muscle it.

"How was it?" Lillatta teased when she had regained her speech.

"Just you wait," I promised, "I'll make you eat a sarkat someday."

"Yes, I'm sure you'll try."

I raised a waterskin to my lips to rinse my mouth of the unsavory rodent taste. I handed Lillatta the water and took note of her puzzled expression.

"Tell me San, that throw with the rik-ta. That was luck, right? I have never seen a throw like that, not at that distance, not even from the men."

"Of course. It was just a lucky throw. You know no one can toss a knife that far on purpose, at least not with any accuracy. It was just luck."

I realized even as I spoke those words that they were untrue. It was not luck. Something unusual had happened when I tossed that knife. A power I should not have possessed had propelled my throw as if it were a lightning bolt from Ra-ta's hand. And as sure as I am of the course the river Raso must flow, I knew that luck had played no part in the blade finding its mark.

Lillatta and I continued our covert training whenever circumstances would allow. The time available to these unsanctioned pursuits depended on how industrious we were in attending to the daily chores and duties required to maintain our community. Apart from the hunt, much of the work took place around our campsite and involved processing the materials acquired by us through hunting and gathering. Turning a resource into a permanent practical item, or into something as fleeting as the next meal, required constant diligence.

Sakitan men and women had their separate divisions of work, with both contributing to the efficient running of the camp. The work varied, with both sexes skilled in their respective tasks and adept at locating the natural materials essential to each process. The women, for example, were proficient weavers, using the smooth, flexible fibers of banton reeds to construct a diverse assortment of useful utensils and coverings. These reeds grew along the riverbanks, and mats woven from their fibers formed a serviceable, water-resistant skin for our tents. We also manufactured a variety of baskets from this all-purpose reed, decorating them with intricate designs and then coloring them in the hues of the rensa plant. Several variations of this plant existed, and each could produce a different vivid color from its extracted pigment.

From the fruit of the fibrous jottel plant, the skilled women of the tribe were able to manufacture durable cloth through a process discovered and mastered over time. The jottel had allowed us to long ago abandon animal skins as clothing for more breathable, lightweight apparel. Garments woven from this plant's fibers were of a pleasing, pliant texture, and dyes formulated from the rensa pigments rendered vibrant colors to this absorbent fabric.

Besides the bounty of these invaluable plants, we had access to an abundance of other natural resources from which the tribe could draw profit. Rich clay from along the banks of the Raso allowed us to fashion serviceable pottery in various forms and sizes, ranging from small bowls to expansive pots, all fire hardened into solid vessels. Profuse metal ore deposits discovered along our bordering mountains permitted easy surface mining of this precious substance, a material of incalculable value to our hunting culture. Over the years, through determined effort, we had gained enough skill in working these ores to be able to manufacture a strong, malleable metal that provided a satisfying tip for our spears and a durable edge for our rik-ta blades. Also, and of no less importance, the forests granted yet another significant resource for our tribe. The tall and straight bennawood, for example, provided numerous items of value, including poles to construct our tents, shafts for our spears, and supports for the hand-drawn conveyances we used for carrying belongings on our treks.

Each day required multiple operations involving the acquisition and utilization of assets, all directed toward maintaining that slim margin between survival and oblivion. Of course, one can only survive if fed. One of the main events of a busy workday was the preparation of the noontime meal. This meal held significance for it was usually the most substantial one. Sometimes, it was the only one, depending on the abundance or scarcity of food at the time.

Each family unit received a share of whatever was available on a particular day. That included a portion of the daily kill along with something either recently gathered from field or forest or taken from our limited storage. The food for these meals varied, and it consisted of both plant and animal flesh. The fruit of the wettle tree and a variety of tubers and nuts were staple foods along with fish pulled from river waters, another essential component of our diet.

The mainstay of our existence, however, was the variety of beasts hunted by our men on the plains and in the forests, taken not only for food but also for hides and bones and any other useful part. We worked the animal hides into leather, used their bladders to form our waterskins, and shaped their bones to fashion the handles of our metal tools and knives.

Our favorite animal to hunt was the porse, a shaggy-headed, ponderous creature with dark fur and a solid, bulky body. It was a one-horned, humped-back beast that roamed in grazing herds across the open plains. Nothing rivaled the subtle texture and savory flavor of its meat when seasoned and roasted to a tender delicacy on a spit over a bennawood fire.

Hunters would approach these magnificent creatures as they fed, using whatever cover was available to get as close as they could without setting the animals to flight. Prone to panic at the slightest provocation, the herd would inevitably flee at some point, forcing the hunters to engage in a dangerous foot pursuit. Wary as they raced alongside the unpredictable, stampeding beasts, the hunters would toss their spears, attempting to land a lucky strike or force one to separate from the safety of its ranks.

With that accomplished, they could then box in the lone porse from all sides. The confused animal would not know which hunter to face, and it would wind up turning its ample body broadside to at least one. A well-aimed spear strike to its massive heart was sufficient to end its roaming ways. I watched these hunts as often as I could, for I was ever curious about the tactics involved in the taking of game. In truth, I envied the boys and men the joy and pride they felt from having participated in these unpredictable and potentially lethal pursuits.

One hunt I still remember clearly, for I played a small part in it, though no one knows what I did, not even Lillatta, who was there. We were almost twelve and as was our custom Lillatta and I sneaked out of camp shortly after the hunters departed. We followed at a discreet distance, never allowing the men to see us, for discovery would mean slops disposal duty for a month, a most unpleasant chore. We planted ourselves in the thigh-high grass just below the crest of a hill that opened out onto a vast plain. We watched as the men, stripped down to their hunting togs and weapons, stealthily approached a small herd of porse.

As they crept from one spiny thorel bush to another, a startled blue-tailed barster took flight. The herd was at once alert and wary, with several beasts vocalizing a warning of danger. I saw Bratar, the son of council chief Barkor, jump up prematurely and race toward the porse. Most of the herd turned to flee, which forced the other hunters to give chase. One stubborn bull seemed annoyed by the hunters' intrusion, gave a derisive snort, and rotated to face the charging Bratar. Bratar stopped to shout a series of traditional challenges to his prey and then ran toward it, his spear ready for the killing thrust. The porse seemed unmoved, snorted its mocking answer, and began to trot forward.

Then, Bratar stumbled. An unseen shrub had caught his foot, and as he fell, his momentum caused him to strike the ground hard. The porse saw its opening and charged. Lillatta and I both let out a fearful exclamation, for Bratar was lying still and seemed dazed. Lillatta could not watch and turned to flee down the hillside.

I felt helpless, watching transfixed as the porse bore down, ready to trample Bratar into a bloody pile of flesh. Then, something flashed in my memory. In one of his lessons, my father had mentioned something about me having the power to stop a wild beast in its tracks—but was that true? What was it he said to do? Why hadn't I paid attention? I had no time to reason it out, for the porse was almost upon Bratar. Leaping to my feet, I stepped to the hilltop—and promptly tripped. I had fallen over the skeletal remains of a long dead animal half buried in the sod.

As I lay in pain across the bones, I shouted out the only thing I could think to say.

"PORSE, DO NOT ATTACK BRATAR!"

In disbelief, I saw the porse pull up as if yanked by a rope. It stood there for a moment just a few steps from Bratar's prostrate form, seeming confused. After a brief look in every direction, it trotted off to join its companions.

Again hidden behind the rise, I watched as Bratar regained his senses. His fellow hunters soon found their way back to him, and it became apparent as I observed the scene that they had not witnessed Bratar's encounter. I had no idea what Bratar was telling them. Was he even aware of what had happened? For that matter, was I? What kind of magic was this that could cause a wild animal to turn from its path? And how could my words have been effective when I knew the beast could not even have heard my voice? My father was an all-powerful shaman, and I felt certain even he could not control animals in this manner.

So, how in the world could I?

**

~~THREE~~

That night we held our traditional celebration for a week of successful hunts. They had indeed been good ones, with twenty porse and several spartok taken. The entire tribe gathered in a large plaza of trampled-down grass outside our tent village. Tonight we would enjoy roast porse, dancing, and music. Later, I, along with Lillatta and several other chosen women, would help serve the men food and drink in the ceremonial tent. It was there the hunters would assemble to tell stories of the hunt. Being chosen to serve was a privilege, for this provided an opportunity to hear firsthand the often harrowing tales of the hunters' encounters in the field. I never tired of that.

I felt it unnecessary to tell Lillatta about the porse and how my words had turned it away from trampling Bratar. I'm sure she wouldn't have believed me. Why would she, since I couldn't comprehend it myself? For the first time, though, I felt I had been taking too much for granted. I was now becoming aware of the magnitude of what my father was teaching me. So much power in a few simple words! What else was possible?

I would tell my father about the porse's reaction to my words later. He was busy at present preparing for tonight's rituals. As for Lillatta, instead of telling her the truth, I told her I had fled as she had and had not seen what events transpired upon the plain.

That night inside the massive tent there was a bustling of activity and a steady murmur of voices in conversation. Several fires burned, causing shadows to dance on the mat-covered walls. Smoke found its escape through a square tent hole high above the gathering.

The ceremonial tent was always the largest of the structures erected whenever we stopped for a hunt, a stay which usually averaged a couple of months. It matched the pyramid shape of our much smaller personal tents though with a slightly different configuration. Family tents found support through four wood corner poles set apart and anchored to the ground and then angled to converge in the sky and secured together at their peak with rope or strips of leather. A framework of smaller poles in a lattice pattern covered each of the four sides, with those then overlaid with hides or woven mats, leaving one small opening for an entrance. There was no opening in the top for venting as with the ceremonial tent, for we built all personal fires outside. These cozy family tents were of various sizes depending on the number of members they needed to accommodate.

The ceremonial tent's construction differed in that the four corner support poles were massive in girth and length. They did not meet at the top but instead stopped short of convergence at the four corners of a square-shaped, open vent that allowed for indoor cooking fires. Support beams also crisscrossed between the poles to add further integrity to this larger structure. The four-sided shape of Sakitan tents held symbolic significance in that they represented the four cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west as well as the four natural elements of fire, earth, wind, and water.

The ceremony was about to begin. Several porse and a couple of spartok roasted over fires located off to one side. The sweet odor of bennawood and cooking meat wafted throughout the enclosure. The tribal council's ten members, all clothed in green robes, sat on piled mats in a semi-circle before a small fire burning near the tent's center. Dozens of men and boys in colorful garb sat across from the fire, facing the councilors. These tribesmen and boys had participated in this week's hunt.

Hunters rotated in alternating assignments, and only those who had pursued game this particular week attended the ceremony. This week's hunters had done well, so there would be much praise from the council. At these affairs, the paltry deeds of the lesser hunters would receive short and often humorous play, while the actions of the genuine heroes received a more extensive and appreciative acknowledgment. On this night, the councilmen would offer their analysis and criticism regarding the week's performances in the field. It was an opportunity to guide and encourage the younger hunters and to give approbation to all who warranted recognition. And although this night was for the hunters and the council only, the rest of the tribe would hear these tales repeated later.

As the hunters awaited their chance to speak, I stood with Lillatta and several other women behind a pair of rough-hewn bennawood tables. We all wore the traditional dress for this ceremony, a colorful, flowing garment extending to the ankles. The tabletops overflowed, laden with wettle fruit and an assortment of nuts and berries. Strong drink—from the juice of fermented wettle—was available to the adult hunters in several large bowls along with water for those who did not imbibe. There were no younger children present, for tradition permitted no one under the age of eleven to attend this ritual.

Our job was to serve the men as they told their stories and to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. In the past, I had taken no offense to this, for this was our way. Lately, however, I had begun to resent the men's needless disrespect. The prohibition against speaking to the men was fine, but they would often cuff us if we spilled their drink or did not respond quickly enough to their demands. It was degrading, and I saw no point to it.

While waiting for these ceremonies to begin, I would often daydream I was off in the forest practicing with my weapons. We earned respect in our culture with the point of a spear, and I often fantasized about the glory of being a hunter and warrior. By Sakitan tradition, my female birthright limited me to acceptable roles, which included for the most part domestic duties and the bearing and caretaking of children. I wanted more. I knew I had the ability to be a hunter, even a warrior. It should not be so inconceivable that a woman could do these things. Why was my father teaching me these skills if my tribe would not allow me to put them to use?

Nanki had risen and the night's festivities were about to get underway. It was the medicine man's responsibility to open the proceedings by offering a small gift (on this night a colored stone) to the sun god, Ra-ta, for the blessings of a satisfying hunt. My father lighted a thin bundle of sargrass, and the pungent odor soon wafted to my station. I will always love that odor, for I will forever associate it with my father standing proud and powerful as he addressed the people, chanting the sacred words to connect us all to the spirit of Ra-ta. After acknowledging the sun god, my father waved the sargrass and thanked the spirits of the porse who had given up their lives to feed us this day. When he finished, council chief Barkor rose and grunted a few slurred greetings, for he was already well on his way to inebriation. Then, the storytelling began.

The first up was a boy I did not know well. Even his name escaped me although our tribe was not that large and I should certainly know everyone. I felt distracted, for my view kept shifting over to a boy sitting across from Barkor. I knew the boy was fifteen, but his build and height suggested otherwise. He had an overly muscled frame and a broad, square head capped by a close-cut bristle of charcoal hair. He wore a food-stained crimson robe rimmed by a frayed, filthy collar. With his full jaw pushed out, his head naturally tilted upward in a royal air. He was not in the least attractive and appeared to be a stranger to soap and water as well. By his coarse manner toward the women, I gathered he had the same disposition as the man seated across from him.

This was Bratar, son of council chief Barkor and the boy whose life I had saved earlier that day. I was curious to hear what he would say regarding the day's events, for he appeared eager to talk and seemed to be growing impatient with the current speaker's rambling.

Several boring speakers later, I found out. Bratar stood, as was the custom, and faced the seated councilmen. With a brashness I found startling, he was soon regaling the crowd with a tale unrecognizable to me. If it could speak, the porse involved in this morning's confrontation would probably have given a more honest version of the events. Unfortunately, he was now roasting comfortably on a spit to my left.

"The bull eyed me," Bratar began, "and I knew I was in for a battle. I leaped up from cover and charged. The beast snorted, in fear I imagine, for I was on him like a flashing bolt from Rata. I aimed my spear directly between his eyes. The flight bore true, but to my surprise, the beast raised his head at the last moment, and the spear struck his horn and veered off to the right. I had only my rik-ta left, and I managed to leap over the bull's horn and onto his back as he lowered his head to gore me. Swiftly, I raised my knife over his flank, seeking the heart. The porse reared and bucked. I rode him hard as he tried his best to throw me. I was tiring him out, but when about to thrust home my killing blow, I lost my grip, and the porse tossed me to the ground. The fall dazed me, but I distinctly remember glimpsing the beast turn and flee in terror. Then the others came up, and we learned later that the bull was taken down by another hunter, no doubt weakened by my strenuous battle with it that ..."

While Bratar spewed this fantasy with bravado and arrogance bordering on laughable, Barkor summoned me to bring him a bowl of spirits. As I approached Barkor from behind, I was aware Bratar's fiction was receiving rapt attention from the younger hunters. Their faces reflected only envy and awe and not a trace of doubt as to Bratar's veracity. The older hunters smiled, and I realized Bratar had duped them as well. Bratar neared the end of his speech, and Barkor beamed with pride as I handed the bowl to him.

I don't know why I did it, but I felt someone had to challenge Bratar's posturing. So, as Bratar spoke his last lying words, I burst out laughing. As unfortunate as that move was, I soon compounded it with another. For at that instant, Barkor reached for the bowl. Our hands did not connect, and the bowl's contents spilled out, splashing onto his robe.

I knew I had made two stupid mistakes. The applause that had begun as Bratar finished speaking, ceased. Silence held for what seemed an interminable moment as every disapproving eye fixed itself to my form. The faces surrounding me showed disbelief, anger, and fear—fear especially from Lillatta and the women. A drunken Barkor got to his feet. A fellow hunter braced him, preventing him from swaying forward into the central fire. He turned to face me.

"You!" he shouted, then stumbled backward. He gathered himself, came forward, and then swung his open hand with such force that my head whipped sideways from the blow. With my face stinging from the vicious slap, I brought my hand to my side to grab the rik-ta that lay hidden behind a fold in my garment. A firm hand grasped mine before anyone saw what I intended, and an urgent voice whispered, "No!" My father held my arm down, forcing me to stand there and face Barkor's drunken wrath.

"You!" he shouted again. "How dare you speak during the storytelling. How dare you desecrate thith—thisth—this sacred gathering, shaming our great hunter, Bratar." Barkor teetered toward me, his foul, liquored breath causing me to flinch. Then, standing straighter, he turned to the others and spoke in a loud, clear voice so all could hear.

"No female is to speak during the telling of the stories. It is our law."

Barkor had to steady himself yet again, and then he offered up a slur not often heard, one that disparages both one's ancestry and mental capacity.

"This clumsy selate has dishonored our ceremony by not only speaking but by also spilling drink during a brave hunter's words."

Turning again to me, Barkor swayed, then spat on the ground a hair's width from where I stood and said, "Get out! I ban you from these affairs. Never again will you set foot in this place! I have spoken."

Barkor slumped back down and demanded another bowl of spirits from the frightened servers.

The words stung worse than Barkor's slap. I had just received permanent banishment from the most important celebration of our tribe. As much as I detested the relegation of women to servant status at these services, I still felt the pride we all felt at participating in this sacred ritual. I was stunned.

I had not foreseen banishment, and my surprise soon turned to resentment—then anger. Idiots! Bratar had fed them porse dung, and they had eaten it right up. And I'm the one they ridicule—and punish? I was furious and about to open my mouth again when my father ushered me from the tent. I glanced around as I departed and could find no sympathetic face. I sought out Lillatta, but I did not see her. Bratar, however, who had remained standing after his story, glared at me as I left, and the look on his brutish face was ugly.

As the revelry continued in the big tent, I accompanied my father to our own. Our dwelling stood among a group situated on the outer edge of the community, for my father often took night walks and preferred to do so without disturbing others. Many times I have woken in the night to find him some distance from the encampment just staring at the canopy of brilliant lights flickering in the sky. He would often ponder their nature and had even named a few. At different times of the year the lights were in different positions, which puzzled my father. And Numa and Nima, the twin moons that swiftly traversed the sky at night were objects of endless fascination and conjecture.

We Sakita arranged our abodes in no particular pattern, with their location dependent on personal preference. The only constant was the ceremonial tent, which always occupied the central area of our encampment, with all other tents positioned around it at varying distances. At our dwelling, located on the edge of the cluster, Nanki had gathered some twigs and soon had a robust fire going. I joined him sitting on the ground, and as he poked the flames, I noticed the deep lines that had grown in his countenance and the thinness of his white hair so clearly defined by the fire's glow.

I knew my father was old, but I had not paid attention to how thoroughly the years had ravaged him. My birth had occurred when he was already well past the age of most new fathers, and in the years that followed, his hair had gone from gray to white. My mother, Brisa, had been much younger than Nanki when they married, although their vast age difference had not dampened their feelings for each other. People say there was genuine love between them.

I often fantasized about my mother, wondering what my life would have been like if I had known her. My father spoke of her beauty, proud bearing, and of the humor that would come like a ray from Ra-ta whenever he sorely needed cheering. I know he missed her. Several times I caught him tossing a persun flower into the river Raso. It was a ritual for the departed, and the sadness I felt in him at those times broke my heart.

My father began to speak.

"Sanyel, my child, I have failed you. I was a fool! I put you in danger by defying the council, and now they have reason to keep you in their sights. At least you were invisible to them before, but now that has all changed. I am such a fool!"

"No, father, please do not blame yourself. It was my fault. I chose to expose the pompous Bratar. I was not thinking clearly. I just could not bear to watch him deceive them like that."

My father seemed not to hear, for his troubled thoughts had him distracted. Then, realizing what I had said, he turned to me. "What's that, San? What are you saying? How would you know if Bratar's words were deceitful?"

He saw my distressed look and spoke again before I could answer.

"Oh, don't worry. I already know you sneak off with Lillatta. I know you two follow the hunters. I have never seen the harm in it, and it honestly doesn't concern me. What matters is that you understand there is a real danger now. Not only to you and me but to Lillatta as well. We will have to be even more careful. Bratar will not forget that you interrupted his story, for that is a terrible humiliation. You saw the crowd's reaction to Bratar. He will be their favorite now, and you will be little more than the dung clinging to his shoe. You are a female, my child. Do not forget that. Wrong as it may be, no one cares to hear what a female has to say, and you have no rights under our laws. You must be more cautious, for there are those among us who would be eager to see me taken down and perhaps you as well, the shaman's daughter."

"I can take care of myself," I said with careless confidence. I pictured what I would do if Bratar and his kind tried me. My rik-ta would teach them a lesson.

"You must listen," Nanki persisted. "I have been training you in all things necessary to practice as a shaman, and I have told you the reason. While I know my stubbornness in pursuing this has put you in danger, I cannot go back and change things. I had hoped by now that I could ease our people into recognizing that a female shaman would be acceptable. But I see no change in them. Their attitudes are just as rigid as on the day you were born. So I must make you truly understand the power you possess. For it is you who will have to confront them in the end. Look at this bracelet of bones."

He pointed to a bracelet that encircled my wrist, an adornment he had given me long ago.

"A dream showed me how to make this bracelet and also its purpose. The dream came to me shortly after you were born, and it informed me that the bracelet had a connection to you. I told you once, when you were younger, the significance of this item, but I did not go into details. Now, I must. This bracelet contains small bone fragments from a variety of creatures. I had one of our artisans ground the fragments down and shape them into animal images, each representing its particular bone. That way you can quickly determine which one you'll need for the purpose I will now describe. By wearing this, you have power over the animals. If you need a favor from one, all you need to do is touch its bone with your fingers and instruct the creature. The animal must be within your sight for this to work. The animal will hear you, even if out of range, as long as you can see it. However, you must remember that the bracelet has to be around your wrist for the power to work, and you must touch the creature's bone. Do you remember when the young can-rak came to you as your spirit guide? I knew then that this bracelet of bones would be your power, for the can-rak is the master of all animals, and so shall you be."

At this point, I interrupted my father and excitedly told him what I had done earlier that day, cause the porse to turn from trampling Bratar.

"Excellent!" said an exultant Nanki. "You see how it works!" My father's eyebrows then lifted in a puzzled expression. "But how did you get the porse to obey you? I know there is a porse bone on your bracelet, but I also know I never told you that you had to touch it to make the porse respond."

At first, that puzzled me too, but then I remembered. "I tripped over some old bones, and I had my hand on them when I called out the words."

"Ah, that explains it."

My father surmised that the old bones I had tripped over had to have been those of a porse. It appeared to him that as long as I had a porse bone on my wrist bracelet, any other porse bone I touched would suffice in allowing me to command the animal.

"I tried to make the power work for myself but couldn't," my father continued. "It seems I am allowed control over only one creature, and that is my spirit animal, the sartel. This bracelet is for you only, Sanyel. You have seen the magic at work, so please understand that this power comes with great responsibility. It is a gift from Ra-ta, and that is a rare gift to any. There is evil in this world, and those who have the power must combat it whenever they can."

"I will do my best, father," I said in earnest.

Nanki smiled a sad smile. He cupped his hand beneath my chin and said, "I know you will, my beautiful child. I have believed all along that you are the prophesied one and I have tried to prepare you the best I can. Your powers will only grow stronger, and you will far surpass my accomplishments; this, my dreams have told me. Your mother gave our people and me the greatest gift when she gave birth to you. I wish she could see what a wonderful person you have become."

Then, my father drew me in a tight embrace and tenderly said, "Know that you are everything to me, Sanyel. I love you with all my heart."

The unexpected show of affection surprised, for he had rarely expressed his love for me so openly. Content in the moment, I rested my head on my father's chest. With one arm encircling me, he used his other to stroke my hair, and then he began to sing a song about the enchantments of a nomad's life. As he sang, I tried to wrap my mind around this prophecy stuff. What did it all mean?

Feeling drowsy, I closed my eyes.

Before sleep came, I thought I heard the distant call of a can-rak.

**

~~FOUR~~

Two years had passed since the conversation with my father, and no further run-ins with Bratar had occurred. The ceremonial tent was still off limits, and I continued to get sour looks from some tribal members, mostly those friendly to Bratar. My training continued, but my father told me it would soon end, for I had learned all he had to teach me.

One morning a commotion woke me from a spotty, dreamless sleep. I glanced around our tent and saw that Nanki still slept, breathing uneasily, as he often did now. Silently, I slipped out to investigate the disturbance. Hoarse voices spoke in excited tones of a deadly can-rak encounter. A hunting party on an early drive had come upon the snarling beast ripping to shreds the carcass of a freshly killed porse. The can-rak challenged the small party, charging into its midst, and before anyone could react, it had seized a hunter's arm in its powerful jaws and torn it entirely off. Blood pulsed unabated from the stump and the ghastly red gore had sprayed over the others. As their comrade died in gruesome agony, the remaining hunters chased after the beast, which had grabbed the porse and fled into a nearby forest. Unable to keep up with the swift can-rak, the hunters returned to Gorsek, their slain companion, and retrieved his remains.

Later that day, on the flat top of a low hill that overlooked the Raso, Gorsek's body lay upon a wooden platform, wrapped head to toe in an oil-soaked fabric. Stacked beneath the stand were numerous bundles of dried bennawood, also soaked in oil. The entire tribe gathered on the hill in a semi-circle, standing a respectful distance from the structure. I watched as my father solemnly approached the platform, followed by Gorsek's wife and their two young children. As a drummer beat a slow, melancholy rhythm, Nanki began a low chanting. Waving a smoking handful of sargrass, he blessed the late hunter's departed soul. Each child then tossed a small bone from a can-rak's foot onto the bier. This ritual was to ensure that the can-rak could not pursue Gorsek into the afterlife; without all its foot bones, pursuit by the beast would be impossible. Her expression stoic, Gorsek's wife then approached the bundles and lit them with a burning twig. The fire licked with eager hunger at the oiled stacks, dirty smoke billowed, and flames soon engulfed the platform. Gorsek's wife and children watched silently and then began to sob as the fire enveloped the body. They were still there, I suspected, long after I had left the scene, watching as the body turned to ash and bone.

Whenever death takes a tribal member, I find myself contemplating what comes next. The body of Gorsek ceases to function, but what becomes of his essence? Tribal doctrine informs us that the sun god judges our life's value when our spirit passes through death's portal, and one could either find oneself in Mimnon with Ra-ta or down in the black waters of Fuld to drown forever. Do I believe this? It's hard to say, for no one has ever returned to verify these beliefs, and our information sources in the spirit world are often cryptic or closemouthed about what goes on there. The only way to know is to go, but I have no desire to join Gorsek in exploring that mysterious realm anytime soon.

The hunt for the can-rak would begin in earnest the next day. I knew excitement and anticipation roiled within each hunter's mind and stomach, for this animal was unlike any other. Though rarely sighted, this creature had shown from previous encounters that it could present an unparalleled opportunity for a tribesman to test his prowess and earn enviable status among his peers. The can-rak was a fearsome predator, as quick and vicious as a burn from a hot coal and unafraid of puny humans—as the unfortunate Gorsek had discovered. To kill one was the ultimate dream of all warriors. In our tribe, only one hunter currently living, the great Semral, could boast of having slain a can-rak single-handedly.

On the day of the hunt, I rose early. Ra-ta had not yet crested the eastern peaks of the Kodor range when I sneaked from the tent where Nanki fitfully slept. I began walking south. The morning air was fresh and crisp and the thigh-high grass wet with dew. I took a deep breath, loving the sensation of cool air entering my lungs. The sky was cloudless, a perfect day to go can-rak hunting.

For, as unlikely as it seems, that was what I planned to do. I carried my spear and rik-ta along with a small pouch for food and a skin full of water; it was all I needed. I made steady progress toward a forest some distance from our camp, the location of the last can-rak sighting. Dew soon soaked my sandals, causing them to squish with every step. Removing them, I hung them onto my spear tip and continued my journey barefoot. I knew I was well in front of the hunters who would follow, for I was certain they would not depart camp until after the performance of the pre-hunt ceremonies. My father would preside over that, and I felt sure he would wonder where I was. Well, he would know soon enough—when I returned with a can-rak paw.

My intended action was dangerous and foolish, but over the years I had become aware of a wild and stubborn streak within me. My training competitions with Lillatta did not end until I won, for I refused to lose. I had to be better, smarter, stronger, and I would not quit until I proved to Lillatta, and also to my father, that I was the best. Lucky for me, Lillatta was an even-tempered soul, and my obsessions did not perturb her. In truth, I welcomed her teasing and good humor, for they kept me on an even keel and eased the tensions that tended to build up within me. My temper was no secret. My father struggled to get me to control its fire, to harness the flame and not let it spread wildly, burning others and me along with it. He had succeeded—somewhat. I still had my moments, but the discipline of my training as a shaman and warrior allowed me to pick how and when I would display this side of myself. My choice.

I did not ask Lillatta to join me on this quest for the can-rak. Her mother, who had wanted a male child and thus never showed much maternal interest in her, had died earlier in the year, leaving her an orphan. Her hunter father had passed on to Ra-ta's realm when she was an infant, gored by a spartok's tusk. Through the years, my father had been a surrogate parent to her, and he and I had provided Lillatta her most consistent emotional support. Lately, however, she seemed to tire of all we represented—the secretiveness, the sneaking out to the forests, the endless training. Her listless approach caught the attention of Nanki, and he told me to expect that Lillatta would someday stop coming altogether. It happened. I missed her, but in the end, it did not matter, for the training was nearing its completion.

I knew what diversion had attracted Lillatta's attention—boys. We were, after all, fourteen now and had become acutely aware of changes in our bodies and emotions. The red flow had come when both of us were thirteen. The women elders at once began pressuring us to find mates and to start bearing children. Lillatta, it seemed, was keen on fulfilling her duties as a woman in our tradition. She had her sights set on a genial young boy named Kalor, a Raab by birth. We had captured his late mother in a raid some years ago, and the young girl had unknowingly been with child at the time. While in servitude to us (she soon earned her freedom and became a respected tribal member), she gave birth, and we accepted her son Kalor as a Sakitan. His mother tragically died young of an intestinal disorder when the boy was ten.

Kalor had dark skin, a flat nose, and short black hair. The length was not natural to Raab males, who culturally prefer shoulder-length locks, but I knew Lillatta favored it and had persuaded Kalor to cut his. I caught the two kissing behind a tent one day. As is her nature, Lillatta began to tease.

"You see, Sanny, there's a lot more to life than going out in the woods and killing starfens." Then she laughed, adding, "And Kalor tastes better, too."

Lillatta's candid talk about our secret forest activities in front of Kalor shocked me. I took her aside, out of Kalor's hearing, and lit into her.

"What are you thinking? You can't speak of these things in front of people. What if the wrong ears are listening?"

"Oh, don't be such a worrier."

Lillatta realized at once by my irritated look that I did not appreciate her cavalier dismissal of my concern. "I'm sorry, San. I forget myself sometimes when I'm with Kalor. Still, you do take this way too seriously. No one has discovered our secret, and it's been years. But I promise I won't let anything slip again."

As exasperating as Lillatta could be, I was happy for her, and I thought Kalor was a perfect fit. We would always be the best of friends, but it seemed our paths were diverging. Since I was seven, my father had insisted I would inherit this great though still unclear destiny to fulfill. There was no mention of Lillatta being part of that destiny, and I could envision a different life unfolding for her. I wanted to protect her, and maybe this naturally occurring distance between us was the best way. My father and I were on a dangerous path. Lillatta was wise to jump off and take another, a safer route, with Kalor.

As far as my relationships went, I found my feelings all jumbled up. I knew my hips had broadened and my breasts were no longer invisible, but I always laughed it off when Lillatta insisted the boys were taking notice. I had never had a problem communicating with boys when we were children, but something had changed. I admit I blushed the first time I became aware of the reason for their stares.

"Come over, Sanny, and talk to us," one would say. I would always make some excuse that I needed to be somewhere else, doing something important.

"I have to go get firewood," I would say, and the boys would groan and soon be chasing after someone more available. It was just that I felt so insecure. It was all very confusing. My father just laughed and said I was at that age, whatever that meant.

As I approached the forest of the can-rak sighting, a shadow passed over me. I glanced upward and was disheartened to see dark, boiling clouds spilling over the Kodor range in pursuit of Ra-ta. Soon they would overtake him and blot out his rays. Kaynar, son of Ra-ta, was trying to usurp his father's kingdom. Ra-ta grumbled, and I knew the tears of the sun god would soon fall. Angry that the clouds had overtaken him, he flashed his rays through the black mass, but he could not make them disperse.

I would have to find shelter among the trees. I could feel the oppression of the rising humidity and the wind had picked up, so I knew the storm would not be gentle.

The trees in these parts, as in most areas we traveled, consisted of a variety of species. Wettle trees needed room to grow and produce their fruit, so they tended to disperse over more open land that allowed plenty of access to the rays of Ra-ta. This forest, in contrast, was a kakkata forest, dense and with scattered undergrowth. The trees were of tremendous height, sporting massive trunks and numerous stout branches. These branches had flat green leaves of considerable size, many as broad as a man's outstretched arms. They would provide more than sufficient protection against Ra-ta's sorrow.

I slipped my now dry sandals back on, held my spearpoint low, and stepped into the gloom. The spongy forest carpet cushioned my feet as I walked among the giant trees. My nose caught the lush odor of decaying vegetation and my ears the squawking of a bird challenged by my sudden appearance. Scanning above, I glimpsed only gray slices of the sky, for the kakkata leaves blocked my view, but I could still hear the sun god's grumbling. Then, a touch on the top of my head signaled that Ra-ta's tears had begun to fall. I searched a while longer as the spotty drops picked targets around me until I found a large kakkata with a generous overhang.

When I settled back against the kakkata's smooth trunk, a whipping wind rattled the small leaves of a group of kansers nearby. Kansers were a much smaller companion tree of the kakkata and often found in the same forests. As the wind bucked and rolled, a high kanser branch snapped with a sharp crack. The branch plummeted down, crashing to the ground with a whooshing sound not ten paces from my shelter. A red-footed starfen, which must have ridden the branch all the way down, leaped as it hit and disappeared into the underbrush.

The rain came not long afterward. It arrived in hard-driving veils, swirling about and pelting all exposed surfaces but unable to reach me beneath my expansive leaf cover. I listened as Ra-ta and Kaynar fought their battle, seeing the angry flash of Ra-ta's light seeking a permanent opening through Kaynar's clouds and hearing his sharp shouts of anguish when defeated in that aim.

As I waited out the storm, I grew hungry. I pulled a wettle fruit from my pouch, split it in half and chewed on the pulp. I listened to the rain for a while, swatted a couple of insects, got up to stretch and relieve myself, and then settled back down.

A movement to my left caught my attention. The starfen that had fallen with the kanser branch was back, rustling for something in the ferns several paces away. An idea came to me. I checked the bones in my wrist bracelet—sure enough, a starfen's was among them. I touched the bone, glanced over at the starfen, and said, "Come to me."

To my amazement, the creature dashed right over. It looked up, directly into my eyes, evidently anticipating a further command. It was almost creepy the way he just sat there, waiting and staring. Not knowing what else to say, I said, "You can go," and like that the rodent was back rustling in the ferns.

Wow! I was going to have to study this ability further. That was fantastic!

As I continued to wait out the storm, my thoughts drifted to the can-rak. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if this was a fool's errand. What chance did I stand against this fearsome beast, this tearer of limbs, this devourer of flesh? The great hunter Semral had told my father the story of his can-rak encounter, and Semral's humble account had impressed me. Semral insisted his battle with the can-rak had been quick, with only his reflexes saving him that day.

The carnivore had been devouring a fresh kill of a sartel buck when Semral stumbled alone out of a stand of bennawood. He found himself staring in horror at the can-rak's broad, sinewy back as it fed on the sartel's carcass. He watched, unmoving as its ripping jaws tore a large chunk from the animal's flesh. The hunter knew he had two choices, neither of them favorable to him. His first option would be to turn and flee. The monster would hear or smell him, no doubt chase him down, and he would die a disgraceful coward's death. His second option was to face this nightmare. He could still anticipate the can-rak shredding his body into bloody strips of flesh, but he would die a preferable hero's death, the kind all warriors envision. The problem was, with no one to bear witness, who would know the difference, for the grisly outcome would be the same.

The green-skinned beast decided for him. It caught Semral's scent and roared a bowel-loosening challenge. In a flash, it swung to face the intruder, rising on its two hind legs as it completed its turn. A massive paw swung toward Semral with murderous intent. Its long, razor claws reached out to sever the hunter's head from his shoulders. Semral froze, but then his hunting instincts kicked in. He shoved his spear forward in a defensive move, seeking only to distract the creature. Somehow, by the grace of Ra-ta, the point caught the can-rak directly in the heart. The beast's swiping paw immediately changed direction as the enraged animal shrieked and clawed at the killing stick protruding from its chest. The can-rak's flailing knocked Semral backward, and from his seat on the ground, the shaken hunter watched as moments later the fearsome beast collapsed and breathed its last.

The rain continued to fall as I contemplated the wisdom of confronting this formidable animal. The boredom of waiting, and the soothing rhythm of the rain tapping the leaves, made me drowsy. How long I dozed, I do not know. I awoke when a blood-curdling cry reached through the sleep haze to pierce my consciousness. Leaping to my feet, I was instantly aware that the skies had cleared and that the rays of Rata were penetrating the forest gloom. Whatever made that sound was close. I peered around me, anxious, seeking a direction to focus upon. My stomach churned and sweat dampened my brow. Had I just heard a can-rak? I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My stomach felt tight.

Was I afraid? No. Surprisingly, no. Despite the stomach discomfort, which seemed more related to the recently eaten wettle fruit, I felt remarkably calm. My senses were alert, and though my brain raced, my thoughts were clear. My heartbeat felt slightly elevated but was already steadying. My years of training at the hands of my father kicked in, and I began breathing in a regular rhythm, a shamanic tool to relax and focus. I loosely gripped the shaft of my spear and tightly sheathed my rik-ta. I was ready for whatever was out there.

A thought came to me. I should climb. I should get into these trees and from high above move undetected to discover what threat disturbed the forest calm. I would have to leave my spear and sandals, also the food and water. I would come back for them once I determined the shriek's source. The cry had not repeated, but I was now confident it had come from the south.

I grasped the lowest limb I could reach and pulled myself up by sheer arm strength. My sleeveless tunic was perfect for climbing, riding well above the knees, allowing free movement with no loose attachments to catch on branches. I heard the cry again, undoubtedly from the south, this time much farther away. With the agility gained from years of practice, I maneuvered higher into the kakkata, and then, with deliberate moves, I proceeded to leap from one rain-slicked branch to another, some as thick as a man's torso. In this way I advanced from tree to tree, always heading south. The cry came again, a lot closer and with a piercing intensity. Then, I heard a sickening sound, a sound I had never heard before.

It was the sound of men screaming.

**

~~FIVE~~

Ahead of me, the dimness of the forest gave way to an ever-increasing light. At the woodlands' edge, I peered cautiously out onto a sunlit, boulder-strewn grassland from my perch on a high kakkata branch. The boulders were massive, scattered as if game pieces thrown down by a giant's hand. The screaming had ceased. Three bodies lay to the left of my sight line, motionless in the damp grass. Two were close together, and the third was about twenty-five paces from them. I recognized an item of clothing on the body of the one apart from the others, a distinctive leather belt studded with colored stones.

The belt's owner was Panka, a man I did not know well but who held esteem as a competent hunter. Panka's head was off to the side, facing away from me, severed from his body. I could not take my eyes away from the gruesome sight, compelled to stare at the bloody, matted hair that would never grow again.

Something, or someone, had attacked the hunting party, and it appeared our hunters had gotten the worst of it. I glanced over at the other two and assumed they had fought and died together. I could not make out who they were, but one was a plump, older man with white hair. Father and son perhaps, for they wore clothing similarly decorated. The old man was face down, with the flesh of his back ripped and red. The other stared with blank eyes at the sky—and he had no legs.

A muffled shout diverted my attention from the grisly scene. To my right, someone had yelled, but large boulders prevented me from identifying the source. I climbed higher into the kakkata, and from that elevated position, I spied a desperate struggle unfolding. The great hunter Semral had wedged himself between two boulders. The boulders were near enough to each other to provide a small pocket of protection from the unworldly terror that tormented him—a can-rak!

If anyone had been watching me at that point, I know what that person would have seen. He or she would have seen a mouth as open as a spartok's on a spit and eyes sized to rival the twin moons Numa and Nima. For this was an animal I could not have imagined. I had encountered a young can-rak in a vision years before, but this was an adult—and there was no comparison. Its size was incredible! It would require two men standing feet upon shoulders just to reach the lower jaw of this green-skinned monster. The mane rimming its massive head sported the colors of fire, and white tools of death lined its potent mouth. Its incisors existed to rip and slice. Its throat could swallow a man whole.

The can-rak circled the pair of boulders. Its tapered, powerful tail whipped in wicked excitement back and forth as the creature growled and shrieked. It appeared to be attempting to surprise Semral while he had his back turned, for the hunter could focus in but one direction at a time. I could see the can-rak was too massive to fit between the rocks, and it could not get at Semral from the top. Still, its lethal claws reached in, forcing the hunter to rear back. The beast's quickness astounded! With one leap it could land on either side of the boulders, forcing Semral to react. And Semral was injured. I saw that now. His left arm was useless, hanging bloody by his side.

The hunter called out again to someone I could not see. A slight movement caught my attention. I hadn't noticed him before, for the man had concealed himself behind a boulder. He was a dozen paces beyond the rocks protecting Semral, and by straining my eyes, I determined his identity—Bratar. What was he doing? Why didn't he come to Semral's aid?

Before long, I knew. For when Semral voiced his desire for Bratar's assistance again, Bratar rose up and ran. He raced as fast as his bulky build would allow in the direction opposite the can-rak and away from the certainly doomed Semral. I sat crouched upon my high kakkata branch in stunned disbelief. Then I spat and cursed the coward's name.

I would have to do something. Wait! My bracelet! I ran my sight over the bones, and frantic disbelief took hold. No can-rak bone. Why was there no can-rak bone? My father had given me a new bracelet recently, aware that my old one was falling apart. I, of course, had paid little attention as my focus had been on the upcoming hunt. Had my father forgotten to add the beast's bone to the bracelet? Still, now that I thought of it, there hadn't been a can-rak bone on the other bracelet either. Why?

I had no time to ruminate over any of this. I had to act. My spear was back at the other kakkata tree, and I had no time to retrieve it. I still had my rik-ta, but what use would that be? The can-rak would never allow me to get close enough to let it do its work.

I hurried down from my perch, and once on the ground, I headed straight for Semral. I had no plan. My death was certain, of that I had no doubt. But I would not stand by and let my fellow tribesman die without giving the can-rak a fight. Of course, what fight could there be? The can-rak would laugh at me when it saw me coming—and then I would be its meal.

Semral still called for Bratar as I made my way to him. He had not seen Bratar depart, apparently, and was still hoping for the coward's assistance. The calling then ceased. My stomach jumped, and I feared I was too late. I ran. The can-rak heard me. It wheeled, delivered a menacing snarl, and then emitted that annoying shriek. What now? I still had no plan.

I pulled my rik-ta from its sheath and held it loosely in my palm. As I approached the can-rak, I felt surprisingly relaxed. Shouldn't I feel terror like those unfortunate men now lying shredded on the grass? Still, for some reason, I felt expectant rather than fearful. Something strange was happening here, something I hadn't anticipated. The can-rak had stopped its growling and that god-awful shrieking. It was sniffing the air and walking toward me—walking toward me. It was not running, not leaping, not in any hurry whatsoever. I steadied myself, alert to any sudden, threatening move. As the fearsome, yellow-eyed beast continued its calm approach, I heard an unusual sound. Humming. The creature was humming! It was a low tone repeated every few seconds.

Then, the can-rak did what I still have a hard time comprehending. It rolled over onto its back, assuming a posture of complete submission. I approached cautiously, half expecting this to be a wily can-rak trick to lull me into lowering my guard. Yet all was as it seemed. The beast had turned docile, and it was even playfully pawing at me in gentle swipes with its claws retracted. What in the name of Ra-ta was happening? Why was this animal behaving like this? I had no bone to command it with, and I had not spoken a word. So why was it acting so calm and at ease in my presence?

Then, I got it. The can-rak was my spirit animal! Perhaps we had some connection, an understanding that went beyond bones and words. My father had told me that he was unable to work the bracelet bones, but as a shaman, he still had control over his spirit animal, the sartel. So, was it the same for me? Did I have control over this can-rak simply because it was my spirit animal?

At that moment, a low groan emanated from the boulders where Semral had taken refuge. The can-rak heard and sprang to its feet with a vicious growl. In a flash, it leaped toward the rocks.

"STOP!" I shouted, and to my surprise and relief, the beast obeyed. Then it looked back at me as if for further instruction.

"Go sit over there," I told it, pointing to a grassy spot a short distance away. The submissive beast complied.

I hurried over to Semral, only to find him unconscious from loss of blood. His wounded arm looked ragged. I knew I had to stem the bleeding and find some tritan flowers to make a poultice.

The great beast sat calmly, humming away. I had a dilemma. If I left to seek the flowers, would the can-rak stay, or would it attack Semral when I departed? I didn't know, for this was all new and incomprehensible to me. Perhaps I could just tell the beast to leave.

So I said, "Go, can-rak, and please do not attack any other men." The can-rak rose to all fours and briskly trotted north across the plains. I watched in astonishment as it departed, knowing I would have many questions for my father when I got back to camp. For instance, why did the can-rak obey my commands without a bone? And for how long are the commands in effect? I was sure it couldn't be permanent, for that was not practical. And how specific did commands have to be? I was eager to learn the answers.

As the can-rak faded from sight, I pulled the hunter from between the boulders. Semral was a tall, large-boned man of considerable weight, but my muscular training had been rigorous, and I managed to drag his frame through the still wet grass. I moved him out of the sun and into the forest, finding a safe place to tend his wounded arm. I wrapped some long kanser leaves around the arm to halt the slow bleeding, but I needed water to cleanse the deepest cuts and reduce the chance of infection. I would have to leave him unattended while I backtracked to a small stream spied earlier while navigating the forest heights. I knew tritan flowers grew along just such a waterway, and I needed to retrieve my waterskin from my other gear. I hoped nothing would disturb the unconscious Semral during my absence.

Within an hour, I had returned with a handful of tritans and a skin of fresh water. I checked Semral and saw he still breathed. His smooth-shaven face was ashen and his gray-flecked hair soaked with perspiration. I had to hurry. I started a small fire with the flint and metal kit Semral carried, found a kakkata leaf to use as a bowl, and then heated some water. Kakkata leaves are surprisingly resistant to burning but will distribute heat, so they are ideal to use when no pots or pans are available. I cleaned the hunter's arm cuts and mashed together the tritan flowers. These I soaked in the heated water, and then I placed the resulting mush over Semral's wounds. I saw him flinch and hoped that was a good sign. The old hunter breathed in ragged gasps and moaned, so I knew infection had taken hold. His fever had only begun, and it would need to break before he was safe from the open arms of Ra-ta.

I sat with Semral awhile, but I knew I would have to leave him again, for a party would come searching and I wanted to avoid discovery. My father must be frantic by now, wondering where I had gone. When I got back, I would tell him what happened, of course, but I would tell no other. I also knew that I would not confront Bratar, much as his cowardice disgusted me. I had tried once before to discredit him and that had not gone well. I was a quick study; it was a lesson well learned.

Voices coming from somewhere nearby intruded upon my musings. I rose and peered out to the grasslands from my forest cover. A search party had arrived, so it was time for me to depart. I watched them examining the fallen hunters and knew they would soon pick up the drag marks and blood in the grass; they would find Semral. I turned for one last look at the injured hunter and gasped. Semral's eyes were open, staring at me. Instantly they closed and did not open again. Since they didn't, I wondered if the eye activity had been fever induced and not deliberate.

As I left, penetrating deeper into the kakkata, I heard a faint shout behind me. The search party had found the brave hunter.

I told my father everything. He was angry that I had not informed him of my intentions, although he felt great relief no harm had befallen me. It puzzled me that he showed little surprise when I told him of the can-rak responding to my commands despite my having no assistance from a bone. He merely expressed pleasure that I had met my spirit animal in the flesh at last and cryptically acknowledged that he had been most curious about what would happen when that meeting occurred. Nanki's face showed disbelief when I told him of Bratar's cowardly actions, but he agreed our tribe would gain nothing by making this knowledge known.

"Bratar is like his father, it appears," Nanki said. "Though I have not known Barkor to be a coward, he is as arrogant and dense as they come. Bratar shows signs of this and of his father's cruelty as well. I have seen him bullying the young children. It is always those who feel a lack of something in themselves who take out their frustrations on others."

Out of all the things I told my father about the day's events, only one thing truly troubled him—my treatment of Semral's wounds. Though he was proud I had done it, and that I had used the proper procedure at that, the act still concerned him.

"This is not good. A poultice will not go unnoticed. Those who found Semral will wonder who applied it. Are you sure he was unconscious? We cannot have him identifying you."

"I'm sure, father." I wasn't, of course, for I knew the hunter's eyes had been open, even if for an instant. That was a troubling unknown, but I didn't want my father worrying about it. Knowing Semral's feverish state at the time, I expected it would turn out to be nothing.

Toward evening, the recovery party returned to the campsite. They released the three slain hunters to the care of loved ones. Semral remained unconscious, but he seemed to be fighting his wound's infection, and soon we would know how well the poultice worked. The return party was already conveying the unsettling news that some stranger had attempted to help Semral, unsettling because the unknown is always such.

Who would do such a thing? A Raab would simply kill the hunter and take his belongings. And who but a shaman or his apprentice would know how to mix and apply a poultice? None had been with the hunting party, for my father had been back in camp along with his six shaman apprentices. Had some unknown tribe sent their medicine man into our lands for some nefarious purpose?

The possibility of an unfamiliar shaman in Sakitan territory was a frightening prospect. What had this stranger done to Semral under the guise of helping him? Had he cast a spell? Had he included ingredients in the poultice that would turn the old hunter's mind against his fellow tribesmen? These were not easily dismissible worries, for people believed a shaman to have considerable and mysterious powers over ordinary men.

A poser of equal concern was why the can-rak had not killed Semral or eaten any of the others. The whole day and the events surrounding it carried a whiff of evil to those who cared to offer an opinion. I just kept my mouth shut and let them imagine what they would.

Bratar, who no one had noticed was missing, showed up with another wild tale soon after the recovery party's return. The tardy hunter claimed he had confronted the beast after it slew the others but lost consciousness when the can-rak attacked him, knocking him to the ground. He insisted he had recovered his senses but an hour ago and had looked for his fellow hunters, only to find them already taken back to camp.

"Why did we not see you when we came for the others?" a puzzled member of the recovery party asked.

The question caught Bratar off guard, and his eyes showed a flicker of panic. I was the only one to notice, apparently, and he quickly recovered to tell us he had misspoken. He meant to say the confrontation had taken place farther away from the others, for he had chased the can-rak from the massacre site and had gone some distance before the can-rak decided to turn and fight. No one had reason to dispute this amended version, so all accepted it as truth.

Bratar's dishonesty and cowardice were difficult for me to understand. Such behavior was rare in Sakitan society. To see it in the son of a council chief was especially disappointing.

Nanki, as our tribal healer, supervised Semral's care, and I was eager to know if the brave warrior was going to make it.

My father shrugged and said, "One can go only where the Raso flows," an expression familiar to the Sakita. It meant that one's life must follow the course set for it, a path already determined. Whether Semral lived or died was not up to him.

I had a different opinion. I believed one's will could forge one's destiny and that no river could force you to follow its course, even one as mighty as the Raso.

By the next day, Semral had regained consciousness, a good sign that the danger had passed, and he had said nothing about seeing me at the massacre site. Relieved, I caught up on news that I had missed while away. It seemed Barkor had intended to lead the doomed hunting party that fateful day, but he had fallen ill. Whispered rumors swirled that excessive inebriation had prevented him from leading the party, and in his drunken fog he had named Bratar to head it instead. Bypassing Semral for the honor, who was second in seniority to Barkor on the tribal council was a slap in the face, but Semral had made no great fuss.

A few nights later, as my father and I sat around our campfire, I asked him about the can-rak and my strange connection to it. I also inquired about the bracelet of bones, wanting to get a more detailed explanation of how it worked. In particular, I wanted to know about time limits, how specific one's commands had to be, and when it was necessary to use the bracelet and when not.

"Yes, it is time you showed a greater interest in this," my father gently chided, "for I was about to take the bracelet from you and give it to Satu."

Satu was a young boy of my age recently apprenticed to my father. Throughout my father's time as our shaman, he followed our tradition of choosing up to about a dozen boys or men to serve as apprentices, those picked to learn the secrets of the medicine man. This arrangement allowed for the training of a qualified replacement able to perform the shaman's tasks should something befall the current holder of that position. The apprentices were of different ages and entered into training at different times. Thus, the older were often, but not always, more advanced than the younger. When the current shaman was no longer able to perform his duties due to death or illness, the apprentice with the most training—or the one who showed the most promise—would fill in or take over permanently as the conditions warranted.

My father had recently chosen Satu, an orphan boy with a pronounced limp, to join his stable of apprentices. Satu was the butt of much humor, not helped by his appearance, which included a thin frame and comically flared ears. The boy had gone on his first hunt when he was eleven only to have a porse turn on him, with its hooves fracturing one of the boy's upper leg bones. That finished Satu as a hunter and opened the door for the ridicule that followed, for the reason a male lives, especially a young one, is to hunt, and if you still live but can't hunt, nothing is more shameful. Although my father chose Satu only to give the boy some protection from the cruelties of his current situation, to Nanki's surprise and delight Satu turned out to be a clever and astute student, and he had become my father's favorite.

I waited as Nanki stirred the fire. When satisfied with its vigor, he began speaking of the bracelet.

"So, you want to know more details. It is my understanding, through my dreams, that all animals you wish to command—except the can-rak—require you to use a bone on the bracelet. A command has a lasting effect of only about twenty minutes. If the animal cannot fulfill your wishes within that time, then the command wears off, and the animal will resume its normal routine. If you change the command before it fulfills the previous one or before the twenty minutes pass, then it will abandon that command and begin to follow the last one given. The can-rak, however, being your spirit animal, will follow your last instruction until you change it, no matter how long it takes. If you wish for the other animals to continue after twenty minutes, then you must restate the command. The more specific the command, the better. However, be warned. You can command an animal to risk death or injury and it will, so you had better be certain the cause is just and your conscience is clear."

"And what about the bones?" I asked. "There are so few on a bracelet and so many animals."

"There are ways around all such things, my child. There is no limit to the number of bracelets you can wear. Wear two. Wear three. It is up to you."

"And what about the can-rak? Why do I not need the bones to command it?"

"It is as you thought, Sanyel. In effect, you and the can-rak are one. It is similar to when my spirit animal, the sartel, came to me after years of being an apprentice to my predecessor. I could feel the attraction; it was as if we were the same spirit. Still, there is a remarkable difference with you. I can command the physical form of my spirit animal only by doing proper rituals. The dreams told me that you need simply speak to yours and it will respond. That amazes me. I am still astounded that a can-rak came as your spirit animal, but I believe an animal spirit comes to a shaman or apprentice because it identifies with that person. Perhaps in you, the can-rak sees the ferociousness, agility, cunning, and fearlessness it possesses. As far as I know, no apprentice or shaman in our history has ever had a can-rak as his spirit animal. It is a tremendous ally to have, and you should be grateful to Ra-ta for this powerful gift."

Oh, I was.

**

~~SIX~~

My father was dying. He could barely rise from his bed, and I spent much of my time minding his needs. I had just turned fifteen when the degree of his deterioration could no longer go untended. He had acquired a cough and walking became a chore, with his ragged breathing disabling him after only a few steps. More than once I saw him sitting on the ground trying to gather himself as he wheezed and then coughed up blood. My emotions were in turmoil as I watched this rock, this white-capped mountain of a man, reduced to an insignificant pebble. He was helpless against a foe that carried no spear, a foe that tormented with no fear of reprisal.

The healer could not heal himself. He had tried. Oh, how he had tried. However, this was not a broken arm, not a cut to the flesh. It was the whole of the body in slow decay. His sight had diminished, his hearing was unreliable, his bowels unpredictable. The worst was hearing his soft crying in the night. He knew his time was up and that Ra-ta was preparing to take him. He feared. Not for himself or for where he was going but for me. Since my birth, he had dedicated his entire focus to seeing me recognized as the one born to save our tribe. From what, he still knew not. Now, he was about to leave me. I would be alone among the unbelievers, alone to face a destiny he felt would be harsh and soul testing.

One morning, as I prepared a cold meal, I heard him cough and feared I must have awakened him. My father went in and out of consciousness, and at times I expected the worst only to see him rally to resist Ra-ta's final embrace. He was rarely lucid these days, but when he was, we spoke of many things. Today he was trying to sit up from his bedding but could not, and as he stared up and then around at the tent walls, he seemed confused. His face was pale and worn, and over weeks of being bedridden, his body had shriveled like a flower denied the morning dew.

He saw me then, and his eyes brightened, and I knew his mind was clear.

"Come, Sanyel." The words came out in a croak. Nanki pursed his lips, trying to force his dry mouth to secrete some fluid so he could swallow and continue speaking.

"Here, father, drink this." I brought over a waterskin, and he drank gratefully, with the cool liquid spilling in generous overflow from his mouth.

With my father hydrated to his satisfaction, he waved away the water vessel and indicated he wished to speak.

"I have not told you a great deal about your mother, and it has always been my desire to do so," he began in a hoarse but steady voice. "She was a beautiful woman, blond like you and with your same green eyes. I pursued her from the moment I found she could make my heart sing songs it had never known, and I felt lucky when she chose me over all her other suitors—for she certainly had many."

Nanki chuckled, discharged a ragged cough, and quickly recovered to continue.

"Brisa had a way of making everyone welcome her presence. She could make you laugh with just a gesture, a movement on her face, or a comment so hilarious that even that humorless Barkor might crack a smile, though that might be stretching things."

My father paused, and then he said something that shocked me. "Did you know your mother was part Raab?"

He saw my expression and his eyes twinkled.

"That's right, a ruthless, murdering Raab." He laughed. "Of course, she was nothing like that, nothing like what we were raised to believe all with Raab blood are like. I've come to understand that such broad labels are usually wrong. Brisa's grandfather was a Raab captured by our tribe as a boy, much like the mother of Lillatta's suitor, Kalor. He married a Sakita woman, your great-grandmother."

As I let that startling revelation sink in, my father continued speaking.

"I truly wish you could have known your mother for even a short while. There are so many things only a woman can teach a daughter, and I know nothing of such things."

My father abruptly stopped and reached out to grab my hand. Pain suffused his eyes, and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. He spoke now in a voice hoarse with regret.

"I am so sorry. I tried to save her. I tried everything."

Hearing the anguish in my father's voice was difficult, for I had rarely heard him express such raw emotion.

"If she had lived, I know she would have argued against what I have done to you. I took away your childhood, your chance to grow up free with other children, to laugh and play. All because of ego. I never asked you if you were willing to do the things I demanded of you, to take the risks to which I have subjected you. Please forgive the arrogance of a selfish old man."

My father's words astounded. I had never had any misgivings over the path my life had taken.

"Father, please put your remorse aside. I have no regrets. I enjoyed every moment of our time together. Most fathers would never have given a daughter this kind of attention. I am sure every daughter born into this tribe would envy the opportunity to do what I have done, to have had so many adventures with her father. So do not trouble yourself over imaginary wrongs. I was more than willing to follow you wherever you wished to lead me."

I reached for a veined hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I love you, father."

Nanki broke down and began to weep. His body shook, wracked with sobs as his eyes seeped unashamed. My tears soon joined his. Emotion released with a flow as deep and powerful as the river Raso, for we held nothing back any longer. We both knew our time together was ending. I climbed in next to my father and held his frail body. The closeness I felt to him I would never feel again. My father died the next day.

Nanki's funeral took place upon the same hill where the tribe had cremated my mother years before. It was odd, the coincidence of my father dying near that very campsite, the place where I was born and where my mother perished giving me life. My father's final wish was to ascend to Ra-ta from that hill and to have his ashes mix with hers.

It was early morning and cool. The rising sun warmed me, perhaps a gentle touch from Ra-ta to comfort me on this day of sorrow. The hill, as Gorsek's had, overlooked the Raso. I gazed down at the glinting water, scrambling and pushing its way downstream, hurrying to get somewhere that was not here, this place of pain and suffering.

I was in no such hurry. I had studied the hill the day before, looking for some trace of my mother's presence. There was none. The grass hid nothing. There was no sign, not even a charred timber or bone fragment. Nature had groomed the site for years, wiping away all reminders, accepting the ash back into the soil. The flowers bloomed and the grass grew—and no remnant of my mother existed anymore in this world.

Tribal members gathered, gradually making their way up the slope. Lillatta stood by my side, but she might as well have been invisible. A mournful drum sounded. The beats thumped loudly in a slow rhythm, but I heard nothing. My father's body looked small wrapped in his white shroud and lying still upon the wooden bier. I knew he could not feel Ra-ta's rays upon him, but I hoped his spirit was feeling their warmth in Mimnon. Pilkin, the oldest of my father's apprentices approached, and I dutifully followed him to the platform. He mouthed some words, and I hoped he got them right. I held the torch and lit the oil-soaked bundles. I watched the flames leap and for an instant wanted to grab them back, to undo the act that would take my father from me forever. Instead, I stood rooted and silent. I could not cry. I was empty and without form. A light breeze would have blown me away, and I would have scattered into nothing. The fire reached my father, and the black smoke obscured my view. I turned away and walked down the hill.

The death of a shaman is no small thing, for his role in the community is unique and pervasive. The medicine man is not only a healer but also the one who presides over every minor and major tribal event. He is a witness to the first cry at birth, to the joy of a couple's first wedding kiss, and to the poignant drama of a last farewell. The shaman is friend and father, confessor and confidant. He is the intermediary between the physical and spiritual worlds, the one chosen as Ra-ta's interpreter.

My father's death granted an opportunity for another to take on that role. One of the apprentices would ascend to his position of power and authority, and age did not matter. What mattered was preparation. Now, you might wonder if the wisdom and knowledge of a man such as Nanki, a shaman of many years' experience, becomes lost at his death. That is not the case. Knowledge is never lost. Spirit retains all. My father's accumulated learning still resides with him in spirit, and that information remains accessible. The spirits of the ancestors, by the grace of Ra-ta, continuously and willingly offer their wisdom and assistance to the tribe, although the value of that assistance is dependent upon the proficiency of the current shaman. And the level of proficiency a shaman can reach is dependent upon how well the shaman has mastered the rituals required to get spirit's attention.

By the time he has spent at least three years with his teacher, the apprentice must know these basics by heart. He must know the proper notes of the sacred songs and chants and their sequence for every ceremony. He must know the correct steps of every dance. If performed properly, access to the ancestors' knowledge and Ra-ta's guiding wisdom remains uninterrupted by a change in intermediaries.

Every attempt to seek the insight of the spirits requires an offering, anything from a shining stone to a portion of animal fat to a wedge of fruit. Spirit accepts or rejects the offering based on how accurately the shaman performs the sacred rites. If the execution proves adequate, then the answers sought will come in swift order to the medicine man, perhaps in dreams during sleep or in lucid visions while awake, most often delivered by the shaman's spirit animal.

The tribal council deemed several candidates among my father's apprentices worthy of competing for the shaman position. Satu, the boy with the damaged leg, was a surprising addition, but I knew he had grasped my father's teachings as if by osmosis. He was the youngest of the four selected, but he had impressed several on the tribal council with his poise and confidence. Pilkin, the apprentice who had presided over my father's funeral, was another candidate. Pilkin was much older, in his mid-thirties, and had been an apprentice for over ten years. My father had chosen him only as a favor to the man married to Pilkin's mother, a favor to a dying friend. He had never been a favorite of my father's.

A shaman chooses an apprentice at his discretion. He can pick anyone, and age is not a consideration. Thus, apprentices might range in age from young boys to adult men, and their number is never static due to a variety of reasons. Some die in pursuit of wild game, for most are hunters. Others might perish from disease, accident, or battle. Some decide the shaman's path is not for them and opt out, which is their choice. Thus, the apprentice ranks at any one time consist of men and boys of various ages and degrees of proficiency, with some younger ones more advanced than those older apprentices who came into the program later.

The four selected for consideration this day were the only current apprentices to have acquired their spirit animals. To have one was a necessity to be a shaman. They would hold these proceedings outdoors, and I was thankful for that, for my banishment from the ceremonial tent was still in effect. I had been listless in the two days following my father's funeral and had even skipped doing my required chores. I felt lost and unfocused without my mentor, but the rare choosing of a shaman was about to occur, and that piqued my curiosity.

Ten council members sat upon a long bench before an area of trampled-down grass at the outskirts of our tent city. The entire tribe occupied two sides of this expanse. They sat on extended benches that ascended and stretched back ten deep, with the shaman candidates standing in the center facing the council.

"You would be an interesting choice," Semral was saying to Satu. The great hunter had fully recovered from his grievous wounds and looked to be in fine health. He was second in command to council chief Barkor and was assisting in the selection process. He continued addressing Satu, saying, "Your body denies you the joy of the hunt, but your mind is keen and undamaged and has much to offer."

Barkor gave an audible grunt to signal his disagreement. He was sober for a change, a condition that was exceedingly rare these days. This was important work, however, selecting a medicine man, and I'm sure he was aware of the focus required. From my father's encounters with the council chief, I knew Barkor was looking for a candidate he could manage. A shaman under his control would be of immeasurable value. Nanki had not been cooperative in aiding Barkor's desires, so a chance to appoint a boy or man easily manipulated was a rare opportunity.

"We should not be hasty in our deliberation," Barkor spoke, addressing his fellow councilors, "but I believe one candidate superior to the others. Satu appears to be an adequate choice, but is not Pilkin worthier of the honor? He has demonstrated he understands the requirements and shows a fine skill in the basics."

Barkor then showed his prejudice against Satu by saying, "And besides, Pilkin is a hunter. Is it not our desire to have a shaman who truly understands our way of life, who participates in it? I know two of the other candidates hunt as well, but they have not shown the growth necessary to be a shaman and we must eliminate them from consideration. The fourth does not hunt at all."

"It is through no fault of the boy," Semral countered. "There are others among us who can no longer hunt, but we do not dismiss their value to us. I do not see how hunting or not hunting makes Satu less qualified."

I sensed Barkor's displeasure with Semral's challenge to his biased argument. His face barely disguised his annoyance that Pilkin was not already shaman. I found out later that Pilkin and Barkor had made an arrangement. Barkor would do what it took to ensure Pilkin's ascendance as the next shaman, and in return, he would get Pilkin's full support in anything that coincided with Barkor's interests.

"We will vote," Barkor said. The ten councilors raised hands in support of one candidate or the other. When the votes were in, it was a tie, five for each. Barkor, seeing his efforts to get Pilkin a majority temporarily thwarted, invoked a rule that allowed the candidates to prove their worthiness by demonstrating control over their spirit animals.

I knew that a competent shaman must have complete control over his animal, for that would ensure smooth communication between the spirit and physical worlds. This test would determine if the candidates met that requirement. The two competitors would bring their spirit animal representatives—live animals—to the committee and show through mastery of the shaman's skills that they could persuade their animal to accomplish some task. The candidates could not issue verbal commands or use hand signals (this was to make sure the candidates were not using trained animals). The two must perform only rituals and employ mental commands to impel the animals to do their bidding. This made me sit up and take notice, for it reminded me that my control over the can-rak seemed independent of performing any ritual, though my father could control his animal, the sartel, only through that means. It seems that was also the case for all previous medicine men.

My spirit animal, the can-rak, had come to me at a young age, but I gathered most apprentices never received one at all, or they came only after years of rigorous training. The idea that one had attached itself to a female and that this female needed no rituals to control it I knew would trigger incomprehension, derision, and most likely fear if known by others. Still, I had proved that the spiritual was not the exclusive domain of men. Ra-ta must have a sense of humor, for if men thought only they controlled this power, the joke was on them.

Satu's spirit animal was the razok, a magnificent bird of prey. Pilkin's was the lowly starfen. The starfen sat in a cage, and Pilkin seemed embarrassed by his association with it—as well he should be. The starfen was a nuisance animal, a rodent that got into everything, stealing our stored nuts and wettle fruit and tearing up whatever its rodent teeth could grasp. In truth, Pilkin somewhat resembled his spirit animal with that pointed nose and prominent teeth. I wondered if he also had a bushy tail hidden beneath his robe.

Hunters had recently caught a razok, and this wild bird now sat on Satu's padded left arm, with Satu's right hand gripping a short tether that held the bird tightly in place. The razok rested calmly enough, with only its head stirring, jerking in quick motions as it surveyed its surroundings. The council members had returned to their bench after a brief break, and the contest commenced.

"Let us begin with a demonstration of control," announced Barkor. "Pilkin will release the—ah—starfen (saying the word with obvious disdain), and then he'll attempt to summon it back to the cage. Proceed."

Pilkin looked as if he had just won a prize of a lovely death sentence as with shaking hands he placed the cage on the ground before the councilors and lifted its door. The starfen was no dummy and wasted little time dashing for freedom past the outlying tents and disappearing into the tall grasses beyond. We all burst out laughing, and poor Pilkin just stood in dumb wonder, watching his shamanic career disappear along with the rodent. He tossed an anxious glance over to Barkor as if expecting the council chief to tell him what to do. By Barkor's black expression, I don't think Pilkin expected any warm praise. He was correct.

"Idiot! You will summon that creature back to its cage, or you will find yourself chasing it down over the hills until you retrieve it. Either way, I expect you to get that sorry animal back."

To me, this was most entertaining. However, I felt it could be much more so. I could see that the starfen had not wandered too far away. It was visible, sitting in a thorel bush, munching nuts. I smiled, got up from my seat, and found a more private vantage point.

Pilkin was trying his utmost to retrieve the starfen by chanting and using burning sargrass, but I could tell he was nervous and messing up the notes, so the starfen ignored him. The shaman candidate had to be perfect in sounding the notes and performing the dance steps while mentally picturing what he wanted the animal to do, in this case, return to the cage. It was difficult to achieve, and that is why few were fit to be medicine men.

Thankfully, I didn't have to go through all that. I found the starfen bone on my bracelet. Staring directly at the rodent, I whispered not quite loudly enough for anyone to hear, "Bring a nut to Barkor."

The starfen's head jerked up, and the creature turned to face me. It dropped from the thorel bush and vanished. I waited ... and waited. I began to wonder if it had been just a coincidence that the rodent had vacated the thorel. Then, it appeared. The starfen startled the onlookers by racing back onto the ceremonial field, dashing right up to the councilors' bench, and depositing a thorel nut in Barkor's lap.

"Now, go back into the cage," I whispered. Before Barkor even had time to swing his arm to knock the offending starfen off him, the creature had jumped down and returned to confinement, and the crowd had erupted in thunderous applause and cheers. Poor Pilkin looked confused, but he soon realized the gift Ra-ta had bestowed on him and hurried to the cage to drop the door.

As excited voices sang the praises of Pilkin and his mastery over his spirit animal, I watched Barkor and wondered over the meaning of a sly smile that briefly creased his face. It wasn't long before enlightenment arrived, for the tribe gossip, Porsalla, took that moment to plop her ample body beside me, seemingly eager to relay some juicy secret.

"Do you know what I heard?" she asked in her best conspiratorial manner. Of course, I hadn't, but I was certain I was about to.

"I heard Pilkin's starfen was a trained animal and not from the wild as required for the test. I heard from a trustworthy source that Barkor himself got the creature for Pilkin from a friend just a couple of days ago and that it's trained to return to the cage shortly after being let out. Could this be true?"

I mused on that a few seconds, thinking it odd but certainly possible. However, if indeed a trained animal, its training was deficient, for Pilkin was not the one who got it back into the cage, much as he might believe he had. However, there was that Barkor smile. Did he know, or at least expect, that Pilkin would succeed?

I saw Porsalla was waiting for an opinion, so I shrugged and said, "It is unlikely Barkor would rig the testing. He knows he must have the best man as our shaman."

Porsalla sniffed her disappointment over my refusal to confirm her suspicions and left to find a more receptive ear. Meanwhile, it was time for Satu's test to begin.

Satu stepped before the gathered men, extended his left arm, and loosened the leather strap binding the razok. In anticipation of release, the bird fluttered its wings and emitted a high, shrieking call. It took flight and climbed skyward, seeking the air currents on which to glide, and it was soon circling with majestic arcs high above in the cloudless sky.

Satu lit a handful of sargrass and began to chant and dance, his movements awkward as he worked his damaged leg the best he could. I watched the bird's graceful turns above me and wished I could assist Satu. I wished my bracelet contained a razok bone, for it would be so easy to bring the bird right back down to Satu's arm. However, that would be unfair to the boy. I wanted Satu to succeed, but perhaps it was better if he had to accomplish this on his terms, using his skills, not mine.

Then, it came down. A chill ran up my back as I watched the magnificent bird swoop toward the gathering, heading straight for Satu. With a sudden motion, it veered. Puzzled onlookers, including me, gasped as the razok dove directly at Barkor, passing only an arm's length above him and excreting something white and viscous.

Roaring laughter exploded from the stands. Barkor, red-faced and furious, wiped the glop from his hair and delivered a venomous glare to the grinning Satu, who had the razok again resting calmly on his arm.

"You make a mockery of these proceedings!" Barkor all but screamed, spittle shooting from his mouth. He was now standing, and his fellow councilors, who had been laughing along with the rest of us, allowed their humor to fade as they witnessed the council chief's wrath. I saw Semral, sitting several places to Barkor's left, still had a small grin on his face, and I realized how much I was beginning to like the old hunter.

"You did that on purpose!" Barkor continued to screech at Satu. "You are disqualified. Pilkin is our new shaman."

A murmur of dissent rose from the councilors, but one glare from Barkor cowed them to silence. All except Semral.

The great hunter rose and with a calm voice said, "We will vote."

Barkor turned to Semral with the look of a prodded viper, but Semral stared him down, forcing Barkor to choke out the words.

"All right, we will vote."

The vote was six to four. Pilkin was our new shaman.

**

~~SEVEN~~

In the months following Pilkin's election as our new shaman, I contented myself with performing mundane chores. They took my mind off the fact that I was now an orphan and had no one to provide me with daily direction. We had moved camp and were now well south of the Raso, near one of its tributaries. My mood was often sullen, and even Lillatta was steering a clear path. I had not cried since holding my father for the last time just before his death, and I wondered if I had no more tears in me. I felt I had to occupy my time, but I did not feel like training. What was the point anymore?

On this day, I sat outside my tent engrossed in the intricacies of weaving a basket, not one of my greater talents. Semral exited the ceremonial tent and appeared to be looking my way. When I caught his gaze, he walked over and sat across from me. I kept my eyes fixed to my moving fingers, nervous as I manipulated the strands of banton. What possible interest could the hunter have in me?

"I have wanted to talk with you for some time about a matter of importance," Semral spoke.

I paused to look up at the hunter. His expression was earnest, so I kept my hands still as I waited for him to continue. He seemed uncomfortable speaking to me, and people were beginning to stare. The unmarried hunter conversing with a young girl was no doubt a subject for speculation.

"I know it was you who applied the poultice to my wounds," Semral said, a statement containing no hint of accusation.

I inhaled sharply and felt a stab of fear. Was this it, my lifelong secret about to be exposed?

Semral smiled and said, "Don't look so worried, Sanyel. I just wanted to thank you for saving my life. You did a remarkable job. I assume it was your father who taught you?"

I nodded, wary over Semral's line of questioning.

"What did he teach you, uses of the healing flowers and such?"

I was not sure where Semral was going with this and did not want to give too much away.

"Yes, I learned some of their benefits when I helped him find the herbs and flowers."

Semral nodded. "I thought as much. I suppose it was inevitable you would gain some understanding just by who your father was. He seemed to be a good man, but—and please excuse the bluntness—he was a bit odd. I remember when he brought you to us just after you were born. He spoke wildly of an old prophecy. We laughed it off, of course. A woman as a leader or some such thing."

Semral chuckled.

The old hunter had no idea. He did not realize that Nanki had defied the council and tutored me in everything forbidden by our law. Semral did not know the whole truth, but he knew enough to bring danger to my tent door.

He sensed my unease.

"Don't worry, Sanyel. I will not tell anyone."

I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath. The tension eased and my muscles relaxed. I felt I should express my gratitude to the hunter. Semral, however, had more to say.

"I opened my eyes in the woods and saw you leaving, and I gathered it was you who had worked the medicine. I have to say it shocked me that a female had done this. It took me a long time to accept the truth of it. I have always believed that the sacred knowledge is for men only. Still, seeing what you did for me, how could I not appreciate it? If Ra-ta has allowed this without punishment, who am I to dispute the reasons? So, I am grateful—to Ra-ta and to you."

I tried again to thank the old hunter for his forbearance, but Semral wasn't finished speaking.

"Certain things still puzzle me. For instance, how was it you were even there, Sanyel? And how did you escape the can-rak? For that matter, how did I escape the beast? You must have seen it all unfold. How did Bratar manage to chase the can-rak away?"

Those were a lot of questions. My mind debated how and to what degree I should answer them. Obviously, I could not reveal my years of shamanic training. Revealing that I had a spirit animal, a can-rak at that, did not seem wise. A woman with a spirit animal and control over it—not to mention countless other animals—would probably not sit well even with as open-minded a man as Semral seemed to be.

And what about Bratar? Was it time to expose him, or should I keep his cowardice secret and let time and his self-serving actions trip him up. A vision of Bratar stumbling and falling before the porse appeared in my mind. Trip him up. I had to laugh at my own mental choice of words. I decided I would tell Semral some, but not all, of what happened.

"I was there to hunt the can-rak," I said matter-of-factly.

Semral raised his eyebrows. I could read his questioning thoughts. Was I joking? I pondered for an instant the wisdom of telling him it was indeed a joke. However, with Nanki gone and weary of toting all these secrets, I grew reckless.

"My father taught me the ways of the hunter, and I have gained a fair skill in the use of weapons," I told the old warrior.

Semral's eyes grew wide. Sakitan law did not forbid teaching a woman hunting skills, but traditionalists frowned upon it.

"I can handle a spear, and my rik-ta can peg a target with accuracy at fifty paces," I boasted.

Semral scowled and shook his head. I realized I had lost him. There was no way anyone could hit a target accurately at fifty paces except through luck, and certainly, no woman could. I was making up stories, and that, Semral would not abide.

"I speak the truth, and I will prove it," I insisted. "When we finish here, let us go to the woods, and I will demonstrate my skill."

The hunter had no reason to believe me, and he seemed unwilling to indulge my nonsense. Though reluctant, he agreed to humor me when I pushed him hard to let me try at least. Semral had reached his limit, so I decided not to reveal any more of the truth. I finished up with a lie.

"As for how we both escaped the can-rak, it must have been as Bratar claimed. I arrived after the can-rak left, so I did not witness Bratar's actions. You'll have to ask him."

My explanation satisfied Semral. A sour look crossed his face when I reminded him of our agreement to repair to the woods. He came, but he did so most likely because he felt an obligation to me for saving his life. I grabbed my spear and rik-ta, and we sneaked out by following a shallow ravine behind our camp, not wanting to be seen or trailed. Semral examined my weapons in silence as we walked. I sensed his interest in the quality of the workmanship. My father and I had crafted both weapons to be the ultimate warrior's tools, even getting the grip and balance in my hand just right, and we had ground the spear tip and rik-ta blade to their deadliest point and edge.

A pleasant breeze rattled the leaves of kansers and bennawood as we entered a forest east of our campsite. These woods were not as dense as the kakkata, thus allowing the bright afternoon sun to penetrate the foliage. The sweet odor of bransa berries mingled discordantly with the pungent foulness of chorka plants. Chirps, whistles, and melodic notes emanated from the heights around us.

A few hundred paces in, where none could witness, we stopped. Semral chose a solitary bennawood to be the target that would surely expose my exaggerated claim of being a weapons master. The hunter scratched a crude circle shoulder-high into the tree bark, and then he stepped out fifty paces in a direction that offered an unobstructed view of the tree. Of course, his fifty paces, due to his greater stride, were longer than if I had paced them off, but that didn't concern me. I had confidence the extra distance wouldn't matter.

"Do not be concerned if you miss the mark entirely or do not even reach the tree," Semral was saying in a patronizing tone. He indicated a spot where I was to stand. "It is an impossible distance for accuracy. Are you sure you want to continue?"

I nodded, and before Semral could even turn to watch the expected pitiful flight of the blade, it whistled past his ear. Moments later, with a dull thud, it struck the circle scratched into the distant tree. It was dead center. As my rik-ta quivered in the wood, I observed with keen satisfaction Semral's mouth dropping open. A graphic exclamation soon followed.

I expected this reaction. Since pegging the starfen years ago, I had accomplished this throw numerous times. I never missed—ever. My arm was never errant, and I had long ago gotten over any surprise. I had mused over the reason as had my father and Lillatta, but the only explanation we could accept was that Ra-ta himself was guiding my throws. How else to explain it?

Semral stared at me with a baffled expression, an odd mixture of disbelief and awe. I knew the look well. I had experienced it often from Lillatta during our training and even from my father, who despite having seen everything, insisted that what I could do was beyond normal.

"How did you ... How is that possible?" We had moved to the target tree, and Semral was examining the evidence of my marksmanship. He brushed his fingers through his graying hair. "It is right in the middle. How is that possible?"

Of course, I did not reveal that it wouldn't have made a difference if the distance had been farther, maybe even twice that. Beyond that range, my accuracy was unknown, for I had never tried to throw any farther. In truth, even this throw should not have been as forceful as it was, but it seemed that whenever I cocked my arm and then released, the strength behind it was remarkable, almost superhuman.

We spent the rest of the afternoon satisfying Semral's unending curiosity regarding my other warrior skills. He was almost giddy every time I demonstrated a throw that defied reason or a move he had not seen, and he would ask me to stop and train him on the spot. These advanced moves went beyond the traditional ones my father taught me, the maneuvers all hunters and warriors knew. Some were moves and skills I had developed on my own by careful study of body positioning. Others had come to me instinctively.

This was fun. I had not practiced since my father's death, and the sheer joy of using my muscles, of banging spear shaft to shaft and going knife thrust for thrust with Semral, was incredible. Semral was a highly skilled warrior, and I was besting him at every turn. I had him on the ground often, and he would bounce up, laughing at the ease with which I put him right back down, showing no embarrassment at all.

After about the fourth time I had knocked Semral off his feet, this time using a quick double sweep with the stem of my spear, he lay on the ground heaving with exhaustion. When recovered, he propped himself up on an elbow, shook his head, and spoke.

"I cannot believe I am saying this, but as Ra-ta is my witness, I know with certainty that you, Sanyel, possess skills beyond any warrior I have ever faced."

Semral's words astonished me. Such high praise from a warrior so renowned, who had slain many a fierce Raab on the battlefield, was the last thing I imagined hearing. The revered hunter was now smiling at me, expecting a response.

"Thank you—uh—for your kind words, Semral," I managed to say. It seemed a bit inadequate, but it was all I could think to express at that moment.

Semral glanced toward the setting sun. "Come, the light is fading. We should get back to camp."

As we walked in silence among the trees, only a sliver of Ra-ta remained, and the gloom made it difficult to see. I was still basking in the glow of Semral's complimentary words when a sudden, high-pitched squeal warned us of a spartok's presence. I strained to catch sight of the wily, black-skinned beast and then glimpsed a rapid movement in the shrubbery ahead of us. The low-built, strong-legged demon burst from the foliage's concealment. Semral and I leaped from its path, he to the right and I left. The spartok rumbled past, swiping at Semral with its double tusks as it did. With surprising agility, the spartok halted, spun around, and then rushed full speed back our way. It set its crazed, bloodthirsty sights on Semral, who had entangled his foot and was struggling to free it from a stubborn root. Flashes of Bratar and the porse came to me. I had no time to find the spartok bone on my bracelet, so I hefted my spear and let fly. The point and the charging beast converged, with the point emerging the victor, catching the creature flush between its enraged eyes. The spartok skidded, tearing up soil, and then it dropped without as much as a protesting squeal. I walked over to yank the lance from its skull and admired the centered hole caused by the perfect strike. I wiped the bloody tip on some kanser leaves. I was aware of Semral's stare. Even in the dying light, I could see his mouth had dropped open—again.

A crowd gathered as we approached camp. We carried the spartok on a pole, a stout branch we had slipped through its bound-together legs. It was pitch dark and campfires dotted the ground. We dropped our burden near the ceremonial tent. Several men and women gave me curious glances before gathering around the spartok to admire and comment.

Barkor stumbled out of his tent, followed by his plain-looking wife. Barkor was drinking again, and on this early evening, his intoxication showed. He saw Semral and staggered over to ask about the commotion. The crowd backed up to give them room, and I moved back with it. Someone volunteered that Semral had brought down a fair-sized spartok in the forest.

Having no desire to see Semral correct that erroneous assumption and give me credit, I spoke up before he could.

"Look what Semral did! He took down the beast with a perfect strike to the head. You see, right there." I pointed out the hole between the spartok's glazed eyes.

As the onlookers leaned in to view the damage, I turned to Semral and gave an emphatic shake of my head. Semral seemed puzzled at first, but then comprehension dawned. He understood that I wanted my part in this kept quiet. I knew others had noticed us arrive together, but I hoped no one would inquire why.

No such luck.

"Why was Sanyel with you?" someone asked. The query piqued the gathering's interest, and Barkor was curious as well.

"Sanyel was with you—hunting?" Barkor questioned. The crowd voiced rumblings of surprise, and I was grateful for Semral's quick thinking.

"No, of course not," Semral spoke, pretending to be amused by such a ludicrous thought. "I was hunting and she was out picking berries. I did not know she was there until I heard her scream. I came upon a spartok chasing her through the trees. I shouted at the beast to get its attention. When it came after me, I speared it. Sanyel helped me carry it out, that's all."

I admired Semral's ability to think on his feet. His skill at fabrication might even rival Bratar's. The explanation seemed to satisfy, though I noticed several giving me odd looks. I wondered if perhaps they remembered me talking earlier to Semral by my tent. Then again, maybe they had seen me carrying a spear and rik-ta when I came in with the hunter. They did not seem inclined to speak up, so I supposed they felt it wasn't any of their business—which, it wasn't.

**

~~EIGHT~~

Slops duty is the worst. Emptying slop pots is nasty, nasty work. It was often Satu's chore, thanks to an unfortunate event when a wayward bird offered an unwanted gift to council chief Barkor during the shaman selection proceedings. Slops are as bad as they sound; they are human urine and excrement whose containers require emptying each morning. These vessels, placed outside each tent at night, provide a convenience for those who need to go but who don't want to wander far from camp or challenge the darkness to do so. No one wants to encounter a can-rak or other such nasty while doing one's business.

Satu was not the only one assigned to slops duty this midsummer day, but he was the one who drew my attention. I observed him heading out to the pit away from camp to dump the pots, gingerly balancing a container that seemed close to brimming. As I viewed his slow progress from a distance, I felt a stab of guilt. For if my actions had not prevented Pilkin from showing his true incompetence at the shaman trials, I was certain Satu would be medicine man today.

As I watched, three figures approached the struggling Satu. One was Bratar, hard to miss with those ridiculous muscles, jutting jaw, and that square head topped with a smear of black. The other two were minions. They were Bratar's hangers-on, fawning worshippers of the hero hunter. Bratar was a man now, no longer the boy whose life I had once saved. The two with him were a few years younger, and I doubt Bratar saw them as friends. They appeared to be more like pets, like starfens you might feed, which then wind up following you around.

I moved closer, wanting to hear and see what this was all about. Bratar was speaking, and by his tone, I could tell the encounter was not friendly. Satu showed a defensive posture, holding the stinking pot in front of him like a shield. I stepped closer to hear Bratar's words.

"Don't trip and fall," he taunted as he swung a leg trying to hit Satu's bad one.

"Don't trip and fall," the minions echoed, and by their originality, I imagined there might be a third of a brain between the two of them. Satu did a remarkable job balancing the putrid vessel while avoiding Bratar's leg swipes. Then, a kick landed, Satu wobbled, and a portion of his pot of filth spilled forward onto Bratar's tunic.

With dispatch, Satu placed the pot promptly on the ground and used the spill's distraction to try breaking free of encirclement. An alert minion grabbed him by his left arm, however, allowing the other time to step in and grip his right. Bratar, in a red-faced fury, stepped forward, eager to pound his fist into Satu's midsection.

I spoke.

"Leave the boy alone."

Bratar stopped with arm cocked and turned to view his new challenger. When he saw me, he didn't know how to react. I could almost see the slow progression of thoughts forming in his shallow mind. A girl has challenged me. She is the one who laughed at my story. I will beat her. Or, something like that.

"You have no business here, selate," Bratar finally managed to say, following his words with a sneering grin that indicated he thought the comment clever. It was the same epithet his father had used the night he banished me from the ceremonial tent. This ugly, double-charged slur disparages one's ancestry and implies a limited mental capacity.

The minions laughed. How ironic.

"You are disrupting Satu's duties," I said, ignoring Bratar's provocation. "Your father assigned him the work. Do you wish to interfere with his intentions?"

Bratar gave a sullen look, and I could tell he was mulling over what I said. Then, a glint of anger flashed in his eyes.

"You will not tell me what to do, girl. These are a man's concerns, and you are not fit to speak to me of them."

I expected Bratar's unimaginative answer. He didn't have the brains to offer a reasonable argument, so all he could do was bluster. I decided to prod him.

"So, Bratar, if this is a man's business, why are you here? Would a man get thrown from a porse without even inflicting a single wound to the beast?"

That did it. A red flush of angry embarrassment lit Bratar's face. He took a menacing step toward me. Satu, still restrained by the minions, watched with puzzled interest, perhaps wondering why this crazy girl would deliberately invite the pain that was sure to come.

"Keep opening your mouth," Bratar said, his voice threatening, "and I will jam it full of grass." Bratar's pets smirked in unison, their faces joyful in anticipation of their hero administering this grass-stuffing lesson. I was unfazed and continued to provoke.

"Chased any can-raks lately? Or are you afraid they might throw you, too?" As expected, my words were like a rik-ta poke to Bratar's eye. He lost all semblance of control and came at me in a furious rush, shouting obscenities.

"I'll break your neck, selate!"

I stood calm and composed, waiting for the moment. As Bratar reached to grab and pummel me, I turned, swinging my upper body low while whipping my right leg upward. The hard edge of my bare foot caught Bratar flush beneath his jaw.

He dropped like a speared porse. Bratar was out cold.

The minions stood frozen, offering mirror expressions of surprise and confusion—the latter probably their natural state. I feigned an attack, and they both flinched as if connected to the same nerves. They released Satu, fled, and never looked back. Satu eyed me with a studied curiosity, and then his mouth widened into a wicked little grin. He picked up the slop pot and dumped its remaining contents over Bratar's head.

That impulsive act did not seem a wise move, so we ran, with Satu's bad leg considerably slowing our escape. However, it was soon evident that Bratar would not be pursuing as his fetid shower had failed to awaken him. I accompanied Satu back toward the camp. Since his pot was now empty, he would return it and get another, then another, until completing the nasty chore.

As we walked, Satu spoke.

"I did it," he said without explanation.

I glanced over.

"Did what?"

"I made the bird poop on Barkor."

I stopped, causing him to do the same.

"Why? You had a chance to be our shaman."

Satu shrugged. "I had heard the rumors. Pilkin was Barkor's choice, so there was no chance he would let me win. And on top of that, I didn't like Barkor's remarks about me."

"But Pilkin doesn't deserve to be our shaman," I insisted. "He didn't even get his animal to do what it was supposed to do."

Satu gave me a perplexed look.

"Sure he did. The starfen ran right back into the cage."

Oops. I had not meant to say that and had to recover.

"Well, it certainly took him long enough."

"Where did you learn to kick like that?" asked Satu, thankfully changing the subject. "That was incredible!"

"My father taught me some things and others I just figured out for myself. That kick was a move I came up with on my own. I've been practicing it for years."

"Will you teach me?"

"Perhaps, someday."

We approached the campsite and something was amiss. A crowd milled outside the big tent. When we came into sight, someone shouted, "There she is!"

Accusing eyes turned to me, and the grim scrutiny was troubling. What had I done? Then Barkor exited from the tent, saw me, and waved over two burly hunters.

"Seize her," he commanded. The two hunters moved toward me. Having no clue what was happening and being somewhat in shock, I did not resist, for the rapidly unfolding events had caught me off guard. They grabbed my arms with unnecessary roughness and dragged me over to Barkor.

"Put her inside there," said Barkor, pointing. I soon found myself within the walls of a small, empty tent, with the two hunters posted outside. Placing someone under guard was usually the response to some grievous offense. What had I done? Had this to do with Bratar? Unlikely. He could not have beaten us back to the campsite. What, then?

There was nothing to do but wait since the two guards were uncommunicative, so I sat on the ground in the vacant tent and played with loose threads on my tunic. I must have fallen asleep, for when a noise jolted me awake, night had already fallen. Outside the tent, they were changing guards, and one had accidentally kicked over a pot. I peeked through the tent opening to see what else was happening. There was only a campfire and blackness. I went back to sleep.

The next morning a guard awakened me with a rude kick. I slipped on my sandals, and the two guards escorted me to another enclosure, the ceremonial tent. It was the first time I had been in one since my banishment. It was a different tent in a different year, but its familiarity brought a rush of memories: my father practicing his craft; the thrilling stories of the hunt; serving, laughing, and dreaming with Lillatta. All these special moments found their recall, swiftly passing through my mind as I entered.

An all-male audience of tribal members sat inside the tent along with the tribal council, with the councilors seated on a bench behind a long, sturdy table. Acrid smoke from a central fire rose to the tent's sky opening. The draft wasn't perfect, and the smoke drifted around the enclosure, stinging my eyes. Low voices murmured in ominous undertones. I could not make out the words, but it was impossible to miss the occasional finger pointed my direction.

I glanced around the tent. Pilkin picked his nose over by the councilors' table. There was no sign of Bratar or Satu, but I spied Semral at his council seat studiously avoiding eye contact. That confirmed to me that I was in deep trouble.

Then, I spotted Lillatta. She was off to the side, sitting by herself, and she was the only female there other than me. She caught my eye and then quickly glanced downward. She did not raise her sight again to meet mine. A spike of fear shot through me. What have you done, Lil? Why are we here?

Barkor took his place among the council members. I stood facing them from the central spot where the two escorts had left me. My mouth felt dry and my skin grimy. I had last bathed in the stream near our camp two days before, and I reeked of sweat. I wanted to wash my hair, clothes, and body, and not have to try to decipher or endure what was happening. I took another glance at Lillatta, but she existed solely in a world of her own. Why are you here, Lil? I had a sense it was not to give me support in whatever this was though I wished that were the case.

"These proceedings are begun," Barkor intoned. He waited for the assemblage to quiet down and then continued. "The accused, Sanyel, is charged with breaking our sacred laws, willfully and deliberately. She is charged with practicing the secret male arts of the shaman, and thus—"

An audible, collective gasp interrupted the tribal chief, followed by a buzz of angry voices that filled the tent. Barkor's words placed me on alert as this large piece of the puzzle fell into place. My secret was out. Someone had exposed my clandestine activities, and I knew that only Lillatta and Semral were privy to that knowledge.

"Silence!"

Barkor's booming command startled the crowd, and the voices gradually died. Barkor decided to expedite the matters at hand.

"Bring forward the witness."

I saw Lillatta tremble as she rose, and I knew something very bad was about to happen. Lillatta still would not look at me as she took a seat provided for her next to the council. Barkor stood and came around the table to face her. He was at his ministerial best, clearly enjoying having the stage as he spoke to Lil in a soft tone I had never heard him use.

"Now, please tell us what you know of the actions of the accused regarding the flouting of our sacred laws."

Lillatta appeared about to cry, and strange as it might seem, I wanted to go over and comfort her. I knew Lillatta. I knew her as I knew myself, and she would never betray me, never without good reason. I desperately desired to learn what that reason was.

"Sanyel's father," Lillatta began, and then she stopped. Silent for a moment, she fidgeted with her hands and then hesitantly continued. "He was—uh—he was training us. I was allowed to train only with weapons, but Sanyel ... Um, Sanyel was ..."

Lillatta stopped again and seemed not to want to say anything else. Barkor used his soothing tones to coax her to continue. Her eyes were down, her voice barely audible even though the room was quiet.

"She was learning to," Lillatta went on, "—or, I mean she was making ... um, she was—"

"Say it!" Barkor commanded.

Barkor's sharp tone startled Lillatta, causing her to let free what had been tangling her tongue.

"She was making potions!" The words burst from Lillatta as if their very vileness could no longer reside within her throat.

The angry buzz returned to the room, now punctuated by random shouts.

"Quiet!" warned Barkor, and the buzz died.

"What else?" Barkor asked Lil, his voice again emulating the softness of a summer breeze. "What else did the accused do?"

"I can't, I can't," Lil protested, now crying openly. She seemed on the verge of a total breakdown. Barkor was losing his patience, and he decided to try another tack.

"You will tell us right now, or I will have Kalor executed in front of you."

There was a second collective intake of breath, and then the discordant buzz rose to another level. Now I knew the reason I was here. Kalor was under threat of execution for something he had done. I knew Kalor, however, and he was not capable of committing a capital offense. Something was wrong here; this did not add up. Still, if the case weren't strong, Lillatta would not have made this bargain to spare his life. My life in exchange for Kalor's. Barkor would have jumped at the chance to prosecute such a case, to preside over such a spectacle. In our culture, there was no greater glory than to administer Ra-ta's punishment to a violator of the sacred.

Barkor again silenced the agitated crowd and turned back to Lillatta.

"You will tell us what else Sanyel did, right now," Barkor warned. "It is your last chance."

This was tearing Lillatta apart, but I knew what she would do. She loved Kalor. I could not condemn her for her choice, for it was an impossible one. She was my friend, and even as she betrayed me, even as she broke the oath of secrecy she had made to my father, I knew this would not change my feelings for her. I fully understood her actions, understood that they were not malicious. What option did she have?

Lillatta looked up and then around. She caught my eye briefly and then glanced away. In a low, toneless voice, she said, "She performed the rituals. The sacred rituals."

For a fourth time, the tent reverberated with the fury of the righteous. This time Barkor let them howl.

"Sinner!" someone shouted, and the word echoed from several others. A rock flew from the assemblage and struck me on the left arm below the elbow. I flinched from the pain and Barkor attempted to seize control again.

"Silence!" he shouted, but the beast was loose, and the can-rak tasted blood.

"I said SILENCE!" And the snarling beast calmed.

Barkor faced me. It was time for the formality of allowing the accused to offer up a feeble defense and then to proceed to the sentence. For that was Sakita justice. Once brought before the council, you were as good as doomed if your only defense was your word. It was cut and dried. The damning testimony of my best friend was enough for me to expect no pardon from the executioner's blade, even if such a thing existed—which, it didn't.

"What do you have to say to these charges?" Barkor was asking.

I had nothing to say. It was all true. I inspected the room. Lillatta, broken and crying, had pulled herself up into a fetal ball. Semral stared straight ahead, his thoughts and emotions unreadable. No one else held my interest, so I returned my attention to the council chief.

"It's all true," I said.

The can-rak readied to roar again, but Barkor preempted the outburst with a countering bellow. With order restored, he pivoted to face his fellow councilors.

"She admits to it all," he said. As he did, I thought I caught a hint of triumph in his voice. He turned to walk the length of the councilors' table, and then he put his hand to his broad chin, his expression now sober. He appeared to be contemplating the gravity of the upcoming decision, though I doubt he felt anything but satisfaction. We had not gotten along since I publicly embarrassed his son. I wondered if he saw this as payback.

After he had held his pose long enough, Barkor resumed speaking. "My one regret is that the true culprit goes unpunished. Nanki has escaped justice. He is the actual villain here, and it is a shame that another must suffer for his actions. Nevertheless, we cannot allow emotions to cloud our duty. Sanyel admits her part. She must accept the consequences. She must"—Barkor paused for effect—"be put to death."

The frightful words drew an uncomfortable mixture of anguished cries and enthusiastic cheers. I knew many in the crowd, those who had watched me grow from childhood, would feel torn by the finality of this judgment. They had known the probable outcome of the trial, but it is never until someone speaks the words that the true impact registers. A life is to be taken, resulting in a family member forever gone. And although it was my life in danger of forfeit, I felt nothing. My father and mother were no more. My best friend had betrayed me. Let be what will be.

At that moment, the assemblage went silent as a commanding presence rose from the councilors' bench. When the great Semral stood, the crowd turned as one, waiting with a keen expectation to hear the revered hunter's thoughts. Barkor looked annoyed, but even he had the common sense not to deny Semral his voice.

"There is another option," Semral stated, "one the council chief seems to have overlooked."

The tent was silent, with every eye focused on the old hunter.

"Banishment to the Desert of Bones."

Utterances of surprise emanated from those gathered, followed by voices in support of this alternative.

Barkor evinced a resentful look. It was the look of a man thwarted, who knew he could not override the law and that banishment was now an undesired option.

Banishment. I was becoming a bit too familiar with the word. However, banishment from a large tent held no comparison to what I now faced. Exile to the Desert of Bones was not a guarantee of survival. It still might be a death sentence, of that I had no illusions, but at least you stood the chance of a miracle, a chance to find a way to stay alive. For that reason, I began to perk up. I sensed something happening that had the hand of Ra-ta behind it.

"Let us vote for banishment," Semral was saying, "for the girl did not ask for this. Her father forced her into it. Nanki deserved death, but he is not here. Sanyel was but an innocent tool of a depraved mind. We cannot absolve her of all responsibility, for the law is clear. Justice must be served, but it must also be fair. Let us vote."

This usurping of his control over the proceedings plainly disturbed Barkor, but seeing no recourse, he agreed to allow a vote.

The vote was seven to three—for banishment to the Desert of Bones.

**

~~NINE~~

Banishment has its rituals. The tribe would allow me to say goodbye to anyone I wished to this final night, but I had to summon them to me, for my jailers would not let me leave my confinement tent. A designated tribal member would visit the residences of those I wished to see, and they could accept or decline the invitation as desired. The following morning, an escort would see me south to the desert. Left there to fend for myself, I could never return upon pain of death. A skin of water to last three days and a leather bag would be the only items allowed me. The bag would contain dried fruit from the wettle tree and salted meat along with an assortment of nuts. I could bring no weapons. If I survived, it would be the will of Ra-ta. However, I could never return.

I asked to speak to Lillatta. As surprising as it might seem, I wanted to tell her I held no anger toward her, that I understood her predicament and that she should not blame herself for what had unfolded. To my dismay and sadness, she declined to see me. I could understand why. How do you face the one you betrayed?

The thought of never seeing her again brought a sudden tightness to my chest, and for an instant, it was difficult to get a full breath. All I kept coming back to was that long ago moment in the forest when I tried to eat the starfen, and she totally lost it. It was a time I felt we were at our closest. Now, I would never hear that irrepressible laugh again. It wasn't fair.

I wished to see no one else. I had not been close to anyone but my father and Lillatta. Losing both was a cruel blow, and I could think of no other who mattered to me. Satu? I barely knew him. Semral? I would have enjoyed a visit from the great hunter one last time, but I did not know his disposition toward me. He pushed for banishment over death, but was that an indication of anything more than gratitude for saving his life?

Bratar I would certainly not miss or ever want to see again. I had once saved his life, too, but now wished I hadn't, for I knew he would come after Satu upon my departure. I hoped the boy was as smart as he seemed to be and would find a way to survive and adapt. There was a chance Pilkin would accept him as an apprentice and thus spare him Bratar's revenge, for an apprentice is holy and off limits. However, that was unlikely. A new shaman prefers choosing disciples based on compatibility or an ability to control, and unless friendly with those previously his rivals, there was little chance he would retain any of them.

A sense of sadness and dread passed through me. I had a strong feeling something bad was coming for Satu and that his misfortune would have a direct connection to Bratar.

As I mused about lost friends and friends who never were, the flap to the tent parted, and the guard informed me I had a visitor. My heart leaped, expecting Lillatta had changed her mind and we would have our final chance to set things right.

It was Semral.

"Are you displeased to see me?" the old hunter asked, noticing my crestfallen look.

"Oh, no, forgive me Semral. I thought you might be my friend, Lillatta."

Semral smiled. "You still call her friend? You must have no fire of anger within you."

"My anger is there," I said without conviction, "but it will never be for her."

"I have news," Semral said, getting around to his visit's purpose. "Kalor has been cleared. It seems Balsar stole some items from another's tent and placed them in Kalor's when he feared discovery. Balsar confessed, and it is certain the executioner's blade will visit him tonight. I felt you should know."

Balsar. That did not surprise me. I was grateful for Kalor's exoneration, but it came too late for me. My sentence remained the same. Semral knew my thoughts and was sympathetic.

"I am sorry your secret was exposed. I had not known you trained as a shaman under your father. It is a lot for an old man to digest. I was taught that only men could be leaders, that only men could know the secrets of Ra-ta. Yet you—you, Sanyel, continue to astound me. Your skill with weapons and now this." Semral chuckled and added, "I suppose you will tell me next that you have a spirit animal, too."

I smiled at the old hunter, and the smile's implication was clear. Semral's eyes widened in that familiar way.

"Don't tell me," he said, holding up his hands and laughing. "My poor old head is full enough."

Semral's expression then changed, and he continued in a serious tone.

"I wish I could have prevented this from happening to you, but my hands were tied. Receiving banishment over death is but a small victory, I know, but I saw no other way."

I interrupted Semral to thank him for accomplishing even that.

"There is no need to thank me. You saved my life—twice. I had to do something. Still, there is another reason I came to see you. There are rumors that water exists in the Desert of Bones. I have heard if you head west, you will find it. The truth of this I do not know, but perhaps it will give you a chance."

"Thank you, Semral. I will keep that in mind."

With that, the old warrior took his leave.

In the morning, Barkor summoned me to his tent. As I lifted the flap to enter, a nauseating stench assaulted my nostrils. My eyes watered from the rank odor's intensity even as they adjusted to the tent interior's gloom. The stink was worse than that of a raffer's carcass rotting a week in the sun. It was apparent that Barkor and his wife never bathed. I picked out the form of Barkor's wife, a plain, squat woman sitting in a corner, working something with her hands. The grubby man himself was standing, awaiting my entrance. He wasted no time.

"You will be given food and water for three days," Barkor spoke, betraying no trace of interest or compassion. "After that, it is up to the will of Ra-ta if you survive. Semral will accompany you to the desert edge. You must never return. If you choose to defy this ruling and we spot you in our lands, we will put you to death. You will speak to no one as you leave. You do not exist for us now, and from this moment forward no one will ever again speak your name. I declare you banished. You are a Sakita no more."

With that, Barkor dismissed me from the fetid tent, and I could breathe again. There was no one in view but Semral. All others were under strict orders to remain in their domiciles until I left, the first step in a deliberate process to strike me from memory. Semral hefted his spear and approached. I saw he also carried a sheathed knife, several waterskins, and had three leather packs filled with food. The journey to the desert would take only a couple of weeks, for we were already well south of the Raso and presently camped along one of its branches. Semral had packed enough to feed us both, satisfy our thirst, and still have enough for both his return journey and my three day's desert supply.

I looked around one last time and felt an urge boiling up inside me—an urge to scream. I wanted to let everything out I had bottled up since my father's passing. I wanted to shout and curse and throw a tantrum fit for a two-year-old. I wanted to take a knife and stab and slice everything that crossed my path. I wanted to tell off Barkor and his brat, Bratar the Brave, and all the narrow-minded, self-righteous, empty-headed, soulless excuses for human beings that this tribe had become. My father was not wrong. My father was not a criminal. The laws were wrong. The laws were criminal. I wanted to scream it, to scream it all.

However, Semral was waiting. So I took a last sweeping look over the camp, over the only life I'd known, and prepared to leave it to the past. A tent flap opened, a face appeared, and then the flap closed. It was Lillatta, offering a last farewell.

For me, it was enough.

Semral and I headed south. These summer days were idyllic, with Ra-ta blessing us with his warm touch throughout our passage. We encountered several smaller porse herds along with the occasional sartel, and I knew Semral was itching to unleash his spear. However, he was under strict orders to deliver me to my destination in a timely fashion, and he was a man accustomed to obeying authority. For a while, I was ambivalent about my fate. With your whole world ripped from beneath your feet, it takes time to adjust to even the notion that there still exists something upon which to stand. Now, I began to wonder what was out there. A degree of excitement was building in me, and I grew eager to view the dreaded sands of the mysterious Desert of Bones.

On the fourth day of the second week, the grasslands ended, and we entered the low, rocky foothills of the southern Kodor range. Little vegetation showed. No trees grew on these slopes, only scattered tufts of thorel and thin patches of weeds. I looked up to where white-capped peaks tickled a pale mass of passing clouds. The towering height of these mountains astounded me. Their near-vertical inclination verified for me the accepted belief that these peaks would be impossible to scale. Our yearly traverse of the land did not usually lead us to this proximity to the mountains. The richest grazing lands fell more to the interior, so that's where the herds congregated. The grand peaks, up close, were enthralling, and I swore someday I would attempt to conquer them.

Of course, I would have to survive the desert first. We arrived at the guarded entrance to the bowl fracture. Two hunters stood watch against intruders, for this was the only access to our lands from the south. No one expected the desert held anything living to fear, for no one had ever invaded us from that direction, but it never hurt to be careful. The guards' other duty was to make sure no banished tribal members attempted to return to Sakita lands. Semral told me the guards regularly rotated with others and that someone was always on duty at the fracture.

The fracture itself was a bit disappointing. I had expected a straight, wide mouth opening up into a vast landscape of sand. However, this was a narrow passage bounded by high, rocky sides and the path itself was more winding than straight. This path was not more than thirty paces wide, and although its floor was sand, I had no view of the sand's source, the desert. I knew if I were observing this rift from above, it would appear that someone had taken an enormous knife and sliced a twisting cut into the mountain rock. Though broad, the fissure was not that long, for I soon discovered that the Kodor range's width had thinned out considerably at this southern edge even though the peaks' height was still substantial.

Leaving the two guards behind, Semral led the way in. After an hour of walking and one final twist to the path, we emerged—and there it was. I stood for a moment scrutinizing my future home. My view swept left to right, and it was all the same, an endless rolling expanse of sand ridges. It was drab and uninviting scenery, with only scattered brown shrubbery to spruce up the blandness.

We were now on the other side of the mountains, standing at their foothills' southern edge. To my surprise, another line of mountains extended both east and west. This line of peaks crossed through the southern tip of our bowl at the point where I was standing. It was like a straight line intersecting one point on a circle. This straight range acted like a high fence, blocking from view the entire circular mountain range behind it. These mountains were as tall and precipitous as the ones forming the bowl, and as far as I could see, they bordered nothing but desert on this side.

I wondered if that was why no invader had raided from these sands. All they would see before them was a desert pushing up against a straight line of impassable mountains. The passageway's final twist effectively hid the entrance to the fissure. That twist caused this last section of the rift to run parallel to and overlap the mountain background, giving the illusion that there was only solid rock before you. Facing the mountains straight on, you could be standing but a few paces away and not know the fracture was there!

I also noticed a drastic change in temperature. How could one side of the mountains be so mild and temperate and the other consumed by the fires of Ra-ta? On our side existed verdant lands with ample rain and flowing water. On this side, there was nothing but dryness and desolation.

I glanced over at Semral and saw his confliction. During our journey, he had expressed his thoughts on the injustice of my sentence, and now he seemed reluctant to abandon me unceremoniously to the harsh whims of the desert. He reached inside one of the leather bags and withdrew a blanket I had not known he carried.

"Take this," he said, handing the spread to me. "There are cold nights and possible storms ahead of you, and I would have you protected."

I accepted the gift with gratitude, knowing the law prohibited such gestures and that Semral had purposely crossed a line. We were both awkward at farewells, so as the old hunter handed me a waterskin and pouch of food, we did not speak. Then, as Semral turned to leave, he said, "I would have been honored to have hunted beside you."

Why he said that I don't know, but as Semral exited back through the divide, I felt as proud as I have ever felt.

I was alone in a foreign environment. There was no sign of life outside of the pitiful brown fingers that passed for vegetation. So, now what? In which direction was water, for I had only a three-day supply, give or take, depending on how I managed it. I could live without food for a longer period, but without water, I was finished.

So, which way? I could head east or west and follow the mountains that seemed to extend forever in either direction. Or, I could head straight south into the heart of the desert—or try some path in-between. Semral had told me water might exist somewhere to the west. With that being the only lead I had, west I would go.

I slung the straps of my waterskin and food bag over my shoulder, with the blanket from Semral tucked inside the food case. There was nothing else to carry. I was wearing thick-soled leather sandals to prevent the hot sands from burning my feet raw, but my short tunic was not ideal for the desert heat, for it extended only to mid-thigh and was sleeveless. My scant dress left my legs and arms bared to the sun, and I had no covering for my head save the sun-bleached hair that streamed from it in all its matted wretchedness.

My first mistake was traveling during the hottest time of the day. The sun had already peaked in the sky when I began, and as Ra-ta drifted his way slowly west, his rays tormented my skin and stole my energy. The afternoon heat penetrated every pore until I felt the fire was burning inside the very organs of my body. My head ached and I often stumbled.

My second mistake was walking in the sand instead of maneuvering among the rock outcroppings of the mountain foothills. My progress would have been greater even if forced to negotiate boulders and climb on occasion than what I was achieving by slogging through the sand. My sandals added to my misery by often filling with fine grit that formed lumps between my foot bottom and the sandal surface. Forced to stop, I would spread the blanket, sit, remove the sandal, empty the sand, and rub off any that clung to my sweating feet. After a few hours of this pattern, I was looking directly into the setting sun, and my sore eyes, head, and feet could take no more.

I made my way to a large boulder among the rocks bordering the sands and sat on its shady side. My lips and skin had cracked and blistered. My head pounded. My dry throat felt as if someone had twisted it, wringing out every drop of moisture. I grabbed the waterskin and began to guzzle. I told myself to stop as the precious water spilled from the raw corners of my mouth. Stop now. No, just a little more. Stop. Stop now! No, just a few more swallows. At last, a measure of satiation. The waterskin was a third empty.

I could not afford to let that happen again. Walking the sands had been a stupid plan. I needed a better one, but for now, exhaustion clouded my mind. Maybe tomorrow I could think more clearly. The sun was setting, so I set my blanket out and was asleep before Ra-ta settled into his bed.

In the middle of the night, I awakened. The oppressive heat of the day had diminished, leaving a pleasant warmth. I glanced up at the stars. I never tire of this nightly exposition. Uncountable lights spread across black heavens elicit awe each time I view them. Why do they come out in the darkness to gaze upon our world? Are they living beings? I stretched out my hand and could sense the enormous distance between my fingertips and the twinkling lights.

To my left, the twin moons Numa and Nima were rising. They were full tonight and would be for a few more nights to come. Numa was the larger moon, and its glow was brighter than that of its sibling. As always, it was slightly in front of Nima as both prepared to race across the sky. I was wondering why Numa invariably appeared to win these races when something diverted my attention—a star hurtled from the heavens. I saw it flash for an instant and it left a trail on its way down, only to vanish. A falling star was a sign my father once told me. It augured changes to come, with Ra-ta offering a light from his domain to any who would accept it and show others the way. I wondered how many were watching the skies tonight and if any would take up Ra-ta's challenge.

An idea struck me as I gazed at the stars. Why not travel at night? Avoiding the heat and not having to consume as much water seemed reason enough to try this. Not being able to see would be a significant concern, but with both moons full, the light would be more than adequate. Another benefit was that I did not have to wear sandals. The desert sands would be cooler, which would allow me to travel barefoot.

Feeling there was no time like the present, I ate my first meal, hoisted my gear, and set out across the sands. I still traveled west, hoping Semral's information about a water supply was not bogus. The sand was still warm beneath my feet but more than comfortable. Having eaten for the first time, I felt my energy level was back up and my body ready to go. I wished I could have used some of my water for a quick wash-up, for the sand grit and salty sweat had left me feeling grimy. I knew, however, that it was too precious to waste on that.

As I walked, I gazed up at the mountain crests to my right. I stopped for a brief moment, startled to observe no snow, no whiteness captured in the moonlight. Snow always lay near the summits of the mountains that ringed our lands, and when some of it melted in the high summer, it refreshed the rivers and streams. So, did this explain why there was no water here—no snow on the mountains? That worried me. Was Semral's notion of an adequate water source a fantasy?

I trudged on through the night, stopping on occasion to rest, sip water, and eat. A soft wind blew and was the only sound I heard. Toward morning, I found another boulder to shade me from the day's heat, but this was getting tiresome. My waterskin was less than half full, and much as I desired it, there was no sign it was going to refill itself. I bedded down after allowing myself a few more swallows of the diminishing liquid along with a bite of fruit. Before drifting off, an image flashed through my mind— a vision of cold water rushing over human bones.

That night I was back on the move, and how far I traveled, I didn't know. Several times an animal scurried in front of me. I could make it out only as a dark shadow and not very large. I needed a weapon. My survival might depend upon eating the flesh of whatever inhabited these wastelands. I might have to drink their blood, for total depletion of my water supply was an approaching certainty. I also didn't know what other creatures might be lurking out here, perhaps ones that would require offering up some sort of defense. I would—wait! A fair-sized animal had just crossed my path, and only now did the significance of the animal's presence register. An animal that size needed water. There had to be a water source somewhere nearby. Maybe I was closer than I thought!

A lightening eastern sky behind me indicated Ra-ta's awakening. Soon, I would need to find shelter from his punishing rays. I was dead tired. Still, walking in the warm night air and sleeping during the suffocating heat of the day was a strategy for survival that might work—if I didn't run out of water before I found the animal's source.

In the foothills, where the desert sands ran up against the rock outcroppings, I noticed a slide from ages past had caused a massive sheet of rock to slip downward. It came to rest like a plank across a natural u-shaped dip in the stone surface. The u-shaped furrow didn't extend far, only to the side of a hill that closed off its back end. The open front end faced the desert and me. The slab of rock resting on top formed a cozy little cave.

The cave opening reached as high as my chest, and a buildup of sand obscured a portion of it, but with a little digging, I managed to wedge myself inside. The interior was well lit thanks to the generous opening, and I saw the sloping sides met a soft sand floor that extended about four paces to the back hillside wall. The width across measured about three paces, and the shelter seemed adequate to protect me from the sun along with the fact that it retained a surprising coolness. I spread my blanket, took a long drink from my waterskin, and curled up to sleep.

When I awoke, it was midday. I could feel the warmth beginning to penetrate my sanctuary. I reached for my food bag and waterskin ... They were gone! Frantic, I searched every corner and crevice of the shelter. My heart pounded and my mind was in a panic. Where are they? With growing disbelief, I realized both containers were just not there, that they had vanished.

Then, I saw the tracks. Creases in the sand indicated something had dragged both the waterskin and the food bag, on separate trips, out into the desert. I followed the clear trail and glimpsed something dark against the white sand about thirty paces ahead. I exhaled with relief. Both containers were there, abandoned.

I rushed over, and panic flooded through me again. No. No! The bladder holding my precious life's liquid lay ripped apart, with its contents spilled onto thirsty sands that would never give it back. A wedge of dried wettle fruit lay near the open food bag, all that remained of the fruit, nuts, and salted porse it had failed to protect.

I had to think. I had to think! Where was the animal heading? It needed water as much as I did, so in time it would seek out a source. I located the tracks and they ran south, south into the endless sands, south into the wicked heat. I had no choice. I had no water and no food; that animal was now my sole hope. I followed the tracks.

The trail meandered a bit, but it always readjusted itself back to its southern course. The path skirted a wide drift, and as I followed it around, I came upon the grinning man. He was slightly off the animal's trail, reclining on his side in the sand. His white limbs of stubborn bone lay in defiance against the wearing efforts of sand and sun, refusing to follow into oblivion the man's long ago decayed and now vanished flesh. His bleached skull, with its leering, toothy expression was lying on its ear upon a low drift as if he had just taken a moment to rest, to lay his head down for a brief respite. Over the years, the pillow drift had grown, and now sand covered one eyehole. The clothing he once wore lay in tatters over a sand-filled rib cage, and decay and hungry desert nibblers had half eaten his sandals. Who was he? Another Sakita outcast who had long ago counted his last sand hill? Whoever the man was, he had died on that spot and was now ageless; and if I did not find water, I knew I too might soon find a gritty bed of eternal rest.

I carried on pursuing the creature over the scorching sands, knowing it might be leading me closer to my death while praying to Ra-ta it would lead me to salvation instead. Then, in the middle of nowhere, while still on course across the pristine powder, the tracks ended. I stared, dumbfounded, examining how the footprints abruptly stopped as if the animal had just vanished.

A sharp cry sounded above me. Shielding my eyes, I spotted what appeared to be a razok arcing lazy circles in the otherwise empty sky. A razok! Would a razok pass up an easy meal when all it had to do was swoop down and grab it? Would it abandon a chance to lift that meal away from the earth and carry it to the high mountains as food for its nest of hungry young?

No, it would not. I stared at the tracks. Good-bye creature of my salvation—whatever type of animal you were. If only I had gotten around to adding a razok bone to my bracelet. If I had, I would now be summoning that bird to me and commanding it to lead me to water. By such random decisions are lives either preserved or lost. I was alone in a land of no reason, in a land as pitiless as that razok. It was a land determined to deny me even a minuscule chance of survival. At least that's how I felt as the razok circled and I stood unprotected, letting Ra-ta hurl his burning spears into my weary body and torment my battered spirit with his continued indifference to my needs.

I made my way back to my shelter, again following the animal thief's tracks. I wanted to retrieve my food bag and blanket, though the waterskin I knew to be useless. I needed a new plan to replace the old plan that had turned out to be no plan at all. I sat on my blanket beneath the rock shelter, rested my back against a cool wall, and contemplated my situation. I had no water or food. I had no tools or weapons. I had no means to start a fire, though I hadn't needed one so far. I had a blanket and an empty pouch. I was in great shape. Now, if only one of those storms Semral had mentioned would blow up, my world would be perfect.

Never imagine something happening you don't want to happen; there is a lesson there. Within an hour the wind was howling, the sun and sky had vanished, and driving sand stung my flesh inside my too-open shelter. I covered myself head to toe with the blanket, but that offered little relief. I was miserable, thirsty, hot, dirty, suffocating, cramped, and generally not having fun. Yet somehow, amid the relentless pummeling of the desert grains and high moaning of the harassing wind, I managed to fall asleep.

"Wake up, Sanyel. Wake up!" My eyes snapped open. Someone had spoken. I removed my sand-encrusted blanket and looked around, trying to get my bearings. Where was I? Oh, that's right—desert—shelter. Wait. There was a storm. Was it over? Yes, it appeared so, for the sand and wind had departed. Still, why was it so dark?

"Sanyel!"

I jerked from the sound of a voice close in my ear and was now wide-awake. A light appeared to my left, and as my eyes adjusted, I could not comprehend the miracle I was seeing. My father was here! He shimmered and hovered and smiled, glowing in a light so bright it hurt my eyes even as it stole my breath.

"Follow me, Sanyel," the light that was my father ordered. Then, as I was about to obey, the vision disappeared. Frantic to learn where my father had gone, I crawled out from my rock abode. To my astonishment, I exited into a clear, starlit night. The brilliant sky sparkling overhead distracted me for an instant, but I quickly refocused on locating my father. I found him floating above the desert a short distance away.

"Follow the can-rak," he said, pointing across the sands.

"What can-rak?" I asked, confused. Then, I saw it. The creature was the young animal that had appeared to me as a child. It was slowly heading away from my location and was already some distance away. When I turned to ask my father what this all meant, I found him no longer there, for he had dissipated like smoke in the wind. I was alone with the night and the twinkling sky. I looked for the can-rak, but it had disappeared as well. As I puzzled over this, my body jerked.

Again I was awake, and again the blanket covered me. I pushed it away, spilling sand to the shelter floor. It was daylight and the storm had passed. I realized at once that I had been asleep and that the night scene had been a vision. The vision was fresh in my mind, my father in white, pointing across the desert. I crawled through a buildup of sand at my shelter's entrance and out into the blazing heat of a late afternoon. Again, I had to think. What had just happened?

My father had come to me and stood—or, more accurately, floated—outside this crude stone sanctuary, and he had urged me to follow an animal into the unknown. I remembered my father's location and the direction he had pointed. I stood for the longest time, gazing south. It was the direction the small animal had gone, the young can-rak, too. I saw nothing to suggest anything other than more sand, more heat, and certain death rudely hastened. Still, what had I to lose? I believed in my father, alive or dead. With no food or water, my doom was certain anyway, so I decided to obey my father's wishes. Tonight, I would follow the can-rak, wherever that might lead.

**

~~TEN~~

The night was pitch black when I emerged from my cramped space beneath the rock slab, for the twin moons had not yet arisen. One good thing about this desert was that the farther out you ventured, the fewer obstacles there were. Soon, there were no more rocks to stumble over, only more hills of more sand.

I trudged with dutiful zeal in the direction pointed out by my luminous parent, carrying only my leather bag and the ever-useful blanket. The wind was constant and had been since the day I set foot upon these sands. It had varied, from light to sandstorm intense, but it was ever-present. It was now all I heard, the insistent wind and nothing else. No life existed out here, not even those pitiful excuses for vegetation that had somehow managed to survive in this godforsaken place. Yet this is where a razok had interrupted an unfortunate animal on its way to somewhere, where that animal had wound up taking flight, and where my father insisted I must go.

I was betting my survival on a vision, and that might seem foolish, but belief in the value of visions was fundamental to our culture. I had witnessed my father conversing with incorporeal beings (most likely his spirit animal, the sartel) many times in the fulfillment of his shamanic duties. My personal experience with these types of sensory visions was not so grand. My most vivid previous encounter featured the can-rak when it came as my animal spirit. Nevertheless, my lack of experience with the spiritual realm was understandable, for I was not a practicing medicine man.

It was natural for us to believe in visions, waking or otherwise, for that was the way we received answers to the vexing mysteries of our lives. Though some in our tribe had the occasional mystical encounter or rich dream, those were random and usually indecipherable. Specific questions directed to the shaman resulted in the clearest obtainable answers from spirit. Employing ritual, the shaman would contact his spirit animal, and the spirit animal would then relay the message to the petitioner's long dead ancestors. The ancestors would direct the answer back to the shaman's animal spirit, which would then grant the shaman a vision. The shaman would interpret the vision for the one seeking answers by using its visual and auditory clues to decipher the message. Roundabout, to be sure, but that was the way it worked.

That my father could contact me in this way was thus no surprise, only he had skipped a few steps and had come directly to me, bypassing my spirit animal. I had performed no rituals to summon my father, and yet he had appeared in a vision rich with detail and clarity. It seemed my father and I had reconfigured the rules regarding communication between the physical and spiritual worlds, or perhaps this was how all shaman-to-shaman communication occurred. The method, old or new, did not matter. What mattered was that it allowed me the comfort of knowing my father still lived, even if in another world. My father apparently desired I continue living in this one, and I vowed I would yet find a way to do so.

As I walked the dark desert sands, Numa and Nima appeared above the horizon. Their combined light allowed my vision to expand, and as I crested yet another ridge, the sight ahead transfixed me. Before me was a vast plain, now brightly lit by the moons and extending to the next far-off line of dunes. On the eerie edges of this sand plain and beyond the rim of the distant ridge was blackness. The blackness was forbidding, for it hid the unknown, and its contrast with the luminous sand was acute. As I stepped down off the ridge, my shadow showed stark against the white powder. I was an intruder, not a natural presence, a foreign form to this landscape. The boundless emptiness of this world hit me, and I felt a sense of awe. Loneliness would last forever in this place, this barren world of light and dark and silence. I was the only living thing in it, and as I moved with reverence out across the plain, the motion of my shadow seemed incongruous to the static eternity of this sterile environment. I sensed the sky eyes of Numa and Nima following me, seeking me out as if curious what creature had invaded, what being roamed the night in this land of nothing.

The hours passed. Numa and Nima ran their race and then the night was over. Ra-ta discreetly reclaimed the sky, just now peering above the eastern horizon. I had found no water or shelter. I felt my doom sealed, for I would not last the day. My throat was raw and constricting. I could not swallow, for I had no moisture left in me.

I climbed another ridge, more deliberate in my steps. I ascended another. My legs were dying and Ra-ta did not care, for he still rose higher and burned with increasing intensity. As I stumbled to the base of the next ridge, a faint odor wafted to me on the wind. Did I imagine it? No, there it was again. I sniffed the air in each direction, eager to recapture the scent—and again it was there. It was not my imagination!

I knew that smell. It was the smell of the sacred, the smell of a world I had left behind. Somewhere nearby was a wettle tree, for I had detected its unmistakable odor. And where there was a tree, there had to be water.

It was there, over that ridge.

I ran up the slope, stumbled, and then fell to the sand. My weak body ached from lack of nourishment and hydration. Unable to walk, I crawled. Clutching at the sand and pulling myself forward, I climbed the endless slope. My condition was desperate. I wanted—no, I needed to get to water. I needed to feel cold liquid filling my mouth and coursing down my throat. I needed to feel its coolness on my burning skin and itching scalp. I needed to slip my hot, sweaty, tired feet into its chill depths and splash its life-affirming essence onto my face.

I reached the top and peered over the edge.

Blessed Ra-ta! Blessed, blessed Ra-ta! It was all in front of me. Trees and plants, flowers and grass—and water! I pulled myself over the hill and rolled down the other side.

The sand ridge I had just scaled was a monster, and viewing it from its opposing side, I saw it extended both east and west, twisting on forever. The oasis I had stumbled upon followed the line of this large dune, but I could see the greenery did not continue too far either way. I was lying at the base of the ridge—and I was touching grass.

Stretching skyward in front of me were magnificent trees swaying in a moist breeze I could feel on my face. I savored the smells: the distinctively sweet odors of wettle and bransa; the delicate scent of persun flowers. I luxuriated in the colors: green and yellow and orange, nothing drab, nothing gray. And I absorbed the sounds: the chattering of the leaves, the rustling of the grass, the chirping and warbling of birds!

And, of course, the water. It was the sound that drove me forward, that had me on my feet and moving, drawing me by an inexorable pull toward its beckoning call. I kicked off my sandals as an insect buzzed by my head. Wonderful!

I stumbled out of a thicket and fell into the spring. I gasped, for the water was cold. It was a shallow spring of surprising width, almost twenty paces across. I lay there shivering in the water, letting my body adjust to the cold liquid as it flowed over me. Then I drank and drank, and my throat opened and wanted more. When I'd had my fill, I scrubbed. I scrubbed off days of grime and sweat and emerged feeling fresh and renewed.

I found a pleasant patch of grass nearby and collapsed onto it. I offered up prayers of thanks to Ra-ta and my father. I stared at an empty sky through the branches of a wettle tree whose trunk rose from the fertile ground not far from my head. No clouds, not even a high wisp of one, and there hadn't been any during my admittedly short time in this desert. I missed clouds. I missed the rain and Ra-ta's battles with his son, Kaynar.

With my desert struggles behind me, I now let my mind and body relax. Images of the existence I left behind began to creep into my consciousness. I thought about the hunt, my father's tent, and random things from a life I'd never know again. Lillatta's freckled face appeared before me, lit with laughter. I could almost smell the odor of roasting porse. I thought of Semral and wondered what he might be doing—hunting, most likely.

I was getting emotional. Tears welled up where no moisture should have survived. I fought them back down. I had no time for sentiment, much as I wanted to wallow in it. I shook myself free of my daydream and though weak, rose to study my surroundings.

The tree species were nearly all familiar to me, though some I had not encountered, and the plant life was much the same. It was humid. I attributed that to abundant water and a relentless sun; still, it seemed irregular with no clouds. I stooped to the spring from a low sandbar and scooped up a few more handfuls of water to ease my thirst. I followed the waterway in the direction from which it flowed, discovering to my astonishment that it rose to the surface from underground and in a robust manner. I had known that the river Raso flowed underground as it reached the western mountains, but I had never considered that it might rise to the surface again. This was not the Raso, of course, but I imagined it might be a small tributary separated from the mighty river deep beneath the ground.

Beyond where the spring gushed from the earth was more desert. I deduced from this that the lush growth bordering this waterway only extended so far on either side of it. This paradise was not limitless. Needing to discover the dimensions of my new home, I rested for a bit and then set out to explore its boundaries.

There wasn't as much as I had thought. The spring carried on for only about a few hundred paces east from its source and then petered out. Beyond that, the desert reclaimed the landscape. North and south of the waterway the plant life extended about three hundred paces to either side. So this tiny strip of vibrant growth was but an anomaly, a single fist challenging an army of sand and holding it at bay. It was small, but I could not complain; I was grateful to have found anything out here at all.

Wettle trees abounded, but I soon tired of their bounty, with the sweet, nourishing fruit growing sour from sameness. After about a week, I was finding the food variety unsatisfactory to my tastes. I wanted meat. I had no means to cook, no mechanism to start a fire, but I determined I would eat raw flesh if I must. There were no fish; none came up through the underground spring. I had explored the land strip end to end and found some signs of animal life. Small creatures, I gathered, but anything of any size would be preferable to another slice of wettle. Of course, there were edible flowers and some roots that wouldn't force your stomach to rebellion, but filling they were not, and the flavors barely surpassed what chewing on my sandals might offer. I needed a weapon—anything—a sharp stick if nothing else so I could pursue the local fauna.

In a lone grove of bennawood, I found what I needed, a sturdy, straight branch I could fashion into a spear. With painstaking effort, I cut through the limb using the sharpest-edged bone from my bracelet. The bone also served to trim smaller branches and bark from the limb and for shaving one end into a sharp point.

Later that day, I spotted an unknown creature about fifty paces from the opening of a small clearing. It sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. The animal had a short, thin tail and light-brown fur. Its head seemed able to swivel in almost a complete circle. Its eyes were narrow and small, with its nose, face, and ears all pointed. Its front legs were short and its hind ones slightly longer, with those folded beneath it. I inched closer, careful to avoid stepping on dry twigs that might crunch and give me away. The creature intensely chewed on something I could not make out, and it seemed unaware of the approaching peril.

SNAP! A branch, hidden by a cover of moss, had broken beneath my foot. Oh, fuld! The sound alerted the animal, and I had no time. I let fly my roughly-made spear and again felt that strange power, that familiar surge that had allowed my rik-ta to sail and pin the starfen to the tree and to hit Semral's distant target in the woods. This strength I should not possess, and yet it was real. Even now it propelled a missile of death to its intended mark.

The creature shifted as if prepared to bolt, but the point of the spear arrived in swift order and caught it as it turned, striking the back of its neck and propelling it from its perch. I raced over to inspect the limp form. My crude spear had cleanly severed its spine as my rik-ta had done to the starfen years before. A quick death is a good death. I hoped the creature didn't have any starfen blood in it, for I was craving something tasty. I pulled my spear from the animal and proceeded to use my sharp bone to remove its head, guts, and internal organs before skinning it.

I reconsidered my intent to eat the creature raw. There had to be a way to start a fire without using flint and metal. We usually carried a small kit of those items to strike the sparks needed to kindle tinder, a collection of dried grass or wood shavings. My father once showed me an old method to start a fire. It involved rubbing dry sticks together to generate friction. The heat produced would ignite tinder placed nearby. Then, by adding dry twigs and eventually larger pieces the fire expanded.

I gathered dry twigs and found a smooth one to use as a motion piece. I spun it back and forth in my hands as the tip rested in a small hollow gouged out of another branch. Around the cavity, I had placed ground up dried leaves. As my foot held the branch with the hole steady, I twirled the motion piece back and forth. This was not easy. It generated warmth, but not enough to ignite anything. I rotated the stick faster and faster and suddenly felt that same surge of power I had felt when tossing the spear. An enormous burst of energy seemed to propel the turns of the wood in my hands. Wisps of smoke rose, so I stopped to blow on the dry tinder. It glowed and then ignited. I hurried to add small twigs as the flames licked and grew. Soon, I had a crackling, spark-spitting fire. An hour later two forked sticks supported a spit on which an unknown creature roasted over hot embers. I separated meat from bone and tasted. Could have used some salt. Otherwise, it was delicious.

Three months later, I was still surviving on this small slice of green in a world of bland. My tunic had tears and its fabric was deteriorating. Its once-bright yellow had faded to an off-white shade. My sandal straps needed constant repair, and my animal food supply was growing thin. My fraying blanket had shrunk in size. My nails grew, and I cut them down with the sharp bone. I hacked at my long hair, turning it into a mangled mess.

I grew restive with the boredom of my restricted life. I had taken to practicing the combat moves I felt were in decline since my banishment. I fashioned from wood a blunt facsimile of a rik-ta, and with that and my previously acquired spear, I spent hours upon hours drilling, repeating every thrust, swipe, and cut until weariness forced me to stop. Without the discipline of these workouts and the opportunity they gave me to put aside my growing anxiety, I felt I would go insane.

I often went out into the desert. I just needed something to do and a change of scenery, though it had little to offer in that regard. I tested myself, edging farther and farther from the safety of my refuge, sometimes with careless forethought. One time I lost my bearings and panicked, unsure in which direction my home base lay. A robust, steady wind blew, and sand had filled up my tracks behind me. My habit was to wander in a meandering fashion and then follow the footprints back. With those sand impressions washed away, I didn't know where I was, for the oasis was out of sight. Luckily, the wind had erased only a short stretch of tracks. By ranging in all directions, I rediscovered my path and made my way back.

I passed the days not knowing if the next would bring the same as the last or if it would bring, ultimately, a release from the drudgery. I had not had a visit from my father since he showed me how to find this oasis. I knew I could have performed a ritual and sought answers, but I chose not to. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I was afraid I'd see something I might not want to see. In the end, it didn't matter, for my path was about to reveal itself.

**

~~ELEVEN~~

There were no moons and the night noises were familiar. As always, the clear sky displayed its curious eyes. I was tired and arranging my bed when I heard a sound that didn't belong. My head turned in swift alarm to the direction of the foreign transmission. Something was making its way through the underbrush, and it was not small. Voices, I heard them now, low and indistinct, carried on the wind and then taken back away. I gained my feet and peered into the blackness, completely caught off guard. Someone had crossed the desert and was now in my domain. My mind tried to clear itself of its sluggishness, to gain some sort of focus. I needed information.

Were they friend or foe? I must stay hidden until I knew the answer. They were coming my way, and my heart pounded as I pulled myself up into a bennawood from a low branch. It was lucky I did, for a caravan of strange beasts passed below the tree within moments of my ascent. These animals were unlike any I had ever seen. Their riders, however, were a different matter.

Men's voices drifted up to me. To my surprise, I understood what they were saying. I had not expected to hear a language familiar to my ears. Yet these people spoke my tongue. Were they travelers from our lands inside the Kodor range? Were they Sakita? Or Raab? I knew the idea was ludicrous even as I thought it, for no Raab or Sakitan had animals such as these. I needed a better look, but I didn't dare move. I couldn't risk alerting them to my presence.

The caravan stopped at the spring, so I turned my attention to the voices. Most of the words made sense to me, for the language was almost the same as my own, but a word or two puzzled with their unfamiliarity.

"We will water the drooves, camp tonight, and resume our journey come daylight," a man was saying.

I could not make out his features in the darkness, but he seemed clothed in some sort of flowing garment with an attached hood, currently down. Drooves, I gathered, were the animals they rode. I had no success getting a better look at them, for the beasts had moved farther downstream.

As I strained for a better view, a din erupted within the group. Agitated voices rang out in high, sharp tones, and I heard the man who had spoken earlier angrily demanding of another what had happened. I couldn't hear the second man's reply, but then the first spoke again, his anger increased.

"I told you to make sure the captives were securely tied. This is the last time your incompetence goes unpunished." I heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. An instant later a man screamed, then silence.

"Find that escapee!" the first man ordered. "Or you will all end up with a blade in your gut like Osek."

I had learned in a startlingly short amount of time some interesting information to ponder. The man in charge was ruthless and averse to inefficiency. This caravan had prisoners of some sort, and one had escaped, though I knew he had nowhere to go. I also learned that Osek was a very unlucky man along with being allegedly incompetent. So, the only people I have seen in months are not the kind you invite to share your fire. I was in a bind, and there was nothing to do but wait and hope they departed in the morning. I would have to sleep in the tree and pray I did not fall out.

Of course, I did not sleep much. I stayed awake most of the night, watching their flickering fire and listening to the sounds of the encampment. I caught muffled voices, the clanging of pots, and the odd vocalizing of the beasts that sounded like a combination of snorting and bleating. I witnessed two men dragging a body across the compound and into the far woods. Osek, no doubt. I dozed off a couple of times, and I would have tumbled from the tree if my body had not felt the loss of equilibrium and jolted me back to wakefulness. At one point, I heard cheers erupt, and I inferred the runaway was back in custody.

Toward morning, the company collected its drooves. In the early light, I got a good look at the intruders. There were nine men garbed in the same brown-colored, flowing apparel I had witnessed on their leader, whom I now saw more clearly as well. He was a sharp-faced man of about thirty with short black hair and a black beard, both meticulously trimmed. His thin face matched his wiry frame, and he worked his droove with practiced precision. As did all the men, he carried a fascinating weapon, a short-handled, double-edged blade that extended at least the length of the man's arm, probably longer. He secured the blade in a leather and metal scabbard belted to his robe along with a short knife in a sheath. I saw no other weapons. They were a rough-looking group, and I thought the sooner rid of them the better.

The animal they called droove was a curious creature. Four thick, sinewy legs supported a solid body that appeared as muscular as its limbs. When standing, the creature's back reached as high as a man of average height. A broad, elongated neck elevated from powerful shoulders, narrowing to a somewhat diminutive head, oblong shaped. The head sported two pointed ears that seemed to be perpetually twitching, probably due to annoying insects. A pair of expansive oval eyes flanked a matching pair of smaller, flared nostrils above a wide mouth. The droove's back slanted at a slightly rising angle from its front shoulders to its rear end, and it seemed covered in grayish wool. The beast appeared to have no tail. Sturdy ropes cinched packs to the animal's back, and the creature sported a bridle to aid in its guidance. The droove folded its legs beneath it and dropped to its belly to allow a rider to mount.

My attention shifted to the captives, who were all in one group. A knot grew tight in my stomach as I observed that most were women or girls with their hands bound severely in front of them. Only their legs and feet were free, which allowed perch on the animals' backs. I counted four women and two men, and I assumed one of the men, who appeared badly beaten, was the would-be escapee of last night. The captives' cruel treatment by those guarding them angered me. They taunted the bruised man. One guard deliberately pressed his wounds and then howled with glee from seeing the man flinch in pain. I could do nothing for them. My safety was in the balance, and I had no adequate weapon for attack or defense. I could but sit in silence and wait for them to depart.

Then, that plan crumbled when they discovered my bag, blanket, and spear. I had left them on the ground not far from my hiding place in the tree, and someone had stumbled across them. A shout went up. The thin-faced man gave orders and men fanned out to find me.

As they searched, I hoped none would think to look upward. I had to count on a lack of intuition on their part to do so. They thrashed through the underbrush, and then one passed below me. I held my breath, but the man didn't even pause and was soon out of sight. Then, one of those unforeseen events happened, the kind seemingly scripted by the purposeful hand of Ra-ta. A bird landed on a branch near me and began a frenzied squawking. It was surreal, almost comical, the way the bird would change pitch, and I swear those were not the natural sounds or cadences of that particular species. It was as though the bird intended to make sure it drew the attention of those below. It worked, swiftly and efficiently.

The searcher who had passed below my perch returned and saw me. His eyes widened, and then he yelled for the others and ordered me to climb down. I hesitated, but as several more searchers arrived, I knew any one of them might grow impatient and decide to toss a knife to dislodge me. I swung down to meet my fate. When I landed, a large, bearded man grabbed my left arm with a grubby hand that felt slimy against my skin. The nauseating stink of the trail radiated off him. Feeling repulsed by his filthy touch and hurting from the man's grip, I cut down on his forearm with the bottom edge of my right hand. He released his hold, allowing me to bring my left elbow straight up to crack him below the jaw. The man grunted and staggered. I attempted to run, to escape and hide somewhere from this unsavory company, but two others immobilized my arms in fierce grips. The large man rubbed his whiskered jaw, and his eyes were afire. He advanced toward me with a definite intent to do bodily harm when a voice of authority rang out.

"Enough!" the thin-faced boss commanded. The larger man hesitated before reluctantly backing off. I judged he knew to defy the slender man would be foolhardy. The caravan leader walked over to inspect me, appraising me with a contemplative grin.

"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" he said with admiration. "Judging by your immaculate clothes, I'd say you've been here awhile. Being a curious man and inclined to want to know these things, please tell me your name and how you got here."

As he calmly waited for a response, I reasoned there was no point in evading his questions.

"I'm Sanyel. I came here from across the desert."

The man waited, evidently expecting more details, and when he didn't get them, he pressed again.

"How did you get here? Who are your people?"

"My people are the Sakita."

"Sakita?" The man evinced surprise and an enhanced interest. "I have never heard of such. Where do they come from?"

I was about to tell him about our mountain enclave when a warning sounded within my brain. The man had an expression, a look I recognized. It was a sly, expectant look one has when about to get something desired but not deserved.

"We live beyond the mountains," I said. As I spoke, I held my head motionless and kept my eyes on my interrogator, giving away no particular direction.

"The mountains? Which mountains would those be?" The man smiled an ingratiating smile, the smile of the impossibly polite. It was the smile of the predator pretending to be no such thing.

I shrugged—that is I shrugged as much as having my arms held would allow.

"It has been so long," I said, trying not to sound evasive. "I hit my head not long ago and cannot remember how I got here or in which direction the mountains are."

The caravan leader studied me, and I knew he did not believe a word of it. Again he smiled, and he asked, "Are there any others hiding in these woods?"

"No," I told him—and that he believed.

"I am Dwelve," he informed me. "I'm sorry to tell you that you are now my prisoner."

Again he smiled, and I have to say he did not look all that sorry.

"Why would you take me prisoner?" I asked. "What have I done?"

Dwelve let out a hearty laugh.

"What have you done? Why nothing, my child—well, Skak over there might dispute that," and he glanced over at the sullen man whose jaw I had loosened. "Only I have a quota to fill, and you will fill it nicely. You will be sold as a slave as will these others, and the Spood will pay me generous coin, especially for a beauty such as you."

Dwelve grinned yet again and seemed as self-satisfied as a man can get. "Life is good," he said, and he turned away.

They marched me back to the drooves, all waiting in line and ready to depart. A thin rope bound my hands in front and bit into my wrists and fingers. A man lifted me roughly and placed me onto a droove behind a large-bodied girl. To my surprise, the girl appeared to have only one arm, her right one. Rope bound that arm rigidly to her side. The girl wore her garment's hood up, and she did not turn around, but she shifted slightly forward to give me room.

I wanted to speak to the girl, but the men were close and had warned us not to talk. The droove's reins connected to a longer rope, and that rope attached to a cinched pack straddling the droove in front of us. The caravan started forward, and our droove lurched ahead as its guide rope tautened. The beast's awkward side-to-side motion took me off balance. I slid from its back and smacked into the ground. With my hands bound, I could not break my fall and was lucky I didn't fracture a bone while landing on the forest sod. The prisoner escorts laughed, and then one assisted me back onto the beast.

Being a prisoner, and soon to be sold as a slave to some unknown entity, should have depressed me. It did not. Much as I had appreciated my stay at the oasis, I was ready for something new. Even though currently a prisoner, deep down I felt the condition was temporary and that I would soon find a way to escape. I had nothing substantial to base that on, yet the feeling was strong that slavery was not my destiny.

We traveled in the heat at a brisk pace, stopping on occasion to stretch our legs, relieve ourselves, and quench our thirst. Drooves seemed born to desert duty, for they appeared to need little water. I had learned how to brace myself and managed to stay astride the droove's back. However, that was no consolation when forced to endure its regular discharges of foul gasses, and the constant shifting was wearing on my lower back. I was thankful my captors had offered me one of the flowing garments they all wore, for my rags were unfit to confront the merciless sun.

We camped that night in the open desert under the still cloudless sky, and for the first time, I got a close-up view of some of my fellow captives. We were sitting in loose formation around a fire with the binds on our hands removed. Our guards had shifted those ropes to our feet, leaving our hands unbound to allow us to eat our meal. The food was some sort of gruel served in shallow wooden bowls, and I ate with zeal, grateful for a change in diet. The taste was a pleasant, nutty flavor, reminding me of nothing I had previously eaten. We drank our fill of water, and then the guards bound our hands up to our fingertips so we could not use them to untie our leg restraints. Our captors told us to get some sleep.

Realizing the guards were temporarily out of hearing range, I turned to the stout, one-armed girl, who now sat next to me, and asked, "What is your name?"

She was staring into the fire with her hood shadowing her features, and as she turned to me and shook the head covering loose, I let out an involuntary gasp. The girl had short black hair arranged in numerous little spikes. However, that's not what shocked me. It was her face! The right half was unmarked, like mine, but the left overflowed with inked designs, intricate patterns of blue, green, yellow, and red all the way from her forehead down to her throat. An unusual metal ring of burnished orange pierced one nostril, and I noticed another encircled her smallest finger.

She looked me over with amused blue eyes that reflected curiosity and intelligence, and then she flashed a perfect set of white teeth.

"I am Ismalia," she stated in a rich, mirthful tone. "But you can call me Izzy."

I was still taking in the remarkable colorful images imprinted on her face and had failed to answer, but then I realized I was embarrassing myself by prolonged staring. It was just that her entire appearance startled me, from the one arm to the spiked hair to the half-and-half face.

"I'm sorry, I'm Sanyel ... I didn't mean to stare. It's your face. I have not seen anything like those markings."

Izzy smiled, and I got the feeling my reaction had not put her off at all.

"They are the marks of Mim," she volunteered. "I have had them since my eleventh year. That's when all members of my tribe are required to have them embedded in the skin with needle and pigment. They identify us as loyal servants of the sun god, Mim."

This was the first I had heard of another sun god other than Ra-ta, and I wondered if they were the same divine being.

"We also worship the sun god, but he is named Ra-ta in our tribe."

A look of surprise crossed Izzy's face.

"He? Mim is female."

It was my turn to experience surprise. I had always assumed a god had to be male, for males were the dominant sex in our tribe, or at least they pretended to be. This was something new to consider. Our afterlife spoke of finding eternal peace in Mimnon, Ra-ta's realm, so I wondered about that, too. Were the words Mim and Mimnon similar only through coincidence?

"Perhaps the sun gods are the same," I postulated, "and can appear as either sex."

Izzy seemed comfortable with that notion, and we went on to speak of other things. Rippling laughter drifted over from the distant guards. Caught up in some game or contest, they ignored us.

"Have you knowledge of this 'Spood' the caravan leader Dwelve spoke of?" I asked. I emphasized the word to indicate how odd I found it to be.

Izzy signaled no with a shake of her head. Then a slight, wide-eyed girl who had been listening to our conversation managed to slide up beside me after several awkward attempts to do so. She volunteered to enlighten us.

"Do you not know of the Spood?" she asked in a hushed, excited voice. "Are you not aware that they are the all-powerful masters of the world?"

She spoke the last words in a tone of fear and awe and looked anxiously around as if dreading dire consequences for daring to speak of them. I failed to see what was so intimidating.

"Masters of the world, you say? With a name like Spood? You'd think if they were masters of anything, they'd pick a name that doesn't make you think of droove droppings when you hear it."

Izzy made a slight noise in her throat and I thought she was choking, but she was only stifling a laugh.

The girl ignored her and persisted, saying to me, "Spood—does not the very word frighten you?"

"Honestly, it sounds like something I might cough up," I replied.

This time Izzy could not stifle a laugh, and the wide-eyed girl frowned, looking perplexed by our irreverent responses.

Izzy coughed.

"Sorry, just trying to clear some spood from my throat."

We both giggled, and the girl stared at us as if we were mad. She inched away. The guards had completed their game and were coming to check on us, so we stretched out on the sand and pretended to be asleep.

The next day, back on the drooves, I again sat behind Izzy. This time we were in the center of the caravan and thus far enough away from the guards to risk conversing. In short order, I conveyed my life history, including my banishment, leaving out some details such as my power over animals and my skill with weapons. The fewer people aware of those things, the better.

Izzy's story was amazing. She was born sixteen years before to a tribe called the Sarto, although she seemed unable to say just where that was. When the tribal elders saw Izzy's missing arm, they advised Izzy's family to throw the baby into the nearby creek and drown it. Her clan desired only those with healthy, perfect bodies, for they felt anything else would burden the tribe. Izzy's father wanted nothing to do with the deformed child and ordered his wife to dispose of her. Her mother refused. Izzy's father tore the baby from her mother's grasp and tossed her into the raging waters. Her mother screamed and jumped in after her, only to find her child already rapidly floating downstream. By a miracle of Mim (as Izzy put it), she somehow remained afloat and the ample cloth layers wrapped around her protected her from fatal encounters with rocks. She wound up a considerable distance downstream, where she washed up onto the low bank of a shallow cove. In a remarkable twist of fate, her mother, who was half-drowned while trying to swim after Izzy, soon washed up in that same cove.

A member of a friendly tribe, the Cartu, found them, and the clan welcomed them into their fold. Izzy grew up with the culture and traditions of the Cartu and considered herself one of them. Her mother died two years ago, and Izzy decided last year to leave the comfort and familiarity of her adopted home. For a long while she had stifled growing yearnings to explore and see what lay beyond the hills. She was well into that journey when the slave traders (called "rancers," Izzy informed me) caught her unawares three nights ago as she slept on a grassy hillside.

Wait a minute. Grassy hillside? When I asked her about that, she informed me that if I had continued heading west along the mountains for three more days instead of turning south to the oasis, I would have reached the desert's end. I knew I would not have lasted walking three more days in that direction, so I was grateful my father had instead directed me to turn south.

Still, if the rancers were already in the grasslands when they found Izzy, why did they come into the desert with their captives instead of skirting it? Izzy believed it was because they feared something out on the plains and knew whatever they feared could not follow them into the desert. Supposedly, the desert route was safer, and the rancers were aware of the oasis as a place to rest and restock.

I had to ask Izzy about her nose and finger rings. She told me the rings were common adornments among Cartu women, fashioned from a rare and prized metal. Her tribe called it "the singing metal" because it emitted tones that were always changing and that were not discernible unless one brought the metal close to the ear. She turned her head and leaned back so I could put my ear to her nose ring. Currently, a high pitched, steady tone did indeed appear to emanate from the metal.

I wanted to learn more details about Izzy, her culture, and her travels, but our approach to the desert's southern edge diverted our attention. Sporadic tufts of green began to appear, and I thrilled at the sight of low hills and open plains not far ahead.

I glanced upward, for the light and heat of Ra-ta had dimmed. Clouds. Widely dispersed muscular formations of gray and white were streaming across the blue paleness. Excitement rose in me, for Kaynar had returned. Long absent, he was again issuing a challenge to his father for heavenly dominance.

The challenge was weak, however. Kaynar had scattered his forces too thin, allowing Ra-ta to retain his advantage. There would be no tears and no angry words. An unsettled truce would prevail, with both sharing rule over the day.

As the clouds drifted over and the sun alternately showed and hid, I took several deep breaths, savoring the rich smell of the boundless grasslands. The oasis had been a paltry substitute, cramped and stifling, leaving me feeling like Pilkin's caged starfen. What I missed was this—the vastness of the open plains. This was a promise of freedom, the freedom to roam for days on end, chasing, always chasing the elusive wild herds. It was at times like these that I realized most clearly that I was a nomad in my soul and a hunter at heart.

A palpable unease settled over the company as we headed deeper into the green land. Dwelve fidgeted with noticeable agitation and snapped at his men to keep their awareness sharp. I deduced that genuine danger prowled nearby, for the group's tracker studied the ground with meticulous scrutiny.

The tension grew as night approached and an irritated Dwelve gave repeated instructions to keep the drooves close together. We found a location on top of a high, flat hill, and set up camp for the night. As the twilight faded to pitch darkness, Dwelve's men built a ring of eight campfires. We accompanied the drooves to the center of the expansive circle they formed—for safety we assumed. Dwelve posted guards beyond the edge of the fires to give warning of any approach from downslope in any direction. Kept ignorant of the nature of the threat, we captives could only speculate.

A few hours into the night, a sharp cry shattered the quiet, a shriek of pain swiftly come and just as swiftly gone, followed by a low growling. Dwelve leaped to his feet and drew his long blade. His look of terror indicated he knew the thing he feared had come. It had snatched away one of his men, and even now might be sizing him up as the next victim. The men not guarding the perimeter had also drawn arms. Their eyes nervously scanned the darkness and their bodies twisted, trying in vain to cover all avenues of danger at once. The drooves were in a panic, evidently smelling the intruder and not liking what that portended for them.

I was anxious. Trussed hand and foot, we were helpless to defend ourselves. I glanced over to each of my fellow captives. Izzy seemed calm and alert. The wide-eyed girl flailed about in a useless endeavor to loosen her hand ropes while whimpering and crying. The bruised young man who had earlier tried to escape had a bitter look and the other, a plump man in his thirties, seemed resigned to his fate. The other two women huddled together, perhaps drawing strength from each other's proximity.

Another man's scream pierced the night.

Then, I saw it.

**

~~TWELVE~~

A can-rak had leaped the protective fire barrier and landed inside our circle. The drooves thrashed in a wild frenzy, bleating in fear but unable to detach themselves from the ropes and ground stakes linking and inhibiting them. The can-rak roared, screeched, and ignored the drooves as it headed straight for the two women huddled together. With one paw swipe, it left them bleeding and dying. Then, it vanished into the darkness.

I had frozen and not reacted. If I had, those two women might still be alive. I could have said something, anything to get the can-rak's attention. I could have shouted at it to leave. Instead, I did nothing, and the beast tore the life from those poor, frightened women. The two men who had screamed and presumably died were of no concern to me. If the can-rak had ripped all Dwelve's men to bloody shreds, I would not have cared. However, it had been within my power to stop what happened to those women. I told myself there hadn't been enough time to react, that it had been out of my hands—but was that the truth?

The can-rak did not return, and in the morning Dwelve instructed Skak to untie the two dead women, for rope was too valuable to waste. Guilt hung heavily upon me as I glanced over at the bodies. The can-rak had sliced both through the neck, and their veins had bled, for they had been sitting side-by-side and one cut had gotten them both. I did not know the names of the two women, but I said a prayer to Ra-ta to ask for their souls' admittance into his realm. Dwelve was leaving them to lie on the hill to rot in the sun. The animals would feast on them and scatter their bones. There would be no ceremony, no words, and that angered me. There was no decency in this man Dwelve, but that did not surprise.

The two men who had screamed in the night had disappeared, their bodies not found. Dwelve was in a foul mood, but not over losing two men. Having two fewer with whom to split the rewards was not a bad thing. No, I knew Dwelve was angry because of the two women. Losing them was like losing money, although the concept—recently explained to me by Izzy—was one I had yet to grasp in its entirety. In Sakitan society, there was no such thing; there were no pieces of metal assigned what seemed to be arbitrary values. I had no grasp of economics, for we had been a closed culture and did not trade with others. Others were the same as enemies to us, and all we valued was what made the tribe prosper—good hunters and plentiful herds. Of what use to a tribe were shining metal chips?

We traveled over grasslands and through forests, crossed streams and waded through marshlands, and the mood of our captors began to lighten as the tracker saw no sign of pursuit. With drooves to spare since the can-rak reduced our number, Izzy and I rode separate beasts.

After passing over a series of low hills, a flat plain opened up before us. In the distance loomed a forest of towering kakkata. Drowsy from the heat and a sleepless night, I jolted fully awake when I detected movement among the trees.

People. Lots of people. The rancers' mood brightened. They were familiar and at ease with the inhabitants of this place. I would soon make their acquaintance as well.

The Spood.

In a place where only beasts once roamed, and hunters merely passed through, the Spood were building what they called a "sperza," a collection of permanent dwellings where people would live, work, and trade with other such communities. The wide-eyed girl informed me that these sperzas were springing up all over the country as the Spood expanded their control over an ever-widening realm. Spood families had been living exclusively within what the girl told me was a gigantic fortress and city that bordered a vast body of water, and now they desired to partake of these bountiful lands outside that boundary. I have to say that I could not follow half of what she told me, for I knew not what a city or a fortress was, and I could not imagine water as she described it.

The Spood were constructing this sperza on open grasslands near where a small creek spilled from the forest. I marveled at the odd construction tools and the forms of the structures they were erecting. They were mixing water with what appeared to be sand and some other substance, and then pouring this mixture into square molds. When dry, these molds formed hard-as-stone blocks that the Spood then stacked upon others to shape the building. They transported these blocks around to the sites by a fascinating contraption, a square-shaped platform made of wood with round, wooden attachments to either side that rolled the platform across the ground when pulled by a droove.

The Spood constructed another type building from dried wood cut into measured pieces. They attached these units to others with small metal spikes. They also left square holes in the buildings' walls in which they placed a sheet of what looked like the thin ice that sometimes forms on the water surface of pots left out on a cold night.

This was all fascinating and puzzling to me, for anyone from a nomadic tribe would not think of erecting anything like these buildings, structures that would be impossible to take down and move. How could they follow the herds if forever stuck in one place?

We had approached the settlement about twenty minutes earlier, and we were still sitting our drooves. Dwelve was speaking to the man in charge of this endeavor, a fat man with curly red hair who wore a pale-blue robe. They were some distance away, so I could not hear the conversation. The attention our arrival had attracted was fading, though many continued to stare at Izzy's unusual appearance. Dwelve finished his talk and returned to our group. He directed us to an area near the small creek where it entered the woods. There, the rancers released the drooves to mingle with a vast herd of their kind.

Our captors unbound our legs and hands and brought food and drink. Spood women arrived with a change of clothes. These were rough, poor quality garments of dull gray. They were tunics, much like the ones the Spood wore, but not of the superb quality or rich coloring. These were slave attire.

To my surprise, no one bothered to retie our bindings after we had changed clothes. I surmised that the Spood were confident this well-manned encampment was enough to discourage escape attempts. That was a foolish notion, for I was already eyeing the drooves at the creek and had informed a willing Izzy of my intent to grab one and flee when the time was right. Even our rancer guards had relaxed their watch. Most were drifting over to watch the construction process.

As we rested on the ground beneath the ample shade of a kakkata, I had the opportunity to study the workers building this sperza. At first, I had thought they were all Spood, but then I realized that the ones doing the actual work were slaves. These poor souls were in a wretched condition. Gaunt and without expression, they appeared listless, their motions showing no vigor, their eyes no fire.

The slaves wore gray rags, and any exposed skin seemed caked with layers of dirt. Among this group were men, women, and a few scattered children. In contrast, the supervising Spood appeared well dressed, clean, and adequately fed. Their demeanors showed that they saw all this as a stimulating adventure. Like the slaves, this Spood community also included men, women, and children, but I could see no similarities in mood or circumstance between the two groups.

Another faction among the Spood caught my attention. This was a rather large group of men wearing what appeared to be leather vests with red trimmings. They carried weapons—the only ones who did—and it was the same long blade and knife combination as my rancer captors. They also wielded another weapon, an extended length of braided leather that appeared to be a rope but which had a gradually thinning circumference and a feathered tip. The red-vested ones would raise this above their heads and unfurl it in a hard forward stroke that caused it to sound with a loud crack.

The wide-eyed girl informed me it was a "swok" and that the ones handling them were "Creet," an elite soldier caste among the Spood. I thought about asking this girl how she seemed to know everything about the Spood, but I let it pass for the moment. Later, I discovered she had learned these details from a member of her tribe. This member, a man captured by rancers last year, wound up as a slave in the Spood home city. A few months ago he had joined slaves building a sperza outside the fortress walls, and once out in the open country, he had escaped.

The swok was a vicious tool wielded by cruel men. A male slave stumbled while carrying his end of a stone block. It fell to the ground, chipping off a corner. A swok cracked, and the slave screamed as the biting edge sliced the flesh of his back. A red line materialized and began to ooze. The man with the swok raised it again in anger, and another line appeared. The slave moaned with agony as a second guard, eager to participate, joined the first, with both raining down heavy alternating blows on the hapless man as if this punishment had turned into a depraved contest. More strikes sent the slave to his knees. Still, it did not end. The swoks rose and extended in repeated, matching strokes. The man fell—and the man died, though whether from blood loss, internal organ damage, or severe shock, I didn't know. The Creet guards stood over his lacerated body and laughed.

My fists clenched. What kind of perverted animals would do this? Not one of them had so much as blinked an eye over the callous murder, not even glancing over as slaves dragged the dead man away. I looked at Izzy and was grateful to see the same outrage in her expression that I was feeling.

As I sat nursing my anger, a chubby Spood boy of about eleven approached to look us over. He held a wooden mug by its curved handle, dangling it on his finger. His gaze settled on me and he spoke.

"Get me a drink of water from the creek," he said in an imperious manner. He held out his mug for me to take.

I looked at him, found him unworthy of further appraisal, and ignored him. That triggered the boy's anger.

"Did you not hear me, slave? I told you to fetch me water."

I met his haughty, insolent gaze and in an even voice said, "I'm not a slave, fat boy, and I'd be careful how you speak to me."

At that moment, the wide-eyed girl sensed trouble that might spill onto her, and she volunteered to get the arrogant shrub his water. The boy's skin had flushed red, for my challenge had infuriated him, but he was still in control.

"No," he said, coldly dismissing the girl's offer. "The blond one will get my water. Or, she will wish she had."

He smirked in a way I didn't particularly care for. I jumped up with the quickness of a can-rak, causing the boy to flinch. With my first menacing step toward him, his bravado melted away. He dropped his mug and turned to run. With an amused chuckle, I wondered if masters of the world ever soiled themselves.

The boy had shown an arrogance and a sense of superiority that seemed reflected in the others in this encampment. They treated slaves, fellow human beings as though they were of a different species, an inferior one, not the same feeling, thinking one as their own.

I was not ignorant of slavery, for our tribe was not innocent of the practice. During raids against the Raab, we have taken captives and forced them into servitude, at least during their initial stages of captivity. We discipline those who refuse to submit, but we do not resort to excessive physical measures. We restrict their movements and require that they earn their keep until they prove trustworthy. Eventually, they acclimate themselves to living among us and seek the privileges that come with tribal membership, for we offer all we capture a path to becoming full and free members of our tribe. Kalor's mother took that path as did my great-grandfather. Although this practice has endured for centuries, I have never been comfortable with our tribe stealing people permanently away from their homes and families and believing it an honorable pursuit.

We knew the Raab were less charitable in how they treated Sakitan captives, but even they did not degrade their slaves to the extent shown by the Spood. The irony was that the Spood, according to the wide-eyed girl, saw themselves as the highest form of humanity, the pure and the chosen. In reality, they appeared to be the lowest beasts I have ever seen crawl. If I got the chance, I would push any one of them down into the mud they reserved for others.

A commotion arose from a group standing near a half-completed dwelling. A man was yelling, and I saw it was the redheaded leader. Dwelve appeared to be groveling before the man, which astonished me. I had thought Dwelve was a Spood, but by the looks of it, he was a lesser creature to them. The wide-eyed girl informed me that the Spood hired rancers to find slaves for them, but they did not consider them equals.

It may sound stupid, but I had no clue they were arguing about me. It seems the fat boy had a father and that father happened to be the redheaded man. I suppose I should have connected the two when I saw the boy's fiery hair and rotund build, but I didn't.

The angry man in charge strode over to us, his blue robe flapping. A couple of hard-eyed Creet accompanied him. Dwelve followed the three with a panic-stricken expression, and the man's son tagged along behind. When they reached us, the man pulled his son up front.

"Which one? Which one refused your command?"

"That one, the blond one." The irritating smirk had returned.

"Take her," the man ordered the two Creet.

The rancer leader Dwelve then made a foolish mistake. He put his hand on the redhead's arm and demanded payment for me. Without warning, the blue-robed man grabbed a knife from one of the Creet, wheeled on the rancer, and plunged the blade into the man's heart. Dwelve stood for a moment looking confused, and then his eyes glazed and he toppled to the ground, lifeless.

The two Creet grabbed my arms. Though instinct inclined me to resist, I felt it judicious to submit, at least for the time being, for there was no avenue for flight. My mood was foul, for I had been readying my escape when they came for me. I had planned to steal a droove and head out in no particular direction until I could get my bearings. I had told Izzy my plan and was going to inform the other captives, to let them choose if they wanted to chance this with me. Now, I wouldn't get the opportunity.

"We will offer her as a sacrifice to Gor-jar on the grottis in the morning," the redheaded man was telling the Creet guards. "We cannot have slaves disobeying orders. An example must be made." He pointed to Dwelve. "And get rid of that filth."

I saw the blue-robed man grasp an amulet connected to a metal chain around his neck, raise it to his lips, and then kiss it. The charm was a Y pattern, and it must have been important to them, for I saw the same design stitched into the vests of the Creet soldiers. What it represented I didn't care. What concerned me was the coming morning and trying to avoid becoming a "sacrifice to Gor-jar on the grottis," whatever that meant.

That might have been my fate except for what happened next. While being escorted to wherever they planned to hold me, I witnessed an act of staggering barbarism. A young child, a girl slave, was carrying water for the Creet guards when she accidentally spilled some on one of them. In a rage, the man grabbed a metal tool lying next to him and began striking the little girl repeatedly over the head.

The wanton brutality ignited my anger, and I knew I could not just stand by and ignore this. I jerked my arm free from the relaxed grip of a guard escort and chopped my hand across his throat. As he gagged, I lifted his knife from its sheath and stabbed the other guard in the arm. He bellowed in startled pain, allowing me to pull away from his loosened grip. I kept the knife and ran, ran toward the animal striking the girl. I hefted the blade to hurl it, but several slaves blocked its intended path. The Creet, about to lift up and strike again, heard a shout and saw me leaping blocks of stone. He turned in astonishment, grabbed for his long blade, but managed to slide it only half-way out of the scabbard before I was on him. The knife I carried came up fast and hard in the manner my father had taught me. I was in a barely controlled fury and could not check my actions. The blade point entered beneath his chin, slipped past his jawbone, and penetrated into his brain. His shocked eyes emptied as he shuddered for an instant and then fell dead.

I gaped for a few seconds at what I had done and then shook free of the bloody sight to check on the girl. As I feared, I was too late. Her skull had caved in from the brutal blows. I stared at her dirt-encrusted face, and then my eyes followed along her frail body, now a still and empty shell. I wanted to lift her, to carry her away from this filth and madness—but I had to go. I had just killed a man, a so-called master of the world.

Soldiers streamed from everywhere as the redheaded man screamed orders. I grabbed the dead man's blade and headed straight for the drooves and my companions. Izzy saw me coming. She immediately began rounding up drooves, and even as I ran, I marveled at how a girl with only one arm could be so adept in its use.

No one, apart from the Creet soldiers, interfered. The other rancers had seen what the Spood did to Dwelve and wanted no part of us. The wide-eyed girl seemed hesitant when I told her to follow me, but the two male captives had no qualms about seizing this opportunity. They grabbed two drooves, forcing them to their knees so they could mount. I pulled wide-eye along with me to where Izzy had two mounts already kneeling for us. I boosted the girl up, and for the first time, she told me her name—Brilna. We had no time for pleasantries, for the Creet soldiers were upon us, so I smacked the droove's rear, and it shot forward. Izzy had been unable to grab a fifth droove, so we mounted the remaining one together.

The male captives did not get far. The man beaten back at the oasis could not control his droove, and it went the wrong way, toward his pursuers. A dozen blades hacked him down. The plump captive was just unlucky. His droove stepped in a hole, cracked its leg, and the man tumbled. He tried to run, but the Spood caught him with ease. His pursuers did not kill him, perhaps realizing a live slave was better than yet another dead one.

Izzy, Brilna, and I headed north across the plains, the direction from which we had recently come. We expected pursuit and rode our drooves hard. We had observed how to control the beasts from watching the rancers and quickly gained confidence in our ability to handle them. We ducked into a forest, zigzagged through the trees, and rode down a small waterway. Then we reversed direction, hoping the Spood had lousy trackers. After a couple of hours, we let the drooves rest and drink from a stream. By nightfall, we were hopeful, for there had been no sign of pursuit, so we risked an extended rest in the woods.

The drooves still carried their packs. One contained a discarded scabbard with a broken belt, and it had a flint and metal kit we could use to start a fire. Encased in the other were a valuable half-full waterskin and one of the brown, hooded garments used for desert travel. That was it. We had no food, but that did not concern us, for we had eaten not long ago at the sperza. The uncomfortable droove ride had left us bone-rattled and tired, so we found a sheltered area heavy with kakkata and settled in for a short stay.

We risked a small fire to counter a chill in the air, trusting the kakkata thicket to mask the glow and smoke. Izzy sat across from me, and Brilna, who currently stirred the fire, sat to my left. I took a moment to study the slender girl. Brilna was an odd creature. She appeared young, but I learned later that she was a year older than Izzy. She was small. Everything about her seemed designed to emphasize the minimal. Her body was slim, her hands tiny, and her face sported a narrow bump for a nose. She had skinny legs and dainty feet. Even her straight, limp brown hair seemed thin.

As for her intellect, she was not brain dead, but I gathered Brilna was also not the brightest star in the sky, and like Barkor, she lacked a sense of humor. Yet to entirely dismiss the girl would be unfair, for she was already proving to be of value to our little group—in particular with information. Brilna, it seemed, had absorbed every detail her fellow countryman had told her about the Spood, and she proved generous in sharing that information with us.

"They will not follow for long," Brilna assured us. "Instead, they will spread the word by messenger to all the sperzas to be on the watch for us. They will not cease looking for you, Sanyel, for you have killed one of their own and attacked others. They are all about setting examples, and if they catch you, they will make you suffer a slow and painful death."

I did not doubt that for a moment. The Spood did not strike me as the forgiving kind. I had killed a man. I took a human life, and it was just now beginning to register what I had done. Yet any guilt I might have felt, any remorse, swiftly departed when weighed against the brutal act I had witnessed. The soldier had crushed a little girl's skull. And for what, spilling water? It reminded me of my run-in with Barkor when I had sloshed the bowl of fermented wettle juice onto his robe. He struck me then, and I can still recall the anger I felt over that act. I went for my rik-ta before my father stopped me. Would I have attacked Barkor? No, that thought had never entered my mind. I had merely planned to show the blade to the council chief, to let him know I was capable of defending myself and to warn him not to do that again. It was a foolish act by a temperamental child.

Now, with the Creet's death, I was a child no longer.

The Creet I had killed had died quickly, and a quick death is usually a good death, but I couldn't help wishing he had felt a little more pain in the process. He deserved to die, and I was beginning to think they all did. Brilna said the Spood were expanding their reach, attempting to become in reality what they now only claimed to be—the masters of the world. In the past, groups of rancers had kept them supplied with slaves, but now they were taking them themselves, conquering lands with their well-trained Creet soldiers.

Well, soon I would be out of their reach. Izzy had told me about her home beyond the mountains, and I planned to accompany her there after seeing Brilna back to her tribe in the far west.

I had learned Brilna's capture by the rancers occurred while she was gathering nuts and berries a fair distance from her village. The slave dealers' method was to approach by stealth and observe communities while remaining hidden. When one or more careless individuals (like Brilna) got themselves too far away from the others, the rancers would swoop in to kidnap them, then flee the area before detection. If detected before they could grab someone, or if interrupted during the capture, they would attempt to outrun any pursuers. They had enjoyed a high degree of success in doing so, for they made sure they always possessed the swiftest drooves. However, they were not averse to a fight if it came to that. Brilna said they were capable of holding their own in battle.

Brilna was soon fast asleep, and I sat by the fire examining the weapon I had taken from the Creet. Izzy said the generic term for this blade was "sword," an ancient word of unknown origin, and that her tribe called this particular type sword a "stirka." It was a surprising weapon, sleek and of exceptional quality, much more so than what we Sakitans could manufacture. The metal was durable, lightweight, flexible, and it had a keen edge. It was my first close-up look at this sort of weapon, and it impressed me.

"May I see that?" Izzy spoke. She was sitting across the fire from me so with a casual flip I tossed the blade over to her, expecting her to let it drop to the ground and then pick it up. To my astonishment, as the stirka flew toward her, she plucked it with ease out of mid-air by its handle and began admiring it like it was a long-lost treasure found.

"It's better than mine," she said, appreciating the weapon's lines and feel. "Better balance."

Then she stood, twirled the blade, and started performing the most beautiful movements I have ever seen anyone accomplish with a weapon. She was swirling and slicing the air, her feet moving as if she were weightless, with her large frame gracefully dancing over the ground while the blade in her right hand was busy, quick, and smooth, rendering tightly controlled movements that always had a purpose. When Izzy finally stopped, a satisfied grin creased her tattooed face.

"That was fun," she said as she held the stirka out to me. "Can I keep it? I can probably fix and use that scabbard we found in the packs."

I knew I had Semral's face, an imitation of his best open-mouthed expression. I was speechless. Izzy saw my look and laughed.

"Oh, didn't I tell you that the Cartu are masters with the sword?" She laughed again, still holding out the blade. She pulled it back when I told her to keep it, for I had no familiarity with its proper use.

"The rancers took my stirka when they captured me," Izzy explained after resuming her seat by the fire. "We Cartu train from an early age, and on our side of the mountains, we have a reputation for our skill with the blade. The slavers caught me by surprise as I slept, and they had my stirka before I could grab it and put up a fight. But if I had gotten to it first, they certainly would have gotten a battle."

Izzy went on to say that although the Cartu were hunters like the Sakita, they often hired out as mercenaries to anyone needing their services with the blade. It could be an individual or a tribe, that didn't matter. People sought them out as ideal allies to have in a fight. Izzy also said she could handle a spear or rik-ta if necessary, but the stirka was her weapon of choice.

Izzy never ceased to astound me, and something she had said caught my attention. Her mention of the other side of the mountain made me realize she had not told me the full story of how she was able to cross those impassable peaks.

My question on the matter drew a long pause, and she seemed hesitant to answer.

"I did come through the mountains," she said at last, but she did not elaborate further.

"But how?" I persisted. "Are they not too high and too steep to climb?"

Izzy paused again, gave me a long look, and then reluctantly began to tell a very unusual story.

"No, I came through the mountains. I found the way by accident. I was traveling along high in the foothills and looking for an opening when I noticed this dark splotch a short distance up the slope ahead of me. The slope was somewhat steep, but I managed to climb my way up. The splotch turned out to be the opening to a cave. It was pretty small, but someone had once used it because there were ashes from old campfires and pieces of dry wood scattered around. I used my flint kit to start a fire and noticed the back cave wall looked different from the rest of it. I started exploring, feeling along it when—well, something happened."

Izzy stopped. Her expression again indicated she was unsure if she wanted to continue.

"Come on, what was it?" I urged. "What happened? You can't stop a story just when it's getting interesting."

Izzy took a deep breath, and I wondered what could be so intimidating that she was having this much trouble talking about it.

"Promise me you won't think I'm crazy or making this up," she said.

I could see she was deadly serious.

"I promise!" I replied. "Now please tell me what happened."

"As I touched a portion of the back cave wall," Izzy continued, "it—well, it moved."

"Moved? What do you mean?"

"The whole back wall of the cave moved and then there were these—ah—lights."

"Lights? Wait a minute. The cave opened up in the back, and you saw lights? I don't understand."

"The cave continued beyond the wall," Izzy explained. "Only it wasn't a cave anymore. It's hard to describe this, but the walls were no longer rock. They looked like the blade of this sword, shiny and smooth. The cave shape was a perfect circle, like the hollow of a reed, and the cavern ran straight through the mountain. Running all along the top of the cave were these—well, they were lights. They went on forever, and—I know this will sound strange, but it's the truth—no fire made these lights! They were not even warm to the touch, yet they gave off a glow that allowed me to see everything."

Though I had promised not to think Izzy crazy, I wondered if I had given that promise in haste. Lights not made from fire? Smooth cave walls that gleam like metal? It was a little much.

"I followed the cave and found it lit all the way, though many of the lights no longer glowed," Izzy continued. "The cave went on and on, and I became frightened. I wondered who could have made such a thing—and if they were still around. There was nothing else, however; it was just a very long passageway through the mountains. I came to the other end and found another wall. I felt around like I did with the other one, and again the wall slid open. It opened into another rock cave and then—well, then I was on this side of the mountains."

That was Izzy's tale. I did not know what to say. It sounded outlandish, for sure, but her story made me think of something I had heard from Sakita legends. There was a tale of a great civilization that had existed long before the Sakita came into being. It spoke of vessels that flew through the air and swam beneath the waters, perhaps that vast body of water Brilna mentioned. The story went on to claim that this society had been worldwide. I wondered if that explained why we all spoke a similar language. Could we be descendants of that vanished civilization? If such a people existed, could the shining cave be a remnant of their time? It was all very fascinating.

Izzy and I settled in to get a few hours' sleep. I woke after midnight, roused the others, and we readied to travel. It was time to put some distance between the Spood and ourselves. It was time to go west.

**

~~THIRTEEN~~

We would go west, eventually, but first I had to make a small detour. Izzy and Brilna adamantly opposed what I planned to do even while admiring the intent. They deemed a return to the can-rak's territory foolhardy. Still, I was going. I had to do right by those two women. They deserved a proper ceremony.

Izzy was aware of my shamanic training, for I had shared that information with her when telling of my banishment. I would now put that knowledge to its loftiest purpose and make sure the ill-fated women got a proper send-off into the afterlife. We found the hill the next morning. There was little to see. A few well-gnawed bones were all that remained of the two whose names I did not know. Scavengers had done their work swiftly and well.

I gathered the bones, found a handful of sargrass, and began chanting the sounds and words to draw my spirit animal. As the sargrass smoked, I waved it over the bones and inhaled its pungent sweetness. I danced with careful movements so that each step was in its proper sequence. Izzy and Brilna watched in silence but with intense interest.

Then, it happened. A strong push in my back jolted me. I turned to find the young can-rak with the blazing mane and intense eyes had appeared. Izzy and Brilna could see nothing, of course, but they told me later that I seemed to be conversing with an invisible presence.

In fact, I was speaking to the can-rak, asking it to guide the two women's spirits safely to Ra-ta's domain. The can-rak nodded, and intuition told me it would honor my request. I came out of the trance. Izzy and Brilna rushed over to assist me when they saw me waver. I felt brief disorientation, but soon I was fully back into this world. With my mission accomplished, I experienced a great sense of relief and informed my companions we could continue on our way.

As we rode our drooves west, Brilna disclosed that she had changed her mind and no longer wished to return to her people. Instead, she wanted to join us in journeying to the other side of the mountains to find Izzy's tribe. Her change of heart perturbed me, to say the least, for she could have warned us of her intentions long before we had traveled over three days toward her homeland.

Brilna explained that her people did not like her much, and I certainly did not find that hard to believe. She said even her family hadn't favored her. Izzy and I were her only friends, she claimed, though I thought her assumption a bit of a leap. I had not considered Brilna a friend. I saw her more as an accidental acquaintance foisted on me by circumstance—and an annoying one at that.

Still, what can you do? I felt an obligation to look after the girl. I felt Brilna, fending for herself, was not a condition likely to turn out well. I couldn't just ... Oh, all right, that's not the whole truth either. I admit it. I admit that as much as I had teased the poor girl and made fun at her expense, I was getting used to having her around. She had offered valuable information about the Spood, and simply having companionship after my long isolation at the oasis was reason enough to welcome her presence. She was, like it or not, a member of our team. It was Izzy, Brilna, and Sanyel taking on the world. I felt that perhaps, in time, we might become the closest of friends and have the makings of a formidable little group.

So we turned and headed in a northerly direction, back toward the mountains, which we would follow eastward, searching for the mysterious cave entrance that had led Izzy into this fair land of the Spood. Brilna and I rode double. As we traveled, Brilna enlightened me with further insights into the charming Spood culture.

Brilna informed me that the fat red-haired man who had killed Dwelve back at the sperza was a priest. The amulet symbol (Y) he wore represented a grottis, a depiction of the Spood god, Gor-jar. Gor-jar, roughly translated, meant "the hungry one," and the spread-open top portion of the grottis mimicked Gor-jar's mouth, ready to accept and feed on the people's sacrifices.

Brilna claimed sacrifices to Gor-jar were usually slaves or ones who had displeased the ruling priesthood. Each sacrifice required the building of a grottis. This grottis was a larger-scale wooden version of the amulet. With the grottis laid flat upon the ground, the Spood placed the intended victim with his back resting on the long lower beam. With his arms pressed tightly to his sides and his legs together, the priests then lifted the grottis slightly from the ground to enable them to secure the intended sacrifice to the beam with ropes or chains. They would arrange the victim so that his head showed just above the crook where the two angled upper grottis arms met. The Spood would then lift the grottis upright and plant the longer lower beam into the ground. The open upper arms of this structure symbolized the "jaws" of Gor-jar while the longer lower arm represented the "throat" of the god. Its designers intended it to depict Gor-jar "swallowing" the sacrifice, with the victim's head the last part swallowed and still showing in the god's open mouth.

However, suspension on a grottis was just the beginning of this unpleasant ritual. As the condemned hung there, the people would gather, with those who had won a lottery drawing allowed up front. At a signal from the high priest, those lottery winners—men, women, and children—would gather up the rocks, spears, and knives the priests had provided for them, and they would commence hurling them at the victim on the grottis. The stones would bruise the skin and shatter bones. The knives and spears would cut and pierce, opening bloody wounds. The helpless object of sacrifice could only cry out in anguish and pain until merciful death came to lift him from this world. When his spirit at last departed, the people would rejoice, for mighty Gor-jar had accepted their offering.

With those disturbing images rattling around in our minds, we rode in silence through the shallow waters of a marshland. Frogs croaked and insects buzzed. On occasion, we would scare up a marsh bird that would splash and rise from the rushes to soar off into the distance, dripping water off its body and wings. The calm beauty of this natural world, in contrast to the brutal unnaturalness of the Spood one, had me wondering what game Ra-ta was playing. Why had he taken me away from the relative peace of my existence as a Sakita and dumped me into this land of continual turmoil? My father believed I had a destiny involving my people. Yet my people had discarded me, and here I was in a foreign land in no position to help anyone, least of all myself.

Well, I would go with Izzy. Maybe the Cartu would welcome me as they had welcomed her and—

"Huta-hut!"

A command, crisp and direct, rang out from across the marsh. My startled droove raised its head and seemed ready to bolt. I tugged hard on the reins to force the beast into the tall rushes to my right, and Izzy followed close behind on her mount. I prayed the drooves would stay silent as clear voices carried to us from across the swamp. Several files of drooves were pushing through the shallow water about two hundred paces from our hiding place. Splashing noises carried over to us as the convoy navigated through the marsh grasses.

They were Creet soldiers. Hundreds of them. And they were escorting a considerable number of captives. The well-armed soldiers had stirkas, short knives, and a weapon I had not known they possessed—spears! These lances were long and thin with finely burnished stalks and gleaming tips. Oh, how I desired to obtain one of those. It had been too long since I had hefted a spear worthy of my grip, not since my banishment.

Another shout rose above the company. A soldier had yelled, trying to steady a balky droove that was averse to the water. The soldiers were riding three abreast as they crossed the marsh, and leading them was a husky man with a full, grizzled beard. He sat his mount with a straight-backed rigidity, his head and shoulders fixed as his droove swayed beneath him. The Creet moved with brisk resolve, no doubt in a hurry to get home with their bounty.

They passed a bit closer to us now, heading the direction from which we had come. We could hear the bleats and snorts of the drooves, combined with the clinking of the metal pots and utensils strung together across the beasts' backs. I had a clearer sight to make out the prisoners' features and soon determined the lot to be an even blend of male and female adults along with a much smaller number of mixed-age children.

The captives' dress was not familiar to me, but Brilna recognized a small group of the prisoners as hailing from a tribe of her acquaintance, the Korta. The entire assemblage had their hands bound, and many were riding double.

The soldiers looked smart in their red-trimmed vests, and they rode their mounts with an air of authority. Their menacing spears pointed to the sky, with shafts lodged in leather holders and metal tips flashing in the sun. I had not witnessed a military force such as this in all my years, and the precise order of their ranks impressed, unlike the ragtag sloppiness of the rancers. It was all very troubling. It seemed the Spood were stepping up their efforts to gain control of the vast lands outside their base city. After witnessing the strength and discipline of this force, I was not eager to spend more time in this afflicted land. I wanted to slip away when feasible and escape through Izzy's magical cave.

That was not to be. Every time we pushed north to the mountains, we ran across another Creet patrol and had to slide eastward and south. Our luck in avoiding discovery I attributed to Ra-ta, for we had no business escaping detection the way we did. The patrols varied in size and purpose. Some consisted of about ten men, who seemed to be merely scouting the country. Others were of the size of the company we met in the marsh and often carried heavy loads of prisoners. The Spood were on the march, and I could only imagine the chaos they were creating.

"We've gone too far," Izzy informed us one late afternoon. We had evaded the patrols for over a week. During that time, we had eaten whatever we could find, usually wettle fruit, for which I still had not reacquired a taste. There had been plenty of streams from which to drink and from which to indulge in an occasional quick bath, but now we were looking at sand. We were on the edge of the Desert of Bones, which meant we had gone past by several days the point where we should have cut straight north to the mountains and the cave.

Exhaustion dogged us as much as the patrols, and with the lack of sleep and spotty food availability, our energy and optimism had deteriorated. I wished I had one of those Creet spears so I could go hunting. In truth, I wished I could go back to my homeland and forget I'd ever seen or heard of this wretched country. My slave togs itched, and my sandals were wearing out. I was grouchy and snappy, and my companions were well aware of my mood. Well, at least Izzy was.

"What do we do now?" Brilna whined for the third time. I wanted to shut my ears, close my eyes, and blank Brilna out of my mind. Izzy knelt down, sifting sand through her fingers, and I wondered what she was thinking. She never seemed to get rattled, and even now I observed no sign of distress in her.

"We'll have to double back," she said.

It was a simple statement, direct and true. We would have to double back.

"Let's find some cover and stay the night," I suggested, for Ra-ta was hurrying down the sky and had little light left to spare. We traveled for a while south, a direction I didn't want to go, but it was too open and exposed to linger near the desert sands. Soon we found a forest with a tight enclosure of kanser trees, and there we set up camp.

We lit no fire, fearing the ever-present eyes of the Creet. Brilna was soon snoring away as Izzy and I took in the spectacle that was the glittering night sky.

"You should have taken the knife, too," Izzy spoke.

"Knife? What do you mean? What knife?"

"The one you stuck in the brain of that Creet you killed. We might need something like that before long."

She was right. I should have taken the knife. I got the man's stirka, but that was the only weapon we had, and that sword was now residing in the repaired scabbard at Izzy's side. I needed a weapon for myself. We were in a dangerous land, and it was growing more perilous by the day. I could certainly use a spear, and even my bracelet of bones might be helpful. The one I had carried around my wrist into the desert no longer existed. Back at the oasis, I had dismantled it to get the sharp bone I needed to cut and shave my crude spear, and I had never put it back together. I imagined the remains were still there along with my leather pouch and blanket.

Izzy had fallen asleep, but I stayed awake to ponder our situation. I would have to assemble another bracelet when I could. Having control over animals would be very helpful, especially since we had just the one conventional weapon. Still, where would I get the bone fragments I would need? In our tribe, they were easy to come by since we hunted every kind of animal and made use of every part. Out here, you would have to stumble upon the bones, making acquiring a decent variety of them much more difficult.

I knew one thing. I would have to get a droove bone. The animal was as common as grass and having control of just one or an entire herd would be most advantageous.

I drifted off to sleep and was dreaming of stalking a porse when a faint clinking noise snapped me awake. Izzy was already on her feet and had parted an opening in the thick brush surrounding our forest pocket. She had her focus fixed on whatever had made the noise, and I joined her. Brilna still slept, no longer snoring, thank Ra-ta. It was early dawn, and a light fog had drifted in overnight. A cool nip to the air shook the sleep from me as I peered into the mists, searching out the source of the disturbance.

Creet riders were coming. Droove after droove appeared at the vaporous edge of the wood. One by one they strode past less than a hundred paces from our hidden enclave and disappeared into the haze. I shook Brilna awake, put a hand to her mouth to prevent any sudden utterance, and then put a finger to my lips to ensure her silence. Our drooves busily munched kanser leaves and did not show any alarm over the intruders.

The riders must have come off the desert, for they wore the conventional garment of desert travel, flowing robes with attached hoods. There were prisoners among the soldiers, and they included male and female, young and aged.

As I examined the glum captives passing by in their procession, a face turned my way. The familiar features jolted me. I knew that face. It belonged to a hunter from our tribe, a man named Oster. What was he doing here? Another I knew! Miras, wife of Jalak.

I inhaled sharply. Oh my god! No, no, not her.

Yet it was. There was no mistaking the figure seated upon that droove.

It was Lillatta.

I rose, and in a daze, I started to step toward the caravan. Izzy grabbed my arm.

"What are you doing?" Her grip halted my motion, but I was barely conscious of the fact.

Lillatta. She was here. But how? Why? My brain felt jammed. Too many thoughts were occupying too little space. Questions hurtled through my mind, with every answer discarded when proven inadequate to explain her presence here. My body was telling me to act, to move and get her away from those monsters, those animals disguised as humans. But Izzy held me back.

I had to clear my cobwebs and regain my senses. My breathing was rapid, my heart pounded, and now I slowed them both down, with my shamanic training again taking over, calming me, bringing me back to my center.

Izzy and Brilna stared at me as if I had gone mad.

With my composure at last retrieved, I told them the reason for my odd actions.

"That girl who just passed by was Lillatta."

Izzy knew the name, for I had recounted to her the circumstances of my banishment. Brilna had a blank look, comprehending not a word.

"It is the one who betrayed you?" Izzy said in astonishment.

"Yes, but she had no choice," I reminded her. "She was in love, and her man was in trouble. I might have done the same if ... She can't be blamed."

I would not leave my friend to these cutthroats. I knew where they were taking her, the same destination fate had determined for the three of us before our escape—the Spood home country. I knew how those animals treated slaves, and by Ra-ta, that would not be Lillatta's fate if I could help it.

The last of the drooves passed out of sight, and again I turned to my expectant companions.

"I will not be going with you to seek the Cartu," I stated. "My friend is in danger, and I will try my best to free her from the Spood. If I succeed, I will come and find the cave in the mountains and meet up with you there."

Brilna's eyes betrayed a still unresolved confusion. Izzy's brimmed with that mischievous humor I had come to appreciate.

She grinned and said, "What need is there for you to find us if we are already with you?"

Izzy had to know the dangers. She had to be aware that the perils of this attempted rescue would be immense, the task impractical to an extreme. Yet she was making it clear that she was with me no matter the outcome. Her courage inspired, and her self-assurance bolstered my own.

Meanwhile, Brilna nodded in hesitant agreement, though I was confident my words had clarified nothing for her. It appeared, though, that she had no intention of going anywhere without both of us. So, the three of us would take on the challenge together. We would attempt to free Lillatta from the clutches of the Spood—and try to avoid capture or death in the bargain.

**

~~FOURTEEN~~

It was one thing to choose a course of action and quite another to implement it. We had two drooves and one weapon, a stirka. The Creet party left an easy trail to follow, but we had to be cautious. Though I was sure they had no idea we were in pursuit, we couldn't allow ourselves to succumb to overeagerness and stumble into their camp through inattentiveness.

Therefore, we kept a safe distance between us—and it was getting us nowhere. After the second day, Lillatta appeared no closer to rescue and was instead nearer to a grim date with unimaginable misery. Our plan had to change, though the truth was we never had one to begin with. Even so, my brain began to function at last, and a seed of an idea began to germinate.

Izzy volunteered. She would do our dangerous reconnaissance work, creeping up to the Spood encampment nightly and then reporting back what she learned. The Creet (or Creetans as Izzy liked to call them) always set up camp just before Ra-ta descended into his bed, and it was then they allowed the prisoners to eat. Izzy realized, to her surprise, that the captives had no bindings. Careful observation showed that the Creet had failed to bring along the necessary rope, a foul-up by someone, no doubt.

She also discovered that the camp guards always deployed in force around the entire site perimeter. That would make it difficult to sneak in or out without detection. However, it intrigued me to learn that although the Creet had all changed out of their robes, the captives still wore their desert apparel. If I could find a way to sneak into their camp wearing the robe we had found in the droove pack, I could insert myself among the prisoners. Then, I could liberate a rik-ta or two, find Lillatta, and manufacture an escape plan.

"Are you crazy?" That's how Izzy responded to my admittedly sketchy plan.

"You want to walk right in without any idea how to get out again? It's the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

"Well, don't hold back your feelings," I said, amused by Izzy's strong reaction, for I had rarely seen her get worked up over anything. "But if you have one, I'd love to hear an alternative. One that gets rid of the stupid part, of course."

"We need to get more weapons, first," Izzy proposed. "I would feel more comfortable if you had a knife hidden on you when you went inside. That way you could at least defend yourself if discovered."

"As long as my hands are untied, I can defend myself. And even then, I still have my feet."

Izzy showed her skepticism.

"Look, I know what you're saying," I granted. "And I admit there's danger. But I have to do this, and I want to know if I have your support."

"You have mine," Brilna piped up. She had been sitting nearby listening to us debate.

"And mine," Izzy affirmed. "Though we certainly have to make some adjustments to your foolhardy plan."

In the end, the plan we came up with wasn't any better than my original one. We decided Izzy would create a diversion, enough to distract the guards and allow me to sneak into their camp, where I would then plant myself down among the captives. From there, I would seek out Lillatta, and after that—well, that's as far as the plan went.

Kaynar favored us, for the next night he rolled his forces in to do battle with Ra-ta. The sun god raged as he fought to regain the heavens. His tears fell in torrents as his voice rumbled and his rays split the sky. It always puzzled me why Ra-ta would not just let Kaynar control the night sky since Ra-ta usually slept during that time anyway. Fathoming the mind of a god is hard.

The Creet encampment lay scattered among the massive trees of a small stand of kakkata that grew in the middle of a broader kanser forest. Guarded by a lax perimeter of soldiers, the prisoners lay bunched together beneath a few closely linked trees, with the large, overlapping leaves providing a decent storm cover. There were no campfires and the soldiers not assigned guard duty had turned in, for there was nothing to do but sleep on a miserable night like this. They dozed beneath the sheltering trees of another stand of kakkata not far from the captives, with their picketed drooves clustered nearby.

Izzy and I had left Brilna to watch over our drooves while the two of us used the cover of night and the storm to creep within sight of the encampment. The guards looked unhappy stuck out in this downpour, and they were no doubt praying for the storm to pass swiftly. Each had covered his head with a kakkata leaf and seemed more concerned with staying dry than keeping a lookout.

My rain-soaked robe felt heavy as I moved toward a small gap we had discovered in the Creet defenses. The nearest guard had his back to this opening. All we had to do was distract him, bring him farther out, and I could slip right into the compound.

The huge kakkata leaves were a blessing, for the rain striking them made a sizable racket, a constant drumming that drowned out my slight rustlings. Lightning flashes consistently lit the heavens. I used the brief glow from each to get my bearings and to move in closer. Soon, Izzy would light a torch and begin the diversion, using a long-stemmed geffsan plant for that purpose. We had found a dry patch of this remarkable weed earlier and knew with its high oil content that its flowered tip would burn even in this rainstorm.

We hoped a point of light appearing in the kanser forest would attract the guards' attention, causing them to investigate. Izzy would walk the woods, keeping a reasonable distance from the encampment. When discovered, she would keep her torch lit only until the guards came out and then extinguish it to avoid them tracking her. With the guards distracted by the light, I would slip in among the prisoners.

I glanced behind me to my left and saw a flickering light moving slowly through the foliage. The guard did not notice, for he had his head down, protecting his face from the pelting rain.

Look up! I only thought the words, but it was as if I had spoken them, for the Creet's head elevated. He leaned forward, and his body stiffened as he peered into the forest, spotting the wavering flare.

Another guard hurried over to join the first. They discussed the situation. I worried they would wake the company, rendering our plan unworkable, but they didn't appear inclined to make that move. The guards decided to take a few tentative steps out toward the glowing object, and their curiosity drew them even farther from their posts. I slipped into camp, located the nearest group of sleeping captives, and deposited myself, unnoticed, among them.

As I lay next to a lump emitting sonorous snores, more flashes lit the sky. The guards had returned and no alarm sounded. They must have concluded the forest light was a natural phenomenon and not worthy of disturbing their superiors. Izzy had done her job well. The hard part now would be blending in without attracting notice and somehow finding Lillatta among this identically garbed group.

The man-lump next to me shifted position and then went back to sleep. My soaked robe and slave tunic beneath it made me glad for the shelter of the leaves. I hoped my clothes would dry by morning, for I would draw suspicion if mine were the only wet garments. I had intended to use the cover of darkness to skulk about in search of Lillatta and then try to sneak out before daybreak, but I soon realized the absence of light made it impossible. The lightning was too sporadic, and I would wind up stumbling over someone and attracting unwanted attention. So, instead, I spent the night in fitful sleep. I awakened in the darkness a couple of hours before dawn, knowing the light of day would bring exposure and the highest risk to this plan-that-was-no-plan. I wanted to be ready.

I passed the time examining my surroundings, assisted by the lightning's paltry illumination. I soon determined that this large caravan of prisoners contained not only Sakitan captives but also members of other tribes. In a group this size, it might be more challenging to find Lillatta than I had initially thought. To add to the difficulty, I had to worry about the chance my fellow tribesmen might suddenly notice my unwelcome presence among them.

A slight movement caught my eye. A boy about my age was watching me. He sat with a group of captives huddled one tree away, and he was the only one awake. His hood was down, allowing a clear view of his dark-skinned face, and by the lightning flashes, I discovered he was edging closer to me.

He plopped himself down in front of me and offered a quick smile.

"I'm Javen," he said as a rumbling of thunder shook the sky. It was quite an effect, causing him to chuckle.

"That's what always happens when I say my name," he boasted.

"I'm Sanyel," I countered, "and when I say mine, thunder goes away."

"Oh ... I see it has. That is impressive. Your name must have elements that make thunder afraid. Let me sound it out. San ... yel. Yes, there is a definite authority there. And I'm detecting several other impressive ingredients associated with your name, ones I'm sure you're aware of. Let's see. Beauty? No question. Charm? Certainly. Intellect? Undoubtedly. And, of course, there's—uh, let me see—did I already say beauty?"

I laughed. This boy was amusing—and not hard to look at either. He was tall and had wavy dark locks that did not quite reach his shoulders, shoulders that appeared broad and muscular even beneath his desert robe. His eyes were deep and gentle. At least that was my impression in the sporadic light available to judge such things.

A well-balanced, slightly flared nose sat in regal splendor above the boy's firm chin. His ears I couldn't see, for they remained hidden beneath his flowing mane. He had a somewhat dark complexion, a high, smooth brow, and a full mouth with lips that for some inexplicable reason had me curious as to their softness. I noticed his hands sported long fingers and that one of those was now pointing up into the trees.

"Of course you have been wondering why we, the treasured guests of the mighty Spood, have not shimmied our way up these magnificent mazes and lost ourselves in their luscious foliage, thus escaping our less-than-hospitable hosts," Javen stated in one breath.

I had been wondering no such thing, but it was something to ponder, nonetheless. The Spood would not be able to spot someone if that person were high enough in that thick, tangled greenery, so why hadn't at least some captives attempted escaping that way?

Javen's expression had turned hard, and the reason was chilling.

"Some of us did escape," he was saying. "It was a while back in a similar forest. However, the Creet soldiers knew our number. When those few turned up missing, they counted out that same number from those of us remaining."

Javen paused and his fists clenched. His face screwed up in anger.

"They executed them. I almost met that fate, but they took the man next to me, instead. I'm lucky to be alive. We no longer try escaping, for we know innocent tribal members will suffer if we do."

The dim light of approaching dawn was spreading through the trees, and we noticed the rain had stopped. Javen glanced at the brightening sky. His expression changed. He looked to me with anxious eyes.

"You must hide before they begin counting!" he said. "When I saw you come into camp in the middle of the night, I knew you were not one of us. If the count is wrong, who knows what will happen. They may think they miscounted, but you cannot rely on that. If they feel someone has infiltrated their group, it could go badly for many of us. So please, Sanyel, will you climb this tree until they finish the count?"

I agreed, not only because it made sense but also because my clothes remained damp and I might stand out otherwise. None had awakened in our vicinity all night, and they still slept, so I began my climb unseen. Scaling a kakkata tree in a full robe is not easy, but I managed to ascend a safe distance. The Creet were soon rousing all from sleep, lining them up, and beginning the count. I could see nothing. I heard a soldier's voice sounding out a rhythmic cadence. In a short time, they finished.

Noises of a convoy readying to depart reached my ears. Javen did not forget me, for he whistled from below and I gingerly started down the tree. The boy signaled for me to hurry. I jumped from the lowest limb and Javen escorted me to a droove, careful to keep between the Creet guards and me. I left my hood up, not wanting my fellow Sakitans to get a good look at me. As for the Spood, I was confident this group knew nothing of my exploits, for it had only recently arrived from the desert; these soldiers would not know their people desired my capture.

Once mounted on the droove, Javen hopped up behind me. No one paid us any attention. The soldiers moved to the front and back of the column, allowing the two of us to talk freely. Our droove felt the tug of the reins, and the caravan rolled forward.

"So, from where—and why, I might add—does this fair-haired beauty come to brighten up our dismal days?" Javen asked.

"I come from beyond the mountains. My tribe is the Sakita. That's—"

"Sakita!" Javen exclaimed. "How remarkable! Many in this caravan are Sakitans—but I suspect you already know that. Therefore, that brings up an interesting question. Why are you here, Sanyel? Why would you willingly follow your people into slavery when you could have remained free?"

"I don't plan to stay long."

Javen laughed.

"None of us plan to stay, although the Spood seem intent on persuading us we have no other option." Javen laughed again and said, "I suppose I should inform you that I am Raab. Now, don't be alarmed. Even if my bitter enemy, I have no desire to kill you."

"How noble and gracious of you."

"Yes, I am very charitable. Of course, by being so, I deny myself the opportunity to establish my reputation as a warrior. Killing you would certainly encourage my people to sing songs of my prowess. The stories told of my cunning and bravery would be magnificent! Do you think I am making the right choice in letting you live?"

"I agree with the choice completely. You would have to use your delicate hands to kill me, and I wouldn't want you to injure them on a throat as tough as mine."

"You are so right," Javen agreed. "My hands are indeed delicate. I could demonstrate how much so if you wish?"

"That will not be necessary. Your Raab word is all I require, for straight and true I'm sure it is as your spear to a spartok's heart."

"Oh, how clearly you see me! If only all could discern my outstanding qualities with your clarity. I can assume, then, that you are also aware of my charm, intelligence, and good looks, for nothing seems to escape you."

"I am aware of but one of the three," I teased. "The other two have indeed escaped me."

"Ah, but which one? Could it be my charm?"

"It could be, but then you speak, and I am forced to reconsider."

"Then it must be my intelligence."

"If a starfen had half its current brain, then yes, I'd say yours would be comparable."

"I have it now. It is my good looks."

"Have you not seen yourself lately? If you wish to find a reflection of your true appearance, look to a porse's rear end."

"But you said I possessed one of the three qualities I mentioned."

"I lied."

Our good-natured bantering ended due to a commotion a short distance ahead. We had exited the forest and were crossing over some low hills. A droove had stumbled, spilling its human cargo onto the ground. The caravan halted as Creet soldiers squared the situation away. One of the dumped passengers attracted my notice.

My heart jumped. I had found her—Lillatta.

Javen sensed me tensing and asked what was wrong.

"The reason I am here," I told him, "is that I came to rescue her."

He glanced up the line to where I had pointed.

"The girl with the reddish hair? Who is she?"

"She is Lillatta, my best friend. We have known each other since childhood."

Finding Lillatta brought thoughts of my homeland, some pleasant and others not. It brought something else as well, a compelling desire to know what catastrophe had occurred there.

"How did this happen?" I asked Javen. "Why are the Raab and Sakita captives of the Spood? How did they find you?"

Javen's silence caused me to turn back to him, and I saw him shrug.

"I don't know how they found us. All I know is that one day these soldiers arrived. They never spoke a word. They just started killing. We didn't stand a chance. There were just too many of them, although they paid with many lives before they overwhelmed us. As far as the Sakita go, I know nothing about that. You'll have to ask your friend."

"So, how did you wind up in this group?"

"The Creet divided the Raab survivors into several groups after taking our campsite. They brought my party to a holding area that held a similar contingent of Sakitan prisoners. There, we were divided by random selection into smaller groups and assigned to caravans. They told us we were now slaves bound for Grell, which I believe is the Spood homeland. Along the way, we picked up more captives from other tribes. The Spood told us the Raab not sent to Grell would remain in our homeland and would be used to 'plant and tend crops,' whatever that means."

I confessed ignorance to the meaning as well and then told Javen about the Spood building sperzas and about the rapidly increasing Creet forces. It astounded him to learn the Spood were so widespread and were expanding their reach with such boldness. I told him about Izzy and Brilna following somewhere behind us, and that perked him up.

"Do they have men with them to help rescue you and your people?"

"No, I think I'll have to rescue myself. If I could only get my hands on a rik-ta or a spear."

Javen laughed. "And what would you do with those? Find a man to put them to use? Or are you expecting me to get you out of this mess?"

"Give perfectly good weapons to you? You must think me an idiot. How would you know which end to hold?"

I glanced back, and Javen was grinning. He probably thought I was joking. I wasn't. If I came across weapons, they were mine.

As the column moved forward again, I peered ahead so as not to lose track of Lillatta's mount. She saw me—at least I thought she did. She was on top of the droove and had turned her body to look directly at me.

I don't know if she recognized me, for she turned back to face the front and did not look my way again. When we stopped tonight, I would find my way to her, and we would talk—and the wall between us would crumble. At least that is what I hoped would occur.

The sun blazed as it rolled in a slow uphill climb and the air was sticky after the night rain. Insects buzzed and bit. Soon, Ra-ta would peak, and I imagined we would stop to rest and feed. Then, I detected something in the wind. The breeze brought an odor, a salty tang I had not smelled before. The column's forward drooves crested a steep rise, and a stir began among the Creet. Whoops and shouts reached back to me.

They were whoops of joy. The Creet had arrived home. As my droove topped the rise, my breath drew in sharply. Intoxicating sights lay before me. Living liquid stirred with restless energy in a vast bowl dominating my view. Water. Endless blue water topped by exploding light that felt as raw to the eye as a dared peek at Ra-ta's face. Water that rolled and crashed and gleamed, veined with rippling ribbons and streaks of white. And on the far horizon, blue was meeting blue, dark and pale, sea and sky, and melding into a haze at the edge of the world.

Below me, the hills sloped in a gradual decline before leveling off to form plains that appeared unnatural. A series of square and rectangular shapes had replaced what once was open grassland. Within some of these areas, tall plants stood aligned in even rows, looking as if they marched in a Creet column. In others, shoots barely broke the soil, but they also stood in ordered rows. Workers tended these odd patches, and I wondered what purpose the plants served.

Yet the sight that rivaled my first glimpse of the ocean was the fortress. Was this the Spood city Brilna mentioned? If so, it was massive. Grell was a walled expanse that bordered the endless water on one side and the tended fields on the other. It stood atop the cliffs overlooking the sea. The fortress followed the winding bluffs for as far as the eye could view to both east and west. The structure's north wall faced the vast fields, which extended to that wall from the base of the hills. The south wall was the last obstacle between the edge of the bluffs and the ocean. We viewed this scene from the highest elevation in the area, which allowed a panoramic vision. I learned later that only this hill offered the Spood such a spectacular view of their home and that they often chose to return home by this route just to experience that view. I had to admit it was a beautiful and impressive vista.

The hills around us were much lower in height compared to the one we occupied, and from those hills east of us a small river rolled down, meandered through the fields, and then passed beneath this titanic fortress, most likely on its way to empty into the ocean. I could see into the interior from my elevated position, and I could tell the structure's width was considerable. As mentioned, its form followed the coastline east and west and just kept going. I had no idea the city's length, but it seemed almost infinite. I could see how an entire society, even one as large as the Spood, would be able to exist indefinitely within this enclosure.

As we made our way down the slopes, we met up with and began following a wide dirt road that passed through the fields and led to the fortress. Javen and I had not spoken since cresting the hills, but now he remarked on the scene I also viewed.

"Slaves," he said with no discernible emotion. His voice did not betray it, but I knew what he was feeling, what I also felt. Neither of us wanted to end up like these poor wretches with their gray togs and gray existence. Who could endure life in such a dark place with flesh whipped to bloody strips by the swok whenever your masters felt in the mood? And when death came, and the misery ceased, who would care or mourn?

"This will not be my fate," I said, my words confident. "And it won't be Lillatta's and maybe not even yours, though that might be wishful thinking."

"Ah, you wish it not to be my fate?" a brightened Javen said. "My assumption then is that I am at last making an impression?"

"I'm afraid the impression you're making is that you make way too many assumptions."

As we approached the fortress walls, I saw they consisted of what appeared to be stone blocks piled on top of one another in an overlapping pattern, much like I had witnessed at the sperza except these polished stones were enormous and their fit appeared almost seamless. How could anyone move even one of those blocks, let alone pile them endlessly up into infinite space? I angled a look up the side of the fortress, and unlike from the hill's crest, I could barely see the parapet lining the top. A curious thought struck me. Why was there no one up there?

Our path led to an arched tunnel built into the fortress wall. Two Creet soldiers guarded this portal, and both moved off to the side as the forward drooves approached its black mouth. The tunnel was about three can-raks tall and as wide as ten drooves placed end to end. To allow for a more rapid entry into the fortress, our captors ordered us to abandon our single file formation and line up in columns three across. Just as my droove entered the tunnel gloom, the procession halted, and a horn held by a soldier at the columns' head blew several sharp notes. A massive wooden gate on the far end of the tunnel began to creak and groan, and a crack of light appeared beneath it as it lifted. I marveled at how anything even had the power to budge such a behemoth.

The gate took forever to rise, so we sat our drooves in silence, listening as swoks cracked and punished out in the fields behind us. As the gate reached the top of its guide, someone snapped an order, and we proceeded down the tunnel.

I judged the tunnel length to be about twenty paces. If that were correct, then I surmised twenty paces was also the thickness of the fortress walls. That was startling. It seemed a bit excessive to construct walls to such a width, but perhaps the extreme fortress height required it. As we passed through the upraised gate into the fortress interior, I noted the gate and its guides did not look to be a natural part of the tunnel construction. Their addition to the structure seemed but an afterthought, and their quality appeared sorely lacking when compared to the flawless stonework of the portal they adjoined.

A bigger surprise greeted us beyond the gate. Inside was like outside. By that, I mean the interior of Grell had roads, fields, forests, and a river—but no buildings, no city! You would not know you were inside an enclosure if not for the distant wall barely visible to the south. How far the fortress extended east and west, I could not tell, for tall, remote forests blocked the view in both directions. Judging from what I had seen while outside the complex, I imagined you would have to travel a considerable distance to find either end wall. One other curious thing was that the visible north wall appeared scorched. Had a fire once ravaged it?

Back again in single file, we traveled east down a narrow road lined with fields worked by slaves. Crossing a bridge that spanned the river, we came to a sperza. I gleaned, through small talk among the Creet, that this little community of shops and homes was one of many built right inside this larger enclosure of Grell. I also discovered that fortress Grell did indeed have a city, also named Grell and that it lay still farther east.

I was getting anxious. My plan had not included ever entering this place and becoming trapped within its walls, and yet here I was. Lillatta's droove was still six beasts ahead of me. She had not turned to look my way since our first contact. I was failing in my bid to rescue her, and I surmised there would be more trials ahead before I accomplished that goal.

Our company stopped before a nondescript wooden building. Lining the walls were several of those square holes with thin, ice-like sheets for looking through. The Creet called these holes "sentals" and the clear material "sheek." Women had been eyeing our approach through these sentals, and soon they exited the building with armfuls of gray tunics.

They instructed us to don the fresher clothing, so I exchanged one slave garment for another. To me, this was getting uncomfortably close to wading out into too-deep water. I was afraid someone might recognize me at any moment, Sakitan or Spood. My description might have circulated to the far reaches of the soon-to-be Spood Empire by now. I knew Javen was just as keen to escape as I was, and I thought we should band together, for any reliance on help from Izzy and Brilna at this stage would be unrealistic. Would he be receptive?

I didn't have a chance to find out.

**

~~FIFTEEN~~

A blue-robed priest scratched his neck and then pointed at me. His companion, a Creet soldier, gripped my arm and led me over to a company of previously chosen others. I was elated, for Lillatta was in my group, standing not more than three people away. The itchy-necked priest had selected her for the group earlier. I saw no other Sakitans nearby, so with a confrontation unlikely, I inched my way toward Lil. She was aware of me now, for she was staring, and the look was one of fright.

I smiled, trying to reassure her, but that just seemed to frighten her more. What was she thinking? That I was going to harm her? I glanced over to see if the Spood priest and soldier were looking. They weren't, so I edged over to Lillatta's side.

She seemed on the brink of bolting.

"What is wrong with you?" I whispered. "Are you trying to attract attention?"

She turned to me and panic contorted her face.

"I didn't mean to," she blubbered. "Please don't hurt me. I had to do it. I—"

I grabbed hold of her hand and spoke as gently as I could.

"Shhh, it's all right. I would never hurt you. I don't blame you for what happened. I have never blamed you. I know you had to make an awful choice, but I have never thought any less of you for it. I am your friend, Lillatta, and I always will be."

The hint of a hopeful expression appeared on Lillatta's face.

She began to cry. This was not the time or place for that! I tried shielding her from the Spood duo who were still conducting point-and-move. I pressed my arm around her shoulders.

"Listen," I urged, maintaining my soothing tone. "We can talk later and cry all we want to, but right now I need you to pull yourself together. I came here to rescue you, and that won't happen if you don't stop trying to stick out like a can-rak in a porse herd."

That got her attention.

"You came to rescue me?" It was a statement tinged with wonder and doubt.

"Yes, my silly little friend. I came to rescue you."

The Spood priest yelled something, causing us to glance over. The priest was pulling an older man with stringy white hair from the main group.

"Who commands this company?" the itchy priest demanded.

"Sopak," the Creet assistant replied.

"Tell him he has earned five demerits on his record. I keep telling these commanders I want slaves who can work, not useless meat such as this."

He indicated the old man.

"Kill him."

At first, the elderly man did not react to the words directed at him. Then, realization must have struck, for he went to his knees and began pleading for his life. He reached out gnarled hands to grab the priest's robe as the man turned to leave. He missed, emitting a pained cry as he fell forward onto his aged palms and twisted fingers. At that moment, a blade plunged through the man's back, past his spine, and into his heart. The old man grunted and collapsed. The Creet withdrew the sword and casually wiped the blood staining it off on the dead man's tunic.

No one reacted to the murder. If the man had family members, they remained silent. It would not be wise to announce your loyalties to one in disfavor. We all knew it could have been any one of us sharing that fate. A wrong look, a misplaced laugh, an innocent bump. It took no more than that, and the blade might be at your back.

The Spood continued forming the prisoners into multiple groups. Lillatta and I were in a party of about ten. Javen wound up in another group. I was sad we would have no more opportunities to converse. I had grown to appreciate Javen's amiable personality and companionship. I would miss him.

Guards led our group along the sperza's main thoroughfare and directed us to climb aboard a couple of those odd-looking platforms that rolled. They assigned other groups to similar vehicles. Hitched to each platform were four drooves. A driver cracked a swok, the drooves pulled, and we left the sperza behind.

We traveled a well-worn road for a couple of hours, passing through forests and then through fields worked by slaves, stopping only for a water break. The platforms rocked and creaked, and the sun burned. We sat on bare wood, and my body began to bruise and ache. The road skirted several sperzas, but our handlers did not stop or detour.

Our escorts were a full Creet troop of about a hundred soldiers along with a few blue-robed priests, all riding individual mounts. Lillatta and I could not converse, for the Creet guards were too close. My anxiety level continued to increase. I feared the opening to escape had been shrinking since our arrival. We were on a road of no exit, a road that appeared as the extended tongue of an unknown beast, leading us ever closer to its open jaws.

Our destination revealed itself—Grell, the city.

On the outskirts of Grell stood houses, wood-framed and multihued, with some seemingly built to outlast the world and others appearing as frail as dreams. They lined intersecting streets of dirt and stone that twisted or ran straight depending on the whim of their designers. Intermingled with the houses were shops of infinite diversity offering whatever the imagination could conjure. Spood men, women, and children bustled along the narrow lanes, going in and out of these business establishments. Some perused open-air markets where they scrutinized wooden bins layered with produce for the purchase or examined cuts of meat hanging on hooks. The variety of fruits and vegetables available, I learned later, was due to the odd, square fields of orderly sprouts I had seen on arrival. The Spood had usurped the province of nature and grew the food themselves. Remarkable!

The closer you moved to the heart of the city, the denser the buildings' substance and the darker their mood. Here there were structures made of stone, buildings crammed against buildings, rising, looming. Each one appeared in competition to see which could shout the loudest, which could display the most grotesque facade. Disturbing images of violence and savagery abounded, some standing before the buildings as hideous individual figures of stone, and others carved to massive heights into the rough faces of the cold, sharp-edged edifices.

We wove our way down dirt backstreets and paved main thoroughfares until arriving in the plaza marking the city's center. Lofty government buildings surrounded this plaza, a square, stone-paved expanse of considerable size.

My neck craned to take in all these marvels. I felt a small embarrassment over my ignorance that this surprisingly complex world existed outside my own. The Spood appeared advanced well beyond the simple realities of my tribal society. Still, a culture as sophisticated as this being so vain and cruel I could not reconcile. What had warped them to such a degree?

Our two vehicles drove through the plaza and down a side street, coming to a halt before a grim, hulking mass. The building was of solid construction and soulless, with a dull gray facade studded with barred sentals and tiny square portholes. Similar structures lined both sides of the street, and I saw other rolling platforms pulling up before each. We disembarked, and soldiers led us up the building's wide steps, through an archway, and into the coolness of the structure's interior.

Our contingent of Creet guards escorted us down a short hallway and into an expansive circular room where pillars of stone supported a high ceiling that seemed formed from a single rock slab. Creet soldiers, priests, and others mingled, some sitting on stone benches, others standing and conversing in small groups. Several looked over as we entered and then went back to their business.

Evenly spaced, narrow stairwells branched off the oval room, and we climbed one to the next level. The staircase opened onto a wide hallway lined with cells. A guard unlatched and then swung open a heavy wooden door that had a small opening at eye level spaced with vertical metal bars. The guard pushed the ten of us inside. The door shut behind us and the metal latch locked into place.

The room was gloomy, surprisingly spacious, and already occupied. Men, women, and children, all garbed in standard slave gray, showed curiosity over the newcomers. Thirty pairs of eyes offered their naked scrutiny, which soon faded when they detected no familiar face. The room was high ceilinged and had four curious portholes along one wall about shoulder level. Higher up, and inaccessible, were two larger sentals where the dim light entered. Both of those openings sported metal bars and lacked the see-through material known as sheek. Filthy straw covered the floor and slop buckets defiled the four corners.

The stench was nauseating, at least to ones who had only recently been walking freely in the fresh outdoor air. I grabbed Lillatta and made for the far side of the cell, where we found a space to stand near a porthole located midway between two of the offensive buckets. I looked into the aperture.

The opening was narrow, not more than two spread hands in width and height. The square hole extended through the thick wall to the outside. The restricted view revealed what seemed to be the bland side of a government building. Fresh air blew through the opening, and it felt wonderful on my face. The portholes were air vents, and without them, the suffocating heat and smell would have been unbearable.

I looked around the room. The misery was palpable. This place was a hole unfit for the lowest animal. As I took in all facets of the cell's wretchedness, my fondest wish was for every last Spood to go straight to Fuld. I could imagine no end more fitting than for them all to drown forever in its black waters.

I gave Lillatta a turn at the porthole, and she was grateful for the air. Then we found a moderately unsoiled patch of straw along the wall and sat down to talk. As we got comfortable, the room door opened again, and guards forced another group of captives inside. These were all women, and several were Sakita. I knew each of them, but that didn't prevent them from burning holes in me when they noticed my presence. I would deal with that awkwardness later. For now, I wanted to get the details of Lillatta's capture. She had seen the Sakitan women enter the room, but I persuaded her not to go to them until we finished our talk.

"Tell me everything, from the beginning," I encouraged.

Lillatta's confidence that she was safe with me had grown, and I sensed her need to unburden herself of the dreadful events that had occurred. My question caused her to look directly into my eyes, and it disturbed me to witness such profound sadness and pain in hers.

"First, Sanny, I want to tell you how sorry I am over what I did to you. It gnaws at me every single day, and I can't stand myself for doing that."

"Let it go, Lil. I understood and forgave you long ago. Put it in the past and let's start over."

Lillatta nodded, grateful for the words. Then, she told me the story of the Spood invasion.

"It was awful, Sanny. It was less than three months after you were—umm, sorry, I mean after you left camp. It was night and we were all asleep. The Creet soldiers just rode in without warning and attacked us in our tents."

Lillatta took a deep breath and then another.

"Semral tried his best to rally the men, but it was already too late. I saw three of them cut down Barkor and his wife. He was too drunk to put up much of a fight. Semral bested two or three of them with his spear, but then someone struck him on the head, and I saw him fall. I don't know what happened to him after that. I grabbed a rik-ta and ran over to help, but a droove burst from the dark and knocked me down. I must have lost consciousness, for the next thing I knew, I was waking up in a grassy area some distance outside our encampment. There were only women and children there because the Spood had separated us from the men. They held us there for a couple of days. While there, I found out—"

Lillatta abruptly issued a choking, anguished cry. "I found out—"

She stopped speaking, put her face in her hands, and began to sob. At once, I reached out a comforting hand. As I touched her shoulder, her head snapped up.

"They killed him, San. They killed Kalor!" She began wailing, and her body shook as tears pushed out to form wet stains on her tunic. I pulled her to me and held her trembling body in a tight embrace.

"It's all right, Lil," I soothed. "I'm here."

Lillatta's words had stunned me, and it took me a while to process the disturbing news. Kalor, dead? I could not even comprehend the possibility. Lillatta and Kalor had been together since well before my banishment. They had been inseparable. I could not imagine the cruel depths of anguish and the bitter grief Lillatta must be experiencing, for Kalor had been her entire world. How was it she hadn't collapsed into a total emotional wreck long before now? It seemed she had been holding everything in, for now, all the sorrow and pain flooded out of her. I was just grateful Ra-ta had allowed me to be here when she needed me.

"Go ahead and cry, Lil. Let it all out."

She held onto me as if I were her only remaining link to an ordered world. In time, her trembling and sobs subsided. She loosened her hold and sat back, using the back of her hand to wipe at her runny nose and eyes.

"I'm sorry, San. I'm such a mess."

"No, don't say that. You're not. You've been through a horrible ordeal, but you're showing remarkable strength. I'm proud of you. When you feel up to it, you can tell me the rest of what happened, but only if you want to. For now, why don't you lie back and get some rest."

"No, I want to tell you," Lillatta said. "I'm all right."

After a few moments, she had regained her composure, and she proceeded to tell me the remaining details of the troubling story.

"You know what Kalor was like, San. He was not one to just stand by and allow the Spood to take us. He tried to organize a revolt. They said he tried to rally the others in the ceremonial tent where they were keeping the men. He was trying to keep it secret from the Spood, but word got out. When they came for him, he broke free and escaped, and they—they chased him down with a droove and they—"

Lillatta stopped. She would not say the words. Then, her face screwed up with anger.

"I swear! I'll kill that Bratar if I ever find him!" She spat on the straw floor.

My ears heard, but my brain took a few seconds to catch up.

"Bratar? What does Bratar have to do with this?" I asked.

"He told the Spood about Kalor's plan. He's a traitor. He betrayed us!"

Then Lillatta reddened, realizing she should be the last person to accuse another of betrayal. I said nothing. That was all in the past and no longer concerned me.

My thoughts were instead on Bratar. Being a coward was bad enough but a traitor, too? What would cause a person to turn against his tribe, his family? How could anyone do that and still live with himself?

Lillatta was about to continue, but I felt it time I told her something, something I should have told her long ago. Speaking from an emotional place has always been hard for me, but I would not shirk it now. I reached out my hands to grasp hers. With a puzzled expression, she faced me as I spoke.

"I am so sorry Lil, about Kalor. He was a good person, and I admired him a great deal. I want you to know that even though I never said so, I thought he was perfect for you. It might have seemed at times that I was avoiding you both and was pushing you away from me, but that was never the case. I always wished only for your happiness, and I thought my father's path for me was not a safe one for you. I had hoped you and Kalor would be free of it and have a long and joyous life together. I am so sorry it did not turn out that way."

Lillatta's eyes dampened again.

"Thank you, Sanny, for saying that. It means a lot to me."

I embraced her again in an emotional hug. When we separated, and both of us had composed ourselves, I asked, "Can you tell me what became of Satu and Pilkin?"

Lillatta did not respond right away. She looked down at the dirty straw a moment before turning her face back to mine.

"It was a terrible thing, San. There was this man in charge, a priest with red hair who—"

"Wait. What? A redheaded priest?"

My mind reeled. Could this possibly be the priest from the sperza?

"Was this man fat?" I asked.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I think I've met the man. If it's the same one, I killed one of his soldiers."

Lillatta's eyes broadened, and her face reflected a level of shock I had never witnessed before. She looked at me as if seeing a stranger. I could see how shaken she was by my words, by my admitting to having killed a man. She sat in silence for a moment. Then, her expression changed.

"Good! You should have killed that fat man, too. You don't know what terrible things these people do."

In truth, I did. I had seen enough evidence by personally witnessing the cruelty of the redheaded priest and his soldiers. Yet how could the murderous fat man have been in two separate places? Thinking about it, I realized the time frame would have allowed for it. It was possible for him to have been at both the sperza and terrorizing our lands during that period—but why? Lillatta cleared it up for me.

"The fat priest didn't stay long. I overheard him telling one of the Creet that superiors had summoned him to oversee the building of something but that he would return once that got underway.

"He's evil," Lillatta continued. "He had a grottis built—do you know what that is?"

I told her I did.

"The priest asked who the shaman was. Pilkin wasn't going to admit he was our medicine man, but then Bratar pointed him out. Bratar's working with the Spood now. He's a soldier in their ranks."

I shook my head in disbelief. A Spood soldier? The Spood look upon others as inferiors. Why would they allow Bratar, as inferior a person as ever existed, to become one of them? They must be insane.

"Pilkin was mad as fuld, but he could do nothing," Lillatta continued. "They wanted to make an example of the spiritual leaders of the people they conquered, to show them that their god was more powerful. They tied him to that grottis, and then they ... It was so ..."

The image must have been horrifying, for Lillatta hid her face in her hands again, holding them over her eyes for a few moments before sliding them down past her cheeks.

"They tortured him, Sanny. They threw things at him, and he screamed. It was awful, the worst thing I've ever seen! He suffered so terribly before he died. I was sick."

The fat man had to pay for that. I vowed that if I ever got out of here, I would see to it personally.

Lillatta finished her story.

"They built ten of them."

"Ten? What possible reason was there to build ten?"

"For Pilkin's six apprentices and a few others, that's who they were for."

"And what about Satu?"

Lillatta looked away, and I feared what she was about to say.

"Bratar pointed him out to the priest," she said in a low voice. "With his bad leg, they felt he'd be of no use to them. They sacrificed him on a grottis."

Anger always resides in me, and I try to keep it in check, but it has to have space. Now, it was growing and squeezing into too tight places, and that was dangerous. I felt there was no room for more and yet more kept coming, with no means to dump what was already in me.

I had been keeping an eye on two of our male cellmates, both of whom had been in the room when the newcomers arrived. They were talking to Miras, the Sakita woman I had first spotted in Lillatta's caravan. I could tell by Miras' body language that she was uncomfortable with their conversation. Then, one of the men grabbed her arm, and the other touched her hair.

I leaped up, causing Lillatta to jump. I marched across the room.

"Are these men bothering you, Miras?" I asked.

The two men, one who was about twenty and the other older, glanced over at me with undisguised irritation. After he got a good look at me, the younger one leered.

"We can bother you, instead, if you like."

His companion laughed.

I ignored them and spoke to the frightened Miras.

"Are these men bothering you?"

She gave a barely perceptible nod. The young man did not appreciate my interference.

"You better get out of here, little girl," he threatened. "We can't be responsible for what happens to you if you don't."

They were both standing directly in front of me now, the older one grinning.

"Let's show her what we do to those who don't mind their place," he suggested.

I was aware of the dead silence in the room. None of the men watching seemed inclined to intervene.

"Which one of you is the stupid one?" I asked.

They stared at me dully, caught off guard by the unusual question.

"Well, sorry to disappoint. I know each of you wanted to claim it, but I'm afraid it's a tie. You're both stupid."

The young one cursed and in a bellowing rage lunged forward, swinging his fist to crack my face. I curved out of its path and countered with a furious fist to his stomach. He bent over with an audible grunt and fell straight to the floor. The other came in with a wild attack, swinging one arm and then the other. I avoided both and punched him hard in the nose. He cried out and put his hands to the broken flesh as blood seeped from between his fingers.

The younger one, now crazed with fury, had gotten back up and had raised his fist to hammer down hard upon my head. The anger in me had found an outlet, and I was eager for the fray. I blocked the man's downward thrust and then gave him a sharp chop across the throat. He gasped and choked. I grabbed his left arm, spun him around, and then shoved his face hard into the wall. I cranked his arm up his back until he screamed in agony.

"I could break your arm with one more little push," I told him. "And do you know what would happen if the Spood found out you had a broken arm? They would kill you. So, do you want a broken arm?"

"No, don't, please," the man pleaded.

A scuffling sound and a thump sounded behind me. I turned my head to see the other man lying on the floor, out cold. Lillatta stood over him with a wicked grin on her face.

"He tried to take advantage while your back was turned. I thought he might want to take a little nap," she said in explanation.

It was good to see the old, feisty, humorous Lillatta back. I had missed her.

I turned back to the whimpering man, gave a savage crank to his already distressed arm, and then told him, "You are going to sit down, shut up, and not so much as think about bothering these women ever again." Then I released him.

The man turned and rubbed his bruised arm. He glared at me, full of angry resentment and said, "You're craz—"

He saw my look and thought better of finishing his comment, and then he hurriedly moved off to find a place to sit far from my presence.

As I made my way back to Lillatta, I noticed the stunned expressions and dropped jaws of the men in the cell. I also detected smiles. These were mostly on the faces of the women, and as I proceeded across the room, I became aware that they were directing those smiles at me. Even the Sakitan women were smiling, and that astonished.

Miras approached. There was no hint of disapproval from her Sakita companions as she stood before me, her eyes meeting mine.

"Thank you ... Sanyel."

She had spoken my name. I knew it had to have been difficult for her, for banishment encourages the severing of all connections forever, and that includes never uttering the name of the banished. Miras was making a deliberate effort to reconnect, and by saying my name, she was telling me I was no longer invisible to her. Only Lillatta had dared speak my name until now, and that was because she probably didn't know any better—or, she didn't care.

I had no opportunity to respond to Miras, for the sound of the door unlatching drew our attention. It had been less than an hour since our incarceration. Now, the guards wanted us out of the cell, down the stairs, and back out into the sunlight.

**

~~SIXTEEN~~

We weren't the only ones forced to relocate. It seemed entire buildings were emptying. Masses of gray were on the move, marching down the street and into the plaza. The plaza was a large, open, stone-paved area surrounded by government buildings. These edifices sat back a fair distance from the plaza, allowing room for an elevated walkway to rim the entire forum. Presently, a tiered grandstand occupied this wide walkway, seemingly a temporary construction erected for the upcoming festivities. An enormous, mixed crowd populated the seats.

Five streets emptied into the plaza, two each from the east and west and one from the south. On the north end was a permanent stone platform, wide and elevated, with a speaking podium and lectern off to one side. Behind the lectern stood a clean-shaven, balding priest, flanked by numerous other priests and Creet guards. Creet soldiers also lined the outer edge of the plaza, stationed in front of the tiered grandstand three ranks deep.

As our handlers herded us into the plaza, I stole a quick glance at the balding priest, who had just stepped from behind the lectern. He had a lanky frame and appeared to be middle-aged. A mild wind caused his blue robe to billow, exposing a stirka in a scabbard belted around his waist. That surprised me, for he was the only armed priest I had seen among all those I had previously encountered. He also held a scepter in his right hand, a short, gem-studded rod that glittered in the sunlight. My attention returned to our Creet guards as they prodded us to form columns and rows. I made sure Lillatta stuck with me, and soon we stood side-by-side facing the priest's podium and the stage.

There was no conversation among the gray-clad, for we had learned that silence was the requirement for continued existence. However, the Spood crowd surrounding us on three sides was noisy with chants, hoots, and boisterous laughter. I gleaned nothing from this except that it could not be good for us.

The priest raised his scepter, and the crowd quieted. He began to speak.

"I am Smerkas, High Priest of the Spood, masters of the world," he pompously intoned.

A smattering of titters escaped from the gray throng. Smerkas stopped speaking and motioned with his wand. Creet guards waded into our ranks and began selecting people at random. A Creet walked past me and took the woman three places to my left. The guards guided those chosen up to the platform stage and lined them up. There were four of them, two men and two women. Voices stirred among the assembled viewers, but they ceased as Smerkas lifted his staff again and then waved it downward. Creet soldiers standing behind the four drew their swords. They stabbed, and the four died, with two screaming in pain from the flawed execution. Blood flowed and dripped from the stage as the crowd cheered. My hands and teeth clenched in anger.

Smerkas waved the voices down and continued his interrupted speech as Creet guards cleared the bodies from the platform.

"As I was saying, we are the Spood, masters of the world."

This time, his pompous statement triggered not a single snicker.

"We are giving you the privilege of serving us," the high priest went on. "We have rules you must follow, but they should not be difficult to comprehend. We require that you never speak to a Spood unless spoken to and that you follow orders always and immediately.

"They are simple rules and easy to remember. If unable—or unwilling—to follow these perfectly understandable rules ... Well, let us say the consequences would not be pleasant. The one true god, Gor-jar, has a tremendous appetite. The grottis always awaits those who would defy our authority."

Smerkas turned as a thin woman approached the podium from the priest's left.

"Ah, my beautiful wife has arrived, and she will now look for the mark."

Smerkas' idea of beauty didn't say much for his powers of discernment. As his wife went over to stand by his side, the priest explained what sort of mark she would be looking for.

"All male slaves will turn your palms upward. My wife will examine them for the mark of the spear."

Two burly Creet soldiers accompanied Smerkas' wife as she walked back and forth through our rows. She stopped at every male and closely scrutinized every upturned palm. Satisfied that the "mark of the spear" was not hiding in one, she went on to the next.

When she passed in front of me, she paused, and then she glanced around as if confused. As she turned, I examined her appearance. She wore garish makeup, and her nose had a slight crook. Her stretched black hair, pinned up high, looked flamboyant and absurd. Her lips were as thin as the edge of a rik-ta, and I wondered if she ever got any sun. Even now, one of the Creet guards had the humiliating responsibility of shielding her from Ra-ta's rays. He followed her around, all the while holding over her head a ridiculous sheet of cloth spread onto a wooden frame attached to a stick.

The woman still seemed confused. Then, she must have determined that a man in the row ahead of her was the one causing her distraction. She excitedly examined the man's palms, but her excitement died when she discovered nothing of interest.

Meanwhile, with my arms at my side, I had turned my right hand over to examine a scar etched there. An accident as a very young child had burned an image into my palm, the image of a spear point. I had been no more than two, and I had gotten too close to the blacksmith's work area. A hot spearhead fresh from the fire attracted me. With a child's foolishness, I slapped my hand over the glowing object and then screamed from the searing pain. My father applied a salve while patiently teaching me its ingredients, an early introduction to the tools of the healer.

Smerkas' wife had moved farther along, so after a quick look at my scar, I turned my hand back to my side. I felt relief that the palm search had exempted females.

With the hand examination completed, Smerkas now introduced the main attraction of the day's festivities, a stunning creature who seemed more monster than human—Brum. As he appeared on stage, it struck me that Barkor would look like a wilted flower next to this hulking brute. The man's build resembled that of a porse, and he seemed to share the beast's lack of agility as well. When he turned, his whole body turned. He seemed unable to twist his oversized head, for his thick neck had blended into and was indistinguishable from his powerful shoulders. When he stepped, his knees could barely bend, so the entire side of his body seemed to lift and tilt. His muscles were grotesque in their proportions. It seemed miraculous the man could move at all.

His entrance onto the platform caused an instantaneous uproar. The crowd had anticipated his arrival, and now they showed their love and appreciation. I cringed from the noise explosion, which came not only from the grandstand but also from the usually stoic Creet soldiers lining the plaza.

Up went Smerkas' sparkling wand and the din subsided.

"Welcome to all attending this initiation for our newly arrived slaves," Smerkas greeted the crowd. Then he addressed us, saying, "Slaves, this is your chance, the only chance we will give you, to gain your freedom."

The crowd erupted in cheers as my mind wrapped itself around the word—freedom. A Spood promising freedom? I smelled deception.

Smerkas was asking for volunteers while explaining that all a slave had to do was defeat Brum in one-on-one combat to earn his freedom. So, that was the catch. You toss out an offer and see how many gullible fools—well, here was one now.

A boy unfamiliar to me, a muscular youth of about eighteen, had raised his hand. A magnanimous Creet soldier escorted the young man to the platform, and to the boy's surprise (and mine), he handed him a knife.

Brum was waiting in the background and now stepped forward. The boy grinned as the muscled freak approached him—why, I don't know. Maybe he thought the knife gave him an advantage. It didn't. He rushed forward, slashing stupidly, and Brum grabbed his arm as he was swinging through. The blade fell harmlessly to the stone, and we all heard a sickening crack. The boy screamed as his broken arm dangled, now a useless appendage. Then, Brum snapped his neck, and the screaming stopped.

The crowd exploded in an ecstatic frenzy, cheering and whistling. Lillatta glanced over at me with eyebrows lifted. I had to agree it had been an impressive display of brute strength, but the boy had gone about his attack all wrong.

Smerkas asked for more volunteers, but it seemed no one was in the mood for a spine snapping. Therefore, with total disregard for the word's inconvenient definition, Smerkas informed us a guard would choose volunteers instead. A Creet soldier sent into our midst selected an unlikely man in his mid-thirties, a man seemingly devoid of muscles.

The man had the look of doom about him, for, in truth, that seemed his fate. Then, an added twist. A female selectee would join him. It would be the man's duty to fight for both their lives. If he succeeded in that, they would both go free. If he failed ...

The Creet soldier in charge of picking "volunteers" roamed the plaza with a buoyant enthusiasm, seeming to enjoy his moment as the center of attention. He would stop in front of a woman, and then, as her terror grew, the man would laugh and decide she wouldn't do; he would then continue the search. The crowd loved it, but he was getting closer to me, and he still hadn't chosen his victim.

Then, to my horror, he picked Lillatta! Her panicked look spurred me to act.

"I'll take her place."

I had spoken loudly to allow everyone to hear. The Creet soldier stared at me in disbelief. Slaves do not speak unless their masters allow it. Before the man could lift his swok to discipline me, Smerkas piped up.

"Wonderful! We have another volunteer. Bring her up."

The crowd buzzed. Two more for Brum to toy with, one so stupid she volunteered for certain death.

I got to the platform, and a Creet handed the knife to the man of no muscle. I could see he was trembling and could barely hang onto the thing.

"Give it to me," I whispered. The man gave me a blank stare.

"The knife. Give it to me," I demanded, for Brum was coming. The man meekly handed it over.

The crowd gasped, and then it exploded in uproarious laughter over the man's spineless act. This show was getting better and better.

Brum came forward. I let him get within an arm's length and then jumped back and to the side, away from his clutching grasp. He turned and began inching toward me again. He had no expression, and it was then I realized he was as dumb as a rock. I wiggled my finger, indicating for him to come get me; the crowd roared. I could see an annoyed Smerkas gesturing over by the rostrum, and at last, he shouted, "Go get her!"

Brum lumbered forward but seemed unsure of himself. My strategy of not letting him get close had him flustered, and he didn't have the brains or mobility to adjust.

The brute began to bore me. I made a rush toward him—then stopped. He reached out those massive arms a little more quickly this time but grasped nothing but air, for I had no trouble eluding them. As I stepped away, I poked the knife lightning fast to flick his chin, drawing blood.

A disturbed rumbling emanated from the crowd. Brum lifted a hand to wipe away the crimson streak. I took the opening to charge forward and stab the blade deep between his ribs, then withdrew it and retreated. Enraged by pain, the slow-witted beast came at me again. I let the maddened monster waddle up close, then stepped nimbly aside to my left. I whipped a wicked, sweeping kick to his right leg, and he toppled forward like a rotted kanser in a high wind.

The place was in near riot. The spectators screamed at Brum to get up, but that wasn't going to happen. I walked over, jumped onto Brum's back, then jammed my knife through thick layers of muscle. I sought the brute's heart, hoping to find it in the right place, where a normal human's heart might be. The metal found it and stilled its beat.

Brum was dead. The killer would kill the defenseless no more.

However, I had no illusions that freedom was any closer.

"Seize her! Seize her!" Smerkas screamed.

The Creet guards on the platform surged toward me as my no-muscle companion jumped off the stage and into the slave congregation to disappear. I stood alone, vastly outnumbered, bracing myself for battle.

Then, the most remarkable exhibition of bravery I have ever witnessed occurred. A droove leaped onto the platform, appearing suddenly from the street that ran behind it. A gray-clad form slid from the beast and with sword in hand began raining destruction onto the stunned mass of Creet soldiers. The blade danced, its smooth and effortless strokes slicing and stabbing. A Creet head separated from its moorings. A priest with a heart full of metal staggered and fell.

Panic broke out among the grandstand spectators. They stumbled over each other as they screamed and fled in terror. The Creet lining the plaza advanced as slaves instigated a spontaneous revolt. The slaves had witnessed the Spood treachery in not allowing my freedom, and now they seized the weapons of soldiers caught off guard by the fluid events. The high priest, Smerkas, had vanished from the stage as the Creet on the platform began to back away in horror from the wrath of the swordmaster decimating their ranks.

Meanwhile, I went to assist the brave newcomer. She grinned, and her eyes held that mischievous look I was getting to know so well. Izzy was in her element, wielding a flashing blade, having fun.

"Where's Brilna," I asked in a conversational tone while bending down to snatch up a fallen spear.

"Oh, she's around," Izzy answered in casual response as she rammed the butt of her stirka into a Creet forehead.

At that moment, Lillatta joined us, so I tossed her the rik-ta I had used on Brum. She immediately put it to good use by utilizing a deft move to force a Creet attacker to blunder into an off-balance position. She finished him off with a quick thrust through his leather vest to the heart. I marveled that the girl had not forgotten her training, and she didn't even appear to be rusty. She seemed to have no aversion to killing Spood, either. Good for her. She would avenge Kalor.

It must have been quite a mind-twisting sight for the Spood. Three young slaves, girls at that, standing in a circle slaughtering with ease the best the masters of the world had to throw at them. I could see the confusion in their faces as they went down before our blades. I was feeling that strange rush of energy that sometimes came, an extra burst I attributed to Ra-ta guiding my hand. My spear was relentless, stabbing and swiping, fending off awkward thrusts of swords, knives, and spears, then returning the same, only with efficiency and lethal results.

We were soon awash in blood, and that made the stage slippery. Despite our current success, the Creet forces were too many to handle, so it was time to go. I tapped my companions each on the arm and signaled my intention.

Izzy led the way as we jumped from the rear of the platform to the street that ran behind it. The battle was not going well for the outnumbered slaves. Many were already back in custody as more soldiers poured into the plaza. Our pursuers multiplied, but our sudden escape to the street had surprised them, so we enjoyed a decent head start.

"I hope you know where you're going," I yelled ahead to Izzy. My breath came hard as I chased her down the paved street.

"No, not really," Izzy said, turning her head to deliver the reply.

I exchanged looks with Lillatta, who was racing beside me, and she just shrugged, indicating it didn't matter to her where they were going as long as it was away from here.

I shifted my spear to get a better-balanced grip. As we fled down yet another street, surprised Spood parents gaped and then grabbed their children to hustle them away from the armed heathens. I knew we would soon exhaust our energy and be run down by the pursuing Creet. Spotting a dark opening appearing on our left, I shouted to Izzy to turn into it. Perhaps we could find a moment to catch our breath and hide, granting even a brief respite from our pursuers.

It worked. The Creet soldiers passed by as we huddled in the darkness of what appeared to be an empty droove stable. When we were sure the last of the pursuers had passed, we relaxed and let our breathing steady. It was absurd and improbable that yet another plan-that-was-no-plan seemed to be working. By some miracle, we still lived. Ra-ta must be enjoying himself—or, perhaps Mim directed the show this time.

Then, as if to counter my foolish optimism, a door dropped. A heavy door cross-hatched with metal bars, upraised just moments before, had come crashing down to block the stable opening. We were trapped.

A crowd formed outside the stable, and it was not long before I learned the door drop had been deliberate. By the talk, it appeared the stable owner had witnessed us enter the building. After realizing the passing Creet had been chasing us, he had released the mechanism that held the door in its upraised position.

Other talk filtered in as we waited to learn our fate. More people were arriving, and some of those had come directly from the extravaganza we had just escaped. They had witnessed our three-against-a-thousand performance.

"I tell you it's them," one speaker was insisting as he examined us from a safe distance outside the bars. "It's the three from the prophecy, here before our eyes."

Another man was contemptuous, dismissing his companion's conclusion.

"They are women, mere girls," he said. "The prophecy is about men. Any fool knows that."

"You did not see them," the first man replied. "They were beasts of terror. Their blades moved in two directions at once. The one with one arm I swear had three. The Creet were falling dead without even being touched!"

I was enjoying this perfectly accurate account of our recent exploits, and I saw Izzy and Lillatta were as well. I hoped the man would not forget how I had blasted one Creet clear across the plaza by merely exhaling. I imagined, in years to come, this story would wind up resembling the truth in little but that the day was sunny—if they even got that right.

A commotion interrupted the two men's conversation, and the crowd began to part.

"She is coming!" someone exclaimed.

Then "she" arrived, the high-haired wife of the head priest, Smerkas. Accompanying her were her shade-provider and a contingent of grim-faced Creet. Keeping a safe distance from the potential of a jabbing spear, she spoke to us, and her manner showed typical Spood arrogance.

"Each of you slaves will approach the bars, one at a time, and hold out your hands, palms up. Do it now."

Izzy looked at me. Then she shrugged and went first, for we had little choice. The woman exercised caution as she moved closer, motioning several guards to accompany her. As Izzy's lone hand protruded from the enclosure, the woman grew angry.

"Put the other one out!" she demanded.

"I have only one."

A Creet glanced inside the stable.

"There's just the one," he confirmed.

The impertinence of Izzy having only one hand seemed to perturb the woman. I knew the Spood frowned on physical defects. She grabbed the hand roughly, and after a practiced scan, she quickly discarded it.

"Step back," she commanded. "Let me see the next."

Lillatta's turn. Same result.

"Last one, hurry it up. I don't have all day to waste on slaves."

I put my hands through the bars and turned my palms up. The woman gasped and lurched back as if struck.

"No, it can't be, it can't be," she said.

I thought she was about to faint, for her skin had managed to turn a paler tint than it already was.

Smerkas' wife made a deliberate effort to compose herself, and then she took a long look at me. Her demeanor began to change, and I thought I saw a glint of triumph in her eyes. The terror had vanished, replaced by her previous confidence and haughty bearing.

"Throw out your weapons or I will have the guard spear you where you stand," she commanded.

We had little choice but to obey. The door lifted and we were prisoners once more.

**

~~SEVENTEEN~~

Guards marched us back to the same drab building of our previous incarceration, but they locked us into a different cell. This one was empty and seemed somewhat cleaner. With nothing else to do, we sat on the straw-covered floor to converse. I was eager to catch up on Izzy and Brilna's recent adventures, but first, we addressed what had just happened.

"What was that all about?" asked Izzy, looking to me. "The woman seemed frightened after examining your hand."

"It's the mark, isn't it San?" Lillatta spoke up. "The spear burn?"

"It appears so," I confirmed. I gestured toward Lillatta and said to Izzy, "This is Lil, by the way."

"Pleasure to finally meet you," Izzy said. She smiled and held out her lone hand.

Lillatta grasped it and replied, "Same here." Then she chuckled and said, "Though I don't exactly know who you are."

Izzy laughed and formally introduced herself. Afterward, I addressed her question concerning the Spood interest in me. I told her about Smerkas' wife checking hands for a "mark of the spear."

I then showed her my burn scar and explained its origin.

She let out a low whistle. "Why would a mark you received as a child concern the Spood?"

"I have no answer for that. My accident had nothing to do with them, so it is curious."

I then spent some time telling Lillatta all that had happened to me since my banishment. She marveled at how I had survived the desert and escaped Spood captivity. She thought it foolish I had thrown away that freedom to help her, but she was grateful nonetheless. Afterward, the conversation turned to Izzy and Brilna and to what had transpired since our separation. Izzy assured me that Brilna was safe, saying she would discuss the girl's situation in a bit. First, she wanted to tell what had happened to them since our parting.

After extinguishing her torch, Izzy and Brilna had reunited. Both then watched from the darkness—in the pouring rain, Izzy emphasized—as I spoke to the boy, Javen. When dawn arrived, and the caravan moved out, the two followed at a discreet distance all the way to the hills overlooking Grell.

They saw me enter the fortress tunnel, and both prayed they hadn't lost me for good. They hid in a grove of kansers up in the hills and watched for any hint of a way to get inside that massive compound. Within half an hour, the sun began to strike the fortress wall at a particular angle, and both noticed something glinting.

The river that flowed from the hills and then disappeared beneath the fortress walls did so very near this reflection point. They took advantage of concealment offered by the riverbank to make their way down toward the mystery. The wall angled away from the direct sight of the main gate tunnel, well before the section Izzy and Brilna wanted to examine, so detection from those guards was impossible. Also, the several fields in view from that angle had no workers that day. They had noticed, as I had, that there were no sentries posted on the high battlements.

This allowed the two to walk unseen right up to the wall and to the reflecting object, which happened to be a round, clear-looking "eye" countersunk into the wall surface. Oddly, the eye came up only to around mid-thigh, so the girls had to kneel down to examine it.

Not knowing what this eye was, or what it was for, Brilna, naturally, touched it. Nothing happened, so Brilna poked it. Nothing. Izzy bent down to look into the eye. She jumped when a rectangular section of the fortress wall in front of them, which included the embedded eye, began to slide to one side. It churned the packed soil built up against it as it moved.

The movement reminded Izzy of her experience with the back of the cave wall. This fortress section had a similar disguise. In appearance, it seemed like all the other sections, massive stone bricks. However, this narrow portion, barely two people wide, was, in reality, a thin wall that somehow could push itself out and slide across the face of the main wall. This action occurred through some mechanical process when the eye was activated. When back in place, the section was invisible, blending in perfectly with the stone wall.

When the panel opened, Izzy and a frightened Brilna found themselves peering into what seemed a dimly lighted compartment. There was a slight drop off to a solid floor, and the top of the doorway seemed rather low. Izzy quickly realized that many years of soil buildup along the outer fortress wall had covered the lower part of the door, so they were standing much higher up than someone would if entering years ago. That meant this door had been unused for a very long time.

Izzy wanted to explore the empty and mysterious room revealed by the open panel, but Brilna insisted they return to the hilltop. Izzy had to persuade her they could do nothing to help me from up there, and at last Brilna relented.

The top of the door opening was about shoulder high, so they ducked under that and entered the space beyond it, jumping down to the solid floor less than an arm's length below. A portion of the soil churned up by the opening door had fallen inside the room near the entrance. Brilna kicked at it, and when she did, the fake wall startled them by sliding back into place as if the dirt had prevented it closing.

The compartment was not fully enclosed. Solid stone walls formed two sides of the small square space in which the girls stood, and a third side was the slightly recessed entry door they had come through, the thin sliding panel. The fourth side had no barrier wall at all. Instead, a long, gently sloping double staircase occupied that space. The floor the girls stood upon was the landing at the base of this staircase, and the steps appeared to extend all the way to the heights of fortress Grell. The source of illumination for the landing and stairway was the open sky, for no ceiling existed. Izzy quickly realized that they were standing inside the walls, literally inside the thick rock walls that made up the vast structure.

The two had nowhere to go but up, so a cautious Izzy placed a foot upon the first step of the right-hand staircase. It seemed stable enough, but then she heard a low hum and swore she saw and felt the stone step move slightly upward. Jumping back off the step, she eyed the stairway with suspicion, entertaining the thought that it might be a living creature with designs on eating her.

The steps remained immobile as the hum grew fainter and soon ceased. After a short while, they judged the stairs guiltless of nefarious intent, and having no other choice, Izzy again pressed a foot upon the first step. This time there was no hum and no movement, so they began to climb. Izzy said it was a long way up and that the stairs ended at the very summit of the fortress. Izzy had her blade ready as they exited the stairwell next to a small, short tower, a turret.

They stepped out onto a walkway of flat stone bordered by battlements on either side. These crenelated parapets were chest high, and the smooth walkway between them extended in either direction as far as the eye could see along the fortress wall, perhaps running its entire length. Short turrets planted every one hundred fifty paces, including the one they had exited next to, occupied positions along only the outer parapet. The walkway's width, including both battlements, appeared to be about twenty paces across, the same as the length of the tunnel entrance into the fortress. There was no sign of any human presence.

After verifying that they were indeed alone, Izzy examined her surroundings. She found the view outside the fortress over the north side parapet breathtaking. With a warm, robust wind stroking her face, she had gazed out across the fields to endless hills, plains, and verdant valleys, out to where she lost clarity to a distant haze. Strolling across the walkway to look out over the south side parapet, Izzy had surveyed the luscious greenery of the fortress interior, extended her view to the almost indiscernible battlements on the remote far wall, and then looked beyond them to the sea. Drawn, as I had been, to the sea's powerful, sensuous motion, she had pondered its vastness as it opened up on its way to touch the hem of the sky. She said she had felt like what she imagined the sun god Mim must feel when she looks out from on high over the entire world.

Her intuition told her that the design of this construction had to be from an advanced people or even from the fertile mind of the sun god herself. She said she believed the Spood were incapable of engineering something this sophisticated. The height alone was unfathomable.

"Do you think it could have been your cave-builders who constructed it?" I asked her.

"I have no idea, but I'm sure the Spood aren't the ones. I doubt they're the original inhabitants of this place. The walls are too perfect, and the stone is nothing like that used in their sperza buildings. I believe the Spood have never set foot on the walkway atop those walls. There was no sign of anyone having been up there for a very long time."

So that explained the lack of sentries! The Spood had no access to the top of the wall. The fortress walls were sheer and smooth, and that would make them difficult to scale. Also, nothing I had seen indicated they possessed anything that could reach that high. The only access must be through those sliding panels, and it appeared the Spood knew nothing about them!

Izzy continued her story, saying the two of them began exploring. They walked the high stone pathway down to the next small tower and saw the same design as the first. Each of these turrets was a round, roofed enclosure you could step into directly from the walkway, with square-cut openings to allow viewing outside the fortress walls from within its protective confines. Izzy guessed that they were for sentries to use if it rained. They found another double stairway, this one along the south side parapet directly across the walkway from this second tower. The stairway was identical to the first one. They tested the stairs for movement, and when nothing happened, they took the stairs down.

At this point, I interrupted with another question.

"Why do you think that first stairway moved? Did you ever figure that out?"

"I'm sure it was simply the act of stepping on it that caused it to shift, but why, I couldn't say. It moved only a slight bit and then nothing after that. And I know it hummed when I first set foot on it, but then that also quit. Honestly, I think we broke it. Whatever happened must have affected them all because every stairway we checked after that did nothing. That first one was the only one that had any reaction to us."

Izzy went on to say that at the bottom of the second stairway they searched around for another eye on the wall. They found one, again on a thin doorway panel slightly recessed into the thicker wall surrounding it.

Interrupting again, I asked, "When you were at the bottom of the first stairway, did you see an eye on the inside wall there, too, maybe on the reverse side of the door that closed?"

"Sorry, Sanyel, we didn't even think to look, but there probably was. Because, as I mentioned, we checked out several more stairways. There's one located near every turret, either right next to it or directly across the walkway from it, and every one had an eye on a wall at the stairway bottom. It seems there are eyes at these locations so someone can open the sliding panels from either outside the fortress or from inside the walls.

"Which leads me to tell you what happened when we tried to make the one at the bottom of the second stairwell work. Brilna put her eye to it as I had with the other, but nothing happened.

"She tried everything. Poking it, pounding it, even breathing on it, but nothing worked. Then, I happened to wave my hand past it, and it opened. But it opened to the interior of the fortress!"

To the interior! This was getting even more interesting. So every small tower had a stairway near it, some adjacent to them and some directly across the walkway from them. These stairways led down to sliding walls that either opened to the outside or the interior of the fortress. I figured it out.

"So does every other stairway lead to a wall panel that opens out and the rest to ones that open in?" I asked.

I had spoiled Izzy's forthcoming revelation, but she let it pass.

"Yes, that's what we found. At each turret location, a stairway is located either right next to it or across the walkway from it. The stairways alternate which side of the path they are on from tower to tower. The turrets are all along the outer wall, so the staircases on that side all lead down to panels that open to the outside of the fortress. The ones along the inner wall lead to panels opening to the fortress interior. We also found out that the doors close on their own when nothing is blocking the doorway, the same as we witnessed with that first door. That was fortunate for us, for when we opened that second door, we sighted people standing a few hundred paces away. Lucky for us, they were facing south and didn't see or hear us. The door closed back shut within moments, and I thank Mim none of them realized we were there.

"And a couple of other things. I figured out it was my rings that opened the doors. When I tried looking into the first door eye, my nose ring must have passed in front of it, causing it to open. The second door opened when my finger ring crossed in front of the eye. I think maybe the singing from the metal makes them open.

"And something I found rather strange was that there was very little debris in the stairwells or on the walkway on top of the walls. Since those areas are all exposed to the elements, there should have been years of soil buildup. The amount that was there could not have been there for more than a few years. Someone must have cleaned those stairs and that walkway in years past, but they haven't for a while. I'm sure it wasn't the Spood, or they would certainly still have people up there now."

A Creet guard interrupted us by cracking open the cell door, placing food and water on the floor, and then departing. We satiated our hunger by devouring the mush in the wooden bowls, and then we shared the skin of water. We had been in this cell since late afternoon, and now the shadows of early evening were eroding what light remained.

None of us had yet spoken of what we expected to happen to us in the coming hours. I did not know what the others felt, but I was still upbeat. For strange as it might seem, I was beginning to believe what my father had believed. I had come into the heart of danger, and I remained unscathed. Was Ra-ta guiding my hand? Was it my destiny to lead my people through these troubled times as my father had insisted?

I glanced over at Lil and caught her yawning. Izzy rubbed her lone hand over the inked side of her face. They were both bone-tired, and I knew how they felt. It had been a rough day for us all, and as I contemplated my weary companions, I felt pride. I had witnessed their makeup this day. Izzy with her blazing sword and Lillatta showing all the lethal skills she had learned at the hands of my father. We were so young, so innocent back then, playing in the woods at being warriors. Now, we had killed—and to what end? Only Ra-ta knew.

Despite her fatigue, Izzy concluded her tale before we settled down to sleep. After discovering the secrets of the sliding panels, the two girls had continued walking the high walls, unnoticed by those below. Not knowing where the Spood had taken me, they scoured the roads and fields from the south side parapet.

When the city of Grell appeared in their sights, they decided what to do.

It had been logical to assume the city was where the Spood took me, so the two found a south side stairway that opened to the fortress interior. They made sure the panel was in a remote area so no one would spot the door's movement. Brilna stayed behind so she could re-open the door for me in case I showed up without Izzy. Izzy gave Brilna her finger ring for that purpose. It was fortunate Brilna had thought to bring along their only skin of water so at least she would not die of thirst while waiting.

Izzy had looked back as she departed for the city. She wanted to imprint the landmarks in her mind so she could find the proper wall on her return. Once on the city outskirts, she had employed care in making her way down dangerous backstreets. Izzy knew a spike-haired, tattooed, nose-ringed, sword-carrying figure in gray would be rather easy to spot even by the most myopic of Spood. She had no idea where to find me, but Brilna had informed her that slave orientations regularly took place in the city's central plaza (Brilna's escaped fellow tribesman had told her this), so that was Izzy's destination. With luck, she discovered a part of the city devoid of people, a section undergoing construction. Her progress toward the plaza went unimpeded, and soon she reached an area of droove stables, which happened to be across the street from the plaza stage.

She had been watching what was unfolding through cracks in the stable's walls when she realized I was in trouble. She grabbed a droove, crossed the street, and jumped onto the platform.

The rest I knew.

Guards woke us in the morning, shackled our wrists with metal rings and chains, and then marched us outdoors and across the plaza. The temporary grandstand rimming the square had vanished, taken down during the night. A gruesome reminder of yesterday's revolt and its tragic outcome remained, for numerous bloodstains still spattered the stone plaza floor. I found out later that a third of the slaves gathered that day had died. The Spood had used the revolt as an excuse to make even more blood offerings to their god, Gor-jar—a safeguard, it seems, against a repeat of these troubling evils.

Their bodies remained—dozens of them—hanging on grottis frames at the plaza's edge. I did not know if any were Sakita, for their features were unrecognizable, the result of the brutal battering they had suffered.

Was I to blame for this? Is it because I chose to fight that so many died? Would it have been better for all if I had let the Spood kill me?

Honestly, I did not know. Is it acceptable to live as a slave, give up your freedom and toil in bondage, always in fear, always in pain? I could not. I would not. I had expected to either die yesterday or again know the protection of Ra-ta's hand. Since I was not dead, I felt my destiny was still unfolding.

After crossing the plaza, we stepped up to the walkway where the tiered grandstand had been, kept moving toward a building featuring a grotesque facade, and climbed its stone steps. The figures carved into the dwelling's face depicted scenes of violence: animal, human, and some too bizarre to even categorize.

Our guards, ten Creet soldiers, waited outside the building after instructing us to enter. We crossed the threshold into a short hallway, and at the end, we encountered more Creet, who escorted us into a large, torchlit waiting area.

The room was high-ceilinged and pillar-supported, with a floor of polished stone. Statues appeared to guard artwork that crowded every wall. The majority of paintings depicted animals and nature scenes, while the statues showed sculpted images of priests holding grottis amulets or armed Creet soldiers in warlike poses. Three new guards approached and directed us to enter a side chamber. There we came face-to-face with Smerkas and his pompous wife.

The guards ordered us to stand in a row before the two. They both sat in high-backed, comfortable-looking chairs, and they were eyeing us as predators would their next meal. The Creet escorts moved away to stand against and blend in with the walls.

The room was small and low and had a magnificent view of the plaza through its wide sental. The walls had no decoration but for a few modest tapestries. Other than the chairs in which the two sat, the room was empty of furnishings.

Smerkas opened the meeting.

"Of course, you know why you are here." He was holding his jeweled scepter in one hand and idly caressing it with the other. "We have been waiting a long time for these events to unfold."

I stared at him with a blank expression, having no idea what he was talking about.

Smerkas' excited wife jumped from her seat and strode closer to us.

"I still cannot believe it! I didn't expect to find anything when my husband wisely told me to check your palms. Yet it's true. The Disrupter is a mere girl. And the Blades of Sorrow are as well!"

What was she babbling about? Disrupter? Blades of Sorrow?

"Tell me," Smerkas' wife asked me, still in that almost giddy manner. "How did you become the Disrupter?"

"I have no clue what you are talking about."

The priest's wife was having none of it.

"Oh, come now, don't be coy, we know who you are."

Well, I should know my identity best, and it was obvious they were talking about someone else.

"You must have me confused with another."

She was getting impatient, and her tone turned brusque.

"You have the mark of the spear," she pointed out as if that explained anything.

"It's a burn mark."

That perked her up.

"So they burned the mark into you? Who are they? Who sent you to Grell?"

We were back to getting nowhere.

"It was an accident when I was a child. I touched a hot spear tip."

She did not believe me.

"You expect us to believe someone did not purposely choose you for this role? And these two," she added, sweeping a hand gesture past Izzy and Lillatta. "I suppose they have not been training for years to fulfill their parts as your chosen companions in bringing agony and destruction to our people? These are not the Blades of Sorrow?"

Smerkas' wife made a huffing noise, a dismissive sound that indicated she still felt we were not forthcoming.

"We know you are the one who killed Kobar, the Creet soldier at the sperza. Your description has reached us. We know the story, how you flew, not even touching the ground to reach and slay him. We also know you came here on your own. Despite being free, you came purposely to Grell. Why do that if you are not the Disrupter?"

Wow, I hadn't remembered I had flown when I killed the Creet. I seemed to recall running and jumping, flying not so much.

"I came here to free my friend," I told the woman, nodding over to Lillatta.

She glanced at Lil, but my truthful words meant nothing to her.

"We are not fools! You came to join her and this other one to carry out your vile mission."

I turned my face to Izzy and Lillatta, and they looked back with as little comprehension as I had. Smerkas' wife would not let it go.

"Where are your armies? We have not detected their presence yet. You cannot defeat our forces by yourselves. Are they waiting for your signal?"

I decided to play along.

"Of course they are waiting, but you must be aware that they are invisible."

Shock replaced the confident air with which the priest's wife had been speaking.

"Invisible?" With a frightened look, she turned to her husband for the first time.

Smerkas had been calmly sitting, letting his wife take the lead, and now he smiled and spoke.

"Invisible armies? When they attack with their invisible swords, will they leave invisible cuts?" The high priest laughed. "I am guessing there are no armies. I believe you planned to instigate a slave revolt, but you have failed. The Spood are still in control. And now we have you."

Smerkas' wife seemed embarrassed to have fallen for my deception, but her mood brightened with her husband's grounded assessment.

"Of course there are no armies," she concurred. "I knew when we captured these three in the stable that they were nothing to fear. I knew then that Gor-jar had made his decision. He chose us, didn't he?"

"He did," Smerkas agreed. The priest gave a short laugh. "He did, indeed."

**

~~EIGHTEEN~~

Back in our cell, we received a surprise. We had four new cellmates, and one was Javen. My face must have lit up when I saw him, for he smiled that insufferable, knowing smile, the one indicating he was aware of my attraction to him.

The others with him I did not know. All three were males in their twenties, and none was a Sakita or Raab. Javen walked up to our group and stood, waiting for introductions. I obliged, noticing Lillatta and Izzy were not immune to his pleasing appearance and appealing tongue. We four found an adequate spot near the airflow of a vent and began discussing recent events.

"I saw you on the platform taking down the man-mountain Brum and battling the Creet," Javen began, and there was grudging respect in his tone. "You did not tell me you could handle a spear and rik-ta."

"I believe I implied it, but you didn't listen," I informed him. "I had to use the weapons myself, of course, because I saw no man to give them to."

"Your tongue bites as sharp as teeth," Javen responded with good humor, "but I assure you, I would have been glad to show you the proper use of the weapons had I been nearer."

Lillatta and Izzy were listening to this exchange with bemusement, but then they caught on to its playful undertones. I turned to Izzy.

"Do you see how I fillet him like a fish with my wit, and then he tries to come back at me with weak retorts?"

"I do, indeed. It is almost as though he does not understand the futility of trying to compete with your superior mind. Sad, really."

Javen laughed, but he had a few jabs left.

"We Raab have always known the Sakita to be superior only at fleeing our spears and as hunters proficient only at tracking down wettle fruit."

"Sanyel is part Raab," Lillatta chimed in.

"Is that so?" Javen showed genuine surprise and then said, "Which part would that be?"

"Well, obviously not the part of intelligence, common sense, or any ability beyond drooling or grunting," I stated.

Everyone laughed, including Javen.

As we shared a drink from a waterskin the guards had left us, I thought about poor Brilna waiting for Izzy to return, and I hoped she was smart enough not to wait too long to free herself of this place. Izzy told me they had hidden their drooves in a kanser grove down by the river, so I was grateful Brilna at least had that avenue of escape.

As for us, we still had no clue to our ultimate fate. The newcomers said they believed the Spood chose us for some particular purpose. Each had been slaves taking part in yesterday's initiation, and each had relished the revolt that had spontaneously erupted. They admitted to actively attacking Creet soldiers.

Javen surmised that our particularly brazen defiance of Spood authority had singled us out from the others. He had heard of special occasions where a select group became sacrifices to Gor-jar without the benefit of a grottis. It seemed the actual living god resided somewhere in the city and directly fed on human flesh provided through these exclusive offerings.

That astounded me. The idea that a living flesh and blood god might be here in the city was hard to accept. It was bad enough to have to endure an agonizing, slow death on a wooden reproduction of the ravenous deity. Would the "honor" of meeting him in person, only to have your flesh eaten for the privilege, be a better choice? Not to me.

Javen was also able to clear up the story behind the Spood obsession with what they called "the Disrupter and the Blades of Sorrow." He informed us that the Spood had a written language, and on an old parchment was detailed a prophecy about a trio of men (assumed by the Spood to be men though not stated as such) who would one day arrive to cause havoc among the Spood population. The very survival of the Spood would be in jeopardy, and their fate would depend on which side Gor-jar decided to favor. The prophecy did not say which side that would be.

The Spood interpreted the words to mean that Gor-jar was amenable to persuasion. Thus, they instituted the endless sacrificial offerings to gain his favor.

A couple of other items mentioned on the parchment merited interest. One was that two unnamed individuals would assist the named three. The other was that the mark of a spear on the dreaded warrior's hand would reveal the Disrupter's identity.

Javen's details clarified many things, but I was uncertain how seriously to take the information. The Blades of Sorrow took it very seriously and were looking rather pleased with themselves. The Disrupter ignored their preening, found a clean patch of straw, and settled down for a much-needed nap.

Guards arrived in the early afternoon to bring us somewhere new. They shackled all seven of us, led us down a back street to a squat building, and ushered us inside.

The building's interior consisted of one large, square room with an expansive skylight made of sheek, that see-through material. The room was empty except for a hole in the middle of its stone floor and a group of people standing around the hole. Smerkas was there along with his wife. The others appeared to be assorted dignitaries of Spood government and society.

We stood against a bare wall while Smerkas conducted a ceremony. As the high priest positioned himself before the opening in the floor, the other priests and dignitaries gathered around him, holding hands. Smerkas began to chant.

"Oh, Gor-jar, accept into your sacred jaws the offerings we present you this day. May you continue to bless us with your protection from the evil forces that would deny our rightful place as masters of the world. He who is both of this world and the world of spirit, continue to guide us to make wise choices in your name. Shabla."

"Shabla," echoed the others.

I listened to the prayer and found it most enlightening but not in a good way. I felt acceptance by Gor-jar's sacred jaws was not for me, so I searched the room for an escape option. None materialized.

Smerkas felt it necessary to indulge in a speech. I believe the high priest was one of the few who enjoyed hearing his grandiose voice.

"Gathered guests, let me welcome you to a most historic occasion. Standing before you (indicating the seven of us) are the slaves who wantonly killed our fellow citizens."

A hostile grumbling emanated from the distinguished gathering.

Smerkas held up his hand.

"Now, I am aware that every one of you would wish to see these criminals executed on the grottis and that each of you would like a fair shot at throwing the first stone."

The crowd responded with loud affirmation.

"But these are no ordinary sacrifices," Smerkas asserted. "Let me correct myself. Three of these are no ordinary sacrifices."

Smerkas paused for effect. When he judged the crowd could abide his silence no longer, he continued speaking.

"We have before us, honored guests, the three most notorious figures in the narratives of our people—the very three prophesied to one day bring our society to ruin. They are the three we have dreaded encountering for hundreds of years."

A man in the audience, experiencing a rare moment of perception for a Spood, deduced the subject of Smerkas' rambling.

"Are you saying that three of these men are the Disrupter and the Blades of Sorrow?" he asked.

Several in the crowd audibly gasped, only then realizing of whom Smerkas was speaking.

The high priest offered his grandest smile. He turned to point to the three shortest and most un-manlike of the desperate cutthroats standing before them before delivering his triumphant revelation.

"These are the Disrupter and the Blades of Sorrow."

Silence. Then, a detonation of laughter.

Shocked by the reaction, Smerkas was quick to grasp the cause. They thought he was joking.

"No, it is not a jest, and I will prove it." He grabbed my right arm and spun it over, exposing the infamous brand.

"Come, see for yourselves. It is the mark of the spear."

The assembly eagerly stepped in closer to view and the reaction was immediate. There were outcries of disbelief and wonder, expressions of awe, fear, and doubt.

"How is this possible?" a scholarly man in rich attire questioned. "The prophecy parchments do not mention females, and I should know, for I have studied them with meticulous scrutiny for years."

"Ah, my good friend Pentor. Is there any mention of males in the prophecy?" queried Smerkas.

Pentor seemed puzzled by the question, and then his eyes broadened.

"It is true. The seer identifies no gender. I always thought it assumed, for who could believe females, young ones at that, would be chosen for such an undertaking? It is clever, very clever I must admit."

If indeed so clever, I thought, then why were the three people they so openly feared about to meekly become the meal of a meat-eating, omnipotent being who might be living in a hole in the floor? I still had not formulated any viable escape strategy, and I knew time was not an ally, for Smerkas appeared about to wrap up this little get-together.

"Now, if you will all accompany me, we will descend to the gate and present our offering. Gor-jar will be most pleased."

Creet soldiers urged us toward the gaping mouth at the floor's center, pushing us before them while Smerkas followed along with the rest. The hole had been hiding a broad stone stairway that descended into blackness. I found myself out front, more from the others hanging back than from any inclination on my part to be the first eaten.

Strategically placed torches dimly illuminated the stairway, which was not steep. The stone was smooth and polished, unlike the rough stone of outdoors. The walls, as much as I could make out in the limited light, were also smooth but not made of stone. We followed the steps down for a short distance and then made a gradual right turn, with the steps again straightening before ending.

A wide, straight passageway lay before us. The lines of the corridor formed a perfect square. Izzy nudged me excitedly, indicating I should look upward. On the passageway ceiling, I saw evenly spaced, rounded, and slightly protruding bulges. Izzy whispered that they were the same objects she had come across inside the cave, only those had emitted light.

After a short walk and a left turn, a gate emerged out of the gloom. It was massive and metal-barred. We waited as a nervous Creet soldier peered through the gate bars and then turned his head to listen. Satisfied, he grabbed and began turning a crank on a fascinating device. This creaking machine moved chains along a trough and over a circular metal plate studded with teeth, causing the gate to lift inward towards us. Beyond the gate, the passageway continued, though it was now dark and no longer lit by torches.

The Creet guards could not hide their anxiety, and several held their spears in readiness. Profuse sweat poured down their faces as their attentive eyes scoured the murkiness. With hurried purpose, they unlocked our chains, pushed us inside the dark corridor, and promptly lowered the gate behind us.

Smerkas had a few final words, spoken to the blackness.

"Gor-jar," he called out. "We bring you these offerings. We pray they are to your satisfaction."

From somewhere came a faint, distant cry. Smerkas blanched. He and his entourage turned and scurried back down the corridor to the stairway leading up and away to safety.

The cry had me worried. We were now seven potential meals, unarmed and waiting for our guest diner to present himself. Gor-jar was considerably more intimidating now and no longer just an abstract figure of idle conversation. Something lived down here. By all accounts, this something enjoyed an occasional repast of flesh, bone, and blood. We were going to meet up eventually. Might as well be now.

"Who wants to come with me and meet a god?" I asked my companions. "We don't know what we're up against, so it's best we find out."

Izzy was thinking the same thing. Lillatta indicated a willingness to do whatever I wished. The others were not so agreeable.

"Are you insane?" one of the men protested. "We should stay here and try to lift this gate."

"It doesn't lift," I stated. "It swings inward. And they locked it into place. I saw them do it, and the lock is out of reach."

"I don't care," he said stubbornly. "I think it best we stay right here and try. If their god wants a meal, it won't be me. And you're not in charge, anyway."

Javen took a menacing step toward the speaker. I touched his arm, and he halted.

"It's up to you," I said to the man. "You can do what you want. I'm going."

"I'm going, too," said Izzy.

"Count me in," added Lillatta.

Two others stated their preference to stay and work on the gate. Javen hesitated, but I knew what he would decide.

"I'm going with the women," he told the other three. "Someone has to protect them."

He turned to me with a sly wink. My eyes rolled in feigned disgust.

The three men tried at once to break the lock's hold, using brute strength in an attempt to force the gate open. I shook my head. That strategy would get them only sore muscles and short tempers. At least they had the light from the torches on the far gate side to aid their work. Still, how long would it be before that fuel burned away?

The dark and unknown awaited. I started down the dim corridor, and the others followed. The hallway wall was warm to the touch, which seemed surprising considering we were some distance below ground. I had thought it would be cool and damp. With no light to guide us, we had to follow the wall. I stepped with care, hoping the floor would remain solid and not drop away into some bottomless chasm.

The going was slow, but at least nothing else challenged our progress, and we heard no repeat of the cry from earlier. The only sounds were our breathing and the light scuffing of our feet along the floor. The corridor continued in a straight line for a stretch, and then it made several turns before returning to straight. Once, I stumbled over something. Reaching down, I felt the unmistakable texture and form of a bone. Human or animal I did not know—or want to know.

We walked on in darkness for an unknown distance.

Then, we went blind.

It was as if the sun had suddenly appeared in the passageway. Everything was brilliant light. Numerous bulges on the ceiling ahead of us appeared engulfed in fire.

Lillatta shrieked and Javen cried out.

Izzy reacted with excitement.

"You see! This is what I told you about. It's just like in the cave!"

The sudden illumination had startled me, but when I heard Izzy, my natural curiosity came to the fore. So this was how the cave lights appeared when lit? I was a bit awestruck, for I had not imagined such luminous power from such devices. Some were missing, and by the jagged spaces left behind, I could only surmise they had fallen to the floor, though I saw nothing on the floor to verify that. I wanted to touch one of the lights, but they were well out of reach above me. Lillatta, who had screamed when the lights came on, now peered at them with naked fear. Javen, unable to hide his anxiety, swept his eyes in all directions, no doubt trying to spy the perpetrator of this unholy magic.

Izzy quickly calmed their fears by relaying to them her cave experience, telling them that the ceiling fires were benign and no threat. Meanwhile, I became aware of two other hallways branching off ours to the left. They had been invisible to us in the pitch blackness. By following only the right edge of the main corridor, we would have missed them if not for the lights. I wondered how many other branches we had blindly passed.

The newly revealed hallways remained in darkness, their ceiling lights off. I ventured down each and quickly ran into blockages. Each corridor was impassable, filled with rocky debris several paces in. We resumed our progression down the lighted hallway. We were all aware of the now visible human bones scattered along the length of our passage.

Ahead of us, the corridor and the lights came to an abrupt end. At their termination point loomed a large black hole. A light air current touched us, carrying a vile stench from the direction of the opening. Our faces scrunched up, and there was no escaping the smell. Rotting flesh. I knew the odor well, the repellent tang of putrefaction. Coming across animal carcasses in decay was common in our hunter's culture. I wondered if that was what this was—or was it something I didn't want to contemplate?

The hole beckoned. We had a choice to enter that black mouth at the end of the light or turn back. We could face the darkness or retrace our steps back to the others and the futility of trying to budge an immovable gate. The options were not encouraging.

"Let's go," I said without enthusiasm. No one voiced an objection.

At least no sounds emanated from the foul blackness, no cries, hisses, or barks. I approached cautiously and at the hallway's end peered into what seemed a room. The hallway lights shone into it only a short distance but enough to reveal a floor littered with broken pieces of stone and tile. I paused to listen. A steady hum emanated from somewhere but did not seem threatening—I stepped forward.

The dark exploded. A thousand small suns ignited on the high ceiling of a cavernous room. The walls were white, adding to the sheer power of the luminous effect. I flinched from the suddenness of the transition, but soon my eyes adjusted, my heartbeat slowed, and my breathing normalized. These abrupt jolts were unnerving, and I didn't know how many more of these I could take.

With my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I surveyed what the light revealed. It was a room at least fifty paces wide, the same in length, and it had an extremely high ceiling. The room appeared empty, with the majority of its floor space to our right. The left wall was nearest to us, perhaps ten paces away. At the end of that wall, in a far room corner, a shoulder-high partition formed a small cubicle with an open doorway. Directly across the room from us was another black opening, an exit. Large chunks of the ceiling had fallen in, exposing the bedrock above it, with the debris scattered across the once-polished stone floor. I also noticed the corridor lights behind us had gone dark when we exited the hallway.

Izzy, Lillatta, and Javen, after the initial shock had worn off, each moved in a separate direction and were now busy examining every corner of the room. I was curious about the light holders that had fallen with the broken-off sections of ceiling. Many of the orbs inside these racks had cracked open from the falls, and none emitted Ra-ta's rays. One was intact and had separated from its receptacle. Its small size made it easy to hold within my palm, and when I picked it up, I was astonished it began to glow. Izzy was right. They were cool to the touch despite having what seemed to be a fire burning within. After dusting it off, I turned the orb in my hands, admiring its smooth skin and even features.

The foul odor of earlier had dissipated, and this room did not appear to be its origin. The humming seemed to emanate from the right side of the room, but I could not pinpoint its source. I set down the light sphere, which, to my surprise, remained lit, and I walked over to the partition. Behind it sat a short table of considerable weight. Thick dust coated its surface. I recognized the object next to the table as a chair, of which I had seen several since my arrival in Grell. On the debris-littered table was a small rectangular object. I picked it up and swept the dust clear, but I could not fathom its function. I shook it and heard nothing. I didn't recognize the material used to construct it, but that was nothing new. Everything in the world I now inhabited was a mystery to me. I tossed the object back onto the table.

It disturbed the dust as it bounced on the flat surface, and then a light came on. The object's face now glowed. I picked it back up, surprised to see black markings across its lit surface. They were squiggles that all lined up to form perfect rows like plants in a Spood field. It was interesting, but what it all meant I did not know, and there was no one here to tell me. I shrugged, tossed the thing back onto the table, and then exited the cubicle.

A sound startled me, a rattling noise followed by a clinking. The rattling sound originated from somewhere above me. My eyes followed a crack up the white room's wall, and I spied a square hole. The aperture sat twice my height up the wall, and it was as wide as an outstretched arm. Had the noise come from there? I listened again. Nothing.

I tried moving closer to the wall to get a better look, but debris from the ceiling made it difficult. An object on the floor glinted, catching my attention. Picking it up, I recognized it as a coin, an item of value to the Spood. There was another one ... and another!

I called the others over, and soon we uncovered more of the shining metal chips. Beneath a recent fall of ceiling stone and tile, we found leather bags of various sizes. Each had a drawstring, and upon opening the bags, we discovered all contained coins, some more than others.

We scratched our heads over this until I again glanced up at the hole in the wall. The hole was right above the pile of moneybags, and I realized the cavity might be the opening to a shaft of some kind. I wondered if it might angle up and extend all the way to the ground surface. Perhaps there was a room up there, one much like the one with the staircase we had used to descend to this delightful place.

If so, why would people throw money down the shaft into an empty room? That one had me stumped.

"Offerings for Gor-jar?" Izzy conjectured. "Trying to buy his favor with something of value, perhaps?"

"That sounds right," Lillatta concurred. "When the Creet came to our camp, I overheard one ask another if he had a coin for Gor-jar when they got back home."

I looked at the pile of bags.

"Well, the ritual must not be that old. There aren't that many coins here. Do you think maybe Gor-jar eats them, too?"

Speaking of Gor-jar, where was the hungry god? We had seen no sign of any such being since our incarceration in this underground paradise.

Then, I heard the humming.

**

~~NINETEEN~~

Lillatta heard it, too. The humming level had been steady since our entry into the room, but now its volume was increasing. I was about to follow Lillatta as she sought out the apparent source on the other side of the floor when all fuld broke loose. Out of thin air, a monster appeared, directly in Lillatta's path. She screamed, terror-stricken as the creature rose from nothing to become a living, snarling beast towering above her.

Lillatta froze in place, and despite the weakness in my own knees, I managed to rush to her, grab her, and pull her from danger. The two of us found a large chunk of ceiling debris far from the beast and ducked behind it. Javen and Izzy soon joined us. I was certain our end had come.

However, the beast did not attack. It just stood on its side of the room, screeching and roaring. The creature was gigantic, standing upright on two thick hind legs and swinging a tail that could knock down a can-rak. A firm, dense body rose from tail and legs to merge into a short, powerful neck on which sat an immense head with jaws of flesh-tearing, bone-crushing incisors. The beast had two puny front legs that seemed to serve little purpose, and its skin had the appearance of scales, grayish-green with streaks of color.

Gor-jar, the living god. It was then I realized I had been much too eager to meet him.

We watched in fear as the beast stepped forward and then to the side, rolling its neck and unleashing its challenging roar. It stepped back and screeched an ear-stabbing cry, then came forward again and moved in the opposite direction, roaring once more. Backward it paced, with its screech assaulting our ears a second time. Yet again, it stepped forward and to the side, bellowing as if caught in an invisible trap.

I watched Gor-jar with heightened scrutiny for a few moments—then I laughed. Lillatta, Izzy, and Javen glanced my way. Puzzlement and concern etched their faces, for who laughs when facing death by ripping jaws other than the dull-witted or the insane?

I got up and strolled over to the rampaging god. Fearful shouts and pleas to stay clear of the enraged beast touched my ears, but they did not dissuade me. For I knew I was in no danger. The god wasn't rampaging at all. It was just making noise and doing a little dance. Always the same motions, forward and to the side, then backward, roaring and screeching on cue. Gor-jar was not a living creature.

My loyal companions were still yelling, imploring me to come to my senses, but I already had. I went to the beast and reached out to touch its leathery hide. My hand went right through it! Gor-jar was not solid! Observing that my hand had passed through its airy flesh without issue, I decided to risk pushing my head through the fake skin to look inside the beast. As expected, there was nothing there. Gor-jar had no heart or intestines, no bones, lungs, arteries, or blood. Nothing.

With my head inside the creature, I could discern Gor-jar's body contours, but I could not see through its opaque skin. The beast was hollow, and I had no idea what energy source motivated it. My presence did not affect the god, and he continued to ignore me, stepping and twisting and roaring as if I didn't exist.

Pulling out, I waved to the others. They had already begun to come forward and realizing I was unharmed, each stepped up to the beast and took turns pushing their hands through the mystery monster's skin, at first with tentative passes and then with increasing glee. Izzy jumped inside the god and stuck her face out through its fake flesh.

"Help, I've been eaten by Gor-jar!"

We all laughed.

Then, Gor-jar vanished.

With swift glances to all corners, we searched the room, concerned that Gor-jar had somehow gotten free of his bonds. However, no sign of the creature revealed itself. We walked back to the other side of the room, puzzling over the disappearance. As we discussed what might have happened to the roaring god, the humming increased. The god reappeared and resumed his routine of twisting, dancing, and screeching.

This time, I caught something different about Gor-jar.

"Did you see that?" I asked Javen.

"The flickering," he affirmed. "I noticed it right away. Gor-jar does not appear to be well."

"Stomach problems, no doubt," Lillatta remarked. "Eating one too many slaves will do that to you, not to mention coins."

Gor-jar flickered again, vanished, and then returned. His voice had turned odd, crackling, hesitant, and uneven. The god seemed to be stuttering. Again, he disappeared.

We waited. Gor-jar did not return. Also, the humming that had been persistent since our arrival had ceased.

"Is he dead?" ventured Izzy.

"I hope so," said Lillatta. "I did not like him that much."

"I doubt he was ever alive," I stated. "Whatever was making him move was not what makes a living being move. He appeared to be only imitating life, though how he accomplished that, I cannot fathom."

Javen was studying the spot where Gor-jar had stood and said, "We know this beast wasn't real, but maybe animals just like it once existed in the flesh."

I agreed. I imagined Gor-jar probably lived as a real creature long ago, and someone had left this reminder of him. Why the Spood would assume this shell of a beast to be a god was beyond me. Seems odd to worship something that you can see has no consciousness, that does nothing but roar, screech, and dance on cue. And if their religion promised eternal life after physical release, what kind of afterlife were the Spood expecting—an eternity of having to please this unappealing creature?

The humming had not returned, and the room now had an emptiness that was almost sad. We knew Gor-jar was never coming back.

Having seen enough of this white room and its air of decay, we were more than ready to depart. By all indications, Gor-jar was dead, and the room itself was dying. A chunk of tile and stone had just loosened and fallen from the ceiling, adding to the room's active descent into rubble.

I wondered how the Spood had discovered this room, for I knew it was not of their construction; the lights without fire proved that. The Spood still used torches because they didn't have enough knowledge to build anything more sophisticated. They certainly could not have made that object that glowed, the one that sat on the table behind the partition.

They must have found the room and the corridors by accident, perhaps through digging. I could imagine their reaction upon meeting Gor-jar for the first time. It must have made quite an impression, enough to make them believe the imaginary beast to be a god. Still, they had to know that Gor-jar could not kill, so what down here was the actual bringer of death? We had yet to find out.

And another thing. Why were there no human remains in this room? I had noticed their absence right away. There should be bones, like in the hallway. Where were they? This puzzle had my brain spinning. Perhaps the black hole that awaited us on the far side of the room would provide the answers.

No one was eager to return to the darkness. I picked up the ceiling light I had examined earlier; we might need it to help guide us if no more bulges awakened. That was another curious thing. Why had they come on in the first place? Did we trigger something, like Izzy did when passing her rings before the fortress eyes? And how, since they all seem to work in concert, did one still manage to stay lit when separated, the one I now held in my hand? Each step forward in this underground world seemed to bring more puzzles and more entangling mysteries.

Izzy took the lead this time. She carried our fireless torch, and as we passed from the room into the dim corridor, the room behind us went dark, and the passage before us remained so. To our relief, the orb Izzy held stayed lit. I had thought exiting the room might cause it to turn off. Perhaps direct contact with a person allowed it to burn. But if so, then why hadn't it gone out when I set it down earlier? It was yet another baffling mystery.

The rotten stench that had been faint in the room now reintroduced itself with a potent pungency. Javen spotted more bones, and we paused to examine them. The odor did not come from them. The bones included a skull and several limbs, and all showed bite marks. So, something down here was capable of separating one's flesh from one's bones. It could be anything, and it might have our scent right now. Where was a decent spear or sharp rik-ta when you needed one?

We moved forward, but soon Izzy halted, causing me to run up her back.

"Stop. Something just growled," she informed us. "Listen."

We all heard it, a low, faint growling, still some distance away.

"What should we do?" whispered Lillatta, unable to keep the fear from her voice.

"Should we go back?" an anxious Javen spoke, more to himself than anyone else.

"There's nothing to protect us here or back there," I said. "But remember, there were no bones in the white room, only in the hallways. There has to be a reason for that. Maybe this creature doesn't kill in Gor-jar's room. It's worth a shot to try hiding there. But we have to go, now! It's coming."

And it was. Fast! We turned and sped back down the dark passage, our paltry light rocking in Izzy's hand as she led the way. Lillatta stumbled but quickly righted herself. We were almost there. I heard the definite click of claws on stone and the panting of the creature, closing fast.

We burst into the white room—and it remained in darkness. The lights had failed to ignite! There was nowhere to hide, and we couldn't be sure if our stalker would hesitate to attack us in this sacred room. We dashed over to the partition, but we knew it would not offer much, if any, protection. The light orb slipped from Izzy's hand as we ran and began rolling across the stone floor. We had no time to retrieve it. Our pursuer blasted out of the darkness into the dim glow cast by the rolling light, and my heart nearly stopped as I caught sight of the creature over the low partition wall. It was halfway across the room before the beast slowed. It began sniffing the air and then took off again, gaining speed as it left the room and raced down the other corridor.

A can-rak! For a moment, I was overjoyed. Then, I realized the beast had scented our three companions still back at the gate. No! I should have stopped it. Again, I had not reacted in time. I leaped up, went to grab the glowing orb off the floor, and then headed for the exit.

"What are you doing?" shouted Lillatta. "It's a can-rak! Are you crazy?"

I barely heard the echoing protests of the others, for I was moving swiftly and urgently, all the while trying to navigate around hazardous debris. I hit the corridor and took note that its lights had not come on; the can-rak had not triggered them by entering the passageway. Were they no longer working? I shouted down the empty hallway as I ran, hoping to alert the three men, but I sensed I was already too late.

A bloodcurdling scream chilled me. Another. I ran and ran. As I turned the last corner, I saw it. Its jaws gripped the torso of the already dead man, the one who had thought he could open the gate. The beast clamped down on the body, and the crunching bone sound sickened. Two other mangled bodies lay before the still-closed gate, their corpses staining the floor with blood as the torches lining the walls on the free side of the gate flickered and mocked.

The can-rak spotted me. Its yellow eyes shone with menace in the light of my tiny lamp. It dropped its grisly catch, and I heard the growl, low and ominous.

I walked down the corridor in brisk strides and spoke.

"Come here!" I ordered. I was in no mood to play games.

The can-rak stopped in mid-growl. It sniffed the air. Then it did what that other can-rak had done, the one I had saved Semral from—it began humming in that odd rhythm. It cautiously approached, and again the size of these beasts awed me, the massive head and jaws, the powerful, sinewy limbs. No Gor-jar, mind you, but the can-rak had an impressive majesty all its own.

The big baby knelt down, docile as a pet, and groveled at my feet—well, it would have, except even crouching down it loomed over me. Disgusting splotches of red gore stained the beast's lower jaw fur, but I tried to ignore that. I could do nothing for the three men, so I figured I might as well go back to my companions and introduce them to my unexpected new acquaintance.

"You will follow me," I instructed the can-rak. "You will not harm any more humans. You will protect them unless I say otherwise. You will treat them as you treat me."

I began walking, and the can-rak followed. As I got closer to the white room, I could hear an animated conversation. It carried across the empty chamber.

"Why would she do that?" Javen's heated voice said. "Chase after a can-rak! What was she thinking? ... Why would she foolishly throw her life away?"

He spoke the last sentence with a slight quaver in his voice.

"She wouldn't," Izzy was responding. "You don't know her. Sanyel is different. She has the favor of the gods. She does everything for a reason, so I'm sure she knew what she was doing."

Lillatta then broke in, her words urgent. "We have to go find her—now!"

I heard the anguish in Javen's reply. "How? How do we get to her? She took our only light."

As I stepped into the room, light in hand, I asked in a loud voice, "Someone looking for this?" Their discussion, taking place behind the far partition's walls, had so engrossed them that the approaching dim illumination from the corridor had gone unnoticed.

My voice generated an immediate, warm, and excited response from the three. They hastened over to greet me, and then they saw the beast looming behind.

"Look out!" shouted Lillatta. "The can-rak is behind you!"

I pivoted, peered up at the drooling monster, and then turned back to my friends.

"Oh, him? He's with me."

I strode forward, and the beast followed. My friends watched, awestruck and fearful as we approached. I told the can-rak to lie down, which it did.

They had no words. How can you speak when you witness the unimaginable? I knew I would have to explain, to reveal at last what I had hidden from others for so long. I beckoned my friends to find a seat among the rubble.

"Yes, I can control can-raks," I said without preface. "I can because the can-rak is my spirit animal. One came to me as a child when my father was teaching me the ways of the shaman, and ever since, I have found they will obey my commands."

"You are a shaman?"

Javen had found his voice, and his question indicated doubt.

"Not an official one, no," I admitted. "But I know all the secrets and can perform all the duties if required. I can do other things as well. Not even Lillatta knows this, but when I wear a bracelet of animal bones on my wrist, I can use the bones to control the creatures they represent—under certain circumstances."

Lillatta's eyes widened.

"That is what that bracelet was for? You told me it was just a gift from your father. I had no idea."

"My father wanted it kept secret. He knew the ability was unique and that many might not look with favor upon a woman having such powers."

The can-rak lifted its head and sneezed, causing us to jump. It settled back down, placed its massive head between its paws, and closed its eyes. We continued our talk.

"A warrior, a shaman, and a can-rak master," Javen said with admiration. "What else can you do?"

"I can weave baskets but not very well."

The can-rak then leaped to its feet, startling us again. It was staring toward the corridor from which it had initially emerged. To our surprise, another can-rak appeared from the gloom. It growled a challenge upon seeing us, and it was preparing to charge when I spoke.

"Come over here and sit," I ordered.

The second beast hesitated, went through its sniffing motions, then crept over and meekly deposited itself next to the first. It was eyeing my companions with keen interest and still emitting low growls, so I repeated what I had told the first can-rak about not harming humans.

"Like little children," I said, shaking my head. "Only they tend to kill everything they see."

I was thinking about the three men and felt an instant depression.

Izzy saw my gloomy look and guessed the reason.

"They are all dead, then?" she asked. "The three at the gate?"

I looked down and stared into the soft glow of the light in my hands. A profound weariness draped its weight across my shoulders. The last few days had brought nothing but danger, stress, confusion, and death. I wanted to feel safe, content, and normal. I wanted to feel cool, wet grass again beneath my feet on a dew-sprinkled morning. I wanted to watch Ra-ta rise over the mountains. I wanted to bathe in the refreshing waters of the mighty Raso and climb the gnarled limbs of a towering kakkata.

Instead, I was here, in a stinking hole with a tired body and a tortured mind. Yes, they were dead: the men at the gate; the two women on the hill; the young girl at the sperza. I did not save them, could not save them. Still, I would not forget them. My conscience would not allow it.

Izzy accepted my silence as confirmation and did not push further. For that, I was grateful. I just needed a moment. I needed a brief opportunity to stop and allow myself to feel something—anything. However, even now I could not indulge long in remorse and self-pity. We had work to do. We had to attend to our most pressing concern, how to get out of here.

I rotated my fatigued shoulders and stood. The can-raks had come from somewhere, so I suggested we find out where that second corridor might lead us. If there was a way in, there had to be a way out. The others agreed. With Javen leading and with me bringing up the rear along with the can-raks, we set out to discover what lay beyond the darkness.

"Wait," I said before we had gone but a few steps. "I want to get something."

I took Javen's light and searched for the coin bags beneath the hole in the wall. Finding one to my liking, I dumped its contents to the floor. Shining coins bounced, clinked, and scattered. They were of no interest to me. A quality leather bag, however, would be perfect for collecting animal bones for a new bracelet.

Javen led us through the passageway until we came to the corridor's end. Ahead of us, the burnished stone of the hallway floor gave way to a rougher walkway. We were in what appeared to be a cavern carved out of the rock with crude workmanship. We moved forward and soon realized that our path inclined upward, and that gave us hope we might presently return to the surface.

In a short while, up ahead, a growing brightness lessened the gloom. I glimpsed a patch of green through an archway that opened up into an outdoor environment. A refreshing breeze touched us, and our excitement level rose. There was a way out!

**

~~TWENTY~~

We ran the last short distance and stopped at the gateway to the greenery. Exercising caution, I peered out the portal, alert to any Spood presence. I saw nothing to alarm me.

The green world beyond the gateway was a forest. It was a kanser forest, dense and thick with underbrush. Where we were, I didn't know, but I felt sure we had to be yet within the city. The archway we had come through was part of a wall that extended to either side and rose to a considerable height. We followed along the wall to the right, and it began to curve. We seemed to be within some sort of sealed enclosure, for the wall was high, unbroken, and had no visible exits. I noticed the craftsmanship was Spood quality, not like the seamless and magnificent fortress walls of Grell.

Ra-ta was descending to his rest. I wanted to get out of here while still able to see and judged there to be less than three hours of daylight left. I searched the high wall for some way up, but there were no handholds.

Bones lay scattered everywhere. I recognized both human and animal. Clumps of can-rak feces cluttered the ground, so we had to be careful where we stepped. The presence of feces struck me as curious. It was all over as might be expected, but why had there been no trace of it in the hallways?

Then, the source of the fetid odor we had been chasing throughout the underground revealed itself. Rotting, maggot-infested flesh clung to the few remaining bones of a headless man lying in the grass near the wall. Flies droned as they attempted to occupy every rank strip of decomposing tissue. The can-raks had devoured the best parts and left the rest to putrefy. We skirted the body and continued to follow the curving stone.

A half hour later, from ahead and above us, a horn sounded. The high tone of a single note blasted across the forest. We froze, expecting discovery. A second blast followed, one note extended, a single breath long. We ducked down into the brush and eyed the surrounding foliage. The sound seemed to have originated from some distance ahead, and nothing indicated detection of our presence.

The can-raks appeared excited and began to whine and rock back and forth. It was apparent they desired to respond to the horn summons, but they wouldn't leave me to do so. I instructed them to go, telling them I would follow. At once they galloped off through the interior underbrush, leaving us to scramble after them.

The four of us negotiated the thorny brambles and treacherous roots as best we could, but we soon lost sight of the beasts, which seemed in a great hurry to get somewhere. We halted when a raucous screeching and roaring erased the light chittering of birds. We moved forward cautiously, parting the undergrowth, and we soon entered upon a scene of unimaginable ferocity.

I counted them. Ten. Ten can-raks, each in a blood frenzy, tearing and ripping to bits what once had been an equal number of drooves. It was a terrible scene, a scene of flesh eaters running amok, devouring without restraint. I had never encountered such voracious bloodlust in all my years. It was mind-numbing, the rage and the near insanity of the green beasts as they fed.

As we watched the horrific scene, my thoughts shifted to the drooves. Where had they come from? I surmised that this was a pen and that the can-raks were captive within the curved walls of this enclosure. When the horn summoned them for mealtime, they responded enthusiastically. That had to mean there was no food supply readily available to them within these confines and that all came from the outside. Therefore, the drooves had to have been let in. But how? From where?

Then, I saw the entrance. We were at the farthest point distant from the open archway that had led us into this verdant garden. On this end, a closed gate of crosshatched metal bars graced the wall near where the can-raks fed. It guarded a passageway. The barrier seemed similar to the one the three unlucky men had tried to open.

By my reasoning, someone had driven the drooves through the open gate, closed it, and then summoned the can-raks via the horn blasts.

Izzy cleared up the picture even more.

"Gor-jar can't eat," she said, "so they had to get something that could. Can-raks are perfect for disposing of slave sacrifices. They not only kill them, but they clean up the mess too. Nice and tidy. Still, feeding them slaves is not enough. You have to feed the beasts too often, and you certainly can't keep losing valuable workers to them. So, you feed them something else—drooves."

I agreed with Izzy. Can-raks were the stomachs of Gor-jar. There were ten of them, and that's a lot to feed; the seven of us would have been but an appetizer.

For now, we had no worries. The hungry can-raks were getting their fill, and by the grace of Ra-ta, it wasn't our flesh expanding their stomachs. Let them eat. I would have to get them all under my control at some point, but I felt it sensible to wait until they finished gorging.

We figured they might be feasting a while, so the four of us found a safe, distant spot to rest and revive. We had discovered a small stream within this self-contained forest and traced its source to an artesian well. We drank our fill of sweet, cool water and even slapped a bit over our reeking bodies. Izzy and Lillatta went off to see if they could scrounge some berries, leaving Javen alone with me.

As we sat on the downed trunk of a kanser, I looked over at the young man. Javen poked a stick at the ground in an aimless fashion. His damp, dark hair glistened in the setting sun's rays. I could not judge his mood, but his appearance and appeal had much improved after the freshening in the stream.

"So, why didn't you follow me when you saw me go after the can-rak?" I teased. "Didn't you say you came along so you could protect us?"

Javen responded in a way I didn't expect. He turned his face to me and glared.

"You joke about it, but it's not funny. What were we supposed to do with no light to follow you? I was happy to see the can-rak hadn't eaten you, but I've since wondered why you just took off. You should've told us. How were we supposed to know you hadn't gone insane? How were we supposed to know you were in no danger? Why did you do that to us?"

Javen's tone caught me off guard. I had not expected a harsh rebuke for my actions. However, he was right. I had dashed off without a word. In my defense, I felt I had to move fast to save the three men and could not have stopped to tell my friends this. Still, that was no excuse. I could have revealed to them at any time that a can-rak posed no danger to me.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you. You have every right to be furious. I know I tend to keep things to myself. When I was young, my father insisted I tell no one our secrets, and I guess I still follow his words. I'm sorry I've been so selfish. Can you forgive me?"

Javen listened patiently, and then he gazed at me with a look I could not read.

"I'm sorry I spoke as I did," he finally said. "You have a right to your secrets. I know it must have been hard for you growing up. You've done so much for us, and I... I had no right to question you. I was angry. I ... I didn't want to lose you."

My breath stopped and held with Javen's last six words. I had not expected to hear such sentiments from him.

"You mean a great deal to me, Sanyel," Javen continued, "and I was afraid when you went after the can-rak that I'd never see your face again."

Javen paused, and his eyes glistened. His warm hand reached out to grasp mine, and in a voice husky with emotion, he said, "Sanyel, your face is all I desire to see. I want to see it always."

I felt transported to a place I'd never been, one I could scarcely imagine. In speaking of his feelings for me, Javen unraveled some tangled ones of my own. I had known since our first meeting in the Creet encampment when Javen made me laugh that he was no ordinary boy. There was sweetness in his manner and an openness I hadn't encountered with others. The attraction was mutual, I knew, though I'd hidden mine through teasing.

I hadn't fooled him, though. His hand clutching mine was soft, calming, reassuring. I felt safe. Had I ever felt safe? We stood, and Javen pulled me gently to him. Our bodies touched, and the sensual thrill was unbearable. His arms closed around me as my pulse accelerated. My heartbeat grew erratic. Our faces drew near and his dark eyes locked into mine. He closed his and slightly cocked his head, and I willingly followed his lead. When our lips touched in that first light caress, I felt suddenly weightless, separated from the world, floating in a body of pure—

"What's this? Can't we leave you two alone for even a minute?"

Lillatta and Izzy had returned. Lillatta's teasing words broke into our private heaven and slammed me back to earth. Javen and I quickly disentangled. I know I was blushing.

Our passionate moment amused the two.

"What were they doing?" Izzy asked. "Were they checking each other for ticks?"

"I believe so," Lillatta answered. "Ticks love to feed on the Raab, and we know they both have that rich Raab blood in them."

They laughed, and I let them have their fun. Javen just gave them a self-conscious smile.

The two had returned with a couple of handfuls of berries and nuts. We devoured them in short order. The slight repast recharged our energy, but daylight was slipping away, and we were no closer to escaping our cage. I wanted to round up the can-raks before darkness. I knew from experience how terrifying an uncontrolled can-rak could be in the night—let alone ten of them.

I approached them while they still fed. I shouted to get their attention, cutting through their raucous clamor. When sure I had their focus, I repeated the commands given the original two. Soon, the beasts were humming and playful and eager to occupy the limited space around me, so I had to give them additional instructions to keep a reasonable distance.

Blackness was erasing the last vestiges of twilight. We had retreated into the forest a fair distance from the feeding gate to avoid detection. We would stay the night and search for an exit in the morning. I thought about Brilna and hoped she no longer waited for us up on the high fortress walls. I knew she had water, but she had to be getting hungry by now. She had done all she could for us. It was time to look after herself.

We would find a way out, of that I was confident. In the distance, I could make out the wall's outline against the starlight. Its height and having no means to scale it meant the Spood designed the wall to keep things in. I imagined this pen to be a few hundred years old, judging by the height of the kansers. Of course, that was assuming there was no forest here prior to the building of this enclosure. In any case, the structure's age was not preventing it from serving its purpose.

We were stuck in here unless we could find an escape route. The front gate might be an option, but who knew how well guarded that was. I would give it a closer look in the morning. My companions had each found a comfortable spot and were soon asleep. Though exhausted, I stayed awake, observing the twinkling stars. Numa and Nima would show tonight. If I could get up on top of those walls, I could maybe find a way down on the backside and ...

I awoke with a start. I had fallen asleep and the night had nearly fled. After finding the twin moons through the kanser leaves, I judged the time to be a few hours before dawn. Then it struck me. How stupid! Tall kanser trees inhabited the majority of the space within this enclosure. There had to be some growing right next to the walls, their branches perhaps even overhanging it. If I could scale one and exit onto the top of the wall, I could scout the terrain and look for a way down the other side.

Excited by the prospect of escape, I leaped up and roused the others. After explaining my plan, we agreed to spread out and follow the walls all the way around, to search for just one tree tall enough and close enough to the wall to serve our purpose. We would have to be careful wandering around in the darkness, but I felt finding an exit outweighed the hazards. I told the can-raks to stay put while we explored.

Izzy found it—well, actually them—a small grove of kansers that had sprouted next to the wall about two hundred paces removed from the feeding gate. From my leather coin bag, I pulled the glowing ceiling light I had taken from the white room. I debated if I should use its illumination to aid me in climbing the trees. I decided it was too awkward to hold and too easy to spot. I would have to feel my way.

Kanser bark is rough. After climbing but a short distance, my chosen tree already had me scratched and bruised. I had left my sandals behind for easier climbing, and now my feet bled from the abrasive contact. My hands were a bit more seasoned, but even they were not immune to the kanser's bite.

Within minutes, scattered light from torches lining the city's main streets popped into view. I cleared the top of the enclosure and looked out across the building tops, all much lower than the wall crest. I clutched an overhanging branch to steady myself and cautiously stepped onto the stone ledge. With relief, I saw it was wide enough for me to walk along.

The wall had no railings, so to avert dropping off into space I avoided wandering too close to an edge—not easy to manage in the dark even with moonlight. I contemplated jumping down onto the roof of one of the surrounding dwellings, but they were too far down to risk what would have been a certain suicidal leap. I checked, but I found no handholds I could use to descend. I would have to make my way toward the front gate and hope a plan presented itself to disarm the guards and raise the gate.

I had no way to signal my intentions to those below, so I hoped to connect with them later—if I didn't fall off the wall and kill myself before then. The wall ledge was treacherous and often in shadow from the kansers. Its surface, cracked and broken, left upraised stone blocks that created obstacles in the darkness. I tripped or banged my toes and shins on more than one occasion. My progress was slow, but at last, I caught a glimpse of the top of the wooden gate ahead. I realized at once that this gate was not like the one the three men had tried opening. This one opened by ascending straight up instead of pushing inward or outward. With the gate currently down, its top was flush with the surface of the wall I walked. I paused to listen. An erratic wind moaned, squeezing through some narrow crack and then circling back around to come through and moan again. I heard a banging noise from somewhere across the city, then silence.

I moved over to the top of the gate and saw no one. The wooden gate was as wide as the stone wall, and as I crossed over it, a staircase appeared out of the gloom to my right. These steps headed down and out toward the city. I chanced an exploration, cautiously following the stairway a few steps down, where I found a stone platform that supported the gate-raising machinery. I was now on the other side of the wall, viewing the gate from its opposite face, and I could see the platform overlooked and was adjacent to the passageway the doomed drooves had traveled. There was no one here, not a single guard.

Why? The gate where the three men died had lacked guards as well. I could only conclude that the Spood felt their gates were more than adequate to prevent any prisoners from escaping, at least long enough to allow the can-raks to find and dispose of them. Of course, they hadn't counted on a can-rak tamer. Also, they had been criminal in their carelessness, letting their trees stretch too high into the sky. Complacency breeds error, my father once told me, and the Spood had certainly proved that the case.

In the darkness, I spotted the crank used to lift the gate, found and released its lock, and I muscled a turn of the wheel.

Though easy is a pleasant word, it never applies to anything involving me. Oh, the cranking wasn't hard. The device was ingenious, designed to allow a small exertion on a handle at one end to cause a heavy object on the other to move. However, someone had neglected to grease any part of it.

I cranked, and the gate creaked. I halted and then tried again. The gate screeched. I cranked again, and the gate screamed in agony. Someone had to hear this! I did not intend to stop, however. I cranked, and the gate gamely protested, trying its best to alert the sleeping city. The city did not awaken.

Slowly the gate rose, high enough for four humans to scramble beneath it. Still, it had to go higher. I was taking the can-raks with us, so I needed to raise it to a greater height. To me, the can-raks were invaluable. We had no weapons, and there might be a fight before we got ourselves clear of the city, clear of the evil that flourished here. The green, yellow-eyed beasts would be our protection—so the barrier had to go higher.

My friends heard the gate calling them. Izzy, Lillatta, and Javen were there waiting in the droove corridor when I climbed down from the gate-raising platform. Convenient metal rungs along the passageway wall made the descent easy. Lillatta handed me my sandals, and I slipped them back on. Then she reached into the leather bag holding the ceiling light and with a triumphant expression produced a piece of bone.

I stared at her, not comprehending.

"It's a droove bone. You wanted one for your new bracelet. I found a skeleton."

"Fantastic! Let's keep it in the bag until I can find time to make one."

After going back to retrieve the can-raks, we ran through the open gate and up the high-walled passageway, only to find another barrier.

Oh, fuld! I should have anticipated this—double gates. You open one to let the drooves in and then close it behind them. You open the second one leading directly into the pen, and, if by chance a can-rak or two rushes through that gate, the first gate would prevent them from escaping into the city. All you'd have to do is wait until the beasts went back through the gate or somehow force them back into the pen and then close that barrier behind them.

The second gate had the same climbing rungs as the first, so I ascended to the control platform and found the crank. To my relief, this one was relatively silent, and we were soon through the portal, up another short passageway, and out onto a city street.

We had no idea where we were. The street was dark, for it appeared only the main avenues were torchlit at night, and this wasn't one of them. Fortuitous for us, Numa and Nima's illumination was sufficient for finding our way. I tried to remember the city layout from what I had seen from high up on the wall, but it all looked so different at street level.

The city seemed to have emptied when the sun went down, for not a soul was visible as we wound our way through the backstreets of Grell. We avoided lighted avenues, and if anyone noticed our odd procession, they did not sound an alarm. What a sight we must have been! Ten docile can-raks being led by four slaves—a sight you won't see every day.

The can-raks were behaving themselves. I had told them to follow us, do it in silence, and to ignore all else. That eliminated their tendency to growl at every little smell that wafted to them. It impressed me with what ease they disregarded their instinctual behavior with just a few words from my mouth. If that would only work with people, how different the world might be.

Izzy came up to walk beside me; I could tell she had something to say.

"So, what is the plan? Where are we going?" she asked.

"We're going to get out of the city, out of the fortress, and leave Grell far behind."

It was not what Izzy wanted to hear.

"Lillatta, Javen, and I have been talking, and ..."

She hesitated.

"Go on," I prompted.

"We want to free the slaves," Izzy said as if defying me to challenge the intention.

I kept my face expressionless.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard." I stopped and pointed. "And here's your answer."

We were on a street, a street of dull gray buildings. Each one looked the same, and we all knew what they contained—cells with portholes, dirty straw, and misery. I turned to my cohorts, offering a conspiratorial smile.

"Shall we go free some slaves?"

The Blades of Sorrow—plus one—agreed with that course of action.

We were coming. And if judging by our previous encounters with the Spood, they would not be happy to see us.

**

~~TWENTY-ONE~~

The street of slaves was unlit, unlike the infamous plaza not far from it, which seemed a sun compared to this street's moon. Ra-ta had blessed us again, for the avenue was empty. No doubt spending one's hours among the residences of lesser beings was not a common practice of the masters of the world. There would be Creet guards, of that I was certain, but we felt confident in our ability to handle them.

How I would use the can-raks concerned me. I would not have considered attempting this rescue without their presence since we had no conventional weapons. My mind had been working since entering this street. I was trying to formulate a strategy by which I could use the can-raks to terrorize without causing a horrific bloodbath.

At last, I told them to frighten any Creet soldiers we might come across by screeching, howling, and otherwise threatening them without making physical contact. Chase them down the street, make them cower and soil themselves, but leave them alive. Of course, if any decided to be foolhardy and fight back—kill them.

I instructed the beasts to leave the slaves unharmed and assist any in peril. With that attended to, the four of us walked up to the steps of the first building and climbed them. A Creet guard dozed in a chair near the entrance, comfortable and snoring. I tapped him on the shoulder to rouse him. He jerked, came to attention, and then realized I was not his superior. Uttering an oath, he grabbed for his stirka.

Javen quickly pinned his arms behind him while I directed the squirming guard's attention to the two sets of yellow can-rak eyes hovering in the darkness above and to my rear. If terror had a face, I now knew what it looked like. The guard struggled in a frantic effort to free himself from Javen's grasp and then began to mewl pathetically. I patted him on the shoulder.

"There, there," I said. "The can-raks won't eat you unless I tell them to. And, guess what?"

I leaned in closer.

"If you give me your weapons and then run as fast as you can down that street, I will make sure the beasts let you live. However, if you breathe a word to anyone, the can-raks will know and hunt you down. I have seen it happen. They know what you are thinking."

The man stopped fidgeting, and a hopeful glimmer appeared in his eyes.

"Please, I will do as you say. I will go straight home. No one will hear a thing from me."

I wondered if I could trust his word, being a Spood and all. However, looking him over, I judged my can-rak warning had served its purpose.

"Your stirka and knife," I said. "Give them to me. The belt, too."

The man complied and I told him to run. He hurried into the blackness, and within seconds I heard a growl and a sharp exclamation. I gathered he had discovered the other can-raks. I wondered how fast he was running now.

I handed the stirka to Izzy along with the scabbard belt, and Lillatta assisted her in strapping it around her waist. Javen gave me a wounded look as if he had expected to get the sword.

"Izzy could have that blade out, across your throat, in your heart, or slicing your brain before you could lift it halfway out of the scabbard," I told him. "She has the skill, so she gets the sword."

Javen had no argument with that.

I kept the knife for myself. I had no experience with swords. The rik-ta was my weapon along with the spear, and I hoped to obtain one of those before long. I was confident Lillatta and Javen would soon find arms as well, for we were sure to encounter stiffer resistance as we proceeded. I didn't know how much longer this stealthy approach would work, but I had no illusions Ra-ta would make it easy.

We entered the first building without the can-raks, forced to leave the massive beasts outside. Three guards, startled by our bold entrance, drew swords. They did not hide their astonishment at the sight of armed slaves walking in off the street.

"They're girls," one observed, stating the obvious but with no attempt to differentiate Javen from that appraisal.

"And not very bright ones at that," said another. "They're not even smart enough to know they walked right into a slave prison."

He seemed to be the one in charge. His disdainful attitude grated on me.

"Oh, we know where we are," I told the man. "And all we want are the slaves. We would be grateful if we didn't have to fight you to get them. If you lay down your weapons as your man outside did, we will let you go free."

The man gaped in disbelief over my impudence and then bellowed a hearty laugh.

"Did you hear that, Pelkar?" he said to one of the others. "She doesn't want to fight us, just wants us to lay down our weapons."

Pelkar and the other man chuckled.

"Jatan's a fool," the one in charge remarked, "so I'm not surprised he surrendered his weapons so readily. But, what if we decide not to? What if we decide to keep ours?"

The man smiled, but there was no friendliness behind the expression. "Are you going to try to stab us with your little knife and take them from us?"

"If you insist. It won't be that difficult."

The man did not care for that response, and his expression no longer held any hint of humor.

"You have quite a mouth on you, slave. And your stupidity is astounding! You have a man in your group, and you leave him unarmed? You give your best weapon to a one-armed girl? That knife you carry looks a little too big for you. I'm going to enjoy taking it away and using it to cut off that pretty and brainless little head of yours."

Lillatta and Javen stayed back as Izzy and I readied ourselves for the imminent attack. The big talker held his stirka in his right hand and pointed it at me. We faced off as the other two double-teamed Izzy. The man's face was confident and scornful as he came forward. It was sword against knife. Lunging toward me, the man seemed intent on making short work of me by running me through. I held my rik-ta in my right hand and turned across my body to meet and deflect his blade to the side. Then, I continued the turn, coming with a swift sweep all the way back around while stepping in closer to the Creet. As I turned, I reached out with my free left hand to grab the man's sword arm by the wrist. At the same time, I brought my right around and slashed my blade across his exposed throat.

With critical channels of lifeblood severed, the Creet quickly lost interest in the battle. I let go of the man's sword arm as his blade had already loosened in his grasp. His free hand reached up to his wound, and his sword dropped from the other, clanging as it hit the floor. He brought his other hand up and held his gushing neck, a look of utter incomprehension on his face. Then, unable to stand, he followed his sword on down and with a thump lay upon the stone floor, spewing red until life departed.

I held out my blade in a taunting gesture.

"Here's the knife you were going to take from me," I told the corpse. "Don't you want it anymore?"

Apparently, he didn't.

I turned to assist Izzy, but she needed no help. She was standing, calm as usual, watching me with that impish grin of hers. Her two assailants were down and dead.

"I wondered if you were going to take all night," she said with an affected exasperation. "You know I have things to do and places to go."

Javen stared open-mouthed at the two of us. Lillatta laughed and said to me, "They fought about half as well as those straw dummies you used to practice on."

We gathered the weapons and distributed them. Lillatta grabbed a rik-ta and a sword, though she'd never used the latter. Javen snatched up the same. We each took a stairwell, knowing there were probably no more guards to confront.

The cells were packed. More slaves were arriving daily as the Spood expanded their control, and many in this building were newcomers. I checked to see if any were Sakita or Raab, but none were.

The freed slaves flooded out onto the street, their excitement unchecked. All was confusion. We could not keep them silent and less so after they spotted the can-raks. Many fled down the avenue, screaming, and I realized we had botched our initial rescue. They would, in due course, alert the city to our actions, and soon the Creet soldiers would pour in from the surrounding streets.

Already, Creet guards from the other slave buildings had appeared in doorways, investigating the disturbing noises. I saw several race toward the plaza, hurrying to rouse the Creet companies headquartered there. I had hoped to delay the introduction of more troops until we had emptied all the cells, but that was not to be.

Numa and Nima were nearing their race's end, yet their illumination remained full as we redoubled our efforts to release the slaves. By now, the building guards had all abandoned their posts, aware of our growing numbers and knowing their troops would soon arrive to handle things. That allowed a smoother, more rapid effort on our part. The street was filling with gray-clad people. We rectified our earlier mistake by informing everyone the can-raks were under our control.

The freed captives looked to us for guidance. I had them gather, and then I told the can-raks to form a perimeter around them. We were going to march straight through the city and out to the countryside—and let the Spood try stopping us. My concern was that none of the slaves had weapons. I didn't know if the can-rak presence would be enough to protect us from an organized assault, but we had few options.

We avoided the plaza and took another street. I had it in my head to follow a route I had devised while standing on the wall overlooking the city earlier. I believed there were only a couple more thoroughfares to negotiate and we could exit the city. We would decide what to do once out in open country, but we knew Izzy's sliding wall panels were the best escape option. They would allow us to reach the safety of the high fortress walls and to exit the fortress through any panel on its other side.

We turned into another dark avenue—and they were waiting. Creet soldiers blocked the street, spears at the ready, their ranks in smart formation. How deep the force extended beyond the front spear-carriers, I could not tell. This situation was not good, for we could assume more troops would soon be in place at our backs and others stationed at the upcoming cross streets.

The Creet had us trapped. I conferred with my compatriots, and we reached accord on the only strategy that might have a chance of success. We would gather the ten can-raks in front and have them rush the Creet soldiers while the remainder of us ran closely behind. We hoped the can-rak assault would disrupt and disorient the Creet forces, allowing us to slip through and regroup once beyond the city limits.

It was weak, I knew, but we had little choice, for the Creet were advancing. We spread the word regarding our intentions, and then I instructed the can-raks.

"Charge their ranks," I told the green monsters. "Make a path so we can pass through them."

This was life or death for many innocent, unarmed people, so I added another order, and I was not reluctant to do so.

"Kill when you must," I told the beasts. "Kill any Spood who oppose us. Protect us from attack."

The can-raks began to move down the street, trotting out front and toward the Creet ranks. Visibility was good, with Numa and Nima still aloft and with the dawn showing its first glimmers. Straight ahead I could see little, for the enormous can-rak bodies allowed no view. Their growling commenced, which rapidly shifted to a sustained roaring as they built up speed. The beasts presented a terrifying display of intimidating volume and mass. Civilian faces gaped in fright from building sentals all around us. I wondered how disciplined the Creet ranks would remain as the most fearsome creatures in all creation ripped into their lines.

We were on them. The can-raks made contact and momentum belonged to the predators. The early morning air rang with cries of agony, screams of horror, shrieks of terror. The Spood were no longer spectators to the emotions they so ardently and callously bled from others. Now they were immersed in the pain, drowning in the fear. I had little sympathy or compassion. Let them feel what so many had at their hands. Let them suffer for a change.

The can-raks sped up so quickly that we fell behind. We closed, and the carnage we witnessed was appalling. We saw bloody heads and limbs; torsos ripped in two. The Creet company and those reinforcements waiting to confront us at the final two cross streets faced decimation. Their ranks evaporated under the relentless aggression of blood-crazed fiends.

I slipped on an arm drenched in gore, and Lillatta caught me. The beasts were doing what I had hoped, opening a path to the fields and forests that lay beyond the city limits. Those were now in view. The three hundred people escaping from the gray prisons began shouting as they caught sight of open country.

We were soon free of the streets and moving with urgent speed down a dirt road flanked by fields of grain. The demoralized Creet forces, after a half-hearted effort, ceased pursuing, and on someone's orders, they headed back into the city. I commanded the can-raks to desist. We were alone, victorious.

In the growing light of dawn, I perceived that the grain fields stretched all the way from the nearer north wall to the distant south wall of the fortress. Ahead, down the road west, the silhouette of a forest loomed, outlined against the sky. We needed to head in that direction.

It pleased me to note the slaves were gathering up the weapons of the slain Creet. Dangers unknown still awaited and the more metal, the better. My friends and I decided to try for the fortress gate where we had first entered Grell. It was the only exit for the can-raks, and I certainly wanted to free them from this place, too. Izzy felt we should find the sliding panel she had come through (where Brilna might still be waiting) and get everyone to safety atop the fortress wall. Then, any who wanted to leave could exit through the other side at any panel location. The rest of us would stay together, follow the walkway atop the wall, and escape as a group once at the gate.

Meanwhile, some would remain on the ground with the can-raks, accompanying them along the north wall to the gate entrance. We would meet there, destroy the gate, and set the can-raks free.

I was eager to get moving, but Javen pulled me aside to alert me to a problem.

"Sanyel, they are beginning to scatter. You must speak to them, to tell them to stick together."

He was right. Individuals and small groups had already begun to take to the road. The four of us climbed onto a broad, flat rock resting just off the road in a field. I shouted to get everyone's attention. The escapees gathered around except for those few who had made a premature departure. They were already far down the road, out of hearing distance.

"I am Sanyel," I began.

"We know who you are," a sharp voice spoke from the crowd.

I scanned the gathering to pinpoint the speaker.

"All Sakita know who you are. You are the defiler of our tradition, banished for your crimes. I am surprised to see you still live. You should be rotting in the desert, where you belong."

The man was Oster, the hunter I had spotted along with Miras and Lillatta in the Creet slave caravan. He didn't seem to like me much.

"And what a shock to see you, Lillatta, standing with her. Was it not you who exposed her heretical deeds? Now you, too, defy our laws? If Barkor still lived, you would feel the back of his hand across your—"

"Stop!" a voice interrupted. It was Miras, who stood not far from Oster.

"I once thought the same thing," she told him. "But Sanyel and Lillatta saved me in a Spood cell from some awful men, so I can no longer accept the rules of her banishment. She protected me, and she has freed you all."

Oster was having none of it.

"She did not free us," he scoffed. "She is a woman. These trained can-raks saved us. I will thank the one who controls them. Where is he?"

I was about to respond when Izzy stepped in front of me.

"Your tongue flaps and you mouth words, but it is all nonsense. You should show more respect for women. I am a woman, and I have seen true men. You do not seem to be one of them. I say you are closer to being porse dung than a man. Perhaps that is what men from your tribe are made of?"

The crowd laughed—at least those among it who were not Sakitan.

The insult, and from a woman at that, infuriated Oster, and I thought Izzy had really stepped in it, so to speak.

"I'll kill you for that!" Oster threatened. He spat upon the ground, lifted a sword he had confiscated from a dead Creet, and stepped with purpose toward the rock.

"Don't hurt him," I whispered to Izzy as she prepared to go meet the hunter.

"Oh, I won't," she assured me. "Just going to give him a little lesson in manners and respect."

"Well, make it quick. We have to get going."

I learned later that Oster had been in the plaza when the uprising occurred, but he had been far in the back and did not realize Izzy was the girl he had admired from a distance for her fighting skill on the platform. Unlucky for him he did not recognize her now.

Oster was a man of about twenty. He had appealing looks, was wiry and athletic, and he sported flowing, dark-blond locks that extended past his shoulders. As Izzy approached, he began swinging his blade in impressive strokes back and forth. The crowd parted, and there was an instant partisan atmosphere as the spectators chose favorites. Those who recognized Izzy knew who to back; the rest, of course, were fools.

Oster was a typical Sakitan, raised to use spears and rik-tas, and he had no familiarity with the long blade. As I said, his initial swings looked impressive, but that illusion soon faded. Just for show, Izzy flipped her sword with a lazy toss into the air. Then, without even looking up, she let it come down and caught it with ease by the hilt. The crowd began a troubled murmuring. Oster saw the move, and it dampened his prior eagerness to engage.

Izzy stepped forward with a quick motion, and with an almost indiscernible flick she sliced off a substantial chunk of Oster's hair above his right shoulder. He flinched after the fact and swung his sword, no doubt hoping to catch Izzy's blade coming in to slice the other side. Too late. That side had already departed.

Oster was a quick study. He saw his chances, and they were none.

"I yield, I yield!" he yelped. He appeared relieved when Izzy accepted his surrender.

Now we could get back to the important matters at hand. I urged the crowd to stay together, for with numbers we could better defend ourselves. The majority came around to that line of thinking. Still, as always happens with a large group, some insisted on going their separate way. I noticed Oster was not one of them. We let the fools depart and began strategizing.

The Creet might return at any time with a larger force, so haste was imperative, though I wondered if their adventures in other lands had left their numbers depleted here at home. Izzy informed me that the wall panel she and Brilna had opened was at least a half hour distant from the city. We could try opening ones closer, but I wanted to put some distance between the Creet and ourselves. We would follow the main road until Izzy recognized the landmarks she had burned to memory, and then we would cut north to the wall.

The north wall was visible, blackened along its entire length with those scorch marks I had noticed earlier. They also reached to a tremendous height. I looked to the south wall and saw only a minuscule line of stone, with its great distance from us rendering it almost invisible. With a wistful sigh, I imagined someday peeking over that south wall for a close look at the magnificent ocean churning on its far side.

The morning arrived, and Ra-ta drifted skyward as we trod west along the rutted road. In a short while, we came upon most of the former slaves who had prematurely left our group. They now patiently waited for us by the roadside. They had realized the foolishness of trying to navigate through a fortress teeming with Spood, and with sheepish faces, they rejoined us. Within half an hour, Izzy informed me we were directly in line with the panel location. We turned north across the grain fields and headed for the wall.

The distance to the north wall was not substantial. There were no roads to follow, for Izzy and Brilna had made sure the panel was in a remote area with no sperzas nearby.

As we progressed through the grain fields, I glanced behind us to the south and caught a movement. After rubbing my eyes, I checked again. There was no doubt. A convoy of Spood rolling platforms was passing on the main road.

They stopped. The distance was not so great that we would be safe from discovery. I alerted the others, and we ducked down into the high grain. I got the can-raks to lie down, but I was concerned the grain height was not enough to conceal them. As we watched, a stream of basket-carrying slaves accompanied by swok-wielding guards began to roll our way. The slaves were coming to work the fields.

For some reason, I had forgotten about these slaves. My mind had been on the city captives, and these out in the country had slipped it entirely. They were still coming, and soon the danger to us might require a hasty flight. My mood turned foul. Ra-ta was playing games again. When would that cease?

The slave wave halted. They began working a field far enough distant that I felt it safe to depart unnoticed if we kept low. However, the can-raks were just too large to remain unseen as they began moving. A yell rang out from a field worker, followed by a cacophony of fearful cries. The slaves made instinctive moves back to the road, only to be met by vicious doses of stinging swoks. Even under threat of can-raks, the Creet would not allow workers to escape their immediate control.

I was in a quandary. The Creet had seen the can-raks, but they were still unaware humans accompanied them. Should we go to help the slaves or preserve our safety? Many in our group were urging action, their empathy for their fellow slaves overriding their self-interest as they witnessed the swoks doing their damage. I looked over at Lillatta, Izzy, and Javen, who awaited my thoughts on the situation. Their expectant expressions showed it was not a matter of if with them, only when. They fully expected me to ask them to go free the slaves, and they had no qualms about doing so.

"Let's go," I said. It was all I needed to say.

**

~~TWENTY-TWO~~

The easiest way to handle this would be to send the can-raks. Of course, the slaves and guards would both scatter, making it more difficult to contain the situation. So, we decided the four of us, along with two can-raks to show we controlled the beasts, would walk straight up to them and hope to intimidate without causing a full-blown panic. The balance of our group, yet unnoticed, would remain hidden in the fields.

The guards had assessed the can-rak danger already and were forcing the slaves back onto the rolling platforms. The drooves hitched to those platforms were jumpy. They smelled the danger, and their drivers had trouble controlling them. Our casual approach through the high grain shifted everyone's attention to us. We emerged onto the road a short distance in front of the convoy.

The Creet soldiers, with their grottis symbols visible on their red-trimmed vests, stood out from the rest. They were wary and had drawn their swords. I counted about twenty. At a reasonable hailing distance, I allowed Izzy to state our purpose.

"Creetans," she addressed them. "Throw down your arms. This is a great day for you, for we have blessed you with the privilege of meeting in person your greatest enemies. I am Izzy, Blade of Sorrow. This is my fellow Blade, Lillatta. The blond terror you see before you is Sanyel, the one and only Disrupter. The boy? He, I'm afraid, is of no consequence."

Izzy glanced over at Javen and smiled her sweetest smile, getting an "I'll get you for that" smile in return.

"And, we have can-raks," she finished.

The Creet soldiers listened in dumbfounded silence. The slaves showed confusion as well. I could imagine the thoughts racing through the guards' minds—well, inching perhaps, for these were Spood, after all. They had just heard a crazy, spike-haired girl with tattoos and a missing arm tell them to lay down their weapons. She and the rest of her group were, without question, slaves, but they were not acting as proper slaves should. Accompanying them were a couple of those green monsters, those yellow-eyed can-raks that seemed, surprisingly, to be under the group's control. Also, the speaker claimed to be of the feared trio prophecy stated one day would come. How to respond?

"Surrender your weapons and kneel to your masters," the imperious head Creet commanded.

Not the response for which I had hoped. I guessed he had concluded our mental stability was in question, though the can-raks must have puzzled him. He had to wonder what possible control crazy people could have over the wild beasts.

Izzy's reply to the surrender demand was short and terse.

"No."

At a voice command to the can-raks and a signal from me, we advanced. The Creet guards shifted in place, their tension rising. The head Creet did not appear to be a rash man, and he seemed to be mulling over what to do next. Then, that assumption evaporated, for with a celerity I had not anticipated, the Creet lifted and snapped his swok toward Izzy. Why he initiated that move was beyond me. It seemed both pathetic and irrational.

Within moments, the man's confident face morphed into one of astonishment. For as the man's leather unfurled to cut the nose-ringed nuisance, a blade lifted from the girl's scabbard. In a fraction of a blink, it caught the whipping cord around its sharp metal form. A forceful yank wrenched the swok from the Creet's hand, and it now lay at Izzy's feet.

"Is that the best you can do?" Izzy asked.

The head Creet grimaced, baffled and angry over his failed effort. It was easy to recognize the response of one never challenged by inferiors before. And although I've always found it endlessly amusing to bait the arrogant, playtime was over.

"Remove your weapons and drop them to the ground!" I ordered. "The can-raks have not eaten in a while, and I will feed you to them if you do not comply. Do it now!"

The Creet commander's subordinates did not wait for his instruction. They stripped off their arms before he could say a word. He growled an empty threat at them before reluctantly following suit. I told the grumbling guards to march back toward the city, and they had no choice but to obey.

When they were well on their way, a hesitant young man approached me. The slaves we had freed from the city had come over to join us, and the young man had been going around to each, searching for someone. He now stood before me, appearing anxious, so I allowed him to ease into whatever it was he wished to convey.

"You are going back to the city?" he inquired, his face eager and expectant.

I responded with a negative head shake. The man reacted with disbelief.

"But what of the other slaves? You cannot leave them!"

"What other slaves?"

I was genuinely puzzled.

"There are thousands more still in the city. Did you not know this?"

I had to admit I did not. Still, the news should not have surprised me. Of course there were more. We had freed barely three hundred, and that was nothing. The Spood needed thousands to handle all the daily tasks they refused to do themselves. Thousands had to suffer to save them from getting calluses on their murderous hands.

"Where were these slaves housed?" I asked the man. "I thought the street off the plaza was the only place they quartered them."

"No, no, that's not true. There are slaves in buildings on several other streets. My family is in one."

The man's anguish was heartrending.

"But, you did not come from the city to work these fields," I observed.

"No, that is true. The Spood now keep me in a sperza not far from here. They took me from the city not more than a week ago to work the fields. My wife, children, and I were in the same cell in the city. They are still there. I am certain of it."

As much as I wanted to help this man, I knew I would not. I would not go back into Grell; it was too dangerous. I had been pushing my luck for a long while and felt a return would be foolhardy. I could not ask my friends to take that risk, even though I was sure they would not hesitate.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do," I told the man.

His stricken face was hard to bear, and if I did not turn away, I knew an emotional desire to help him would overrule my common sense decision not to.

"Send the can-raks," Javen said. He had been listening to our conversation.

I turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"Instruct the can-raks to follow this man into the city, find his family, and protect them. We do not need them now. We have weapons and numbers."

It was true. We could most likely handle any of the smaller forces we might encounter in the countryside. However, I had promised myself I would free the great beasts. To send them back into the fire was disturbing to me. I would be abandoning them.

Lillatta and Izzy joined us as I pondered what to do. I informed them of the situation, and Lillatta was adamant about what course to take.

"This is an opportunity. We have a chance to bring total disruption to the Spood way of life. You are the Disrupter, aren't you? Send the can-raks. Tell them to kill anyone who attacks them or who attacks the defenseless. Let two of them accompany this man to free his family. And when that's done, he can use those two to help free the other slaves."

As she spoke those last words, she gave the young man a penetrating, inquiring look. His eager nod indicated he was agreeable to take on the challenge.

"Tell the other can-raks to hunt down Spood leaders throughout the city. We need to destroy their ability to function as a government. The can-raks have to kill anyone who strongly embraces and has the power to continue the Spood's aggressive, expansionist policies, whether those people are civilians, military leaders, businessmen, whatever. I sense a can-rak can sniff such a person out if instructed to do so—do you agree?"

"I do," I responded. "I feel they have the ability to accomplish whatever is asked of them."

"If you remove the people directing this barbarous society, then it becomes toothless," Lillatta continued. "If others in the general population actively resist the can-raks' purge, have the beasts eliminate them, too. I would guess that would result in a lot of dead priests, Creet soldiers, and who knows how many others, but can we allow them to continue this aggression? If we don't stop them, they will come after us again, and this nightmare will continue."

Lillatta's eyes turned icy, her face muscles tight and hard.

"And besides, I want vengeance. I want them to pay for what they did. They came into our land, uninvited, and killed my Kalor. They must pay for that!"

Lillatta sought retribution, and I agreed with the sentiment. The Spood were a cancer. And the can-raks were a weapon unlike anything ever seen. One would be extremely tough to kill; ten would be nearly impossible to defeat if they worked together. The Creet forces saw how terrifying they could be and how ferociously they destroy their opposition. Let the beasts rip out the Spood cancer. Let them cure the sickness responsible for the darkness emanating from this corner of the world.

We decided. The man would go with the can-raks and disruption would follow. I told the beasts to work as a pack to discourage any organized attack on an isolated member and to do what Lillatta had recommended. Also, I instructed them to feed on animals they found, not the bodies of humans killed. I felt the gruesome sight of ravenous creatures chewing on human corpses would only exacerbate an already horrific situation. I also commanded the two can-raks that were to accompany the young man to follow his orders until all the slaves were free and safe.

Then, they could join the others in the grisly work of purging the leadership elements of this arrogant, brutal society along with any who interfered. I realized that some of those people the beasts sought might escape by finding secure hiding places or by fleeing the city, but I hoped they could root out enough of them to disrupt the Spood society beyond recovery. I told the can-raks to keep the pressure on for one month and to expand their search to outside the city limits as well. After the month passed, they could find the main gate and freedom. I would somehow make sure the gate remained permanently open for them and all others wishing to escape.

Word got around of the young man's mission to free his family, and several others with loved ones still in captivity volunteered to go along. We supplied the brave men with weaponry and wished them well.

When the party of men and beasts were out of sight, we readied ourselves to head to the north wall and the panel that awaited opening. The new batch of freed slaves numbered around fifty, including several children. I hoped the additional bodies would not increase our odds of discovery.

With a spear lifted from a dead Creet back at the city, I began idly whacking at grain stalks beside the road. I was waiting for others to unhitch the drooves from the rolling platforms, for we were taking the ten animals with us.

I heard something behind me. As I turned, the thought that Ra-ta was again playing games refreshed itself in my mind. For charging down the road from the west was a mounted Creet company. A thundering pack of drooves barreled down on us. Safely riding in the middle of the created dust storm was none other than the high priest, Smerkas.

I stood there for a moment, confused. Why was Smerkas coming from that direction and not from the city?

As the alarm went up, we scattered into the fields. The Creet forces had undoubtedly spotted us. Our only hope was to stay low and vanish into the high grain. I ran as swiftly as I could through the dense stalks, looking back occasionally to see what was happening. The grain was chin high, so my sightline was clear.

The mounted troops arrived quickly, trapping slaves still on the road. I watched the blades rise and descend. Escaped slaves could expect no mercy. The senseless slaughter angered me, for these slaves had committed no crime except for wanting to be free. I changed direction. I began walking toward the Creet carnage. I would go to them, take the fight to them. I was tired of running.

If Izzy, Lillatta, or Javen saw me, that was fine. They could join with me or not; it was up to them. Ra-ta could help me or stand by and watch, but I didn't care about that, either. I was done, done putting up with this Spood brutality. If I died, so be it.

I stepped from the grain and onto the road. My spear rested in my left hand, and I carried my rik-ta tucked into a sheath at my side. I shouted a challenge, and drooves wheeled to face the sound. Before me were about fifty armed and mounted men.

"I WANT SMERKAS," I yelled.

The Creet nearest me snarled something unintelligible and then kicked his droove into a charge. He had a malicious grin as he bore down, his spear lowered to skewer me. I had not fought anyone aboard an animal before, but how hard could it be? He came in, confident, and as his lance thrust forward, I spun my spear shaft upward and sent his weapon flying. The astonished rider whizzed by, turned his steed, and swiftly made his way back, his sword unsheathed and raised high.

He screamed obscenities as he came in for the kill. I unsheathed my rik-ta and whipped it toward the rider in one smooth motion. I watched it spin, once over, and then lodge itself with a solid thunk in the rider's chest. The droove kept coming, now riderless, and it sped past me back toward the company. I retrieved my knife and wiped it clean on the dead Creet's vest.

I began walking toward the Creet riders, stopping only when within comfortable speaking range.

I again issued my challenge.

"I said I want Smerkas. Send the coward forward."

I heard it then, the talk.

"It's her! The Disrupter! I saw her in the plaza. They sacrificed her to Gor-jar, and yet she is here!"

A murmur of fear rippled through the company. I just had to take advantage.

"That is correct," I affirmed. "I am the Disrupter. Smerkas tried to sacrifice me to Gor-jar, but Gor-jar was no match for me."

I paused for effect and then stuck in the knife.

"I killed Gor-jar. Gor-jar is dead."

Shouts, fearful and disbelieving, rang through the Creet forces. Smerkas then rode forward from the inner ranks where he had been hiding.

"LIAR!" he screeched, and the ranks grew quiet.

His sweat-soaked, balding head shone in the sunlight, and though I sensed the doubt in his voice, he was still a true believer.

"You could not have killed Gor-jar. He is immortal."

Smerkas looked uncertain despite his words, but then his face brightened as if sudden enlightenment had unexpectedly come, timely and divinely delivered.

"I have seen Gor-jar, so I know he is impossible to kill. He purposely leaves this world on occasion, so perhaps you mistook that for death. You may also think you escaped from him, but it was not your doing." Smerkas then smiled, and now confident in his truth, he said, "Our magnanimous god let you go free."

The high priest waved his jeweled scepter in a grand arc and then directed his words to the company. "It is the divine mercy of Gor-jar that he let her live."

Smerkas' persuasive words assuaged the Creet soldiers' fears. Many now affirmed their belief that the priest spoke the truth; their god still lived, and the blond demon had lied to them. An easily swayed bunch, these Creet. It was my turn to persuade.

"Do you really believe Gor-jar would just let me go? I am the Disrupter. Would he not want his can-raks to tear me apart and crush my bones? The reason they did not is that I killed their master, so now they serve me. At this very moment, by my instruction, ten can-raks are ripping the hearts from your fellow citizens in Grell. Only the bad ones, of course. If you happen to be one of those, I would strongly suggest you not return home. Of course, that means Smerkas certainly can't return."

I saw the riders again plunged into doubt, but the high priest had another play to make. This one was not subtle.

"It is a story to tell gullible children," Smerkas said. With a sly, triumphant expression, he told his men, "She controls no can-raks. Gor-jar lives, and he has granted you his highest honor. He has chosen you to kill the Disrupter. The glory is yours! Kill her!"

With that, my decision to stand alone against a large, well-armed contingent of Creet soldiers revealed itself as one of the dumber things I have recently done. I turned to race back into the fields' cover. Before I reached them, from out of those stalks emerged the most unlikely of rescuers. A stampeding horde of crazed creatures materialized out of the high grain. Dozens of drooves began cutting in front of the Creet soldiers about to give chase, forcing them farther back down the road.

One of the beasts had a rider. I strained to see who it was. Oh my god! Brilna?

The skinny little thing was hanging onto the droove's neck for dear life, and I saw she had no reins with which to control it. Despite the dire nature of the situation, the hilarity of the sight was immeasurable. Brave, ridiculous, wonderful Brilna. Come to save the day.

As I might have expected, her uncontrollable mount now headed directly into danger, right for Smerkas, who had faded back deep within the Creet center. That center, however, was falling apart. Numerous Creet soldiers lay on the ground, dumped by rearing animals rattled by the droove invaders. From out of the fields where they had been hiding, armed slaves, recognizing an opportunity, now swarmed in for the kill.

As I absorbed all those peripheral events, my concentration remained focused on Brilna, who careened wildly on top of her droove as it sped on course toward Smerkas. The armed priest was aware of her approach, and though the distance was great, I caught the glint of metal as Smerkas lifted his sword.

Brilna's beast did not waver. Intersection with the blue-robed priest was moments away, so action was imperative. I weighed my rik-ta in my hand. The distance was absurd. No one could throw an object that far, and the Creet company still retreated from my position. I remembered the starfen, years ago, pinned to a tree by an improbable throw. I remembered Semral in the forest and the pinpoint toss to the center of a tree circle that had left the great hunter in awe.

I planted a kiss on the knife's handle and whispered, "Fly true." I reared back and let the blade go. With the strength and eye of Ra-ta, the mighty sun god, the rik-ta shot from my hand. It flew straight, never deviating from its path, never doubting its destination. Brilna was there as the high priest's stirka halted in mid-strike, suspended its downward arc, and slid from his lifeless hand. The haft of a knife I had gripped but moments before now protruded from his chest. Then, Smerkas was gone, slipped from his mount, trampled into the dust.

The Creet force, in a matter of moments, no longer existed, wiped out, massacred. Who could have stopped it, persuaded against the slaughter when so many damaged souls cried for vengeance? I found Smerkas' mangled body among the dead and retrieved my knife. A bejeweled scepter lay undamaged nearby. I picked it up, marveling at the glittering gems encircling the shaft. Such vanity. Beautiful jewels, no matter what number, could never mask the ugliness of their owner's soul.

Brilna's droove finally allowed her to dismount, and she came up to me. We greeted each other like long-lost sisters. I cried as I hugged her. The girl had a way of growing on you. I saw her eyeing the scepter with keen interest, so I handed it to her.

"It's yours," I said.

By her exuberant reaction, you would have thought I had handed her Ra-ta's throne.

Izzy, Javen, and Lillatta appeared. Brilna and Izzy hugged and engaged in a second joyful reunion dance. I introduced Brilna to the others, and then we set about gathering up the new bounty of arms acquired. I was curious to know what the others had been doing while I confronted Smerkas—alone. Also, how had Brilna managed to round up this pack of drooves in the middle of nowhere?

"So, where were you three?" I asked. "Were you hiding in the fields as I took on the entire Creet army?"

"Hiding? Are you serious?" replied Izzy with mock indignation. "Of course we were hiding. Did you not see the soldiers on the road? They were huge and scary."

"And did you not see the shiny, sharp objects they carried," added Lillatta, "all pointy and such?"

"I was coming to rescue you," insisted Javen, "but I saw a ketter hopping by and chased it, instead. Good food is hard to come by, and you wouldn't want me to pass up a decent meal, would you?"

Brilna had that look. She did not catch the lighthearted intent and seemed shocked the others would say and think such things. I told her they were joking. Brilna stared at me for a long time, and then she managed an awkward giggle. Her laugh was that of one who doesn't know what she's laughing at but feels an obligation to pretend she does. The others then informed me that they would have helped me in my battle with the Creet, but they thought I was doing just fine without them. They were about to assist when Brilna charged in on her mount.

"So, Brilna, how is it you were out here riding drooves?" I asked. "I thought you planned to wait at the wall to open the sliding doors for us?"

I smiled in a way I was sure would indicate to her I was teasing.

Her stricken face made me sorry I had gone that route.

"Oh, Sanyel, I am so sorry I didn't stay. I was so hungry. I had to find something to eat."

She stopped and looked meekly down, no doubt expecting a scolding. I felt awful. She had taken my quip as an accusation, which I had not intended.

"I was only joking," I said to soothe her. "I was pleased you found the drooves and saved me from the soldiers. You did the right thing."

Brilna's child-like joy returned, and I felt relief. I asked her how she had come into possession of the drooves.

She reiterated that she had been hungry, and from the fortress parapet, she had noticed a sperza some distance away to the west. She came down from the heights last night and walked through the darkness to find it. She hid in the trees near a droove stable, but she didn't know how to proceed. Then, a man exited a house, walked to a fenced-in enclosure attached to the stable, and began tossing food to drooves milling there. When called back into the house, he left the pen gate open and the food behind on a fence rail.

"I ran over and grabbed the food before the drooves could get to it," Brilna said. "It was a loaf made out of grain. I've had something like it before. We bake the same kind of loaves in my tribe. As I ran away with the food, the drooves started following me. I tried to shoo them off, but they wouldn't leave. They followed me all the way to the wall door.

"I went back in and up the stairway, and when morning came, I saw your group out on the road. I wasn't sure who you were, but you were coming this way, so I felt it had to be Izzy returning."

Brilna paused, eyes wide, and in a fearful tone said, "I saw all the can-raks ... I was so afraid."

Brilna stopped, and for a moment I thought her brain had frozen. But then she came out of it and cheerily asked, "How did you keep them from eating you?"

I explained my power over the green beasts and let Brilna marvel at the extraordinary disclosure. I then coaxed her into finishing her story, for the sooner she finished, the sooner we could depart this still perilous location.

"I was going to wait for you, but then I spotted that Creet company," Brilna went on. "I knew your group couldn't see them, so I wanted to warn you. The drooves were still outside the wall, so I jumped aboard a kneeling one, hoping it would get me to you faster. I must have frightened the others because they all leaped up and started running. For some reason, they ran straight toward you, and I was trying to keep up and not fall off the droove."

This type of improbable adventure could only happen to Brilna. I could not help marveling at how Ra-ta watched over her. Or, was it just her? We had all had such amazing escapes from impossible situations. I thought of the Spood prophecy. It told of the Disrupter, the Blades of Sorrow, and two unnamed assistants. Javen and Brilna? It had to be them. Was Ra-ta protecting us because we were the sun god's chosen instruments to save the world from Spood domination?

It seemed a bit of a stretch, but I could think of no other reason.

Izzy interrupted my musings. It was time to go. We had rounded up the Creet drooves and those "brought" to us by Brilna. We now possessed weapons along with food and water we had found in the Creet droove packs. Those of us who didn't have a droove would take the wall panel and stairway to the fortress top and then march down to the main gate from there. We felt those with drooves could safely risk taking the main road, for that group had more than adequate arms with which to defend themselves. They would pass through sperzas, but we doubted the small communities contained any sizable Creet presence.

We left it up to individuals to decide who wanted to take which path. I chose to walk the wall. I wanted to see firsthand the awe-inspiring views Izzy had witnessed from up there. Izzy and Brilna would stay with the droove party, while Lillatta and Javen decided to join me up on the wall.

We made good time and arrived at the wall as Kaynar's fluffiest clouds began teasing Ra-ta in a game of sky control. I saw by the clouds' indolent nature that Kaynar was not serious and only intended playful harassment. The clouds' languid shadows flowed across us, interrupted on occasion by a blast of Ra-ta's beams.

Having gotten Izzy's finger ring from Brilna earlier, I waved the orange-colored metal across the eye and marveled at the instant movement of the panel. I examined the door, but I could not discern the mechanism that caused the sliding motion. We had to duck beneath the top edge of the low doorway and jump down a short distance to the stairway landing. As each entered the small chamber, that person then ascended the steps, allowing the next few to enter. I noticed the door stayed open as long as something was in the line of its closing path, so I made sure someone kept a hand across it.

The stairs showed no sign of wear. I examined them, trying to determine how something so solid in appearance could possibly move, as Izzy had insisted one had. I saw nothing but a fixed structure. The inside walls, much like the outside, also had an unusual degree of freshness to them. The elements had deposited some debris but seemed to have had little or no wearing effect otherwise, and yet I suspected the fortress was ancient. Even the nature of the material seemed odd, not truly stone. I saw no flaking or cracking, just smooth surfaces with barely noticeable seams.

Up top, the majestic, panoramic view from the exquisite battlements stole my breath. Izzy was right. The sun god himself must have built this extraordinary fortress. From the north parapet, multiple shades of green—hills, forests, and plains—stretched out until melding into an ethereal mist. Far below, in the fertile fields, tiny slaves still toiled beneath the sting of the swok and the broiling sun. That would soon change, I vowed. To the far south, beyond the thin, distant fortress wall, lay that endless water, heaving like the chest of a sleeping giant.

A warm and insistent wind made the folds of my gray frock billow and flutter. I could stay up here forever, breathing in the intoxicating air, feeling that empowerment that comes from standing on the summit of creation. However, practical matters don't allow one to linger long in mystical reverie. My journey did not end here; this was not my destination. My place lay beyond the hills, where a circle of mountains stabbed the sky and a mighty river split the land. I turned to the west, toward the main gate. Far from here, my people cried for freedom. I would go to them. I was returning home.

**

~~TWENTY-THREE~~

As we made our way west along the flat, broad avenue that was the uppermost level of fortress Grell, I took in the grandeur of not only the surrounding countryside but the marvels of the structure itself. I examined the small towers situated near every stairwell, and I found them to be as pristine as the rest of the construction. There was no sign of wear, no fallen stones, no cracking.

I could understand the sound condition of Izzy's shielded cave, and I knew being underground protected the white room and corridors from the elements, but why was this exposed fortress not showing signs of natural wear? It had to be older than the Spood occupation, and they had been here for at least a few hundred years, judging by what Smerkas had revealed before we descended into Gor-jar's lair. There was debris, but it was all from the outside: twigs blown up and over the parapets in storms; sand carried on the wind, building up in the corners. Also, what Izzy had said seemed true; it was as if someone had once regularly cleaned these walkways and stairwells but had recently begun letting the debris accumulate. It made no sense to me. This fortress should not be in the exceptional condition it was.

I gazed as far ahead as sight would allow along the serpentine wall and could discern no end to it. To both east and west, the wall diminished into the appearance of a string in the far distance. I wished I could follow the wall all the way around to determine how vast this fortress was. I wasn't here to sightsee, however. Beauty and ugliness were competing for my attention. For down below in the fields, both inside and outside Grell's walls, slaves yet toiled, unaware of the winds of rebellion whistling their way.

The contingent of droove riders traveling the main road encountered both slaves and their oppressors. I watched as Izzy and those with her freed another small group, disarmed their Creet guards, and sent the soldiers back down the road to Grell. How many more slaves were inside this vast enclosure? Were thousands toiling unseen in the currently invisible eastern and western lands?

What about outside the walls? How many slaves, scattered throughout how many lands controlled by the Spood, awaited deliverance from bondage? I could not free them all. Perhaps the can-raks could do the work for me. I had sent them into the city, into the power center of Spood society. To kill the monster you often have to cut off its head. Kill enough people highly placed in government and other influential segments of society, those who make and enforce the laws, defend the regime, or provide the spiritual sustenance of the populace, and you sow confusion and chaos. Soon, there is no one left to guide you, provide for you, or protect you.

To say it plainly, I hoped the monster could not survive without its brain. I killed Smerkas, and that was a start. He must have been out on some inspection tour when we met on the road. Unlucky for him. He had been the top man, in essence, the ruler. Now, Brilna had his sparkling wand, and he was food for the razoks. I wondered about his high-haired wife. Had she met the talons of the can-rak yet?

After a couple of hours of treading stone, I felt the gate had to be near. In a short while, I spotted a road outside the walls. This was it, the road leading to the entry tunnel and gate, the same path Javen, Lillatta, and I had once traveled to pass into the fortress. I had long ago lost sight of Izzy's caravan. Their greater speed had left our group behind, but now I spotted them hiding in a grove of kansers near the gate. I gathered they were awaiting our arrival.

I waved down to them, unaware if they could see me. It appeared they caught my signal, for they began to swarm forward toward the weakly guarded portal. I now stood high on the fortress wall above the gate. The guards' heads showed as moving dots below me. I watched as a quick and relatively bloodless confrontation took place. The surviving guards were soon on their way to Grell, and I assumed Izzy was working on opening the massive gate.

Not wanting to waste any more time up top, I hurried to the north side stairwell closest to the gate and urged everyone to descend. At the bottom, I waved Izzy's ring across the eye. The wall panel churned the packed soil and opened to the outside fields. We climbed up and out the doorway and flooded onto the grass outside the fortress.

Javen, Lillatta, and I, along with several others, followed the wall to the tunnel entrance. Two guards stood before it, peering into its gloom. They must have heard the movement of the gate and now waited to see who was coming out. Our approach from behind alerted them to our presence. Shock lit their faces. Upon realizing how well armed we were, they hesitated only briefly before fleeing into the fields.

I ran down the tunnel to the gate. When the barrier lifted enough for me to slip beneath it, I joined the droove-riders on the other side and quickly scaled the gate-opening platform. I wanted to make sure, once the gate was at its maximum height, that it would remain open for good. I had to find a way to sabotage it. We discovered it was easy to wreck the mechanism, but we could not figure out a way to jam the gate permanently to prevent closing. In the end, we tore the gate apart, piece by piece.

Surprised that our presence had not attracted more attention by Creet soldiers, I then realized that this gate was in a somewhat remote part of the fortress. There was no garrison of troops here, just a paltry number of guards assigned to open and close the gate. Slaves worked several fields outside the fortress walls under the supervision of a few guards, but those soldiers hadn't noticed us, for they were some distance away. Traffic in and out of the fortress seemed nonexistent. Perhaps we were lucky to have caught them on a slow day.

Izzy came up to me after the gate's demolition. I handed her the ring and watched her slip it back on her finger without the benefit of assistance.

"So, now what?" she asked. "Where do we go from here?"

"I intend to go home and kick the Spood off our land."

Javen, Lillatta, and Brilna joined us.

"I'm up for that," Izzy said.

Lillatta nodded her head. "I have some unfinished business with Bratar," she said.

I looked at her to get her meaning, but she said nothing more.

Brilna made it clear she was sticking with me, but Javen remained silent and appeared rooted in thought. He then spoke.

"Of course, I am returning with you all. I must avenge my Raab brethren and clear the Spood vermin from our lands. But I feel I must express something of importance before we go."

He turned to me. My heart began beating an increment faster. He reached for my hands, his grasp feather-light, then lifted them chest high between us and held them there. His soft eyes sought mine, and I recognized something remarkable in them. It was a look I had seen in my father's eyes, the same look that came whenever he spoke of his beloved Brisa, my mother.

"If it is my fortune to survive the coming battle, I wish only one thing," he spoke, his voice gentle, his eyes moist. "If you will have me, my only desire is to be yours, to spend my days with you, to roam the grasslands with you, to be by your side, always. I am in love with you, Sanyel of the Sakita."

I was afraid to speak. If I did, I feared the moment would shatter, and I would never get it back. This precious pause was one of those in which time runs in place, no longer progressing, allowing the images and emotions to crystallize. I wanted to hold onto those words, to retain those sights and feelings as long as I could, to enable them to find a permanent place in my heart and consciousness. Time, in its dreary passing, can be cruel, but it can also offer these small gifts, the ones you can later pull, fully formed, from memory. At your lowest and highest points in life, they bring comfort. They carry you through the worst because they remind you of how incredible the best can be. All I could think of was that I didn't want to ruin this moment by saying or doing the wrong thing.

"Kiss him already!" an exasperated Izzy exclaimed, more than happy to break the impasse.

So, I did.

Never in my life had I felt any happier than in that brief moment. Words were unnecessary. We understood that we had committed to each other, committed to a life together. I was aware of Lillatta's tears, and while I knew she was happy for me, I could tell she was thinking of her lost Kalor. It was then I truly understood her loss.

"Well, enough of the lovey stuff for now," Izzy said, breaking the mood and bringing us back to the practical world. "We need to get as far away from glorious Spoodland as fast as we possibly can."

As usual, Izzy had condensed everything down to its essence. We had to get out of here—now. No telling what size force the Creet were assembling or how soon they would begin pursuit, though I sensed they probably had their hands full with the can-raks; and, the Spood might not have many troops to send after us if they were all out raiding other lands. At least the Creet soldiers who had been guarding the slaves in the fields outside the gate wouldn't be a problem. They had chosen to flee once a large contingent of my group went out to confront them. Those slaves were now flocking over to join us.

We would be a blend of riders and walkers, though fairness demanded we alternate those roles along the way. Our destinations were not identical, but a strength in numbers philosophy obliged we travel together as far as reasonably manageable. At the very start, several small groups separated from our larger company, for their homelands were in a direct line either east or west of our current location. I asked one of those departing west if he knew how far the fortress wall extended in that direction. I was surprised to learn that within a two-hour walking distance the wall curved toward the ocean before again heading back this way along the ocean side.

My path and that of my small circle of friends lay north to the desert. In the early afternoon, we set out, accompanied by about three hundred former slaves. Attrition had scaled our numbers back so that we now totaled the same as when we had escaped the city. That number would drop further as individuals peeled off, each to follow a personal road home. What they would find there was anyone's guess, but all vowed a determined stand against the occupiers.

We traveled well armed, with each member possessing at least one weapon. A sizeable Creet patrol might give us trouble, but anything else we felt confident confronting. My plan was a simple one. My friends and I, along with the Sakita and Raab members returning with us, would cross the desert to the Kodor Mountain fracture. Counting the five of us, only twenty would make that crossing, for that was all who would remain

The Sakita no longer saw me as an outcast, and for that I was grateful. These survivors informed me that after the Creet invasion only a small number of tribespeople had made the journey to Grell. The rest remained to toil on Spood projects. Those included arranging the grasslands into plots to grow food and working a mining venture in the eastern mountains. It seemed the rare metal used to mint Spood coins was abundant along that range.

I also found out, from one of the Raab, how the Creet had discovered our little enclave in the Kodor Mountains. While looking for a passage through the straight mountain range bordering ours, a Creet company had spotted a glint of metal. It seems one of the Sakita guards at the fracture was on the desert side doing a routine inspection. Sunlight reflecting off his spearhead alerted the Creet to the opening. They captured the Sakita watchman along with a second watchman soon afterward. The Creet sent a messenger for reinforcements, and the invasion soon followed.

We had no idea how many Spood currently occupied our homeland. When we arrived, we would number only twenty, not much of a counter-invasion force. Among our number were Miras and the man with the Izzy-induced haircut, Oster. Miras told us that her husband, Jalak, was one of those sent to work the Spood mine along with Semral, the great and legendary hunter.

It was a relief to learn Semral still lived. He was a hard man to kill, as I knew firsthand. Two encounters with can-raks had not been enough to send the mighty warrior to Mimnon. I would have to find him. His help might prove invaluable.

The days passed, and we encountered only small Creet patrols. Most scurried off after scouting our strength, but one inexplicably charged. In short order, ten Creet were dead. We secured their drooves along with another valuable cache of weapons.

About halfway through our journey, I made acquaintance with a former slave, a man originally from a tribe east of the Desert of Bones. This knowledgeable, middle-aged man, held captive by the Spood for many years, informed me that he had worked in the Spood archives. I, of course, did not know what an archive was. He told me it was the depository of all Spood historical documents. He then explained what he meant by a document after clearly seeing I had no clue what that was, either.

He told me that early on in his captivity the Spood had assigned him to clean the archive building. In time, he became familiar to the scholars there, and a friendship of sorts developed. They began teaching him their written language, and it was not long before he was able to read the documents for himself.

The notion of a written language was captivating to me, having only recently heard of such a thing when told of the Spood prophecy parchment. I honestly did not comprehend how the process manifested. Someday, I hoped to learn more about it.

This man, Kersla, from perusing Spood writings, knew fascinating tidbits about their history, and he had even gained a glimpse of their predecessors' influence.

"How long have the Spood occupied Grell?" I asked. "They don't seem to have been the original builders."

"You are correct in that assumption," Kersla confirmed. "The Spood believe the fortress was constructed five thousand years ago."

"Five thousand!" That astonished me. I had suspected the fortress was ancient but not that old. The puzzle of how those walls could have withstood that many years of what should have been natural deterioration was mind stumping.

"So, how long have the Spood been rulers of the fortress?"

"Only five hundred years," Kersla replied. "They found the site during their nomad days. The gate you destroyed was not there back then. The entrance was open, and it was only later the Spood closed it off. They found the place overgrown, with no sign anyone had ever inhabited it. There were no buildings, not like now. The Spood built all those over the years."

"But what about the rooms and corridors beneath the city? Those cannot be Spood."

"No, those were discovered only about three hundred years ago. The Spood had been digging wells for water when someone hit stone beneath the ground. They excavated and discovered steps leading down. They came to a pocket where the corridors and the white room are. Some kind of rock formation had protected those areas from an ancient collapse that had filled whatever else had been down there."

"Didn't the fireless lights frighten them?"

"Oh, certainly. The well-diggers were terrified and would have fled and never come back if not for their leader. He had no fear in him. He was of a curious mind, and he knew of Spood stories that told of advanced people who had lived before."

"Our stories have the same legend!" I interrupted, excited to learn other cultures passed down the same tales. "A people who had devices that flew in the sky and swam underwater."

"Exactly!" Kersla confirmed. "This fearless man knew these things, so he went ahead to explore—and then he met Gor-jar. At first, the man fell to his knees in terror, expecting the beast to devour him. He soon realized, however, that some force constricted Gor-jar, limiting his movements. He assumed the god had somehow become entangled between the physical world and the spiritual, for he would occasionally disappear from the man's sight, only to return. He sent word to the high priest of his discovery, and from that encounter, a whole new religion formed."

That amazed me. Why would anyone interpret anything about this hollow creature to be divine? It seemed a strange conclusion to come to, but, then again, these were the Spood. Trying to understand how they think or attempting to decipher why they do things will only lead to a splitting headache.

My companion's assertion that Gor-jar was only a three-hundred-year-old god surprised. I asked if the Spood had worshipped another before they switched their allegiance to the dancing beast.

"They worshipped the sun god, Sester. However, Gor-jar was so frightening and powerful that they soon abandoned the old god. Sester had been distant and unreachable. Gor-jar was immediate; they could walk right up to him. They associated Gor-jar with the ancients who had built the fortress. They assumed he was the vanished people's god, so they wanted to please him. After all, they were living in his house, on the land he appeared to rule."

Another sun god? This one named Sester? How many different names did Ra-ta have?

Kersla had even more fascinating information to impart.

"When the Spood discovered Gor-jar, all excavation ceased," he continued. "The only other allowed was for construction of a back entrance leading to a can-rak pen. The Spood raised young can-raks they had captured in the wild. The people revered them, but they discovered long ago that can-raks are nearly impossible to train or control, so they had been using them for a rather gruesome arena entertainment. The Spood wanted Gor-jar to stay, and they thought if they fed him, he would. Somehow, they concluded that Gor-jar was more of the spiritual world than the physical, so only meals of spirit would sustain him. They enlisted the can-raks to 'release' the spirits of physical sacrifices so Gor-jar could feed on them. Later, they got greedy and started using the grottis, executing the sacrifices themselves, although they always felt the ones presented by way of the can-raks made Gor-jar the happiest."

This was almost too mind-bending to comprehend. These people discover a fearsome yet impotent beast in a hole in the ground and turn it into an object of worship. That turns into a bloody mission to satisfy this creature's phantom appetite. They sacrifice innocents, spilling the blood of people who couldn't care less about the Spood's insatiable deity. This was a twisted race—if not all of them, then at least the people who conjured up this travesty.

"What about the coins I found in the white room?" I asked Kersla. "I understand the people offered them to Gor-jar too. There is no way hundreds of years of offerings were in that room."

"It is interesting you should mention that. I discovered a fascinating reason for that discrepancy. It seems the government removes the coins monthly. The ruling priests realized years ago that this was an easy and efficient method of restoring the treasury without having to levy taxes. Let the people acquire Gor-jar's blessings by offering monetary gifts. Then, knowing Gor-jar cannot eat the coins, retrieve them for use in paying for the army and government services."

"So you are saying the priests were deliberately using the god for purely cynical ends, that Gor-jar was simply a useful fraud?"

"Oh, no, not at all. The priests wholly believed in Gor-jar and that the offerings served a genuine spiritual purpose. They believed Gor-jar cherished the coin gifts. They also believed, since he didn't eat the coins, that he was indicating they should go back to the people. They felt the sincerity of the gesture was what counted. Gor-jar was more apt to answer prayers if he could view and admire the people's offerings. Then, the priests could reclaim them and allow another month's worth to accumulate. Why a month, I have no idea."

It all sounded delusional to me.

"How did they get the coins from the white room without running into can-raks?" I asked.

"They had gotten the can-raks to respond to a horn they sounded. The can-raks associated it with food, so whenever it blasted, they scrambled over to the feeding gate, far enough away from the white room so that slaves could safely enter to gather up the coins. The slaves would also remove any bones of sacrifices the can-raks might have left in the room. They wanted Gor-jar's residence to be pure."

Well, that explained why I found no bones in the room. Still, why clean out only those? Why not clear out the fallen debris, too, if they wanted the place so purified and perfect? Kersla had the answer.

"When they first discovered the room, the Spood did indeed clean away layers of dust and a massive amount of debris that had fallen over the years. However, someone in authority during that period felt disturbing the god's quarters, even for cleaning, was wrong. After much debate, the Spood decided it would take too much trouble to put back the debris taken from the room, but they did return the objects they had removed, placing those items in the exact spots they had found them. No one has changed the room since. They now allow the natural deterioration of the ceiling and any other decay to continue undisturbed. They remove the bones only because they are not natural to the room, not original fixtures. I imagine that is also one of the reasons they remove the coins."

"But what about the hallways? They seemed absent of debris except for a few scattered bones. Why clean those, and if you do, why leave the bones?"

"The Spood realized the narrowness of those corridors required they maintain them. The can-raks needed unobstructed passage throughout the underground. Any ceiling fall in those hallways might permanently block an important route, for the beasts needed those clear to do their grisly work. The Spood left the bones in the hallways as simply another mind game. They wanted the sacrifices to see what was in store for them, to feel fear. I think they felt Gor-jar appreciated it, that the spirit meal was more satisfying to him if accompanied by a strong emotional element, especially terror."

I had to shake my head over that. The more Kersla told me about the reasoning for the bizarre things the Spood believed, the more I figured they were missing something in their makeup—brains, most likely.

"What about the lack of can-rak feces?" I asked. "Do they clean up those messes too?"

Kersla again had the answer.

"Can-raks will not defecate or urinate in confined or artificial spaces if they can avoid it. They prefer to be out in nature, in the forests or out on the grasslands."

"What about the number of can-raks? Are there more in Grell? Or were those ten the only ones?"

"I don't believe there are more in the city. The can-raks do breed, and I'm sure the Spood now hold a growing number of them in captivity. However, I think they keep these outside the city limits, maybe even outside the fortress. A man once told me they bring in new ones only when Gor-jar's can-raks fall ill or die. I believe they transport them in metal cages."

I racked my brain to think of more questions for Kersla, not wanting to waste this opportunity to learn as much as I could about the Spood.

"What do you know of the scorch marks that seem to cover the inside fortress walls?"

"The Spood recorded that the marks were there when they entered the enclosure five hundred years ago. Other than that, there is nothing."

I thought of one more question, one that concerned my role in all this.

"What do you know about the Disrupter prophecy? When and how did that come into being?"

"Not long after the Spood discovered Gor-jar, a seer had a vision," Kersla said. "This man had foretold many events accurately in his lifetime, so the Spood took this future vision of the Disrupter very seriously. It became the seer's most famous prophecy, and that's why it's still known and feared today."

This narrative was fascinating. The Spood had abandoned one god for another, one who better reflected their brutal nature—at least in my judgment. Perhaps my arrival had been prophetic, maybe even arranged by old Sester himself, tired of insignificance and determined to assert his might again. Sun gods are like that; they don't like to remain hidden in the shadows for too long.

**

~~TWENTY-FOUR~~

We arrived in familiar territory. Our ranks were down due to pre-arranged defections, but we remained a sufficient force to accomplish what I intended. The sperza, still under construction, was well on its way to completion. It had grown since Brilna, Izzy, and I last visited a few weeks ago. I observed from a high kakkata as residents went about their morning rituals. People strolled down the main avenue. Farmers displayed their produce in a central marketplace, and merchants offered their wares from shops lining the dirt street. Slaves toiled in the early morning sun.

I searched out a priest, a fat redhead in a blue robe. The man had murdered my fellow Sakitans and had dared threaten me with the grottis. I would find him and end him. It was that simple in my mind. I was becoming hardened and now thought justice by way of the rik-ta acceptable when dealing with such people. Pilkin and Satu demanded it. Kalor, too. Even Barkor.

I would burn this sperza to the ground. The Spood had no right to be here. They had murdered four people during my short stay in this place. They had whipped a slave to death and crushed a little girl's head. Dwelve, the rancer, died with metal in his heart, and the man who once tried to escape at the oasis failed here too.

The Creet forces were minimal. Soldiers, once numerous, had seemingly deployed elsewhere, for all that remained were slave guards. The sperza's defenses were now nonexistent, and that error the Spood would soon regret.

The rest of the sperza population consisted of everyday Spood and ubiquitous priests. The one I sought eluded me. Another priest appeared to be in command here, a thin, bony, tall man with a shock of blond curls and a slight crook in his back. He was inspecting the fruit on display in the marketplace, trailed by an entourage of four blue-robed others. His air of pompous authority matched every other example I had witnessed in my time in Spood country. Even now, he was berating a slave over the arrangement of the produce.

I retreated down the tree and back to our encampment located in the forest interior. The morning sky showed no obstructions, a perfect day for burning. Our company wasted little time. We marched our drooves down the main street and up to the man in charge. Shocked pedestrians gawked at the temerity, but they showed only slight fear, probably expecting the Creet who were currently rushing toward us to subdue and disarm these rebellious slaves in short order. The civilians must have believed the propaganda that we were inferiors and expected their Creet protectors to have little trouble with us. Many became irate when we ignored Creet demands to halt.

I rode the advance droove, aware of the shouts and curses of the half-wits who still believed they were in control. Overconfident Creet overseers attacked, and in short order, we had disarmed or killed the overmatched guards. I pushed my mount straight into the tall priest, knocking him backward. The fiery rage in his eyes made me only more determined to accomplish my mission here. The priest soon regained his balance, and I sensed the blustering outrage to come.

"Who do you think—" he began.

"Shut up!" I commanded. "You will speak only to answer my questions. Do you understand?"

"You cannot tell me—"

Whack! Izzy struck the top of the man's blond curls with the flat side of her stirka.

"Sanyel told you to shut up and speak only to answer her questions. Did you not understand?"

Incredibly, the dense follower of Gor-jar appeared inclined to challenge me again, but then he thought better of it as Izzy raised her blade to discourage him.

"Where is the fat redheaded priest?" I demanded.

The man stared sullenly. He was daring me to make him talk.

"Cut off his head," I told Izzy.

The priest's eyes widened. His determined and intractable posture dissolved. Izzy had raised her blade to comply, and the man was suddenly the very model of cooperation.

"Borsar went to the mountains," the now eager-to-please priest offered. "He went to supervise the mining operations and to prepare the fields for crops."

"What mountains?"

"The circle mountains, where the big river flows."

I knew what he meant. The Kodor Mountains, the river Raso. So the bastard had returned to cause more hurt to my homeland. That would not do.

In a raised voice, I addressed all within hearing range.

"Listen to me. You will all be returning to Grell."

Rumblings of disbelief drifted to my ears. A few notes of defiance mingled in.

"You will do as I say. You have no choice. This is not your land. You do not belong here. I intend to burn this place to the ground."

The rumblings evolved into cries of angry protest.

"Silence!" I shouted.

The protests continued, so I gave Javen a sign. He grabbed a man from the crowd and put a knife to his neck.

"If you do not comply with my demands, I will have this man killed, then another and another until there is no one left. It is a choice. Death, or return to Grell. Make your decision."

Of course, I would not have followed through. I am not a callous murderer. It was a bluff I felt would work because the Spood would believe I was serious. It was something they would do.

My only desire was to get the Spood out of here. I did not have the time or resources to rid the entire world of Spood, but this one place had special meaning. I was not above the pursuit of righteous vengeance. The little girl they murdered deserved a better end. I would take away their bloodstained homes, built with the sweat and sacrifice of slaves. I would let them keep their lives. It was less than they deserved, but destroying their community would cause pain, and I would not begrudge the Spood more of that.

With the sperza emptied and the populace on its way toward Grell, we torched the buildings. The wooden ones were eager for the flames; the others needed persuasion. Drooves and chains helped drag the stone structures down until the sperza was nothing but smoke and rubble.

As we resumed our journey, I did not look back. The freed slaves, grateful for their release, joined us as we continued on our way north. I did not see the plump man among them, the one recaptured during our earlier escape from this sperza. Perhaps he too had succumbed to the cruelties of this evil place.

In the days that followed, our party dwindled through planned departures. By the time the first sands of the Desert of Bones appeared, we were down to only Sakita and Raab. We twenty secured enough food and water for the trip across and then freed any extra drooves we would not need. From the burned sperza, we had liberated a supply of robes for the desert and other decent clothes to replace our slave garb.

Our knowledge of the exact direction to the fracture was iffy, at best. We had followed a well-used trail to get from Grell to the desert, the same one the rancers had used to exit it. Thus, I knew the direction to the oasis and could estimate the fracture's location in relation to that. I thought about heading to the oasis but reasoned we had enough supplies to get us to our homeland without that diversion—as long as we didn't become lost.

We calculated a direction based on all our known information. Three days in, I knew we were on the right track. This portion of the rugged mountain range had a familiar look. Well before reaching the peaks, Lillatta began scouting east along the line and Javen west, searching for sight of the elusive cut in the Kodor bowl. After no results, I reasoned we would have to get closer, perhaps even right next to the fissure to detect it. We had traveled day and night, sleeping little. We had taken brief respites to eat, drink, and rest, and now our destination lay somewhere nearby, hidden behind a facade of rock.

We had no idea how close we were to the crack in the mountain, but each of us sensed we were in the right place. As night made its third appearance, I determined we had to search by darkness, too. We had reached the outcroppings of the low foothills in the late afternoon, and we now scoured them beneath the starlight. I used the still-glowing ceiling torch from the white room in the search, feeling the risk of discovery by Creet forces was worth the gamble.

There were no moons this night, so visibility was minimal. Heat from the day's sun radiated off the rocky surfaces as Izzy and I headed east. Javen and Lillatta were scouring the slopes to the west and would have a more laborious task without a lamp. I remembered the entrance to the fracture was invisible to anyone facing it directly because it had a slight turn at the end that made it appear as a solid rock face. It was going to be difficult to find.

Then, Ra-ta intervened. From my droove perch, I spotted my light glinting off an object on the ground. Instructing the droove to kneel, I dismounted, walked over, and picked up a metal spearhead. Attached to the head was a short, broken-off piece of a wooden shaft. It was Sakitan.

I lifted my light and found the opening, the fracture leading into the land of my birth. A symbol, painted white, showed on the corrugated rock—a grottis. Anger flared in me. The Spood had marked the entrance, advertising their ownership. Izzy joined me, and we decided to walk in without the light. Though time-consuming, the exploration in the dark was necessary to assess the potential danger. I felt along the rough walls and moved my feet carefully to avoid tripping over any rocks that might occupy the path. The Spood had placed no guards at the entrance, so I hoped that meant there were none at the other end.

I was correct—and relieved. There was no one here. What need was there to guard anything? The Spood controlled all, so what was there for them to fear?

"When we get back, go find the others and bring them here," I told Izzy. "I'll remain at the entrance so you can relocate it."

Brilna and the remainder of our group had set up camp in the desert, and two hours later we reunited at the desert side of the fracture. I told everyone to get a good night's sleep. In the morning, we would proceed through the fissure and into whatever awaited.

The desert morning dawned, revealing another cloudless sky, as it had every morning since we set foot on the desert sands. We readied our drooves and set out, single file, to follow the narrow rift through the mountains. An hour later, as we neared the northern exit, a cool breeze refreshed us. On this side of the mountains, banks of dark-gray clouds drifted over the western peaks. They would not reach us, for they were too far north, but the familiar sight exhilarated.

I was on my home ground. Beyond the rocky outcroppings, I saw green. The grass of one's homeland has an appeal that is hard to explain. People might say that grass is grass, but there is a difference when it is your own. It is as if you sprouted alongside its blades, came up from the same soil. There is a deep, personal feeling associated with all things connected to one's home country. When the wind blows here, it is your wind; and when the water gurgles among the rocks, it speaks only to you. The mountain stands so only your eyes can view its glory and the hill for only your legs to challenge its upward slope. Upon this land, you took your first steps, and upon it, you swear to take your last. To this place you always feel compelled to return—home.

We discarded our drab desert robes and switched to colorful Spood wear, then traveled a straight course north, midway between the eastern and western slopes. We headed for the last Sakita encampment, with Lillatta our guide. I wanted to see for myself what the Spood had done. The campsite was some distance south of the Raso, but it would still take a few days to reach. In the meantime, I prepared a new bracelet of bones.

The droove fragment Lillatta had found for me in the can-rak pen was all I had at present, so I strung it on a leather strand through a hole I had labored to cut into it. Other animal bones I would gather later, but for now, I had something with which to control the one beast I knew every Spood owned. I studied the bone's shape, so when adding others, I would remember what fragment matched what animal. I looped the leather string around my wrist, and Lillatta tied it.

"There, now all I need are a dozen more," I said.

Later that day, as we passed through a grove of kansers, I thought about the possibility we might eventually encounter Bratar. Why in the world would the Spood make that coward and traitor a soldier in their forces? The Spood usually did not make any such allowances for inferiors, generally designating them as slaves when captured. Then again, what about the rancers? They were not Spood, either, and yet they had free rein to abduct people under Spood authority.

Perhaps the Spood used outsiders if their skills fulfilled functions the Spood could not perform themselves. From what I understood, the rancers had been the only ones gathering slaves for the Spood for many years, until the Spood felt strong enough to conquer lands and acquire the slaves themselves. To me, that meant a death knell for the rancers. Their usefulness would soon end—if it hadn't already.

As for Bratar and those like him, perhaps the Spood needed someone familiar with a particular tribe to act as an information source after being conquered. A turncoat would know the personnel, the quirks and personalities of the tribal members as well as who and who not to trust. On the other hand, maybe they just liked to rub it in. Let a traitor be your master. Who knew how the sick Spood mind worked.

"Sanyel, look." It was early afternoon a few days later when Lillatta pointed to an expanse of level grassland cut by a narrow stream ahead and below us. We had just traversed a series of low hills, and now, cresting the last, a sight of devastation opened up before us. Skeletons of Sakitan tents dotted the plain. Once, this had been a community where over two thousand tents proudly stood. Now, many appeared reduced to ash, and the rest stood naked, nothing but fragile wooden bones blackened by fire.

Uninvited guests stood out in stark contrast to the ravaged tents; they were structures formed from wood and evil. A human skeleton dangled from each, and we could not wrench our eyes away as we solemnly made our way to the site. I dismounted and walked up to the first grottis. The clean-picked bones that remained hung loose, barely secured by weathered ropes. Other bones had fallen and now lay scattered below the wooden stake. I stared at the still mounted skull, struggling to picture the face with flesh and detail.

"Pilkin," Lillatta informed me. I had already guessed that it might be the late shaman. And yet it wasn't, could not possibly be. How can a man's life come to this, reduced to such insignificance that all that remain are bones and fading memories of what he once looked like?

I walked to another grottis and emptiness grew inside me. I could not ally these dry bones to the liquid, living beings who once motivated them. There were ten of them in all, ten sacrifices to a god that no longer lived. I passed another, paused, and my anger stirred. I knew who this was, a mere boy, a boy who couldn't hunt, a boy who had sabotaged his chance to become our shaman. I thought of his razok and wondered what had become of it. I stared at his bad leg's twisted bone and wanted to cry.

Other bones, more recently broken, grabbed my attention. Breaks caused by stones and spears. My anger grew. Satu deserved better than this, better than an agonizing death at the hands of the lowest creatures ever to walk this land.

Bratar and Borsar. That is what Lil had said, the traitor and the fat priest. They did this, and for this, they would pay.

We removed the skeletons and tore apart the heinous structures that held them. Others of our group searched the campsite and found bones scattered everywhere. Nature had worked swiftly, taking back to itself that which had once been flesh. The Spood had slaughtered many in this place, and age and sex had not mattered. The Sakitans in our group knew most of the deceased; some of them were family members. Lillatta and I discovered Kalor's remains just outside the encampment. Lillatta softly wept as she gathered what bones she could find. We carried them to join the others in a common grave. I offered to perform a shamanic service for the dead. No one objected.

I spoke the sacred words and waved burning sargrass as we buried the bones and marked the grave with a circle of stones. Their souls were at rest, their spirits safely on their way to Mimnon. I vowed, in due time, I would find the priest Borsar and send him the other way, down to drown forever in the black waters of Fuld.

We could not linger here. The pain was too acute, the sorrow all-enveloping. Javen informed us that he and the other Raab were eager to discover the whereabouts of their clan's survivors. Members of his group had told him of fields on the other side of the currently shallow Raso where the Spood had put many Raab to work. They wanted to go there.

I was reluctant to let the men leave. There were only seven of them, counting Javen, so what could they accomplish except get themselves captured? We should stay together.

They were adamant, however, including Javen, and I could say nothing to dissuade them. I wished I had a can-rak to send with them, to give them a chance at least. Javen came to me, and his hand caressed my cheek.

"Don't worry, Sanyel. We will be all right. I will do some scouting, staying out of sight. I will find their weaknesses, and we will pounce when we are stronger. I promise I will return to you."

He bent his head, gave my lips a light kiss and then turned to go.

The Raab party went northwest. Miras had said her husband Jalak and the great hunter Semral were laborers in a mining operation in the eastern mountains. It was the only known location of surviving Sakita, so that was where we would go.

We now numbered thirteen. We had an abundance of weapons, but that would not matter against an overwhelming Creet force. My thoughts were on gathering up some more animal bones for my bracelet. Who knew what creature might cross our path at an opportune time to assist me in defeating the Spood?

As we made our way east toward the mountains, I kept my eyes open. I found bone fragments from a porse, a sartel, and a spartok. The struggle for life was constant across these lands, and evidence showed no scarcity of those who had lost that battle.

One day, we sighted a magnificent herd of grazing porse. I wanted so much to chase one down, to cull it from the others and engage in that age-old battle of wits and wills between hunter and hunted. However, we had no time for such indulgence. Instead, I played a little game.

I summoned everyone to observe from a hill overlooking the plain the beasts grazed. The porse meandered as they fed, a living black splotch pushing slowly across the grasslands.

"Watch this," I spoke to the gathering.

"Porse herd, start walking east," I commanded in a normal speaking voice that was impossible for the distant herd to hear. At the same time, I touched the porse bone on my bracelet.

The entire herd turned as if a single animal and began walking toward the east.

"That's incredible!" Izzy exclaimed.

"Unbelievable!" added Lillatta.

"Porse herd, walk faster," I spoke.

The herd's speed quickened.

"I can't believe that really works," marveled Izzy.

I gave one last command.

"Porse herd, go back to grazing as you had been."

At once, the scene returned to how we had found it, only with the herd slightly displaced from its original location.

"Will they just keep on eating and never stop?" Brilna asked, showing concern.

"No," I assured her. "My father told me the command lasts for only about twenty minutes and then wears off."

It had been a test to see if the power was still with me. It pleased me to find it was, for we certainly could use any advantage.

Back on the trail east, I became concerned. We had come across no sign of Spood activity in all our traveling. Where were they? I had expected patrols and even Spood settlers. Where were the sperzas and the cultivated fields? Where were all the people?

The mountains loomed large as we passed through a thick kakkata forest and came out onto a rock-strewn plain. A glint of reflected light caught my eye, and I motioned for everyone to retreat into the protective shadows. Metal spearheads of a mounted Creet patrol flashed a distance ahead of us across the open. They were entering another stand of kakkata opposite us. Their backs were to us as they pushed on into the grove and vanished.

We had made contact. Someone still occupied this land. Would they lead us to the others?

**

~~TWENTY-FIVE~~

After what we judged a safe interval, and having observed no sign of the Creet force doubling back, we proceeded to follow but with increased caution. The stand of kakkata the Creet had entered was narrow. Its gloom gave way to increasing light as it thinned and dissolved into yet another patch of grassland. We stayed hidden behind the tree line as we scanned the open area, which reached to the base of the mountains.

This was it. Miras had told us of this mining operation. We stood together, peering out at the engineering process unfolding before us. About five hundred laborers swarmed the rocky foothills. They were digging, pounding, hauling, and sweating. They broke, transported, and sifted an endless supply of rock. The men used hand-held tools to pick and hammer, digging out the ore containing the precious metal.

Sakita and Raab slaves worked side-by-side, an unthinkable scenario not more than a few months ago. The Creet had forced these sworn enemies to cooperate while they, the masters of the world, kept a razok's eye. Creet guards shouted orders as swoks snapped in the hot air, occasionally slicing cuts into flesh, causing blood and salty sweat to mingle.

The Spood had shackled the prisoners at the ankles in groups of three. This forced the trio of men to work in concert, to coordinate their movements. I imagined the linkage also discouraged escape attempts, for how far could three chained men get?

Women and children milled about. The women bore no shackles, allowing them to move about freely as they cooked, washed, and watched over their young. For the first time I could remember, I was seeing very young children, even babies. None of the women I had seen in the slave caravans and as slave workers in Grell had carried infants. For whatever reason, I hadn't noticed that fact at the time. It hadn't registered that the only children making the journey to Grell were of working age.

I reasoned the Spood needed unencumbered workers and not those preoccupied with caring for helpless infants. Yet here at this mining site, the very young abounded. I was thrilled to sight so many youthful faces. There was hope for our tribe; our babies lived.

A bit of exploring revealed a creek at the mine site's north end. Fenced in near the stream were about two hundred drooves. The Creet guards and priests, combined, appeared to number about the same as the penned beasts.

I was already formulating a slave rescue plan involving the drooves by the stream. The Creet guards, scattered over a considerable distance along the foothills, were each in charge of watching over a small group of prisoners. About thirty or so Spood priests oversaw the operation. They did not concern me. The Creet were the only ones armed, so it was against them we plotted our strategy.

The grove hiding us stretched the entire length of the mining area, and between the mining site and us lay a grassy plain littered with small boulders. The negligible distance across that opening allowed us a clear view of all goings-on. Faces were faintly discernible, so Miras decided to follow the tree line north and seek out her husband, Jalak. She would remain hidden behind our tree line as she traveled the length of the mine operation.

Meanwhile, the rest of us worked on a plan that involved freeing the Creet drooves from their pen. We numbered only thirteen and were up against well over ten times that many armed soldiers. Our strategy would entail using the drooves to attack the Creet. I would employ my bracelet and the droove bone to initiate the attack. With the Creet forced to distraction by suddenly aggressive drooves, we hoped the slaves would rise and overpower them. We would assist and try to control the outcome as best we could. It was a little vague in the details, but I felt if appropriately instructed the powerful drooves could more than handle the Creet.

I made my way north to join up with Miras and to get close to the droove pen, for I had to be in sight of the animals for the bracelet to work. The rest of our group waited at intervals along the grove, prepared to rush the camp as the attacking drooves passed their sector. I was afraid Brilna, Miras, and two other women with us would not be much help, for none had warrior training. I had to hope the rest of us, three women and six men, were sufficient to accomplish the task.

As I arrived at my chosen location, I spotted Miras. To my shock and dismay, I saw she had foolishly exposed herself to the Creet guards. Two of them had her in tow, and their rough hands pulled her toward a blue-clad young priest.

Someone shouted her name. Jalak, her husband.

Miras screamed his name in return, and Jalak, shackled to two other men, cried out again. He struggled against his unyielding chains and linked partners to get to his wife.

A Creet guard raised his swok, and as the crack sounded, Jalak howled. The snapping lash did not deter the prisoner's maddened efforts to reach Miras; he continued forward, dragging his reluctant chained fellows with him. The swok unfurled and bit again ... and then again. The Creet guard was in a cruel rhythm, and his intent was clear.

I had witnessed this brutal play once before at the burned-down sperza and had been helpless to respond. This time, I had my rik-ta and spear. Jalak needed me to act, for he was faltering beneath the relentless blows.

I stepped for a moment into the light of Ra-ta. The distance was farther than it had been for my killing shot to Smerkas' dark heart, but I had no hesitation. This time, I would use the spear. I envisioned where I wanted the weapon to go. Then, I let the lance fly and felt a surge of power sending it on its way. Like a razok homing in on its prey, it sped to its goal, focused and resolute. The sleek bird flew and ended its flight as a razok's would, in blood and victory.

The spearpoint pierced the Creet below his bearded chin. A bloody shaft now protruded from the throat and back of the man's neck in an awkward and equal balance. He swatted at the new appendage with a futile gesture as if it were an annoying insect. Within moments, he dropped to the ground, his swok and life's breath abandoned, his spirit in rapid descent toward the black waters of Fuld.

Instantaneous clamor followed. The aroused Creet searched the immediate area of the camp, no doubt assuming Miras' accomplice could not have gone far. They did not look to the forest since it would appear impossible for the throw to have originated there. I saw Miras staring wide-eyed at me as I ducked back into the tree-line shadows. Making my way closer to the drooves, I examined their enclosure. The corral seemed poorly constructed, and I reasoned the fenced-in creatures could easily break it down to escape. With the camp in an uproar, I spoke the commands.

"Drooves in the pen, attack all Creet guards," I said as I pressed the droove bone in my bracelet. "Protect the slaves from harm."

The weak fence was no match for animals with a purpose. They scrambled to get out, breaking through the barrier, splintering the thin wooden crossbars. Cries went up from the mining camp as the beasts burst from confinement. Panic and confusion reigned, for not only had someone killed a guard, but the drooves were loose as well.

The animals were not just loose; they were rampaging. I mounted my droove and came out of the trees, racing toward the camp to help anyone in need. Izzy, to my right, was also in full gallop. The drooves honed in on targets. I saw one crash at full speed into a baffled Creet, knocking him to his back. Slaves swarmed over the injured soldier. The result was not pretty.

I rode along the camp line, seeing the same scenario play out. Nothing required my assistance. The drooves were relentless, and the slaves took care of the rest. I glimpsed a contingent of Spood priests attempting to exit the area and rode after them. They were heading for the tree line. Izzy and others also pursued, but the small group was too far ahead and made the woods.

It took us a while to round them up. By the time we returned to the mining camp, the situation there had settled down. The Creet drooves were again placid since twenty minutes had passed since I issued my command to attack. Slaves were unshackling slaves thanks to a master key discovered in the now-deceased head priest's possession. Creet survivors and priests sat on the grass, held under close guard by former slaves. Scattered among the mountain foothills lay a vast number of broken bodies, all clothed in either red-trimmed vests or robes of light blue.

One of the former slaves was now in charge of the Sakitan contingent, and I smiled as recognition came. The mighty hunter had not changed much, though he was perhaps a bit thinner since I last saw him. Semral was issuing orders, and I could see how naturally that came to him. He had not noticed our approach yet, but others had.

I sensed eyes on me as we rode along a line of freed Sakita and Raab tribespeople. I heard the murmuring expand as word spread. The banished one. What is she doing here?

We pulled up to a prisoner holding area and released our catch to another's custody. No one said a word to me, but Lillatta received warm greetings from many, as did others in our little band. If the former slaves wondered what Lillatta was doing in my company, they did not venture to ask.

We dismounted our drooves as Semral approached. I grinned when I caught his expression, that familiar wide-eyed shock. I seemed to have a knack for drawing that reaction from the old hunter. He wore a broad smile as he drew closer, but then an agitated man cut him off.

"Seize her!" the man was saying. "It is the banished one! We cast her out, and those cast out cannot return. It's the law. The penalty for coming back is death!"

"Tarsel is right!" another cried. "She should not be here. Our law forbids it. We cannot allow her to contaminate us. She must be put to death—at once!"

The words echoed from several others. The sentiment swept the Sakita ranks, with no one offering a dissenting opinion.

Izzy looked puzzled, then irritated. I gave her a shrug. I had expected this reaction. They did tell me when I left not to come back.

Semral appeared distressed. I knew he wanted nothing to do with this. What they demanded was the law, and he was the current authority. He had no reason to deny them justice. As for me, I did not intend to die to satisfy them. That wasn't going to happen.

Tarsel, the agitated man who had spoken first, tried to grab my arm. From behind him, Izzy's blade was out so fast and at the side of his neck that he was unaware of it at first. He flicked his other hand at it, expecting a bug had landed, only to draw it away bloody. He blanched at the sight and lurched away when he spotted the gleaming weapon with which the one-armed girl had touched him.

The crowd bubbled with anger, but not one among them chose to challenge the spike-haired, poised young woman with the threatening glare. Many urged Semral to act, to take charge of this unpleasant situation. I saw confusion among the Raab spectators; they had no idea what was going on.

Then, about ten armed Sakita warriors pushed through the crowd. They were stern-faced and determined. The grim hunters were coming for me, and as they approached, the crowd parted. Izzy stepped in front of me, shielding me from their advance. Lillatta went to stand beside Izzy. Both had drawn their weapons. Though prepared to fight this battle alone, I was pleased my friends were holding with me. Oster—to my great surprise—then went to stand next to Izzy. The remaining men from our party of thirteen joined the lineup. Brilna eyed me as if asking permission to be part of the wall protecting me. I shook my head to signal no and saw her disappointment.

The armed men stopped. It was apparent they had not expected resistance to their law-sanctioned aims.

"Move aside," the hunter Jasten commanded. "Do not interfere."

"I would stay right where you are," suggested Izzy. "We came to rescue you, not to hurt you. But you will not touch Sanyel."

"And you will not presume to speak to me, girl, or to say that forbidden name in my presence!" Jasten spat. "Oster, what is the meaning of this? Hand over the criminal."

Oster reacted to the demand by saying, "I would listen to the young woman, Jasten, or she is likely to hand you your head. You won't be taking anyone. Sanyel—and no, I am not afraid to speak her name—is one of us. She has proven herself a better leader than any of the poor excuses we have had these many years. She saved us from the Spood, all who are standing here before you. She has saved you, too, even though you appear too thickheaded to appreciate it. Who do think told the drooves to attack the Creet?"

Jasten shook his head. "What nonsense are you blathering? Only a shaman can control an animal. She is a girl! Have you lost your senses? Why are you spouting this ridiculous blasphemy?"

Words of agreement spilled from several mouths. Then, a commanding figure stepped from the crowd. Everyone turned toward the man and showed their respect by going silent. The expectant tribesmen awaited the great hunter's words. Semral had been listening to the talk, and all could see he now desired to make his feelings known.

"You all know me," the humble, esteemed hunter began.

Vocal affirmations rang out.

"I have lived many years, taken much game, and ended many lives. I have hunted and fought with the best of our tribe. I believe I have earned your respect, and I would ask that you listen without judgment to what I now have to say. Will you do this for me?"

The admiring Sakitans granted the old warrior his appeal by vocal acclamation, though I spotted expressions of puzzlement from many over the hunter's request.

"First, I must ask your indulgence. I will refer to the banished girl by name if that is acceptable to you."

Rumblings of disagreement at once issued forth from many of the diehard faithful, those most inclined to demand strict enforcement of our tribal and sacred law. The majority overruled them, however, putting their natural doubts aside as they appeared increasingly curious over what Semral wished to convey.

"When Sanyel was banished," Semral began, "I approved of the sentence. I approved because I have followed the teachings and the law all my life and believed in them. I voted for banishment because I felt the punishment fit the transgression. But, I also had personal reasons for choosing banishment over death for Sanyel."

Semral's words drew a disturbed reaction from the crowd, with many no doubt mistaking the hunter's "personal" reasons for something salacious.

"Sanyel saved my life," Semral explained. "Not once, but twice."

Astonishment greeted that startling statement. For a few moments, everyone was talking, then Semral raised both hands to quiet them, and they allowed him to continue.

"The first time, a can-rak tore my arm and Sanyel made a poultice for my wound."

Voices rose again from the Sakitan crowd, this time with a sharper edge. I knew they recalled the can-rak attack and the speculation that had run rampant as to the identity of Semral's mysterious savior. They had considered it an act of the unknown and thus evil. My now-revealed involvement seemed to confirm for many the justice of my banishment.

The great warrior again raised his hands to settle everyone down.

"She patched my wounds, and I lived," Semral continued. "You may fault me for not turning Sanyel in for her actions, but at the time, I felt she was innocently copying something she had seen her father do and was thus blameless for the transgression. On another day, in the forest, my foot caught in a root as a spartok charged. She stepped in front of me, speared the beast between the eyes, and saved my life again."

This second account stimulated the troubled assemblage again to a buzzing intensity, and I knew many were recalling the spartok event. That it was the banished girl and not Semral who had killed the beast, I knew no one had even suspected.

"I know this will sway few of you," Semral continued, "but I mention these things to get you to see my viewpoint on the matter. When someone saves my life—in this case, twice—I can feel only profound gratitude and loyalty. Sanyel is not an evil person. She has much to offer, and so, I am asking you to show mercy, to let Sanyel live, to spare her—"

"NO!" Jasten shouted, interrupting Semral's appeal. "The law is the law! We cannot change it to suit our whims. If we allow this, then the law would have no teeth. When Balsar confessed to thievery, did we spare him the knife? Have we ever pardoned anyone for grievous sins against Ra-ta? No! Never!"

If Semral's words had been about to persuade any in the crowd to compassion, then that sentiment went flying out the nearest sental, wherever that might be. Jasten had fired the assemblage up to attend once again to their sacred duty; that duty, of course, was to take my head. An impulse for fleet justice seemed to sweep the crowd, rising from a black hole to overtake their minds and bodies. The agitated mob built to a frenzy by chanting praises to Ra-ta, and then it surged forward. Izzy, Lillatta, and the rest of my companions readied themselves. I stepped up to the line to join them. I had no desire to fight my people, but their stubborn, self-righteous, and insistent calls for my immediate demise demanded a response.

Semral stood between the opposing forces. He was not yet ready to back down.

"Listen to me!" he shouted to get everyone's attention. "LISTEN TO ME!" His booming tone, with its ring of natural authority, had an immediate effect. The riled crowd stopped in its tracks, cowed by Semral's harsh and challenging command.

"You know I take none of this lightly!" snapped the irate hunter. He glared for a moment around at the familiar faces arrayed before him, inviting any to offer an ill-advised retort. When none did, his angry visage softened, and in a subdued tone, he spoke words no one expected.

"You seek justice for Sanyel's betrayal of our sacred laws. I understand that. However, you should know something, something that may turn you against me as well. For, in truth, I must also face your justice."

Voices of confusion emanated from those gathered.

Semral continued, declaring, "I gave Sanyel a blanket to help her survive in the Desert of Bones."

The staggering admission drew gasps and then numerous cries of denial. This unprecedented confession was the last thing anyone had expected, for the great and beloved hunter was renowned for his strict and loyal adherence to the Sakitan faith and its tenets. Semral's admission to this crime was equivalent to a baby admitting murder.

"I know the anger and disappointment you must feel," Semral went on, "but I had my reasons. If you find fault in me and feel I erred in what I did, then I would ask a simple question—what have we become? What have we become when we believe sending a young girl to a cruel death is just? Is this what Ra-ta truly wants?"

Semral glanced around again, his glare a challenge to anyone brave enough to offer a rebuttal.

"I have seen signs that Ra-ta champions this girl and that he guides her," Semral continued. "I have seen her do impossible things, impossible without the guidance of a greater power. Also, she has survived the Desert of Bones. The blanket given her was not enough to protect her, so we can ascribe her survival only to a merciful act of Ra-ta. If Ra-ta can show mercy to such as her, then what fools are we to blind ourselves to the reasons why?"

Semral paused again to scour the crowd with his penetrating gaze, and then he continued his speech.

"I believe I know the reasons. I believe now, as I failed to when she was born, that Sanyel's father was right. She is, indeed, the prophesied one, the one come to save us from those intent on enslaving us."

The rapt crowd had been listening in silence to the old warrior, but his last few sentences elicited an uneasy rumbling. A skeptical Jasten spoke for those who felt Semral assumed too much in claiming to know Ra-ta's mind.

"What real proof have you that Ra-ta favors this one?" he asked. His tone barely concealed his contempt for me. "What are these 'impossible things' you say you have witnessed her do?"

"I can answer that," a fresh voice spoke up. The crowd parted to let the new speaker approach. Jalak, bent and in pain from the recent deep swok cuts, slowly made his way over to us while leaning on his wife, Miras, for support. It pleased me to see the two had found each other, and I was eager to hear what Jalak desired to add to the debate.

"Miras has told me about Sanyel," Jalak told the gathering. "How she saved her from evil men in a Spood cell. How she, Lillatta, and her friends freed Sakitan slaves in Grell.

"And, she saved me," Jalak added. "Miras saw her throw a spear from the forest that split the neck of a Creet trying to kill me. I did not believe her at first, but she insisted it was true. From the forest she threw it."

Hoots and skeptical laughter escaped from the crowd, but Semral quickly stepped in to bolster Jalak's remarks.

"This is what I have been saying. I have witnessed Sanyel toss a rik-ta an impossible distance and with astounding accuracy. Not even I, on my best day, could accomplish what I saw her do. I know all this sounds absurd, but it is also true, and the only way to prove it is to let Sanyel demonstrate this incredible skill herself." He motioned for me to step over to him and then with a somewhat worried look leaned closer to whisper, "You can do this, can't you?"

I assured him I could even though aware Ra-ta might choose to prove otherwise.

Semral stepped off a hundred paces to a lone wettle tree, and again I confirmed to him the distance was not too far for me. My confidence that I could hit the circle the hunter had scratched into the bark was unwavering. Well, that's not quite right, for unwavering might be a bit strong. Reasonably expectant would be closer to the truth, though it was probably something even less sure than that. Nervously hopeful, perhaps?

While the Sakitan and Raab tribespeople watched transfixed, or at least with amused curiosity, I bounced my rik-ta in my right hand, getting the feel of its weight. I mouthed a small prayer, and then I grasped the blade end, reared back, and hurled it. As thrilling as it is to witness a blade twirling at an incredible speed unobstructed through the air, it is much more rewarding to view it strike the center of a distant mark no one thought it could reach—especially if your life depended on it doing just that.

The crowd responded to the feat with a tremendous vocal eruption, startling me. Sakitan and Raab voices peppered the air with exclamations that were profane, sacred, joyous, bewildered—and as might be expected—fearful. The looks were equally diverse, including awe, astonishment, and again, the aforementioned fear—all welcome reactions to evoke from one's opposition.

Ignoring the rumbling around him, an ecstatic Semral approached and gave me a hearty slap on the back, nearly knocking me into Lillatta, who had also been congratulating me. He then raised his arms to signal his desire to speak to those gathered. When he got their attention, he started right in.

"This is the proof I wanted you all to see. Who can doubt Ra-ta himself guides her hand? No man among us can do what she just accomplished. I, personally, have witnessed even more of Sanyel's remarkable talents with weapons. In my opinion, this girl has the finest skills of any warrior I have ever seen. I am not ashamed to say she has even bested me in hand-to-hand combat, making me look like an unskilled child in the process."

The claim elicited howls of disbelief and laughter.

"I speak the truth."

Semral's tone did not brook argument as he added, "All who have witnessed her performance this day, and all who know me, must grant that I would not say such a thing if the facts were otherwise."

Semral turned to me. He spoke so everyone could hear.

"I did not listen when your father spoke of you as the prophesied one, the one who would lead our people in a time of great trouble. I believe now. I believe Ra-ta himself has allowed you to survive the desert so that you might return to help us in these trying times. I have witnessed your skill as a warrior, and I have heard your friends speak of your wise leadership."

Semral paused, and then he spoke as if issuing a proclamation.

"Therefore, as council chief, I hereby name Sanyel as our spearpoint commander in the fight against the Spood."

A tumultuous vocal eruption emanated from the assembled Sakitans, and you could feel the unprecedented wave of emotional shock Semral's words had unleashed. I felt a similar jolt within myself. My father had championed the idea that destiny chose me to do great things. No one believed him, and I had only half believed, for I have always had doubts about my purpose and abilities. Now, here was the greatest warrior of our tribe declaring his faith in me and validating my father's fantasy. I felt humbled, proud, and elated. I struggled to keep my composure. Semral's moving testimony had me on the verge of tears.

Jasten and the other Sakitans did not know how to proceed. They were unwilling merely to throw out laws they firmly believed in and felt a sacred duty to uphold. Yet as we maintained our ground, standing as a wall before them and the archaic values they represented, their resolve crumbled. Challenging a popular leader was an action few desired to initiate. Besides, this man was Semral, a man they knew, loved, and respected.

The opposing warriors understood that an astonishing and (to them) unwelcome change was occurring. Semral had just informed our tribe that I would be in charge of bringing them victory over the Spood occupiers. I knew very few would be happy with that. How do you reconcile being a proud warrior with the humiliation of following a girl into combat—a banished one at that? They would not confront Semral, however. They knew it was his right as council chief to name anyone he chose to fill that role. Whether that applied to females or the banished was a question no one was willing to address for now.

Semral stepped forward and then to his right. He turned to face me and held out his rik-ta with its handle toward me. I accepted it by grasping it and then pointing its blade upward. As others around me retreated to give room, I stretched the knife out before me and briefly turned to face each of the four cardinal directions. Then I pulled the rik-ta back in, turned it sideways, and returned it to Semral.

That was it. I was now the spearpoint commander, and by Sakitan law, everyone, including Semral, must obey my military commands.

Resentful eyes followed me as I moved along the edge of the crowd. Their forbearance in allowing me to assume a leadership position would not last if I should stumble. I would have to prove myself worthy of the mantle. For now, they were putting their faith in Semral's judgment. Many no doubt considered my ascendance to be an abomination, a direct assault on their cherished values and beliefs. I would have to prove Semral's confidence in me not complete folly. I hoped I could.

As I passed the Raab congregation, I sought out their leader. I hoped to persuade him to join forces with us. The natural enmity between our tribes was still apparent, despite our shared misery as Spood captives. I spoke to him, proposing we cooperate. He seemed reluctant until I mentioned I knew Javen. It turned out he was Javen's uncle! That broke the distrust, and I received his assurance to help, especially after I informed him of my intent to assist Javen in his already begun quest to free their people.

There were only about three hundred Sakita working this mining site. Before the Spood arrival, we had numbered over three thousand. I knew many had died during the Spood invasion, and I was sure some remained in Grell, for the young man with the family told me of the many slaves yet imprisoned there. Semral mentioned that the remaining Sakitans still alive in our lands had worked this mine until a month ago. Then, inexplicably, most of them, along with the majority of Raab, left camp for parts unknown.

Perhaps our prisoners could offer some clue where to find them. The captives were still on the grass and under guard as I strolled over to them. I added their number in my head and realized, counting the priests, that only about twenty had survived the droove attack. The prisoners eyed me with suspicion as I approached.

"Of course you are all wondering why I asked you here today," I said. I thought it a rather witty opening, but the weak joke fell on twenty pairs of deaf ears. So much for trying to inject some humor into their suddenly uncertain lives.

I decided on a more direct approach.

"Where have the other slaves been taken?"

They were a sullen bunch, unwilling to acknowledge an inferior's presence—let alone her attempt to interrogate them. They must have wondered where I had gotten the Spood garment I wore, but no one was about to ask. Their only offerings were looks of contempt and disdain.

They needed an incentive to speak.

"You." I pointed to a young man sitting up front. "You will tell me what I want to know, or I will have a droove stomp you to death."

It was succinct and to the point. The man shifted uneasily.

"Where have the other slaves been taken?" I asked again.

The nervous man looked around as if gauging the level of support of his fellows if he should choose to answer.

"Don't look to them," I said. "It is you the droove will stomp, so why should you care what they think?"

That persuaded him.

"They were taken north of the big river."

"Why?"

"Borsar needed them to help plant crops. He ordered our commander to bring them."

Borsar! The name sent a chill down my back.

"So, the fat priest is there now, north of the river?"

"To my knowledge, yes."

"How many troops does Borsar have?"

"I do not know for certain. Our commander left here with three thousand, so he has at least that many."

Three thousand? My god!

"How many slaves went with?"

"I would say around four thousand?" the man guessed.

I had an interest in one other subject.

"Do you know of a Sakitan man named Bratar? I understand he became a soldier in the Creet ranks."

The man shook his head, but then another, a man several rows back, spoke.

"I knew of him. He was here at this camp, but I believe he went with our commander to the north."

Too bad. I had hoped he was here and the drooves had trampled him. Better luck next time.

Further inquiry revealed this mining operation had been the top Spood priority until a month ago. They had discovered a vein of the rare metal used to mint their coins and had diverted all this country's human resources to mine it. Now, with the deposit depleted, priorities had shifted to growing crops, with the Spood planning to seed the rich soil north of the Raso in Raab territory. The commander here followed orders to bring slaves and the troops to guard them to that location. Another Creet commander, Pelter, left in charge of the mining operation, died in our attack.

I informed Semral that I intended to set the prisoners free and send them back to Grell, unarmed, of course. He suggested I kill them, instead, but I felt no need to travel that path. I planned to spring an unpleasant surprise on the prisoners, one I felt sure would give the Spood the incentive to hurry home.

I addressed the twenty in my sternest manner.

"Get out of this country," I told them, "and go back to Grell. I hear the Disrupter and the Blades of Sorrow have finally arrived to devastate your homeland. Perhaps you should have been there, protecting your own homes and families rather than here harassing ours. Do not come back to this land. If you do, we will kill you."

News of the dreaded ancient prophecy come to life and threatening their homeland caused astonishment and consternation. I pointed them south. They left on foot, hustling with an alacrity that was not surprising. They would have to forage for food and water, and only Ra-ta knew if they would perish or survive. I didn't care, either way.

We packed the captured drooves with food and drink. There were not enough of them to grant ridership to all. We decided we would switch off so no one would have to walk the whole way. We were five hundred strong, and somewhere across the river Raso, three thousand—or more—waited to oppose us.

I was feeling optimistic.

**

~~TWENTY-SIX~~

A fog crept over the mountains and lay upon the low plains and hills. It was early morning of our second day out from the mining camp, and we had been following the mountains north. This day, it was my turn to walk. Dew soaked my sandals and the lower half of my tunic, but I didn't mind, for the air was fresh and cool and the walk invigorating. Semral accompanied me.

"So, why do you think Bratar turned against us?" I asked him.

The old hunter spat a short stream of white as if expelling something distasteful.

"I will not mention that traitor's name ever again," he said. "He has done unspeakable things."

"Did you know he ran from the can-rak when you called for his help back when you were injured?"

Semral stopped.

"Is this true?" He appeared astonished by the revelation.

"I saw it."

Semral digested that awhile, and then we resumed walking. He spoke.

"So, it was you. You chased the can-rak off. I have heard the talk among the others. They say you command the beasts. This is true?"

"Yes, there is truth to that. A can-rak will do what I tell it to do, and I can control other animals under certain circumstances. After Lillatta exposed my training as a shaman, you might recall I revealed to you I also had a spirit animal. Well, that animal is the can-rak."

Semral took that in as we walked on in silence.

"So, why did you tell me it was the coward who had chased the can-rak away?" he finally asked.

"I felt at the time that I had aggravated you enough with my claims of being trained in the skills of a hunter. Admitting having control over can-raks did not seem wise for me to disclose."

The old warrior nodded.

"I am getting older," he said, "and I would hope, wiser. It has been difficult for me to watch as the old ways fall into dust. Still, change must come, this I know. I believe Ra-ta has chosen you to bring that change, Sanyel, and I see only good in that."

I could have answered, but I had no words. I had not seen myself as an agent of change. I was only trying to live my life as my father taught me, to respect others and to do the right thing. Yet I recalled that incident where Ra-ta had thrown down a star from the night sky early in my desert exile. Had I accepted his challenge? Was I leading the way to something new?

"Has Ra-ta changed?" Semral then asked, speaking more to himself than to me. "Or does he simply want us to change, to question the old ways and beliefs?"

I had thought about such things. My assumption had always been that Ra-ta gave his immutable laws to our distant ancestors and required they obey them with unwavering faith. However, my eyes had opened to the possibility that human beings were incapable of following sacred truth without adding self-serving distortions. I believed there was one god, Ra-ta, but that he could appear under many names. To the Cartu, Ra-ta was a female, Mim. To the early Spood, he was Sester. I believed they all spoke the same truths, only to have humans interpret them in ways unique to their various cultures.

It is man's nature to change things to form to his desires. I would imagine that written and oral histories are rarely in their original form, with parts added or discarded depending on the whims of what power controls at the time. I would guess religion is not immune to these manipulations and that even if the core, sacred truths remain, much of what passes for religious law bears the mark of man, instead. Moreover, man is willful. The Spood had a god, Sester, but they threw him over for one that offered them a stimulating immediacy, a god in the present and in the physical. The people silenced Sester's voice, only to get Gor-jar's—but what wisdom ever came from the mouth of that hungry god?

My father said a number of ancient stories described a time when many religions flourished. He said leaders and followers of those religions always insisted the path to God was through only what they believed. They claimed God whispered His words to their messenger, not to those of other groups claiming the same. They fought wars over who was right even though each religion, ironically, stressed tolerance and placing others above self. Each religion had factions that then propagated sub-factions, all claiming to have the ear of God and to know His mind.

My father said the only way to understand God was to realize that God was love. He claimed no act or thought that did not have love as its purpose was of God. Love was the secret of God's perfection. Man was imperfect only because of his inability to live life as a continuous act of love.

This divine truth and others of supplementary importance were delivered through messengers, but were they ever truly understood? I would guess these messengers presented these truths to all who could hear, but humans have free will, and their minds are rarely in concert. Inevitably, the receivers will get some parts right and misinterpret others. As a result, my father said, spiritual messengers must repeatedly return to deliver the same information. If truth bearers gave us those messages today, would we still not truly understand, still not get them right?

And what of the messengers? Do all spiritual messengers and the messages they bring have equal value, or do some trump others in importance? Are all messengers one with Ra-ta's mind, or are some prey to human flaws, resulting in a distorted message? Is it the overarching message or the details that matter?

These are all questions the seeker of truth must ask, my father said. He believed that sometimes people drown out the purest message. Many, he said, seem more drawn to words that regulate human behavior than to those that uplift and inspire.

And what happens when a religion no longer adequately serves? Religions formed during a particular cultural period must inevitably be products of their time. However, cultures evolve. If a religion clings to the values and customs of a time long gone, does it not risk becoming irrelevant?

And what about the words? My father taught me that Sakitan stories involving the sacred often contained hidden symbolic meanings within them. Seeing past the literal is sometimes difficult, he told me, but the symbolism gives the words their real power. In the story of Kator and Brosel, for example, he said both were symbols. They represented man (Kator) in an eternal struggle with himself (Brosel). Kator (representing all humans) has a spiritual link (represented by fire) to Ra-ta (the promise of everlasting life, peace, and happiness), but he must constantly battle his human weaknesses (Brosel). These offer only the promise of temporary physical satisfaction, and they often cause the fire (the connection to Ra-ta) to weaken. By gaining control over his worldly desires and fears (Brosel), man can strengthen his bond with Ra-ta and keep the fire burning and growing. The notion that Brosel represents women and Kator men is erroneous. Kator and Brosel could easily switch positions. The story remains the same, one that sees human beings attempting to connect fully with Ra-ta while needing to overcome the self-limiting thoughts and actions that hold them back and prevent them from fully knowing love (Ra-ta).

Still, I wonder why these stories carry such weight. I have always thought that what truly comes from Ra-ta you will feel in your heart, no matter if it goes against what people say the words mean or what others tell you is Ra-ta's will. That is how God speaks to you—as an individual through the connecting fire within you. And often, I believe, when God speaks, there are no words necessary.

Over the years, I have asked my father many questions regarding man's relationship with God. Such as why is there a deliberate separation between Ra-ta and humans? Why do both spiritual and physical realms exist?

My father said perhaps Ra-ta wanted to explore beyond his perfect nature, to discover the characteristics of imperfection, but he could not experience that condition as himself. Perhaps Ra-ta needed a surrogate, a creation capable of living in an environment containing chaos, an environment rife with conflict and emotion. Ra-ta could retain a connection through spirit to his creations in this physical world and experience what occurred vicariously without being contaminated. Human beings would learn and grow in this unpredictable environment and through trial and error (though always with guidance) eventually find their way back to Ra-ta and the way of love both individually and collectively. Meanwhile, Ra-ta would receive from them all the positive things they had learned through this remarkable experiment in free will.

In any case, I believed a correction to entrenched beliefs was currently underway. Man cannot grow if he continuously follows an errant path. Ra-ta had seen the spiritual corruption and felt it was time for a refresher, time to re-introduce the clean, immutable truths man was so fond of surrounding with clutter. Not that I thought I was the messenger. What did I know about the sacred? I grant that I might be a tool for Ra-ta to use, but I was not the bringer of anything more than a sharp knife.

As the day progressed and the sun burned off the morning mists, I caught sight of the river. The mighty Raso was not very robust this time of year. Our summers blended into fall so gradually that it was often difficult to mark the transition. The blistering sun remained potent long into these autumn days. As a result, the old river was unraveling, now down to a single, winding strand where once it had been a stoutly braided rope.

Here was where the river began. From high in the eastern Kodor Mountains, the rain and snowmelt trickled or flooded its way down, gouging out a watercourse that widened as it pushed its way west. A boulder, which at most times of the year would have been invisible beneath raging waters, now sat exposed like a bulky porse in a wading pool.

We crossed the shallow waters. Our drooves moved with labored strides, at times needing assistance to free themselves from sucking mud. On the other side, stretching north, were open grasslands and low hills. To the west, the waist-high grass met towering bennawood forests into which the Raso entered and vanished from view. It was my first visit to this side of the river, and I saw nothing I hadn't seen before.

We would follow the river west and hope to find the site where the Spood sowed their precious crops. The prisoner I had interrogated back at the mining camp guessed they would be farther north, so we sent scouting parties in that direction.

By nightfall, we had progressed a considerable distance. We camped on the plains at the edge of a forest, making sure we had a clear view of the low hills to the north. Izzy returned from a scouting trip to report something of interest. She had picked up signs of a can-rak's presence—a sartel kill with distinctive indicators showing a predator had taken it down with ruthless ferocity.

My heart thumped rapidly. A can-rak would prove to be a considerable upgrade to our present strength as a fighting unit. I wanted to comb the hills and track it down, but Semral suggested waiting until daylight.

When daylight arrived, we were in trouble. From the hills to our north, an army had sprouted and aligned itself in a formidable array before us. Spears gleamed in the morning light, held by soldiers in red-trimmed vests astride drooves that stomped and bleated. Outnumbered and overmatched, everyone was certain our doom had arrived with an irrefutable certainty.

As I surveyed the mass of troops idly awaiting orders, my mood grew unaccountably giddy. This was what I had hoped for, the vast Spood army all in one place. My compatriots forgot that I possessed a formidable weapon. I would demonstrate its full power and crush the Spood presence in this country conclusively.

"Why don't you ride out there and attract their attention," I suggested to Lillatta. "Bring about twenty or thirty others with you and try to make them chase you. I want them all close in together, and then—well, then I'll make them wish they had never come to this land."

I told Lillatta my entire plan, and she was eager to view it unfold. Her riders moved out onto the plains, trotting their steeds toward the stagnant army of the hills. The group rode until safety required they veer left. They traversed the length of the Creet lines, taunting all the while. I judged the troop count to be at least the three thousand soldiers I expected and not much more. The Creet soldiers were fidgety, eager to run down and crush these pestering bugs. I could see them pulling at their drooves' reins, shifting back and forth in place. Still, no orders came to attack. What were they waiting for?

Then, the gate opened. Down from the grassy mounds the insects coursed, buzzing, anticipating the slaughter to come. They knew what numbers opposed them. They had scouted us, and they must have realized they had a sizable advantage. Lillatta's taunters were not the sole target. They were coming for us all.

Semral looked over at me, consternation plain on his face. He knew the plan, but he was uncertain of its viability.

"Is this going to work?"

"I certainly hope so."

I admit it was not the most definitive answer for one seeking certitude in the face of annihilation.

Lillatta's riders came in fast. Three thousand drooves, as tightly bunched as they could get, pursued. I heard the ground thunder and felt the oncoming wave threatening to inundate us and wash us away. The time was now. I touched the droove bone dangling from my bracelet.

"Creet drooves, stop and dump your riders," I spoke.

Pandemonium erupted on the plains. The drooves braked at my command, throwing a high number of riders over their necks. Then, the drooves reared. From thousands of throats emanated an ear-assaulting, discordant symphony of bleats and snorts. Soldiers fell, tossed from their mounts as if their very touch was odious to the beasts. Many barely hung on, jerking and bouncing as the drooves twisted and arched trying to eject them. Finally, a determined jerk dislodged the last stubborn trooper from his seat.

"Creet drooves, surround the Creet soldiers and do not let any escape your circle," I ordered. "Close in so tightly that they cannot move."

At my command, the drooves spread out to surround the baffled warriors. Creet confusion expanded as the beasts closed in around them. A few realized the impending predicament and tried to break out, swinging their blades at the nearest droove in their path.

To my surprise, other drooves came to the aid of the ones attacked, viciously slamming the offending soldiers off their feet and back into the fast-closing interior. Within minutes, the trap shut tight, with the captives unable to lift their arms or move more than a finger's length. I sprinted over from my position not more than a hundred paces away and heard a commotion from within the circle. Soldiers shouted that they could not breathe, so I eased the drooves back a bit while informing the Creet that they were now prisoners and to surrender their weapons.

As always, there are those who deny the certainty of their plight and refuse to submit. After another round of droove-induced breathlessness, there was unanimous compliance to my demands. When I released the pressure, the Creet soldiers followed with alacrity my command to remove and drop their spears, swords, and knives into a communal pile.

I noticed one soldier attempting to shield his face, and I tried to get a better view of him. Others blocked my vision, but then I recognized that overly muscled frame and those less-than-attractive facial features. Of course, it was only natural that the most despised man in the history of the Sakita tribe would try to avoid detection. Too late.

"Look, everyone, it's Bratar," I called.

He snapped his head around to my voice, panic plain on his visage. He tried to run, but Semral and another chased him down. I saw Lillatta push her way past onlookers. She stared with a focused intensity at our catch.

As the Creet finished relinquishing their weapons, we sat them down and put them under guard. We brought Bratar forward for questioning. Everyone expected me to do the interrogating. They had seen my plan work to perfection, and they were now more than willing to accept my leadership. How far we had come from the days when that would have been unthinkable. I stood about seven paces from Bratar.

"Been a while," I noted.

He was aware that I held authority here from hearing and seeing me give commands, but I could see it was inexplicable to him how that could be. Still, he did not let that deter him from answering in his typical fashion.

"Not long enough, selate!"

I ignored the provocation and was about to begin my questioning, but Bratar had more to say.

"They have you speaking for them now?" His words held contemptuous disbelief. "How did you manage that? And how is it you are even back here? I would have thought the razoks would be picking your bones clean by now."

"Well, I had to come back. I was concerned about your jaw. Does it still hurt?"

Bratar scowled. "I'll teach you—"

"You'll teach me what? How to take down a porse? How to bully children? How to wear slop?—which, by the way, I thought was a very natural look for you."

Bratar growled and stepped forward menacingly, but two men firmly held his arms.

"I'll make you a deal," I said. "You tell us what we want to know, and I promise we will give you the same chance given me. We offer you banishment in place of execution."

A sly glint of hope appeared on Bratar's face.

"All right, I'll talk."

"Where is Borsar?" I asked, not wishing to waste any more time.

"He's somewhere, planting crops no doubt."

Bratar's derisive reply indicated he was not too keen on Spood agricultural interests. I didn't appreciate his evasive answer, but at least he was responding to my questions.

"How did you find us?" I queried.

"We have been watching you ever since you crossed the river. You never even knew we were following you."

That was partially true. I had sensed the army's presence, but he was correct that we had not known where it was.

I studied Bratar. For a long while, I'd been wondering what causes a man to do what Bratar did, betray his people. I was even more curious about the cowardice that seemed to run freely in his veins.

"Why did you flee from the can-rak when Semral called you to help him?" I asked.

Bratar went pale. Both the Sakitans and the Creet straightened to attention with my bold accusation so casually delivered. Bratar's anger flared.

"You lie! I told what happened. I chased the can-rak away."

"That's funny," I said, "because as I recall, I chased the can-rak away. I seem to remember you hiding behind the rocks and then running off somewhere when Semral needed you."

The Sakitans were buzzing. Except for Semral, no one was aware of my role in the can-rak drama, only that I had patched up Semral afterward.

"You weren't there," Bratar said as if to convince himself that was true. "I chased it away. I ... You weren't ..."

Bratar's words trailed away. His eyes registered a fearful insight as he glanced around at the riveted spectators. His fellow Sakitans believed—no—they knew! They knew he was a coward.

We all understood his panic over the exposed secret. Sakitan men pride themselves on their fearlessness. Being a traitor was one thing, but a coward was quite another. In his mind, it had to be worse, for real men would never let a coward associate with them, not even the Spood.

He now glared at me, the ideal person to blame for his current predicament.

"You did this! I'll kill you!" Then, with all the power his rage could muster, he broke free of those restraining him and charged.

I readied myself for the attack, intending only to knock Bratar down as I had back when he bullied Satu not so long ago. Before Bratar arrived, however, Lillatta cut in front of me. Bratar's momentum halted. He grunted and stood still for a moment, then staggered back. A wet stain spread across the grottis symbol stitched into his Creet vest. He stared down in disbelief at the protruding knife, and then he looked up into Lillatta's calm eyes before releasing a moan and sinking to his knees. He flopped sideways onto the ground and was silent.

Without a trace of rancor in her voice, Lillatta stood over the still form and said, "That was for Kalor." Then she turned and walked away.

We added Bratar's corpse to a massive wood pyre that included the hundred or so other bodies collected from the plains. They were victims of either awkward falls when the drooves dumped them or of the beasts' lethal, stomping feet. We ignited the pyre, made up of wood from a tree species that burns hot and efficiently even when green, and soon black smoke rose, leaving the air acrid and unpleasant. I wondered if any of these Creet dead would find their way to Mimnon, though I was aware they didn't recognize that place as their heaven. I suspected they would not. I guessed that all, including Bratar, would soon find themselves drowning forever in Fuld's black waters.

As the flames crackled and the smoke billowed, I realized we had a problem. There were too many prisoners. We did not have enough people to guard them, and it would be impossible to take them with us to find Borsar and his camp.

I would not kill them. Several suggested I do so, insisting it the only prudent move. The soldiers were no longer aggressors, however, so in my mind, killing them would be murder. I could set them free as I had the twenty back at the mining site, but freeing an entire army did not seem wise.

I had no choice; they would have to come with us. The drooves could herd them, I realized. I would have to reintroduce commands to the animals every twenty minutes, but I did not see that as a problem. I wanted our army, all five hundred of us, free to repel any attack. In truth, however, we were not that number, for we had many women and children incapable of fighting. With drooves guarding the prisoners, that would allow the fighters among us to fight. Everyone could ride, for we had plenty of extra drooves. We would let our party choose additional weapons from those collected from the Creet, and we'd destroy the leftovers.

We soon discovered Borsar's whereabouts. With nearly three thousand prisoners to choose from, it had not been hard to get the intelligence. You can always count on finding at least one loudmouth who can't keep secrets. Borsar was directly north of us along with four thousand slaves under the watch of fewer than a thousand Creet soldiers.

The trip was a day's journey marked by slow trudges up low hills, steady marches over level plains, and avoiding forests that might separate us. Men watched our flanks and scouts apprised us of what was ahead. I shadowed the drooves, making sure to keep them focused on prisoner containment.

A whiff of something in the warm breeze caught my attention. We approached yet another line of hills, and the odor I detected was not of our making. It was wood smoke—bennawood to be exact—that sweet, comforting aroma as familiar to me as Ra-ta's daily rising. Others sniffed it as well, and the news swiftly bounced from ear to ear.

I warned the Creet captives not to make a sound under penalty of a droove unleashing. Izzy and Semral scurried over, reporting that scouts had confirmed the presence of Spood fields over these hills. I risked leaving the drooves unchaperoned and made my way to a hilltop. Crawling on my stomach, I inched my way to the crest to get a view.

Clearly defined squares and rectangles formed a patchwork that extended beyond my sight. The Spood were planting, and I supposed that wasn't unusual since our climate allowed for year-round growing. Slaves worked the plots, seeding the turned soil in some, spading virgin grasses in others, all under the watchful gaze of the Creet. To my left, I located a full droove pen. My attention, though, quickly focused to the right, where soldiers assembled what appeared to be a grottis.

I strained my eyes to make out details, and then a man exited a wooden hut and approached the working men. It was Borsar, the fat priest, the murderer. His red hair was longer, but there was no mistaking that portly frame. What unfortunate victim did he plan to kill today?

I retreated down the hill and noticed the drooves drifting away from guarding the prisoners, reverting to their instinctual urge to find the best grazing. The Creet had not taken advantage, probably because human guards were still within sight. However, what would happen when the battle to come distracted us? I would have to bluff the captive Creet into remaining only spectators.

For now, I gathered my trusted friends to devise a plan of attack. I had observed the slaves and guards spread out across the entire seeded expanse they worked. That could be a problem. Very few guards rode drooves, so I could not repeat what I had done on the open plains, cause animals to dump their riders. If I could think of no alternative, we might have to resort to what we did at the mine, let the penned drooves loose to decide the issue with dirty and bloody work.

On the other side of these hills was what remained of the combined Sakita and Raab tribes. There might still be survivors in Grell, I granted, but I was sure this was the majority, four thousand. Counting our five hundred, that would make four thousand five hundred left of two proud peoples. Our stories say the Sakitans once numbered ten thousand before a disease reduced our ranks to one-tenth that figure. We had been building those numbers back up over the years, only to encounter the Spood.

I was sure the Raab could tell a similar tale. Thinking of the Raab reminded me that I wanted to keep a lookout for Javen and his companions. I wondered if they were observing from somewhere nearby.

"How do you want to approach this?" Izzy was asking. "They have all the drooves penned up, so I say we let them loose to pick off the Creetans one-by-one. It worked at the mine."

I was afraid I had no better solution. Killing or injuring all these Spood no longer appealed to me, but what choice did I have? In my mind, the Spood were finished as conquerors. I was confident the ten can-raks continued to raise havoc on their home grounds. I hoped that across the rest of the world returning freed slaves were fomenting revolt. This pocket was of personal concern. I would do what it took to make the Spood disappear from these lands. If that meant Creet annihilation, so be it.

"So, what's down there?" Lillatta asked. "What are we up against?"

"I estimate fewer than a thousand Creet," I answered. "I would say maybe around seven hundred. I saw only about twenty or thirty priests, one of them Borsar. I didn't notice any Spood women or children, same as at the mine, so that's good."

"What about Sakitans and Raab?" Semral asked.

"They are all there," I said. "Four thousand, by my guess. There are women and children, and it looks like the Spood are forcing them all to work in the fields along with the men. They have them shackled at the ankles, like at the mine. They must know seven hundred is a small number to watch over four thousand, so they're being careful."

"So, what's the plan?" Izzy asked again.

"We'll have to let the drooves loose on the guards in the fields," I said. "I see no other way. These are professional soldiers, and even though our group has a good number of veteran hunters and warriors, I feel a straight-up battle between us might not go our way. We have to involve the drooves. Meanwhile, I want to take a small force to get Borsar. It looks like he's planning a sacrifice, and I won't let that happen. He has only about ten guards with him, and he's quite a distance from the nearest fields, so we shouldn't have any interference."

Our plan was simple and direct. For the greater good, the Creet in the fields would have to be sacrificed. Being born into this brutal Spood culture wasn't their fault, of course, but they fully embraced and supported it, so a price had to be paid. This was war, after all.

While the drooves occupied the soldiers, I would take Izzy, Lillatta, Semral, and a few others to go after Borsar. Brilna refused to stay behind without me, so I was allowing her to tag along. The rest would either remain to watch the current prisoners or go down to assist the attacking drooves. The end of Spood influence in these lands was in our grasp, and I did not intend to release that grip.

**

~~TWENTY-SEVEN~~

Lookouts informed me that the Spood beyond the hills were still unaware of our presence. I felt that condition would not last, so I had to hurry. I addressed our three thousand prisoners, informing them that in about twenty minutes I would be allowing the drooves to graze and that they would appear not to be guarding them. However, make no mistake, I told them, for if any made a move to escape, the drooves would notice and stomp that would-be escapee to death.

My bluff seemed to result in the desired effect. The soldiers were aware I had a measure of control over the beasts, so I was hoping they would believe my powers extended beyond what I actually possessed. Those not assisting the attacking drooves would also keep an eye out to dissuade the prisoners from roaming.

At the hilltop, my small band gathered, lying prone and hidden as I took one last survey. To my left, the drooves remained penned, and I hoped the corral construction was as flimsy as the one at the mining camp. My eyes conducted a methodical landscape sweep. It was mid-afternoon, and the fieldwork proceeded with lazy normality. The scene might appear idyllic to the casual observer if not for the cracking swoks and the clanking chains.

Borsar stood down to my right. Something had changed since my last view of this scene. The grottis was now up, its wings outstretched to the sky—and someone was hanging from it! Irritation rose in me. Why hadn't the lookouts informed me of this?

I turned to the others. "We have to get down there, now!" Without waiting for a response, I pivoted back to the drooves.

I touched the bracelet bone and spoke.

"Creet drooves in the pen, break out and kill the Creet soldiers in the fields." I had no interest in refining the order. The time for niceties was at an end. I hoped twenty minutes was enough to finish the job.

"Let's go," I urged the others. We rose and swept down the hill. I glanced over as we sprinted through the grass and saw the drooves had broken free and were swarming the fields. Borsar noticed the far away drooves on the loose, and his diverted attention assisted our approach.

My legs churned as I held my spear poised in a stationary position above my head. Izzy's sword was out, pointed forward as she ran. Lillatta and Semral hoisted spears as I did, and Brilna clumsily followed while clutching my leather bag—an item she refused to relinquish.

A cry sounded behind me. Brilna was down, but she would have to rise on her own. Borsar's guards spied us and gave the priest warning. We were on them an instant later. Metal and wood clashed. I toppled a Creet with a sweeping cut that took his feet from beneath him, and then I finished him off with a spearpoint to the chest.

Borsar screamed at his men to kill us, but their present condition did not favor that outcome. His men were already beaten, either down and dead or capitulating. Four survived along with a fleeing Borsar, who forced me to chase him down.

"Not so fast, fat man," I said. I overtook the out-of-shape priest and got around to his ample front. A shiny and persuasive spearpoint beneath his double chin halted his flight.

I prodded the sweating redhead back to the others and heard a soft moan. Glancing up, I felt my heart seize. Fear's hands squeezed the breath from me. A dark-haired boy hung limply on the grottis, chained tightly to the wooden abomination. Javen's nose dripped blood, and his right cheek appeared puffed. Thankfully, he was alive, and he was offering me a sickly grin.

"Get him down from there!" I demanded. "You and you!" I stabbed my spear at two of the surviving Creet to get them to comply. Javen was down in moments, and I went to him. Examining his wounds, I felt relieved to discover he had no broken bones or serious injury. He had a swollen mouth and could not talk. In addition, he indicated that his ribs felt sore but that he was otherwise fine.

I turned to Borsar, who displayed a smirk on his chubby countenance. That infuriated me.

"Why are you acting so smug?"

I jabbed my spear at his plump torso. "You are in no position to find any of this amusing."

The smirk vanished but not the attitude.

"What are you?" he asked, his tone dismissive. "Thieves? Rebels?" He gave a disdainful snort. "You are nothing, and you do not seem to understand the magnitude of what you have done. You have interrupted a sacrifice to our god, Gor-jar. That will not go unpunished. Gor-jar will demand his payment."

"Sure he will. Like he did with me at the sperza?"

Borsar responded with a blank look, and it hit me that he did not recognize me.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"Should I?"

"Perhaps you remember a little girl with a crushed skull and a Creet bastard who wound up with a blade in his brain."

That jogged the priest's memory. He studied my face, and his own grew dark

"You killed a good man ... Kobar. He was one of my best."

"A good man? He was an animal! He smashed the head of an innocent little girl!"

"She spilled water. The girl was nothing. A slave."

I swung my hand and slapped Borsar across the face. The vicious blow stunned, and he stepped back. I swung and struck again. Then again. Borsar was reeling, and I slapped him yet again. I bore in, my hand stinging but not nearly finished, my swings energized by the raw power of Ra-ta. My blows had been so impossibly rapid in succession that the priest had been unable to lift his arms to protect himself. Now, he did, and I halted.

"How does it feel to be under another's control, priest?" I taunted. "How does it feel to be treated as nothing?" I was breathing hard from the exertion. "Want to go again?"

Borsar was angry over the assault, and his eyes blazed. He nursed his bruised face.

"You're dead!" he shouted. "When my troops arrive, they will cut your ragged lot to pieces. And you won't escape the grottis a second time."

Borsar's hubris and stubborn blindness to his precarious situation astounded.

"Your troops can't help you," I said, and I pointed to the fields. "Don't you realize what is happening?"

The priest turned to look. In the far distance, drooves milled about. There was no sign of Creet soldiers. Instead, the freed field slaves and my warriors were making their way toward our position. Borsar's face registered alarm as he turned back to face me.

"What have you done? Where are my men?"

I shrugged and said, "My guess is they're dead."

Borsar took another glance at those slowly approaching from still far away. His anger rose.

"You will not get away with this! I have three thousand more soldiers who will hunt you down and—"

"They are right over those hills," I interrupted. "They are my prisoners. I imagine they are resting comfortably, waiting for my return."

Borsar did not believe me.

"How could you have captured three thousand Creet soldiers? They would have crushed your rabble like bugs beneath their feet."

"Of course," I said. "What could I be thinking? Perhaps we captured three thousand starfens. I get confused. They certainly fought like rodents. So, maybe you are right."

Borsar glared at me, not very appreciative of my sarcasm.

"Believe what you want," I told him. "You are finished in this land. What made you think you could come here and enslave our people?"

To my surprise, the fat man laughed.

"It is our right," he said, and I saw he believed it. "The Spood will always be masters of the world. You inferior races will continue to be subservient to us. You think because you are way out here that you can escape our reach? Gor-jar will demand—"

"Gor-jar is dead," I informed Borsar. "I killed him."

The priest laughed. "That is very humorous. You cannot kill a god. You won't be so cocky when Smerkas sends more troops to—"

"Smerkas is also dead. I'm afraid I killed him, too."

The fat priest was enjoying the joke.

"You say you killed him, but I doubt you even know who Smerkas is. You are fooling yourself if you think he will not come for you. You ragtag rebels cannot defeat us. Gor-jar will have many more feasts."

I motioned for Brilna to approach me. She did, bringing along the leather bag. I reached in and pulled out the glowing ceiling light from the white room. The surviving Creet guards shrank back in fear. Semral displayed a similar reaction, but I noticed that Borsar eyed the glowing object with a studied intensity.

"So, you recognize this light, don't you?" I said to the priest. "I took this from Gor-jar's room. I can tell you know where that is."

"I...do."

"So, you tell me how I came to have it. Would Gor-jar not have killed me if I were in his lair?"

Borsar's face reflected uncertainty. He then said, "This is a trick! This firelight is not from that room. You were not in Gor-jar's lair or even in Grell. It is a lie."

"Oh, I was there all right, but I suppose you want definite proof. Brilna has a fascinating little wand you might find of interest. Show it to Borsar."

Brilna extracted the glittering rod and held it out so that the priest could get a good look. Recognition and shock suffused Borsar's face. He trembled as he reached for the scepter and turned it over in his hands.

"I took that off Smerkas when I killed him," I said. "You'll find him lying just outside Grell on the road if you care to check."

"It's not true!"

Borsar's vehement denial could not hide his fear and doubt. As he examined the clear evidence before him, he said, "This can't be possible!"

"Oh, it's certainly possible," I said. "Smerkas was nothing more than a pompous, arrogant fool, much like you. I killed him, and I killed your weak god, too. Don't you know who I am?"

Borsar stared at me, unsure what I was asking. The Creet were wary and attentive. They, too, thought I had already revealed myself—the slave at the sperza. Semral looked confused, and who could blame him.

"Look at my hand," I instructed Borsar. "What do you see?"

Borsar was suspicious as I held out my palm for him to inspect, but he came forward to peek. His head lurched back, and his face drained of color. He looked fearfully into my eyes.

"The mark of the spear!" His trembling increased. "It's you?"

"It is," I confirmed. "I am the Disrupter."

The Creet soldiers showed fright, with one of them collapsing to his knees.

Borsar stared again at the infamous mark. Then, the alarming piece of news I had previously relayed to him finally appeared to register. He looked back at me, his face revealing awe this time along with the fear.

The shaken priest glanced up at the empty grottis, and then he looked out into the fields. He sighted none of his troops, only approaching armed slaves. He turned back to me and spoke the dreaded words.

"Gor-jar—he is truly dead?"

"He is, truly," I said, unable to resist a mocking tone. "I stepped inside him and took his power. The Blades of Sorrow can attest to this."

I indicated Izzy and Lillatta, who stood there smiling at the dazed and dumbstruck priest.

One more surprise I impulsively chose to throw in.

"Sester sent me to kill Gor-jar," I lied. "He wants his people back."

I relished the reaction. The discovery that Sester had returned added an explosive level to already stunning revelations. News that the long-absent god had employed the most feared figure in Spood prophecy, the Disrupter, to kill the god's rival, proved incomprehensible to his followers. Borsar, Gor-jar's rabid disciple, had the look of one confronted with forces beyond his understanding or control. However, despite his initial shock and disorientation, he must have sensed that one does not trifle with the machinations of the gods.

The priest unexpectedly dropped to his knees in front of me and bowed his head to the ground.

"Oh great and powerful Disrupter, what does Sester desire of me?"

His deferential tone took me by surprise. It was quite a turnaround from his previous cocky self-assurance.

I imagined he was earnest. It is always in one's best interests to please the deity currently in charge. Still, why was he asking me what Sester wished of him? How would I know? Me, privy to what a god wants? I'm sure Sester was laughing aloud at the mere presumption.

"I'll get back to you on that," I told him. "First, I want to take care of my friend."

He accepted that and seemed resigned to the notion that there was a new order and that the power structure had changed. We moved Javen to Borsar's hut, and there I nursed his injuries. I sent out for plants and other natural healing ingredients. Within a couple of hours, Javen was resting comfortably.

One of the seven who had accompanied Javen to this camp told me later that he and his small group had encountered the Creet soon after crossing the river. Captured, Javen had attempted escape. Caught and beaten, he was awaiting sacrifice to Gor-jar within the hour of our timely arrival.

Word came as expected that the drooves had annihilated the Creet forces in the fields with help from our warriors and a slave uprising. We grouped the few survivors of the slaughter with our three thousand other prisoners. I promised Borsar I would speak to this group about what Sester wanted of them. They knew by now that I was the Disrupter, and they had heard of the deaths of Smerkas and Gor-jar by my hand.

On a clear fall morning, I stood before an expectant audience eager to hear the wishes of a sun god. This god happened to be named Sester, but it could just as well have been Mim or Ra-ta. I knew I could tell them anything, and they would believe me. But I felt I had a responsibility to tell the truth, at least as I understood it, for perhaps the sun god had chosen me to deliver some message of great wisdom. Maybe he would move my lips as Ra-ta had often moved my arm when my weapons had to fly far and true.

I was uncomfortable. I did not understand why people needed someone to tell them the right thing to do. They were looking for another god to follow and for someone to show them how to worship that god. They wanted to be told how to pray, what rituals to perform, and what not to eat on what days. They were eager to form and set in stone new rules and new laws to be obeyed without question. They wanted to know how to distinguish the heathens from the righteous and how to deal with the unbelievers. If you won't comply with the new, true faith, do we ostracize you, forcibly convert you—kill you? I had no answers for them. Why concern yourself worrying about or trying to control what anyone else believes? In the end, you will be judged alone, with that judgment based solely on what fills your heart. They had to look inside themselves. That is where all answers lie.

"I am here to tell you what to do," I began, and I could not believe how lame and pretentious that sounded coming out of my mouth. I hoped Ra-ta, Sester, or Mim had some better lines forthcoming.

"Sester wants you to stop sacrificing people."

There, that was better, clear and concise.

"He wants you to set all your slaves free and to learn how to do for yourselves. He wants you to respect others as equals and to learn to cooperate."

I was grasping for words.

"Sester wants you to be happy and to bring joy to others. He wants you to treat all others as you would want them to treat you."

There, that one I liked. Still, the inspiration was running dry.

"So, be good and—uh—well, have a nice day."

Oh, that sounded stupid.

Well, I did my best. Whether my words would enlighten and free minds or be twisted to control and enslave, I did not know. It seems people will always find a way to do both even when given the same inspiration. As I turned to leave, cries of alarm sounded from several locations. I looked toward where everyone pointed and saw a green beast loping across a distant field. This was an opportunity I couldn't resist. I had to take advantage.

"Can-rak, come to me," I said. At once, the animal switched directions and raced toward our gathering. Exclamations of fear grew in number and volume. People started to scatter. Izzy looked at me, shaking her head at my naughtiness. Semral had a questioning expression, indicating he doubted my ability to control this situation. Javen grabbed my hand. He wasn't going anywhere.

As the can-rak drew closer, it began sniffing. It trotted and then slowed to a walk, and I heard the humming. The beast stopped before me and rolled over onto its back. Stunned by the animal's reaction, people began to inch toward us as I reached high to rub the can-rak's stomach. It hummed with content as it pawed the air with playful swipes. I told the animal to walk over to Borsar and lick his face. The can-rak twisted and leaped to its feet. Borsar, caught by surprise, froze as the massive beast ambled over to slurp its tongue across his pudgy cheeks.

"Can-rak, resume your journey to where you desired to go," I said. The animal pivoted at once and bounded off to its previous destination. My summoning the can-rak had not been purely to entertain but to enforce a point. I was allowing the prisoners to return to their homeland, and I wanted the Spood to be cognizant that I had considerable power over animals. It was a warning to them to stay on the path I had outlined or risk a repeat visit from the Disrupter.

The priests and the Creet thousands prepared to leave. They were taking their drooves—not all, for we had decided to keep some to breed—and heading back to Grell. I had witnessed a remarkable change in Borsar, so my desire for vengeance had withered away. Of course, I could not be sure Borsar's transformation was genuine; perhaps it was merely a ploy, a means of self-preservation. I didn't care. There had been enough killing. I offered a few words of wisdom to the priest before his departure.

"You will want to be careful when you get back to Grell," I advised him. "It seems I might have let a few can-raks loose, and they are in the process of tidying up the place."

Borsar's face showed alarm. "I have a son back in Grell."

I remembered his son. Chubby little kid who demanded I fetch him water.

"Well, as long as he has no evil in his heart he'll be fine," I said, smiling at the priest. "That, of course, goes for everyone returning to Grell."

Borsar gave me a look. I imagined he hoped I was joking. Not in this case. For all their sakes, a change of heart would not be a bad thing to contemplate on their long journey home.

"Oh, and you might want to avoid that sperza you built," I added. "I'm afraid my friends and I burned that to the ground."

In the days that followed, representatives of both Sakita and Raab tribes met. We decided to abandon our former antagonistic relationship and to cooperate on issues of concern to both. Our recent brutalization at the hands of the Spood had made us realize our strength lay in mutual assistance. Since Javen and I had already established a more personal level of cooperation, the efforts pleased me.

Izzy and Brilna decided to remain and experience life as a Sakita, and I was glad to have them. Izzy occupied herself by offering sword-fighting lessons to anyone, man or woman, desiring to learn. It amused me to see Oster as one of her most eager pupils. Izzy promised that someday we would all journey to the mysterious cave in the mountains, and I keenly looked forward to that.

Officially, I was still an outcast from my tribe, but Semral assured me he would remedy that situation. He also made me an offer. He asked me to accept the position as the new shaman of the Sakita. I reminded him that our rules required a competition between candidates, but he waved that off. He told me we would be making new rules along with many other overdue changes.

On a late fall morning, as Ra-ta peeked above the eastern mountains, Lillatta and I stood on a bank overhanging the mighty river Raso. We watched in silence as the sun's rays touched the water, exploding it into shimmering light. Lillatta stepped forward to toss a blue-petaled flower into the shining water. It was a persun flower, the flower of preference in Sakitan rituals for the departed. Lillatta's blossom was for Kalor her lost love. I followed with three of my own. The first was for Satu, an orphan boy with a bad leg who had no one to mourn his passing. The second was for a nameless young slave girl whose life ended much too early in a now-vanished sperza. The third was for my father, a man who believed in destiny, a man who believed in me.

May the four of them roam the bountiful fields of Mimnon forever.

My eyes swept across the green hills and beyond to the enduring mountains. I was home. And tomorrow, with the first light, I would join council chief Semral in initiating a new era for our tribe.

We were going hunting.

**

~~EPILOGUE~~

In a decaying white room below Grell, on a dusty desk behind a low partition, lies a small square device tossed there by Sanyel. Its owner is long dead. Its tiny locked screen emits a steady glow and shows a page of final entries. A fragment of ceiling tile has fallen, striking a button on the device. A wide, enhanced screen view projects into the blackness. Across the display run the following words, written five thousand years in the past:

Dr. Parsa:

As you know, my team has been diligently seeking to modify our recently developed Sunburst generator to isolate and enhance specific energy signatures to find one capable of eradicating the deadly tasun virus that is ravaging our world. Years ago, when we first discovered the Kasor energy field that surrounds our planet, no one realized its potential in this regard. Our approach at Sunburst Technologies—when we designed the first of the energy conversion units—was to leave the field undisturbed.

That passive approach worked well. The devices simply converted that which existed within the ether into electrical energy. We designed the units to power anything from the minuscule to the mammoth, and our results exceeded our wildest expectations. No disruption to the field occurred, and the best part was that we discovered the field renews itself, so the supply is endless.

Though we profited immensely from inventing this universal energy converter, I think we served the greater good by making free and unlimited power available to the entire world. How can anyone argue that eliminating the need for power plants and long-range distribution of electricity wasn't the most important breakthrough in history? No longer do we need to use our natural resources to satisfy our energy needs. Now, anyone at any location can produce on site the amount of electric power needed for just about any endeavor and with no disruption to the environment. Who would have thought that only twenty years ago we would discover a limitless energy source that rivals the sun and that technology would advance so rapidly to utilize it!

However, as I informed you last month, the exciting discoveries did not end there. Recent research has revealed that the Kasor field consists of infinite combinations of individual energy signatures. It seems there are layers and sub-layers to the field we never imagined existed. We developed the Sunburst generator to simulate all those signatures, but in particular, we want it to reproduce one we feel can kill off the tasun virus. We intend to program the generator to replicate that signature and enhance it. We then hope to test its efficacy in eradicating the virus by way of a controlled experiment in a suitable location. We feel the wave generated should not cause any undue interference within the Kasor field.

We plan to test the prototype two days from now at the new Grellwood amusement park located not far from our lab, an amazing structure that sits atop the bluffs overlooking the ocean. The park is only half completed, but the owners have delayed further construction due to the virus scare, so we managed to persuade them to let us conduct our tests within its enclosure. This remarkable fortress has walls formed from that incredible, indestructible material recently developed by Sestran Industries, permabide. They claim it will withstand all natural erosion and deterioration for over seven thousand years. Just think! These massive walls will still be standing, pristine and polished, long after you and I are nothing but bones. They say Sestran also installed a self-cleaning process that will periodically remove debris that accumulates on the upper walkway and the escalator stairwells. They coated the surfaces with a chemical substance that works at a nano level to renew itself as it naturally dissolves any organic or mineral buildup while leaving the permabide surface untouched. They claim the chemical coating will not outlast the wall but that it has a considerable lifespan.

Of course, I am proud that a product of our Sunburst technology powers this facility. We designed a large Kasor energy converter to the specific requirements of the park's owners. This system allows individual cells to power different segments of the park. We told them tapping isolated cells in this manner would shorten the lifespan of the converter as a whole, with the potential for some power cells to weaken prematurely. We had recommended separate power units for each function, but the cost was a deciding factor. They felt our overall performance guarantee for this unique converter was so strong that they would accept the risk. I am confident this particular version could potentially power this facility for five thousand years, the same length of time we estimate the units that currently power our streetlights should last. As you know, we guarantee all our energy converters are that durable, from the tiny ones powering the smallest devices to this large one buried far beneath Grellwood. Of course, we offer a disclaimer if the units encounter prolonged exposure to the elements, for their shells are not—at least not yet—constructed of permabide.

Oh, and I can't forget to mention a nice little feature we added to the lights installed below ground. Each bulb includes a tiny built-in power component that will separately energize it when activated by human touch. The park owners intend to use a cell that's part of the large central power unit to control all the lights of this facility. However, we've added this safety feature in case of a massive failure in that larger unit or in that cell. If people become trapped below Grellwood due to a power failure and have no portable light source with them, they can just detach any bulb from its holder, and it will serve just as well.

Our test will commence in a couple of days. The fortress walls are the first and only in the entire world constructed using permabide, and that convinced us it is the one safe location to test the prototype. In the unlikely event something should go wrong, we feel these walls can contain any stray energy outburst.

I look forward to relaying our results to you by weeks end.

Sincerely,

Dr. Randa Lanki

Dr. Parsa:

We made a mistake! The generator did its job, but the energy produced was too vast and too unstable. The wave triggered some sort of resonance effect that wound up leveling every structure within the park and scorching the fortress walls. The blast reflected off the walls and rolled back, wiping out everything above ground. Luckily, I was in the museum below ground in the large white room that contains one of the ancient predator holograms, and that spared me the agony my colleagues must have suffered.

Still, have I, in truth, been spared? Every room around me except for this one has collapsed. I am trapped down here until someone comes to my rescue.

It may not matter. The doctors inform me I have contracted the tasun illness, and I do not have long. I fear the experts were too optimistic about the prospects for containing this virus. My hunch is that the tasun will continue to spread exponentially and that our entire civilization is in imminent jeopardy. Sester save us! I only wish I had been able to stop it. I hope to see you again my friend, but if I do not, then this is farewell.

Your colleague and friend,

Dr. Randa Lanki

**

**Sanyel** is my debut novel and the first in a series that details the adventures of Sanyel and her friends. Sanyel's story continues with **Disrupter** , the second book in the series. Thank you for purchasing this book; I hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Please consider giving it a rating or posting a review online.

**

The following is the first chapter from my novel, Disrupter, a sequel to Sanyel.

(Chapter 1)

Before this world, there was another. The present world has no name, but its inhabitants knew the previous one as Dar. The present world is primitive by comparison, for Dar was a wondrous world where metal birds sailed the skies and metal fish swam beneath the seas. It was an advanced world of invention and innovation where brilliant minds sought to untangle the intricate riddles of nature and existence. These curious minds opened one too many boxes and unleashed the mechanism of their demise, a demise that was swift, ugly, and all-encompassing—or, so they believed. In desperation, they sought salvation by preserving a few volunteers in a suspended state, locking them inside a secret facility until some future date when it would be safe for them to re-emerge and repopulate the world.

They needn't have bothered.

Others survived and repopulated for them ...

An odd beast appeared on the southern horizon. An oval head with wide eyes showed first, followed by an elongated neck, then lastly a thick body propelled by four powerful legs. The droove was heading my way in a meandering fashion, and by shading my eyes, I determined its burden, a lone rider slouched forward, his arms dangling.

I strained my sight to determine the slumped stranger's identity as his droove slowly made its way across the high-grassed plain to where I sat astride an identical beast. I couldn't see the man's face, but I recognized his apparel ... a robe colored light blue. It had been almost a year since I'd seen the like, and its unexpected reappearance was not a welcome sight. I rode my droove out to meet the mystery rider.

I am Sanyel, shaman of the Sakita tribe and recently turned sixteen. My father, the late Nanki, was our tribe's medicine man until his recent death. With the demise of his successor, Pilkin, I ascended to that position, with the title coming to me only after considerable personal peril and controversy. Until a year ago, the dictates of our tribal law prohibited women from fulfilling the sacred duties of a medicine man. These were reserved for males by mandate of the sun god, Ra-ta—at least according to those same males. Women could not perform the intricate dances necessary in holy rituals, speak the sacred words, or practice the healing arts, all of which were required duties of those desiring the position of Ra-ta's interpreter.

From the day of my birth, my father had defied those laws and secretly raised me to be a full-fledged shaman, only to have our heretical actions discovered shortly after his death. Though I expected capital punishment, my tribe imposed instead what everyone agreed was an equivalent sentence—banishment to the merciless Desert of Bones.

Surviving that peril by the grace of Ra-ta, I found myself thrust into a personal war with an ambitious people intent on conquering and enslaving the known world. Along with a small band of friends, I helped expel these ruthless aggressors from our land and free my tribe. As a result, the tribal council lifted my banishment, and thanks in significant part to the efforts of Semral, our greatest warrior and now council chief, I found myself unexpectedly named shaman.

Before encountering the strange rider on this early summer day, I had been hunting, tracking an elusive animal. I had managed to separate a porse from its herd, and I had been chasing the shaggy-headed, fast-fleeing beast across open grasslands. I had followed the porse into a stand of kanser trees, but I soon lost the trail. Upon exiting the stand onto a grassy plain dotted with low hills, I had spotted the rider to the south.

The broiling afternoon sun stabbed at my exposed arms and legs as I eased my droove into a slow trot toward the intruder. Pricking heat rays penetrated my scalp despite the protection of abundant blond tresses that sprouted from it. High humidity in combination with the heat had my short, sleeveless tunic soaked with sweat as I watched for any unexpected movement from the slumped man astride the distant, oncoming beast. I held my spear ready, for strangers were usually enemies in my culture, and sighting the man's blue robe made me extra cautious. Priests of a people named the Spood (an absurd name that I had once likened to something you might cough up) wore that robe. This culture's laughable name might lead one to dismiss them, but I had yet to meet one of that species to whom I would willingly expose my back.

As I closed upon the man's droove, I spotted its reins dragging the ground. The plump rider appeared unconscious, or perhaps even dead, and when his droove swung around to grant me a full view of its passenger, I inhaled sharply. The man's curly red hair jolted me, for I was acquainted with but one overweight priest who sported such fiery locks. Could it be him? Could this be Borsar?

The rider's droove came to mine and the two beasts nuzzled. I commanded my droove to kneel so I could dismount, and then I approached the limp figure aboard the other, whose precarious position aboard his beast showed him in danger of sliding from its back. I reached out to guide his heavy body to the ground, but I did not succeed, for the man's considerable weight propelled him downward more quickly than I anticipated, causing him to slip through my grasp. His broad back landed hard on grass that barely cushioned his fall. Lucky for him he was unconscious—or dead—and did not feel the fall's effect.

I took a moment to examine the puffy face now turned up to me. It was Borsar, the fat priest. Memories of our confrontation a year ago flitted through my mind. Back then, the priest had been an ardent follower of the false god, Gor-jar, a creature I considered not so much a god as a perverse flight of fancy. Of course, no flight of fancy had ever led its followers to such ghastly and grisly worship as had that deity, with the Spood having fed untold numbers of human victims to the god-beast before its sudden demise.

I had witnessed the Spood cruelty in service to this god, experienced firsthand their arrogance, and fought against their soldiers, the insufferably overconfident Creet. I had gazed at the white bones of my shaman predecessor, the hapless Pilkin, bones that had been cruelly left hanging on the wooden sacrificial abomination known as the grottis. Satu, a disabled boy I had befriended, and who I had inadvertently prevented from becoming shaman instead of Pilkin, was also a victim. The man lying prone before me had murdered them both.

The Spood had sent this man, Borsar, to govern our lands, lands once safely enclosed behind the high fence known as the Kodor Mountains, a ring of peaks that had for centuries cut us off from outsiders. With our tribe invisible and unknown to others, we had weathered the years behind those protective walls, living out our lives within a vast green bowl that included grasslands, forests, abundant water, temperate weather and that teemed with wildlife, the lifeblood of our hunter culture. The infamous Desert of Bones to the south, with its seemingly impassable sands, had been our buffer against invasion from that direction, and the mighty river Raso had shielded us from constant harassment by the Raab, our former foes to the north.

Then, it all changed. A year ago, the Spood rode drooves across the desert, a desert we once thought uncrossable. They discovered the mountain passage leading into our isolated lands. They slaughtered and enslaved us, Sakitan and Raab alike, and we later learned that their ambition was to dominate all corners of the known world.

They did not succeed. With the help of my spirit animal, the ferocious, green-skinned can-rak, and the powers of an unusual bracelet of bones given to me by my father, a small group of friends and I, assisted by freed Sakitan and Raab tribesmen, managed to evict the Spood occupiers. Since that time, the Sakitan and Raab tribes had put aside enmity, and now we cooperated in mutual defense against future incursions. None had occurred, but now here was the murderous Borsar, a man our tribe had sent away and never expected to see again, lying still on the ground before me.

As I contemplated what to do, if anything, Borsar's chest moved. A low moan escaped his lips, disproving my assumption that his stillness signified death. I could certainly change that reality by hastening the priest's journey to the afterlife; I could thrust a rik-ta (short knife) blade into his heart and save us both from the awkwardness of an unwanted reunion.

Lucky for Borsar, I am not like him; I am not a murderer.

And, to be fair, the last time I saw the priest he had apparently changed his ways. He had readily accepted the demise of the ravenous god, Gor-jar, and had shown a willingness to embrace again the sun god, Sester (known as Ra-ta to my tribe), the traditional Spood deity. That I had something to do with that change of heart was undeniable, for I had spelled out to the defeated Spood the kinder and gentler attitudes I expected them to cultivate, attitudes I told them Sester (Ra-ta) demanded they embrace.

That part I had made up, of course, for I have no clue what a sun god might want, but it was better than telling them to go on killing and enslaving. Still, Borsar had not convinced me that his conversion to that philosophy had been genuine.

Now, here he was again on our soil, apparently alone, and in no condition to be a threat to anyone in his current state. His droove carried an empty waterskin, and I wondered how long it had been since the priest's blistered lips had touched liquid. Ra-ta, the sun (my tribe calls both the sun and the sun god, Ra-ta), had disfigured those lips and burned his skin such an ugly red that it now complemented his unruly hair. His body fat appeared diminished from what I remembered from our last encounter, though it would be far-fetched to claim he had slimmed down to any degree.

I stepped to my droove and retrieved my half-full waterskin. Kneeling, I poured a small portion onto the priest's swollen lips. He immediately stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He jerked as if in fright, lifted his head to glance around, and then settled his sight on me. He stared with no recognition for a moment, then something registered, and he made a weak attempt to reach out his arms. I pushed them down to offer him another sip of water, and he eagerly accepted the warm liquid, grabbing the skin from me and swallowing as if its nectar rivaled that of the rare quana fruit.

As Borsar gulped down the water, I waited, and when he desired no more, I took the skin from him and placed it aside. Appearing refreshed, he gingerly propped himself up onto his elbows, all the while eyeing me, no doubt attempting to gauge the meaning and level of my unexpected graciousness.

"I—" he began to speak, but then he needed to clear his still raw throat before continuing. "I had to come," he managed to utter, and in his inflection was a plea to hear him out, reinforced by an imploring look.

"Well, you're here, so what do you want?"

I hadn't meant the response to sound so harsh, but the Spood priest's past transgressions still rankled, and it was hard to pretend they didn't.

"Please, Disrupter, I had no one else to turn to."

Disrupter. I hadn't heard that word used for nearly a year. Only the Spood called me by that name, a name they feared—and with good reason. A year ago, my friends and I had entered their world and left ruin in our wake. Now, here was a man from that damaged world, a man once feared, who now seemed fearful himself.

"I need your help, Disrupter," Borsar was saying. "It is my son ... Do you remember him?"

Did I remember him? Hard to forget the chubby, arrogant little pup. After failing to force me to fetch him water, he had tried to get his father to sacrifice me to their god, Gor-jar.

"Yes, I recall the boy."

"He is a prisoner of Danara, and—"

"Who?" I interrupted. "Who is Danara?"

Borsar's eyebrows lifted in puzzlement.

"Danara, wife of our former high priest, Smerkas." He seemed surprised I did not know the name. I knew Smerkas. I had killed him. I had also met his high-haired wife during my brief time as a Spood slave, but no one had spoken the woman's name in my presence until now.

"Why is the dead priest's wife holding your son?" I asked.

"She has gone mad!"

Borsar had seated himself in an upright position, and he demonstrated his agitation by a sudden upward sweep of both arms. He grimaced. The unwise movement gave the priest a sharp reminder of his cruelly sunburned skin.

"Some say her reason fled when she learned of the death of her husband," Borsar continued after carefully lowering his arms. "Others claim it was witnessing the vicious can-raks you sent into our city attacking and dismembering her friends that did it. I do not know. All I know is that she is not right in the mind. She took my son and other children of Spood families who wanted to embrace the sun god, Sester—as you told us to do. She claims we must declare devotion to another god, and she summarily locks up those who refuse to do so. She wants to indoctrinate our children into worshipping this new abomination. She is insane."

"So, if you still worship Sester, why are you not imprisoned along with the others?"

"I escaped Grell (Spood capital city and fortress) before her Creet followers could seize me. I had friends who assisted, and I thank Sester for their courage."

After speaking the sun god's name, Borsar brought up his right hand and winced from the pain. Through force of habit, he touched a finger to each of his shoulders and then to his navel, pantomiming the sign of the grottis ( **Y** ). It was the symbol of the old, deceased god, Gor-jar, and I wondered if the priest was even aware that he still practiced this once common but now pointless ritual in deference to a vanished deity.

Borsar waited for me to respond. I contemplated his disturbing news but soon realized it held no particular interest for me. It was merely the same excrement always expelled from that malformed Spood culture. I had thought these ridiculous political and religious games behind me and that the Spood would be well on their way to implementing the reasonable and compassionate society I had encouraged them to build.

"Why do your people always gravitate toward this type of nonsense, priest?" I said, irritated. "What power can this one woman possibly have over you? Did not the can-raks I sent into Grell destroy most of those who ruled your empire, those who championed your slave culture, as I instructed them to do? Why is this single woman so feared?"

Borsar eyed me the longest time before venturing to answer. His face showed he had much to say, with his forlorn sigh indicating that I did not know the half of it.

"After your tribe had conquered our army and we first returned home from your land, we had great enthusiasm for the instructions you had given us, and we were all for implementing Sester's wishes. We entered Grell and were stunned to find our home city and the entire fortress empty, devoid of life. Decaying bodies, ripped to shreds by your unholy beasts, lay everywhere. We later discovered that those who still lived had fled to the countryside outside the gates of Grell and were only now returning after observing the can-raks departing a week prior to our arrival.

"These survivors told us of the gruesome massacre that had occurred, and it was as you said, only the most ardent supporters of the culture, the leaders, their backers, other devotees among the population, and those who foolishly challenged the can-raks, met with that fate. Unfortunately, some of those targeted by the beasts managed to hide, and they lived to torment us again. Danara was one of them, and with her previous position as the high priest's wife, she quickly rallied others to her side and soon took over the government."

As Borsar spoke, I shook my head. I had not expected such a rapid revival of the old order, but I should have. I knew some would be clever enough to avoid the jaws and talons of the green beasts. I had hoped it would be just a weakened few. I had hoped those returning with this exciting new vision for their lives courtesy of Sester and me would persuade the majority to follow their lead.

"Danara escaped the can-raks," Borsar continued, "and came to power afterward thanks to—and I feel embarrassed even to say this (his already red skin managed to flush a deeper hue)—thanks to the help and advice of a—uh—a droove."

I thought at first that I hadn't heard the priest correctly, but then I realized that my ears were fine and had not turned perfectly intelligible language into garbled mush.

"Help and advice of a droove, you say."

I struggled to keep a straight face and then said, "What did it tell her? Where to find the best grazing? How to chew her cud more efficiently?"

Borsar did not laugh, for the ludicrous nature of the news he carried must have been apparent to him long before he sought to burden me with it. To him, it must have long ago lost its appeal as humor—if it ever had any. And although it should have surprised me more, a talking droove fit right in. The high priest's wife formerly took directions from her late husband, who was a porse's ass, so a droove serving the same function did not seem all that unusual.

"I appreciate your amusement, Disrupter," Borsar was saying while clearly showing he did not, "but I'm afraid it is true. I have witnessed the droove speak. I was once at a gathering and heard the words coming directly from the beast's mouth."

This day had started out a happy one for me. Porse hunting is an exciting and enjoyable way to fill one's summer day. Somehow, that enjoyable day had turned into this. I should mount my droove and speed away, far away from Borsar and his talking animals. Why I continued to participate in this conversation was beyond me. Perhaps the bizarre subject was so patently Spood that I felt compelled to let it play out. I hadn't had a good laugh in a while, and the Spood, with their propensity to find and embrace the moronic, were always good for a chuckle.

"How can you be sure it was the droove speaking?" I asked, that being the obvious question. "Perhaps someone else spoke, someone standing near the animal."

"I was no more than five paces from the beast," insisted the rotund priest. "I saw its mouth moving, and no one was near it."

Not having been there, I could only take the priest's word for it. In my short life, I had come across some rather unusual situations involving the inexplicable. I possessed a few talents myself that one could easily say fall within that realm. Who else could toss a rik-ta or spear with the accuracy and strength of the sun god, Ra-ta? Who else had the power to control animals with a bracelet of bones or to direct the ferocious can-rak by merely speaking to it? So this tale of talking drooves was perhaps not as bizarre as it appeared on the surface.

I stood, brushed strands of grass from my legs, and then returned my attention to the sitting Borsar, saying, "So, what is it you want of me? Why should I help you with anything? You seem to forget that I know who you are and what you have done."

The red-faced man stared up at me a moment, and then he painfully rolled himself to one side and struggled to his feet. He stood before me, resolve stamped into the rigid set of his facial muscles. With a plaintive yet determined voice, he said, "I have done everything you asked of me, Disrupter. I have followed the ways and words of Sester as you explained them to me. I trusted in your assurance that Sester had returned to guide our people. I prayed and prayed for the sun god's help in freeing my son and all the others from Danara's madness, but there was no answer. I doubted you and Sester, and I was about to turn back to praying to Gor-jar."

As he continued to speak, Borsar grew excited, and his tale of despair changed.

"Then, one day, I witnessed a young girl singe her fingers when a hot ember spit out from a fire. Immediately, I thought of you and of the harsh red burn that marks the palm of your right hand, the symbol that made all Spood aware that you were the prophesied Disrupter, the one come to dispense divine justice. It was then I knew Sester desired me to seek your assistance. I have come because you are the only one who can save my son and the other children."

Wait a minute. Borsar was getting ahead of himself. Why would he assume Sester was pointing him toward me? Why assume it was the god speaking to him at all? My experience in dealing with the sun god, whether Sester, Ra-ta, or even the female version, Mim, has convinced me that one can never be sure if a deity is directing you, playing games with you, or just ignoring you. In any case, Sester had not clued me in on any of this, so what concern was it of mine? Then again, how had the priest's droove found its way directly to me in all this vast land if not by divine guidance?

Borsar stood before me, still shaky and weak from dehydration while I troubled over his unwelcome interference in my lately acquired contented existence. My tribe was at peace, my duties as shaman were fulfilling, and I could satisfy my appetite to experience the thrill of the hunt whenever I wished. Why would I give that up to assist a man I had no reason to like or trust?

The anxious priest could wait no longer for a response. "Please, let us go now, Disrupter," he pleaded. "We can reach Grell in a few weeks, kill Danara, and free my son."

"Why do you assume I will go anywhere with you?" I asked, angered by his persistence. "You have murdered hundreds, most likely more. Some of them were people I cared about. You deserve nothing but my contempt. I should slide my blade into your gut and watch you slowly bleed out."

Shock at my unexpected ire caused Borsar to take a step backward. He bumped into his droove, which, startled by the sudden contact, proceeded to bolt, soon accelerating to an astounding speed as it sprinted across the plains, heading south.

"Come back here!" Borsar shouted. "Come back, you miserable creature!" The beast ignored the command, fled over a low hill, and vanished from sight.

Borsar's injunction was to no avail, for he was trying to persuade an animal that was a very poor listener and an even worse obeyer. A droove will do as a droove does, and imploring it to act as the sun when it knows only how to act as the wind is a futile exercise.

The redhead stared forlornly after the vanished beast, and his shoulders drooped. He turned to me, lines of defeat etched across his pudgy face. His double chin sagged as if being pulled into an abyss as dismal as that holding the black waters of Fuld.

I was actually feeling sorry for the fat bastard.

"What do I do?" the wretch moaned. "What do I do now?" He turned his view to the south as the droove reappeared on a distant hill. The beast was barely discernible, having diminished in size to a dot, and when it headed down the far side, it was the last sighting we were to have of the creature.

"How do I get back to Grell, to my son?"

Borsar turned to me with a pathetic look, making me almost want to pat him on the head and reassure him as one might a despondent child. Almost.

"We'll go to my camp and get you a new ride there," I told him, masking my empathy with a brusque tone. "We have plenty of drooves to spare, and we can look after your burned skin and fill your stomach with food."

"Oh, thank you, thank you Disrupter! Can we then leave immediately afterward to rescue Porlak?"

"Porlak? What's a Porlak?"

It was a rather insensitive thing to say, I grant, knowing full well he spoke of his imprisoned son, but resistance to such temptations when dealing with a man such as Borsar is not easy, especially when the boy's name lacked even a hint of poetic charm. The priest, however, did not notice, for he was riding an emotional high, believing I would accompany him to the land of the Spood and solve all his problems—a scenario unlikely to occur.

"I am sorry, Disrupter. I apologize for not informing you. Porlak is my son's name."

This obsequious side of Borsar was rather jarring, for he had once embodied an invariable arrogance and unflinching callousness, and he was thus no icon of the meek or compassionate. Could this miraculous transformation into a humble and courteous human being be real? My doubts about that had existed from the moment I informed him of Gor-jar's demise and identified myself as the Disrupter a year ago. I had thought the defeat of his Creet soldiers and his resulting precarious situation had merely forced him into a shrewd and calculated move to appear compliant. I saw it as his convenient way to preserve his skin. I had fully expected him to revert to his old brutal self once removed from my sight, but no evidence supported he had done that.

"Down!" I commanded my porse, and he responded, folding his legs beneath him as he settled lower to allow mounting. I motioned for Borsar to climb aboard.

Shielding my eyes from Ra-ta's late afternoon rays, I felt the caress of a variable, light breeze as I led the droove west through softly rippling, waist-high grass. Our current camp lay at the edge of a kanser forest not far distant, and I could already spy the darkness of its hirsute spires. We had occupied that location on the wood's edge for a month while trailing a slowly migrating porse herd of considerable size. The hunting had been rewarding, resulting in full pots and satisfied bellies. I had looked forward to a lazy, relaxing summer of easy hunts and pleasant times with my friends, but now a red-haired priest had arrived to shove a cold blade into those warm expectations.

"Disrupter, may I ask you something?"

I glanced at the plump man astride the droove, but I was not allowed a chance to grant or deny permission, for Borsar went ahead and asked anyway.

"Do you believe in redemption?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do you believe a man with a certain, ah, questionable past, can redeem himself in the eyes of Sester if he embraces his holy values with unreserved passion?"

"If you're talking about yourself, I don't have an answer for you. I have always believed that the sun god knows you by what is in your heart. You may speak of peace, love, and acceptance, but if you don't believe or practice what you are saying, then it rings false and Sester will know. Will he forgive one's sins? I don't think the sun god works that way. I believe he wants you to learn, and if you choose certain paths, he will allow you to follow them and work things out for yourself. If you choose an evil path, are you doomed? I once thought so. I thought that the inevitable destination for one so inclined was to drown forever in the black waters of Fuld. Now, I wonder. The spirit world exists, this I know. So if physical death is not the end, then what is the purpose of living such a short span in a physical body only to spend eternity being punished for what you did in that brief existence? There has to be a broader meaning and purpose to physical life."

Borsar then interrupted my rambling discourse, looking for clarification.

"Are you saying you believe one can do anything in this life and not be punished by Sester in the next?"

"No, that is not what I am saying. What I am saying is that I don't believe it is the sun god's wish to punish. I think he allows us to punish ourselves. He gave us free will, I believe, and then stood back to see what we would do. It appears to me that Ra-ta—that's the name we Sakitans know Sester by—is conducting a grand experiment. I have come to believe that we are slowly progressing up a spiritual scale, both as individuals and as a species."

"But how can one progress if not given the time to do so?" asked Borsar. "How can I possibly repair all the damage I admittedly have already done? I could die tomorrow, and my intent to change would come to nothing."

"My father once told me he believed time does not exist except in our world," I responded. "He believed that the spirit world was the true world, where time is meaningless. He said living a physical life is but a small part of our overall reality, so not everything has to be accomplished within its short span. My father believed there are many physical lives, separated by short or long sojourns in the spirit world. He believed that when you pass into spirit, you see the true nature of things. There, you learn what you did right and where you wronged others so you can evaluate your actions and seek to redress those wrongs. Your method to accomplish this is up to you, and you can always ask for higher guidance in deciding. My father believed that most choose to come back into physical as another person, another created part of that person's eternal soul."

"How can that be?" Borsar expressed. "If we have been other people in the past, would we not know this? We have no memory of such."

"I asked this same thing of my father. Are we not just one person? We have the thoughts of no others, only our own. He told me that many in our tribe have indeed recalled being others. He said young children sometimes insist they used to be a different person in another lifetime, sometimes centuries in the past. They make claims that back then they were the father or mother or sister of one who in this life might be _their_ mother or father. He told me that those 'memories' always faded as the child grew older and surmised that we are designed to forget so as not to confuse who we presently are.

"Perhaps, when we return to spirit, we again become aware of all our other selves. My father believed that most of the people we currently associate with have also known us in these other lifetimes and that they are always playing different roles. You meet someone, and you feel as if you have known him or her before. Perhaps you have. We keep coming back into physical form so we can work on those things we have yet to get right in these relationships. And when we finally do, we no longer have to return. That would be my guess."

Borsar sat my droove in thoughtful silence. I imagined he was contemplating all the ramifications of his sordid past. He had wronged many. He would have to work things out with each of them at some point. I would guess he'd be spending many lifetimes making up for his evil deeds—if any of this held any truth.

"But can't anything be done now, in this life, to prevent such a fate?" Borsar asked. "If I were to ask forgiveness of Sester and of those wronged, would I still be required to set things right in another physical life?"

"I don't know," I told the worried priest. "If you have truly changed in your heart, then perhaps those you wronged will also know and forgive you. And if they don't, then maybe there are other ways to work things out. I am no expert. Only Ra-ta knows the truth. I can only speculate."

The sun hovered just above the treetops, staring us down as we approached our campsite, which extended out onto the grasslands from the forest edge. Our pyramid-shaped tents dotted this grassy plain with one side of our encampment touching both the woodlands and a barely trickling creek. Our smaller, family tents surrounded a much larger one, the sturdy, magnificent ceremonial tent that towered above the others as the central point of our camp.

As we approached, I observed the bustling activity that always accompanies a coming twilight. People were gathering dried wood and droove dung to fuel campfires, many of which already released gray wisps of acrid smoke into a sky sparse of clouds and tinged red by the departing sun. Our arrival attracted the attention of those at the outlying tents, and one of the fire builders separated from the others and began walking out to meet us.

As the sturdy young woman with the smooth, athletic gait got within closer view, a nervous Borsar spoke.

"She is a Blade?"

"Yes."

Izzy was indeed a "Blade," as Borsar well knew, for he had met her before. Izzy, the swordmaster, skilled beyond reason and as fearless a human being as I have ever known—and just seventeen. Borsar was referring to the "Blades of Sorrow," two people mentioned in the Spood prophecy about the Disrupter. This prophecy had said these two accomplices would arrive someday with the Disrupter to wreak havoc upon the Spood. We had—and we did.

Izzy's leisurely approach, with that familiar, confident walk, took me back to our first meeting a year ago when we were both prisoners of the slave trading rancers. Her half-tattooed face, one arm, and spiky, short black hair had startled me back then along with the nose and finger rings that had proved so valuable to us later on. I had come to witness her incomparable skill with the stirka, the slim sword she wields with grace and power using her right hand—her only hand.

"What have we here?" Izzy exclaimed as we converged, her amusement evident as she got her first clear look at my fleshy rider. "I hate to be the one to tell you, Sanyel, but it seems you have bagged a Spood priest and not the much more flavorful porse we expected."

"It _is_ disappointing," I agreed. "But if prepared and seasoned correctly, I believe Spood flesh can be made to resemble something sufficiently palatable. Besides, he was easier to catch."

Borsar sat my steed with an indefinable expression, but it certainly reflected no appreciation of my fine wit.

"You've met Borsar," I said to Izzy, waving a hand toward him.

"Yes, I have," the large girl responded, giving the priest a cool look. "A lot of people have."

I guess I hadn't thought about that until Izzy brought it up. Plenty of Sakitans knew Borsar, and most of them wouldn't mind facilitating his last breath by directing a sharp object into the priest's vulnerable organs. Still, he had undertaken this journey, returning to our lands despite knowing his presence would provoke. The fat man had come despite the danger, and he was about to step into a fire that might well be sufficient to consume him. I had to admit to a touch of admiration for the man's courage.

**

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