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From: "David da Silva" <david_n_da_silva@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Midsummer Fires 05 {Davo da Silva} {mf mm sm viol nc hist} 
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Date: Wed,  9 Jun 2004 08:10:05 -0400
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The Song of Kala Khoam

by David Nunes da Silva

2435 B.C.E.    The Julian Alps.

Sometimes, not very often, an age of human life on Earth comes to an end.

For so many of us to live on the Earth at the same time, a great many things 
have to go right, and keep going right.    When one of them goes wrong - it 
only takes one - we die.  A few survive - shacks amid the fallen towers.    
One such catastrophe happened around 2150 BCE, in the eastern Mediterranean; 
and perhaps as far east as the Punjab.    A time of troubles comes to an 
end, always, and the towers are built again.    And those who build think, 
once again, that the towers will stand forever.


This is the third story of a trilogy.  These links go to web postings of 
each story; the web postings contain a few illustrations, some music I wrote 
for the songs, etc.

Home Page   ( http://www.angelfire.com/indie/dnds/index.htm )

I.  "... and run between the fires on a warm midsummer night."
       ( http://www.angelfire.com/indie/dnds/Arkwan.htm )
II.  Brothers of the Ox-Yoke
       ( http://www.angelfire.com/indie/dnds/tektu.htm )
III.  The Song of Kala Khoam
        ( http://www.angelfire.com/indie/dnds/kalakhoam.htm )

[ subject line {ASS} Midsummer Fires 05 {Davo da Silva} {mf mm sm viol nc 
hist}
   this posting is the first half of the third story, called The Song of 
Kala Khoam, of the Midsummer Fires trilogy. ]

* * * * * * * * * *

"Nakien is dead, Wvaksa Dragnric."

The old man was obviously frightened.  He grabbed Dragnric's hand, begging.  
"I want to sail away from here, before my penis is shoved into the High 
Queen's fire.    When do you sail?"

"Soon, Bard.   But Nute will wish to know of Nakien.   And Fiya is with him, 
who was Nakien's student."

"Even Fiya may not be safe - the student of a bard.    So far, she has not 
made war on peddlers.   Or sea-captains."

"They must be warned, Ghoiokh bard.   If you go on the cart-track, toward 
Ishan's kingdom, you can overtake them."

"I do not overtake anyone, and I can walk no faster than I do.    Captain, 
could you send a sailor to warn them?   I have no wealth besides tales, but 
whatever service a black bard can do, I will give you.   For Nakien's sake.  
  If you will send a  warning to save his student."

"Honor, bard, and I will do you service, and give wealth too, for this news. 
    But no one shall go but me.    And I will go now.    Go to the ship, and 
tell them to put out to sea.    You are a black bard, they will believe you. 
    Go with them - you are safest from storms on the open sea, far from 
land.    Come back at the dark of the moon - on the night of the Gathering 
of Cattle."    And Dragnric ran off, before Ghoiokh had time to say he had 
no idea where the ship was.    And that there were many things about the 
High Queen, that Nute would need to know.

But if he found the ship, and they went to sea until new moon, then the 
sailors would have no choice but to listen to him.   He need not pick some 
crowd-pleasing tale.   He could give them a serious work, an important song. 
   After all, what are they going to do - swim away?   He could even - 
Ghoiokh counted the days on his fingers - sing them The Battle of Kala 
Khoam.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Dragnric heard them before he saw them.

They were shouting, their voices hoarse.  Panting, he stopped to breathe, 
and to put on his cloth.

"But why won't you let her go?" Fiya shouted.   "Her price is nothing to 
you!"

"Why you want I give her you for nothing?" - that was the Ekoopti's squeaky 
voice.  "I have say, I not fuck her.  What you want more."

"Because she is unhappy.   And I love her.   And she is my brother's wife.   
Can't you understand?"

Imhuotpa said nothing.   Then Fiya said "And she's not a slave anyway - 
she's been rescued.   She was taken in a stock-raid on the High King's 
lands, and she is back in them."

"Fiya!" Nute thundered.   "That's a lie!   You're Nakien's student, and 
you've turned into a liar.    He's the most respected bard there is - even 
if he is the most disreputable one - and you're a liar.    You know Sujasa 
was taken from the land of King Kahul - not under the High King.  Not then."

"You should buy her, Nute."

"I will not.   I'll whip you right now for being a liar."

But then Dragnric came up to them.   "Fiya!" he gasped.   "son of Aher."    
His lungs were hungrier now he had stopped running.   "Health and," ...  
"Safety."  ...  "Wvak...."   His head spun, and he had to lie down.    He 
breathed deeply for a while, then Fiya helped him sit up.   Nute took a 
wineskin from his pack.

"Wvaksa," he said, when he could speak.  "there is danger.   Nakien white 
bard has been killed.   By the High Queen.   All bards are in danger, and 
Fiya most of all.   You must come, and we can sail away."

"Nakien dead!   Dead!   Killed by the Queen?   But why?"

"I don't know."

"But how did you learn Nakien was dead?"

"A man called Ghoiokh told me.  A black bard, he said.  He wanted to escape 
on my ship.   He said all bards were in danger."

"The High Queen is killing bards!   And you didn't ask him why?   Did he say 
anything else.?"

"No.   Well, he said he didn't want his penis shoved in the Queen's fire."

Imhuotpa said: "We away go, if ankle danger.  I want not penis shoved in 
fieh."

Nute said: "Go if you want.   But I'd like to know what is going on.   The 
High Queen gives many gifts to priests, makes many sacrifices.   She thinks 
we should serve the Gods more, rely on them more - that when bad things 
happen, it is punishment from the Gods.   The bards quarrel with the 
priests.   That's the only thing I can think of.   But killing bards - 
killing even one bard.   Surely she can't think the Gods want that."

"We should at least go back and talk to Ghoiokh.   He can tell us what is 
happening." - It was Sujasa.   She spoke in her own tongue.

Fiya understood a bit of the northerners' tongue, but spoke in his own: 
"Sujasa.   You sound as if you are well again."

"I was not ill, son of Aher.   And it has pleased me to see one face that I 
knew from the time before.   I have just been sad.   I lost my husband, my 
baby, everyone.   My father.  My son.   And as a whore I had to pretend.  
That every man's penis filled me with lust.   And with the nomads ..."   She 
stopped.   And the brief flame of life that had entered her face, sputtered 
and died away.

Fiya said: "But Arkwan isn't dead.   Didn't we tell you?"    "Arkwan is not 
dead," he repeated in the northerners' tongue.

"Not dead?   You said - but I didn't understand.   Not dead - he must be - 
are you sure - what have you heard?   No, it is impossible - I saw his 
father's house burn to the ground, and I know he was in it.   There's a 
mistake. Someone is lying!"

Fiya ripped his loincloth off so violently he made red marks on his skin.   
He pointed to his two lines of tattoo.    "When I got that line, that one 
there, Arkwan was there, getting his penis tattooed on the same day, by 
Nakien.   We clasped hands and said we would be brothers.   And this was the 
first moon of summer.   This summer.   I cannot have been mistaken.   There 
is no lie.  Nute will say the same, and say that Nakien knew Arkwan also."

"Where is he?   Where was he going?"

"He may be in danger, I think," Fiya said.  "Nute knows the story.   I don't 
understand it.   But I think Arkwan had something to do with the quarrel 
between bards and priests.   If the High Queen is killing bards...."

Sujasa used the southern tongue, as much of it as she had learned in a 
whorehouse, to talk to Imhuotpa:  "Wvaksa Imhuotpa, I am your slave - I want 
serve you any way.  Any way.   But I must go my husband now.    We must go 
polestar.   But no, we must go back.  Best is talk to Ghoiokh, to, to, ... 
to listen more.  Master, you are kind master, very good to Bitch.   Can you 
rent me Wvaksa Nute?   Do you are sail away, Master?    Arkwan my husband in 
danger.   Go you, stay Bit ... Sujasa."

Fiya asked: "Teacher, What did Nakien tell you?   What was the story about 
Arkwan?"

"Nakien told me you did not listen.   I hope I have taught you that, at 
least.  Or I had a lot of pain in my shoulder for nothing."

"I revere my teacher, and my friend.   I have no one on the green Earth now, 
except you.  And Arkwan.  And Hu, if he is still alive.  What is the story - 
how is Arkwan involved in this quarrel with the priests?   What should we 
do?"

"Father, who ankle this Arrehkwan," Imhuotpa asked.    "Goddess Cunt - I 
mean who is this Arrrkwan!"

"You cuss in the tongue of the wild men, at least," Nute said in Ekoopti.

Nute told the story of the midsummer dance, and told it again in Sujasa's 
speech.  And he babbled some in Ekoopti as well.  He said: "And they were 
all talking about the Kohiyossa.   A man said to me  'I knew the baby was 
the Kohiyossa, when she rescued him from the tree.   Now the God has come 
and planted his seed again.   And they say babies have been born overnight!' 
    And this was an intelligent man, the man who plans their tunnels and 
mines.    I think there is some story about this Kohiyossa.   But I don't 
know it."

"I do," Fiya said.

Nute continued: "Gods come to that dance often.   And as for the God using a 
man's body - why not?   My disgusting little cousin Koo'wi, who once rubbed 
his penis till the seed came out, in front of a party of foreign 
ambassadors, is God.  He calls himself Nofarirku'Rugya - Beautiful as the 
Sun God's light.   I hope Arkwan is the God.   I paid too much for him if he 
isn't."

Dragnric said: "You bought a God?   Where did you sell him?   Did you make a 
profit?"

"I gave him to that liar, Nakien.    That liar who was my best friend.  Who 
saved my life.  And my son.   And saved Nofariptuc, if only for a while."    
Nute stopped talking.

Fiya said: "Teacher, honor.  We should go east to the village of the 
law-singer.    I know bards.   If Nakien has been killed, the white bards 
will fight back - in some way.  Using their knowledge.   The gathering at 
the village of Sugga is the heart of the white bards' power.   The Queen may 
bring warriors against the village - and we should help them, defend the 
bards."

Nute said: "You are known as the student of Nakien, Fiya.   You are in 
danger just walking along a track."

Imhuotpa said: "Fiya ab'Aher go ship talk Ghoiokh maker of signs.  Stay with 
Ghoiokh.   Send message.  Ship safe at sea."

"Ghoiokh is already at sea," Dragnric answered, "and I told him to stay 
until the dark of the moon."

Nute said: "None of us is a warrior, Fiya.   If a village of bards is 
attacked by trained warriors, we can do nothing."

"Safety, Teacher, one of us is warrior - a hero for her skill.    I saw 
Sujasa shoot before King Kahul of the mountains of the north, and Queen Mea. 
  None of their warriors could match her."

"I might have guessed Arkwan would teach his wife."

"What do you mean, teacher?   Arkwan has no great skill with the bow."

"He can shoot four arrows while I shoot one.   He can hit a stick tossed in 
the air.   I think this is skill."

"Health and riches, teacher; I lived with him and Sujasa for a moon and 
more.  Slept with them.  Practiced with them.  Switched him, most mornings, 
for missing his target.   I saw no skill."

The peddler and his student looked at Sujasa.

"He has his tricks," Sujasa said, in her own speech.   "And he is very good 
at shooting rabbits.    He claimed his tricks would be good in battle or on 
raids.   But targets that stayed still, didn't interest him.  He missed 
targets he should have hit.   That's why I whipped him."

"You had me whip him, Wife of my brother.    I hated it - he was better than 
I was.   Why did you want me to whip him when it was Tanyata who won?"

"Hu's Tanyata.   And her breasts had no tattoos.  But that didn't stop my 
husband's penis from swelling when she scampered about flashing her red 
bottom.   I wasn't going to let her whip him, as well."

"His wasn't the only swelling penis.   But his sister?   What did you 
think?"

"His sister?"

"You didn't know?   But they were like twins!   They even talked alike.   
And they lifted their bottoms for the switch the same way.   How could you 
not know?"

"They were alike - but I don't think they were brother and sister.  And I'm 
quite certain Arkwan didn't think they were."

"We asked Karipas.  Hu and I.   She told us, but we had to promise not to 
tell Tanyata - that she was Eos's daughter.  Karipas said there was no doubt 
- her husband was too sick in the moons before he died.  I can't believe Hu 
didn't tell his father.   He must have seen that bulge in his father's 
loincloth as well as you did.   When I switched Tanyata, she spread her 
knees and waved her cunt at me.    It made my little penis rise every time - 
and she knew it.    I had to bring the seed out with my hand.    I think she 
wanted Hu to fight me.   But Hu just laughed at me.    He knew he had 
nothing to fear from me, or his father, however stiff our penises got.   But 
trusting his father was no reason not to tell him.   And at the dance, when 
she ran between the fires and the Sex Frenzy took us, Arkwan ..."

Imhuotpa put his hands in his ears, and howled.   "Ka - Ka - Ka.   You talk 
talk ankle ugly gibber-gabber.  I go look water, wash ears."

"Are they making a plan?"  Dragnric asked Nute.

"They are not - they are talking about something else altogether.   And I 
don't know what to do.   Fiya can try to keep out of sight from now on, but 
we passed through a village.   Fiya may have already been seen and known."

"He has been, Wvaksa.   I asked at the village.   They said Wvaksa Nute had 
come through.   They said you were with Nakien's student Fiya, a woman, and 
the strangest man they had ever seen."

"They may have sent word to the King's warriors.   Well, the worst thing 
would be for Fiya to continue on.   We must head back to the ship.   Go 
around the village.   Food is a problem, but we'll hunt, and stay out of 
sight until the new moon."

Sujasa jabbered quickly with Fiya about what Nute had said.   Then she said: 
"Safest is, we not stay together."

"Right ankle."   Imhuotpa struck himself across the mouth.  "Right is.  She 
right is."

"Very well, Sujasa goes with Fiya.   My son and I will go north.   Fiya, 
from here to Doleinth peddlers know you as my student, and will help you for 
my sake.  Ask my friend Ulabasja - you know, Gilku's father.  You can be a 
peddler, or a red bard, or a white.  We will be peddlers of the islands 
together, if that is what you want, and if we both live.   Sujasa, my wishes 
for your health and safety."

"What of me, Wvaksa?"  Dragnric asked.

"Don't you want to go back to your ship?"

"You and the Ekoopti are heading into danger.   I think you need someone who 
can fight.   You hardly even have weapons."

Imhuotpa unsealed the heavy jar that he carried strapped to his back.   He 
reached in, grabbed a handful, and passed it to the captain.   It was gold.  
  Beads and bars and chunks of gold.   A bead of dark blue, streaked with 
gold.  A Queen would give a hand of cattle for it.   Beads of ivory.   A 
bead of a hard cold stone, like amber but more the color of fire, a thing 
too beautiful to be of this green Earth - as strange and wonderful as the 
arrows of the Lord of Storms.

"We weapon have ankle very good.   This wars win."

* * * * * * * * * *

The High King's warriors caught them just outside the village.

The leader shouted: "Who walks in the lands of the High K..." and he shouted 
no more.   Sujasa's arrow was in his throat.

He should have dodged the arrow at the distance.   But he must have expected 
a parley before the shooting started, and had not been on his guard.   By 
the time his men responded, Sujasa had drawn again.   And they knew now she 
was an excellent shot.   Fiya held his shield in front of her, and had his 
bow in the other hand, with an arrow nocked but not drawn.   "They can take 
us, but some of them will die," Sujasa said.   "They are thinking about how 
many.   I don't think these warriors want to die for the High Queen.   And 
they must have orders to take us alive - they would be shooting now if they 
didn't."

"Can we back up, slowly?   If we can reach the trees, we might be able to 
slip away." Fiya asked, also using the speech of Sujasa's village.

"We can't.   But it is you they are after."

"I will stay, and you go, then.   And may the Lady protect your husband, if 
he lives."

"Shoot, Fiya.   If you can kill one now, I can reach the trees while you 
hold them."

Fiya dropped his shield, and aimed carefully at a warrior.   I must make 
this, he thought.   He shot high, because of the distance, and the warrior 
easily, casually, moved his head aside.   He heard a moan to one side, and 
when he looked there was a warrior with one of Sujasa's arrows in his 
crotch.   The man must have been watching Fiya.   Sujasa could have put an 
arrow in his eye at that distance - in a corner of his eye - but she must 
have chosen the low shot to make it more difficult for him to dodge.    The 
poor fool had raised his shield when he saw the arrow coming.     And by the 
time he groaned Sujasa had drawn again.

Fiya said: "You can shoot better than I can.   But we knew that.   I still 
think you should go, while I hold them."

"It will not work, Fiya.   But I can hold them while you go."

"I will not leave you."

"Fiya, in my village, when it was attacked, we were trapped in a house, 
surrounded by enemies.   We knew that our best chance, the best chance for 
anyone to live, was to run in different directions.   Hu refused to leave me 
- I was having a baby.    But I made him do it.   He knew it was the best 
chance.   You once told Hu you would do anything for him.  In his name I say 
what he would say: Fiya, go!"

Fiya went.   He had not yet reached the trees when  he heard Sujasa shout to 
the warriors, in the southland tongue,  that she was throwing away her bow.  
An arrow caught his calf.   His stumble saved him from an arrow that passed 
where his head had been.   He ran, despite the pain, dodging and weaving as 
best he could and kept running some way into the trees.  An arrow went into 
his buttock.   By then the warriors had reached the wood, and Fiya could not 
run fast - his foot was dragging.   He hid.   The warriors knew he was 
somewhere in the wood, and could search it carefully.   But Fiya could do 
nothing but keep still.

Somehow, the warriors missed him.   He heard them searching, looking in 
places much cleverer than the leaf-filled hollow where he was.   They combed 
and probed.   Fiya kept still till the sun set, kept still through the 
night, and kept still through the next day.   The warriors searched the wood 
again.   The wounds festered; he began to see visions.    Toward morning of 
the second night, with no thought except a desperate thirst, he slithered 
across the forest floor, one leg useless, no plan except to find water.   
The warrior on watch did not bother to waste an arrow on another animal of 
the forest night.

* * * * * * * * * *

Gur's Little Penises was a long time ago.

And Kahela had never trained - in the village of the law-singer, words were 
considered better weapons.    But now they practiced with their spinners and 
weavers, and with the shepherd boys and young women who had come to join 
them.

"Your heart's desire, Princess.   And  it is only if you wish it.   But we 
did say that if any of us missed with two arrows ..."   And little Dafnya 
blushed and covered her face.

Kahela, who had been thinking of other things, removed her tunic.   "Honor, 
Arrow master.  It is not, if I wish it.   You must order us to bend, when we 
miss - Princess, captain, everyone the same.   You should not have had to 
tell me.   Whip me more for that."

"I could not do that, Princess."

Kahela knelt, and dropped to her knuckles.   The sting was breathtaking.    
She was a good enough archer, usually, so this was her first switching since 
they had made this astonishing girl their arrow master - and this little 
girl, thin as a switch herself, whipped as hard as she fought.  She used her 
whole body, not just her arm.   And Kahela's bottom was soft.  She hadn't 
been sitting bare on rocks, or getting a lot of switchings, like the boys.   
The stinging pain woke Kahela from her daydream mood - and she wished she 
hadn't allowed herself to shoot so badly.   "You don't learn by singing it 
wrong and getting whipped," her father used to say, "you learn by singing it 
right."   Kahela shot another hand of arrows, with the little arrow master 
standing behind her.  Shooting naked, with a switch that stung like a bee, 
poised ready to strike, she shivered in the warm fall morning.  She was not 
daydreaming now.   She had eyes only for the target.   She used the draw 
Dafnya taught them, the draw they called "the dance."  Her body spinning and 
bending, so that the force of the spin went into the bow - more force than 
she had in the strength of her arms.   The wild dance seemed stronger, now 
she was naked - even her breasts, slammed across by the force of her spin, 
seemed to add to the draw of the bow.  Every arrow found its home - and sank 
deep.

"You hit the wolf, but you didn't kill the wolf."   That was what Dafnya 
said when an arrow hit the target, but did not sink in.    And  the archer 
got a whipping.    "It hurts, when the wolf bites," Dafnya would say as she 
whipped.    But until today none of Kahela's arrows had sunk deep, and 
Dafnya hadn't whipped her for it.   This little girl turned weavers and 
shepherds into warriors - telling men twice her size to bend and bare their 
bottoms.   It can't have helped that Royalty was allowed to shoot badly and 
not be punished.  Kahela said: "From now on, Arrow Master, whip me like the 
others, when I don't kill the wolf."   Kahela kept shooting.   Dafnya 
watched her.    "Use your hips, Princess.   The hips help the shoulders, the 
legs help the arms.   A woman's strength flows from the womb.   The womb 
between Earth and Sky."   Kahela had not understood until now.   But now, on 
the mountain: no fine cloak and no bullhide shoes, but bare on the earth and 
bare under the sky, her buttocks whipped and sore, she flung her body into 
the bow - she had the strength of the wind, the hardness of the Earth.   The 
sinew bowstring snapped like a linen thread.

Then she looked up.   The men and boys were watching her.    The men's 
cloths bulged.   The boys looked away, blushing and covering their penises 
with their hands.  Except one.    Hyaramon.   He looked her straight in the 
face, grinning like a fool, proud of his rod.    It's a good thing I don't 
have to shoot any more, Kahela thought, I wouldn't have eyes only for the 
target.

Kahela said: "Arrow master, have everyone shoot another hand.   And stand 
behind them with the switch, as you did with me.   Young Hyaramon first."  
Kahela didn't put her tunic back on, but stood talking to the stiff-rodded 
boy as he shot.   His first arrow missed.   Serve him right.  Good practice 
for the distractions of battle, Kahela thought.   Dafnya spun around, and 
put force and speed into her stroke, but if it hurt, Hyaramon wasn't going 
to let it show.  He stared at Kahela's teats, licking his lips, and when the 
stroke fell he said "Oooh," with a look on his face like a man shooting his 
seed.   Perhaps the stokes did not hurt him much - his skin was tanned 
leather from running naked through the woods; his bottom toughened from 
sliding down rocks in the streams. War was a holiday for the boys, so far.   
After his second miss he made a fucking motion toward Kahela, as he was 
whipped, watching her face to make sure she was not laughing at him.

His next arrow sank deep into the center of the target, and he winked at 
Kahela.   Then he sent his next arrow into the ground, about half-way to the 
target.   And he winked at Kahela again.  He began to sing softly, a 
lullaby:

Oh sweet little baby oh why do you cry -
  have you got a tum-ache, or ash in your eye?
Do you need a teat or to give me your dick?
  Oh sweeter than honey is little boy prick.

Dafnya waited until the end of the verse to strike, and came down on "prick" 
as if his buttocks were a slit-drum.   Lust gripped him so strongly it could 
be felt.   In a hurry, he shot his last arrow, a wild miss, and completed 
the song, tumbling over the notes in a rush to get to the end.

I've suckled your pricky and offered my breast,
   but still you keep crying and won't let me rest.
How much will you cry when your bottom is red -
   do you need a spanking to put you to bed?

He jerked forward hard on "bed," as the last stroke fell.   He looked down 
at his hard rod.   It seemed he had expected to shoot his seed, just from 
being whipped, and from looking at a naked Princess.    But his seed had not 
shot, and he would get no more strokes.  Nothing would satisfy his need now. 
  His hand would not - his need was for her, not for seed.   And it tugged 
at Kahela like a fishing line.

Kahela wanted to feel this hard young body against her soft skin.  Wanted 
that long sharp penis skewered into her.  Wanted to take him in her arms - 
not take him, and the other boys, into battle and death.   Why this morning 
does every man's strong back and every boy's bottom switched, make my cunt 
hunger?   Hunger for Aru, I mean - it would never do to fuck one of my boys. 
   But all the same Kahela wished Hyaramon would be touched by the Frenzy, 
and grab her and fuck her.  Fuck her as roughly and urgently as if she were 
one of his ewes - bare penis smashed into tattooed cunt, all Law and the 
Sky-Father forgotten.   Speaking with her eyes, she told him she wanted it.  
  The other boys, when they saw those eyes, shot very badly indeed.

But she had a job to do, and it was important.  Hyaramon's body, beautiful 
as it was, told her that - every rib could be seen.    Their task was to 
gather food, but they could barely feed themselves.   "Practice with the 
sling," Kahela ordered.   Kahela watched the boys - naked, beautiful, 
confident - skilled as heroes with this shepherds' weapon.    The shepherd 
women were skilled as well, of course.    There were no girls, except the 
arrow master.  Among shepherds, girls who bled were tattooed, just like 
that.   Held down and pricked at the next dark of the moon, without sympathy 
or fuss - sheep-raising villages couldn't risk trouble with the Lady of the 
Wombs.   But Hyaramon had a mustache, and a fine piss-beard, and a man's 
penis under it.  And some other boys were the same.  Young men in every way, 
except the tattoo.   Perhaps they were afraid of the pain.   Or perhaps they 
wanted to be boys as long as they could.   Some shepherd boys didn't get 
tattooed until they wanted to marry.

"Princess, if you wish it.   But you did say everyone should practice with 
the sling."   It was Dafnya, holding out a sling, and a stone.  They both 
knew - everyone knew - that Kahela was useless with the sling.   "It is not, 
if I wish it, arrow master, everyone must practice."    Kahela spun and 
released, and the stone went in roughly the right direction.   But still, a 
miss.    With as much dignity as she could, she walked through the laughing 
shepherds.  Hyaramon shouted out: "A long rod in your cunt, Royal Captain!" 
and the other boys jumped on him to wrestle him to the ground.     Kahela 
bent over with her hands on a log.   My bottom will be as tough as the 
boys', she thought.  I wonder if I might get fucked if I go swimming with 
them.   She thought of Hyaramon watching, his rod stiff to bursting.  
Somehow the stinging blows didn't hurt so much, that time.

They put their loincloths and tunics on, those who wore them, and they all 
lifted their packs, and climbed uphill through woodlands of broadly spaced 
oaks.  Ancient trees.   The deep silence now broken by trudging feet, 
bleating lambs, and the young warriors' shouts and laughter.  And all at 
once Kahela was overcome with shame.   She could hardly believe it had been 
her, that shameless queen, waving her cunt at a boy - tattooless boy!     
What had possessed her?    But she knew.   It was the Sky-Father.   She had 
defied Him - asked for His punishment, even.   The Sky-Father had sent Lust, 
to show His power.  He could have made her fuck young Hyaramon.   If the boy 
had asked, if the Sky-Father had made him bolder, she would have taken him - 
Lust had been that strong.   Fucking a bare-penis boy.   Naked on the 
ground, in front of everyone.   She would not be the rebel Queen then.   The 
rebellion would be over.

On the ridge, there was an open grassy space, with half-burned logs poking 
through the grass, in a rough circle.   An aisle with no logs crossed the 
circle in the direction of midsummer sunset.    So this was a place of 
dancing at midsummer.   A shepherd played a pair of notes on his pipe, and 
the dogs led the sheep to the grazing.  Gur made a sacrifice - a bit of hard 
bread.   "Accept this, Sky-Father.  It is small, but I can spare no more.  
Accept it as you would a piglet - given by a man with enough to eat."

"Only large villages hold midsummer dances."   It was Old Hyaramon, 
Hyaramon's father and Gur's uncle, an old dyer who had never left the 
village of Nohas, but had kept his ears open when the bards sang.   "Only 
rich villages, with a wvaksa as headman, and other wvaksas, can hold dances 
- the wvaksas join together to provide for the feasting, when so many come.  
  A triad of dances in the lands of the High King - ours, the bronze 
makers', and the High King's village itself.   Perhaps there are some 
smaller ones.   And the kingdoms that give tribute; they hold their own 
dances."

"This one is not small," Gur said.   "And the King's village is further 
west, I think.   And we are not as far north as Taslan's kingdom.  So this 
is the place.  The God we ... He ... "  Gur choked.    Shepherds and dyers, 
spinners and weavers, hushed and looked away.   They all knew Gur had been 
tortured for saying the God had danced on this spot.  When the followers of 
Nohas had tried to return to their homes, after the battle of the King's 
Messenger, they found the High Queen in their village, with a few warriors.  
  The High Queen, with Taucon beside her, demanded they deny that the God 
had danced.   Tektu had refused, and the Queen attacked.   Not expecting a 
fight, and not even willing to fight about whether the God had danced or 
not, quite a lot of them had been killed, until Erdiosh and Tektu had 
managed a retreat.

Erdiosh had been splendid.   He asked the survivors if they wanted to deny 
the God, and live under Taucon and under the High Queen's rule.   If not, 
then Aru would lead them, and be High King.   "Isn't that right, Princess 
Kahela?" Erdiosh had asked.   And Kahela, with no time to think, had agreed. 
   They returned to the village ready to fight, and the Queen and her few 
warriors had fled without an arrow shot.   Gur, who had been gelded in the 
fire, and a few other prisoners, were still alive.  Many had been killed.   
And now Gur stood on the spot where his God had danced - the God he'd 
refused to deny, even when the coals were piled in his crotch, and fanned to 
white heat.

And so Kahela found herself here, with a troop of half-trained warriors, at 
the spot where the God had danced.   After they drove the Queen from the 
weavers' village, Kahela and Erdiosh had gone to tell Ishan that they had 
fought against the High Queen, in Aru's name.   Ishan had been furiously 
angry, and began to cough blood.  Aru shouted in rage, and smashed Erdiosh's 
backpack over his head.   But the rage passed.   Ishan realized they had no 
choice - the High Queen would not believe their loyalty.  And so the little 
girl from the law-singer's village was, except for the actual running of the 
mare, the rebel Queen.

Queen she did not want to be.   And in becoming Queen she had lost the thing 
that, now she had lost it, she wanted most.   Aru would not fuck her - not 
since she had called herself Princess, when she was not in fact his wife.  
In private, they did not speak - in public they were the rebel King and 
Queen.    King and Queen of villages she had never heard of, full of men 
ready to fight and die for her.  King and Queen of rebels who had every 
chance of success, except one - they had nothing to eat.   The High Queen's 
warriors had taken food as they retreated.   Men and woman joined the rebels 
every day, and the problem of finding food was desperate.   And so they had 
divided into three: Kahela had gone north, and Tektu south, while Aru with 
the largest band went west, toward the High King's own village.

Kahela's task was to claim these northern lands for the rebels, to gather 
farmers and shepherds who wanted to fight, and to bring food for Aru's host. 
    Each village had welcomed them, and proclaimed hatred for the High Queen 
and support for the rebels.    This meant little - if the High Queen passed 
through with her warriors, the same villages would proclaim loyalty to the 
High King.    Many wanted to join Kahela's band, so many that Kahela took 
only those who brought food.  The villagers were not starving, but they 
feared they would need their food before the next harvest, and would give 
none away.   Gur refused to consider demanding food with torture, but they 
had to do something.   From one village, they had stolen some sheep.

"There will be a path to this dance-ground, from the village that holds the 
dance," Old Hyaramon said. "More than a path - a sacred road.   For the 
procession.   Shall we go down?"

"We are not strong enough to attack the bronze makers' village,"  Gur said.

Kahela said: "We can't rejoin Prince Aru - my husband - with no food.   They 
will be starving.    We must do something, Gur headman."

"Tektu son of Girtu is village headman, Kahela Queen."

"And I am no more a Queen, than Tektu is a headman."

"Do not mock the fight.  And when you are High King and Queen, there must be 
a king of these lands, to give you tribute.   Who will the king be?   Who 
but the headman of the largest village in the kingdom, a man on the winning 
side.  The man who made the winning side.  Tektu.  He must be headman now, 
because later he must be king."

"Tektu!"

"I know, I know - he's no king.   I know.   He's from my village.   He and 
the other weaver brats piss on our doorposts, and get into fights with the 
dyer boys.  But he will grow up, and he's a wvaksa born.   I'm just an old 
man who can dye cloth.  And anyway the king can't be me, Royal captain.   I 
don't have the tool.   The running of the mare would be quite a 
disappointment, if I was the one to fuck the cow."

"But - Erdiosh and ...."

"Erdiosh will make Tektu marry, so Tektu will have a queen for the 
king-making.   And the wife Erdiosh picks for him will be as ugly as the 
cow.   You'll see."

Hyaramon said: "Honor, captains.  And harmony.  Tomorrow night is the 
Gathering of Cattle.   My son and I could go into the bronze makers' 
village.   There will be a lot of people coming in."

Gur asked, "Do you think they will give you food, Uncle?"

"We may learn something, Captain nephew."

"We need food."

"We must try something, Gur,"  Kahela said.   "And I will be the one to go."

"Queen - no!"

"The mare has not run, Captain.   Headman.   And if my life is to be High 
Queen over King Tektu and Erdiosh - well, I'm not ready for it yet.   And 
I'm taking the arrow master with me."

* * * * * * * * * *

Imhuotpa hated the loincloth.

He hated the cloak and the undercloak.   He despised the shoes.   But most 
of all he hated the hat.   Stinking fur of some wild animal he had never 
even heard of.   And for all this heavy, ugly clothing, he was cold.   The 
damp cold soaked into his bones - colder than nights on the desert.   And 
tonight, Father had said, there would be something called "snow."

"Why should I dress like a wild man," he whined in Ekoopti.  "They'll know 
I'm a foreigner as soon as I open my mouth."

"You, they will know before that.  Do you have to strut about like a scribe? 
    And if you don't like the loincloth, I have a needle in my pack."

"What was it like, getting your penis tattooed."

"What do you think it was like, you fucking idiot?"

"You still cuss like a prince of the two lands."

"I was never a prince."

"Ah.  Well.  Well. ... I see you have a simple design."

"I'd like to see how many lines you ask for, Son.   Want to try it?   I do 
have a needle - and you can get the burns as well.   They hurt even more - 
but they say women like the scars, going in.    And some men wag their 
scarred penises about."

They looked at Dragnric, who was drying his loincloth over the fire.   He 
noticed what they were looking at.   "I got these in a quarrel, if that's 
what you're talking about.   A quarrel with a fisherman.   About some badly 
dried fish.   I was a bit tied up at the time, or I might have objected.   
He is scarring penises for dolphins, now."   And he stood up and proudly 
showed off the marks.   Too much mead at a midsummer dance, was what Nute 
thought - he didn't believe the fisherman story.    A disappointed boy at 
his first midsummer dance, showing the girl how much pain he would take for 
her pleasure.  Touching the red-hot bronze to his penis, telling her he 
would not stop until she promised a fuck.     That was the usual story 
behind a scarred penis.    Nute wondered if she ever let him put it in, when 
it healed, and felt the tickling pleasure of the scars that Dragnric had won 
for her with so much pain and danger.

Dragnric rescued his loincloth from the fire, and draped the hot cloth over 
his shoulder, as he pissed on the fire.   Then he put the cloth on, hooting 
a bit, and dancing, but enjoying the heat of the cloth on his frozen bottom. 
    The plan for today was for him to go into a village, while Nute and 
Imhuotpa kept out of sight.   He had gone to a farmstead the day before, to 
buy food, and shepherd's clothing for Imhuotpa, but he hadn't learned much - 
only that two of the King's warriors had passed through, asking questions.   
So Nute wanted him to try a village.  At sunset, they would return for the 
gold, buried under the fire, and carry it north during the night.    
Dragnric hadn't thought about digging up the fire when he had pissed on it.

Nute and Imhuotpa spent the day sleeping in the forest.  Nute had heard so 
much news from Ekoopt, that he didn't want to talk about it any more.   All 
his old mates were now rich men, with important jobs.  All but the ones who 
had stood up to Nofarirku'Rugya - they had died in the desert.   Imhuotpa 
told him all the gossip, and names of children, and children's wives.    The 
names were starting to tumble together in Nute's ears.    And Imhuotpa 
couldn't tell him about his real friends, the girls and boys who had played 
with the jar-cutter's children.  Mu'gya's gang - that was what they had 
called themselves.   Little Koo'wi had been in the gang too.   Even then the 
little snake had cheated in a game, and the sandal-braider's son - who was 
the leader - said Koo'wi had to ask for a whipping, so they'd know he 
wouldn't cheat again.   Koo'wi wouldn't ask, so the leader said he couldn't 
be in Mu'gya's gang any more.  When Khuntkawanut had vanished, their old 
playmates might have been suspected.   Questioned.  Tortured.   Little 
Koo'wi paying them back.  No scribe and judge for such as them - just a 
strip of river-horse hide.    But Imhuotpa didn't know what had happened to 
them.

So Nute didn't want to talk about Ekoopt any more.   They slept by the 
stream, between two fallen logs, and the yellow leaves, blown about by the 
cold wind, settled on them until they were almost covered, another lump on 
the forest floor.   Imhuotpa stopped complaining about his bearskin hat, and 
snuggled close to his father's bony wrinkled back.    Hunger woke him.    He 
got up and dressed without waking his father, and went to the camp, starting 
a fire with the skin of coals - in a different place, so they could dig up 
the gold.    He was about to drop a red stone into the cooking skin when 
Dragnric walked in.

Dragnric's eyes darted from side to side.     Kneeling, he dipped his 
loincloth into the skin of cold water, and dabbed tenderly at his thighs and 
penis.   "It is not as bad as I thought it would be," he said, still looking 
into the distance.  "From the way it hurt, I thought my skin would be coming 
off in sheets.  It is just red.  There is only one spot on my thigh where 
the puss is coming.   But I didn't learn anything from that village; I'll 
have to try again."

Imhuotpa took the cloth and washed the burns more thoroughly.   Dragnric 
clenched his fists.  There were blisters starting in more than one spot, and 
the sea-captain's burned foreskin would likely fester and slough off.   But 
except for the penis itself, when the skin came off there would be new skin 
under it.   Imhuotpa had helped his father stitch cuts and set bones, and he 
knew the difference between an ugly swelling pussy burn that would heal, and 
a clean dry deep burn that would not.   "What questions fight men ask?" 
Imhuotpa asked.

"The same questions we already knew they asked - I learned nothing!    I 
told them I was a trader from the islands, here to trade - I think they 
believed me, or they would have killed me.   They wanted to know if I heard 
any news.   I asked what sort of news they wanted, but they didn't let 
anything slip.    I'll have to try again - find a village where the 
villagers are ready to talk."

"Maybe man woman live alone on farrum heah some thing.   Not so dangewous it 
ankle."

Dragnric sighed.  "Not likely a shepherd would have heard anything.   We 
need to know what is going on!"

"Why we need - what we do if we know?"

"I don't think the villagers are happy.   These villages - with no bards, no 
traders, they will die.    How can they reap, with no copper and no flint?  
They have cloth no one wants - who wants cloth in a village of weavers?   
Traders would give them beads, or salt, or spices, or copper blades, for 
their cloth - and then the weavers could give to the farmers who give them 
food.   So when the warriors tortured me, just for being a trader, the 
villagers could see death.   The bards are gone. If the traders go, they 
will die.  If the villagers knew that we are fighting the High Queen - and 
are gathering men, and have gold to give, many might come.   Gold will save 
their lives, if there are no traders to take their cloth.   They can give 
gold and get food."

"Why we not do that?   Why not get fight men?  Gold give.  Why we need to 
know what Queen does?"

"Because, son,  we can't fight a war if we don't know what we are fighting 
about."   It was Nute, who was standing by the fire - or at any rate, where 
the fire had been, since Imhuotpa had let it go out.   But there were a few 
embers.   Nute took tinder from his pouch and blew the embers into flame.

"That was what they did.   They heaped coals on me.   That was bad.   But 
when they didn't like an answer they blew on the coals, or fanned them.   I 
thought I was burned through to my bones."

Nute gave Imhuotpa his handful of twigs, and led the captain away from the 
fire.   He took his blanket from his pack, and held the captain in an 
embrace, his own cloak and the blanket wrapped around them both.   He handed 
the captain a strip of dried mutton.   "You went to find out what is 
happening, sea-lore master.   We needed to know.    If we fight against the 
High King, we fight to kill him.   Only a man who wants to be king, can 
fight a king.    We are foreigners.   No one will fight to make me king, or 
you.  No matter what gold we give.  I had hoped that someone else was 
fighting.   A rebel king.   Someone the people know - Taslan of the north, 
or Ishan of the east.  Or some wvaksa or hero.   Or the headman of a big 
village.  If someone was fighting, and we joined him with our gold - 
Imhuotpa's gold - we could bring victory.   But we can't do it ourselves.   
That was why I wanted you to go to the village.   But I won't let you go to 
another one.    You are no safer than we are - than anyone is in this 
kingdom."

"Are we defeated, Kunt - whatever your name is - Nute of Ekoopt?"  Dragnric 
asked.   "Do we slip away, back to my ship, and never come to this land 
again?"

"I owe Nakien more than that.   And I can't go back to Ekoopt, and neither 
can my son.    What you said to him was true - the High Queen has driven 
away the bards, and the peddlers will go too, and people will starve.   
These are my friends.  This is my homeland.  But I don't know what to do.    
And you, Wvaksa of the deep dark water - the sea is your homeland.   I have 
asked too much of you already."

"Tomorrow night is the Gathering of Cattle.   There will be strangers in 
every village where the Gathering is held."

"It is still too dangerous."

Nute would not allow the gold to be moved that night. When they had cooked 
what little food they had, they lay down. bodies pressed together, with 
their cloaks and blankets around them all.   Snowflakes drifted down from 
the cold calm sky.   Dragnric talked, talked loud and fast, about the fire 
that had burned between his legs.   The Ekooptis, although they had slept 
through the day, yawned.   But they tried to talk with the captain.   Most 
of the snowy night passed away before they slept.

* * * * * * * * * *

Pataka's master was dead.

He had died staked out and killed by a fire lit in his crotch.     But 
Pataka was not thinking about that.  The High Queen's men would come for him 
next.  But Pataka was not thinking even about that.    Pataka had a 
toothache.

He had stolen a blanket, and went from man to man, begging for something 
that would help.   Kneeling as a slave should, and offering the blanket.   
But no one could help him - or would help him.   No one wanted to be seen 
with a slave of the house of Tlossos.    It was the Gathering of Cattle, so 
the village was crowded - shepherds drove flocks into brushwood pens; 
farmers carried huge sacks of barley on their backs.   Shouting, and 
embracing friends they had not seen for a year.  But none of them knew what 
to do for a toothache.   Pataka knew them all, almost.   There was a woman 
he did not know, driving a few sheep with a thin pretty girl to help her.   
A big man Pataka had never seen before, offered to look at the tooth - but 
he seemed to be some sort of fool or madman.   He claimed to be a peddler, 
but was dressed in rags.   Pataka passed him by, and knelt before a farmer - 
everyone knew farmers had worms in their teeth.   The farmer took the 
blanket, but gave no help; he just told the slave dog to sacrifice to the 
Wvaksa of the Storms.    Pataka was so angry that for a moment he forgot the 
pain in his tooth.   Someone threw a pebble at him - dogs and slaves have to 
expect that.  He was lucky it wasn't bigger.   But he looked to see who had 
thrown it.   It was the ragged madman, and he had a larger stone, ready to 
throw; a yellow stone that shimmered in the sun.   Pataka picked up the 
pebble that had struck him and fallen to the ground.  It was an amethyst 
bead.

Without attracting too many eyes, Pataka slipped away from the milling 
crowd.   The peddler followed.   Pataka went into his master's house, 
through the stable door.   There were people about, but he hoped they 
weren't paying attention.   In a little while the peddler came in.  "It is 
loose enough," he said, when Pataka opened his mouth.   "I can take it out."

"Can't you fix it - make it stop hurting?"

"The worm has gone too far - this tooth will never be whole.   You may as 
well have me take it out - that will stop the pain."

"You are no peddler.   Are you a bard?"

"I am a warrior.  I am here with the warriors of King Tishan.  We are going 
to kill the High King."

"King Tishan?   You mean Queen Ishan?"

"That's right - and her husband, King - oh - what is his name?"

"Her son, you mean - Prince Aru.   Ishan and Aru are fighting against the 
High Queen?"

"We are just outside of town - do you want to join us?   We can give gold - 
we've got lots of it."   And the mad peddler lifted a handful of gold from 
his pouch, and let it slip through his fingers.     Pataka said nothing to 
this.   His master's tools filled the stables, leaving no room for any 
animals, and each was sharp and polished and carefully hung on its peg - 
that was one of Pataka's jobs.   The peddler whittled a stick into an odd 
claw-like shape, and then selected a thin pointed bronze blade.   Holding 
the wood on top of the next tooth, he stuck the point of the blade down the 
side of the rotten tooth, pried against the wood, and popped the tooth out.  
  It hurt - and then the toothache was over.

"I am in danger here," Pataka said, "so I will go with you.   But I do not 
believe you."

"But it is true.   Queen Ishan is going to attack - and she has piles of 
gold to give to anyone who fights for her."  The peddler gave Pataka a gold 
bead.   "I want to gather more men - can you take me to others who hate the 
High King's warriors?"

"Everyone is frightened of them.   But I can't help you - and if anyone sees 
me with you, they will be afraid to talk to you - but not afraid to kill 
you.   You will be in danger if anyone sees you leave this house.   Wait - 
follow me."

Pataka climbed a ladder to the room above the stables, and opened a sealed 
pottery jar.   Inside, laid away with herbs, was a fine cloak.   From a box, 
Pataka found a loincloth - and a winter undercloak.   The mad peddler gave 
him another gold bead, and took the folded clothing under his dirty tattered 
cloak.   He slipped out the stable door.    Pataka waited a while, then went 
out the front door; he wandered among the thronging crowd.    In the press 
of the crowd, people could not avoid Pataka altogether.    "Queen Ishan is 
coming," he said to no one in particular.  "To challenge the High King.   
She is just outside the village."    Pataka hadn't believed the madman; he 
didn't believe that Queen Ishan was really outside the village with a band 
of warriors.  But, if people thought she was, they would not be in such a 
hurry to kill the High Queen's enemies.  If anyone listened to what he said, 
they gave no sign.

A warrior with a spear climbed the bench outside the headman's house, and 
made a speech:

"Bronze makers - health and safety to you!   Men and women of the High King 
- joy and happiness at the Gathering: The High King wishes you the favor of 
the Wvaksa of the Storms - may the crops be safe from hailstones.   Hear me! 
   Two men have been taken - foreigners.    They are spies.    Do not listen 
to such men, when they come with lying tales about new and different gods - 
keep the Gods of our mothers and fathers.    We will question these men - 
and we will question any who listen to their lies."
The two naked men were forced on to the bench.   The first one looked evil.  
  His hair was very short - like mouse fur, and his penis was bare of any 
tattoos.   But the second one - everyone knew him; it was Nute the peddler.  
   A murmur passed through the crowd.    Nute was the best customer of the 
bronze makers, and the leader of the peddlers who traded between the hills 
and the sea.    A man behind Pataka, a miner, said: "We can't eat bronze."   
   Pataka turned to him and said: "Queen Ishan has come to kill the High 
King.   Her warriors are just outside of the village.   Unless Ishan wins, 
the peddlers will surely never come again.   We must go to her - help her."  
   But the miner tried to look as if he had not heard.

Ropes were tied to the projecting rafters, and the captives' arms were tied 
above their heads.   Their legs were pulled apart, and a rope tied to each 
ankle - the ropes were pulled forward to stakes in the ground, so the 
captives were as if sitting, but were hanging by their arms, above the 
bench.   Then coals were brought, and fires were started  in clay hearths 
under each man.    The fires were small, but even so the captives arched 
their backs desperately to pull their bodies out of the rising heat.    They 
could not hold this position for long, and each man would drop back in 
agony; his bottom was then just above the fire.   Then he would strain 
again.   After a while, the fires were pulled aside, and the questioning 
began.

"What stories have you been telling?   What lies have you foreign spies been 
telling?"

"I am a peddler - I come to this village to trade for bronze - nothing 
more."

A boy in the front of the crowd - the son of a wvaksa - threw a handful of 
snow and frozen dirt at Nute's face.   "Roast  him!   I want to see his skin 
peel off.   Let me build the fire."    The boy was dragged off by his 
father.    Pataka saw the madman who had popped out his tooth - now he was 
dressed in the fine clothing Pataka had given him, and was talking to some 
young men, handing out bits of gold.

The torturer said: "We know you have told stories, peddler.   What you have 
said?   But I think you need to warm yourself."   And he pushed the fire 
back under Nute, and added a few small sticks to it.

"Are you with Queen Ishan?" someone in the crowd shouted.   "Have you come 
to kill us all?"

Nute strained, but he could no longer arch his back, no longer get his 
bottom away from the fire.     "You know my word is good," he shouted.   
"Bronze makers: Queen Ishan has come.   Her warriors are many.   Help her, 
and be rewarded.  The High King has killed Nakien - best of bards!   Ishan 
told me of the Kohiyossa.    What you all saw at midsummer - Queen Ishan 
knows to be true.   The God we ..."

The torturer drew his dagger, and jabbed the tip into Nute's ballsack.   
Nute stopped talking.   There was a sound - a thwump - and then a thump and 
the clatter of the dagger on the mudbrick bench.   The torturer was on the 
ground with an arrow in his head.   Everyone turned.    A girl - a thin 
girl, naked except for a cloak that draped down her back, was clinging with 
her heels to the protruding beams of a house, just below the thatch.   She 
had an arrow in her drawn bow, a quiver on her hip.   She shot, and everyone 
turned to see where the arrow would go, and heard another thud of a falling 
body - a warrior, with his hand on the fledging of an arrow, the head still 
in his quiver.   When they turned to look at the girl again, she had already 
drawn.

The captain of the High King's warriors shouted: "When she shoots again, 
everyone grab an arrow and shoot her!"    The villagers began to run away, 
but Pataka moved closer to the tortured men.   His friend Nute was still 
straining.   He could no longer arch his back, but  he could swing a bit 
from side to side, so only one buttock at a time was in the  flames.   The 
ropes cut into his wrists.  As the villagers cleared away, Pataka saw the 
mad peddler - he was standing under the girl.  And he also held a drawn bow. 
   Beside him were three men of the village, holding javelins and daggers.   
The mad peddler shouted "I am Prince Aru - I am going to kill the High King! 
    I am here with my warriors.   Praise to the God we do not name!   Long 
life to the Kohiyossa!"

Pataka moved closer to Nute, grabbed the clay hearth, and pulled it out from 
under the peddler's bottom.   It burned his hand, and he yelped.    The 
captain of the King's warriors turned to look.   The girl dropped to the 
ground, and took off, with the mad peddler and his three followers close 
behind.    The warriors followed.   Pataka picked up the torturer's dagger, 
and cut the ropes on Nute's ankles, and the other man's.    With the tip of 
the dagger he could just reach the ropes around Nute's wrists.  It took a 
while to saw through the ropes.  Then he had to use Nute's body as a block, 
and stand on it, to reach the wrists of the other man.   When he had cut 
them both down they just lay on the ground, curled up, unable to stand or 
even to straighten their bodies.    A few men and women of the village had 
not run away, and they stood watching, but no one helped.   They watched 
dumbly as the peddler who was the source of their wealth, moaned and 
twitched on the frozen ground.

But then a plump, cheerful body came out of the house.   It was Szhasthar, 
the old headman's simpleton daughter.   She carried Nute's arms, and Pataka 
took his feet, and they carried the screaming peddler into the house, and 
then the other man.   The simple woman brought blankets, and rugs, and hot 
soup with wine in it; they propped the men up against posts, in a kneeling 
position, wrapped them, and Szhasthar fed them soup.    Pataka massaged 
Nute's feet and hands, while Szhasthar took  the other man's penis in her 
mouth, like a doting aunt relieving the pain for a whipped boy.   Pataka had 
done it for Tlossos - just once, when Tlossos was a boy and Pataka was first 
a slave.   He'd been whipped for it - and the boy had been whipped too - 
whipped again on his bruised bottom for letting a slave dog's mouth touch 
his penis.   But Tlossos had never forgotten it.

When the King's warriors had dealt with the girl, they would come looking 
for their captives.    If Pataka wanted to save Nute, he had to find a way 
to carry him to a hiding place.    Leaving his friend and the stranger with 
the simpleton, Pataka took a bow and quiver from pegs by the door, and ran 
out into the village.    A miner asked him if he knew what was happening.    
Pataka told him: "Queen Ishan has attacked the village.   She will kill 
everyone on the High King's side!"    Pataka had not believed the madman, 
but now Nute had said so too.   Many, perhaps most, of the villagers had 
believed that the rescued red-haired boy, was the Rescued One - the 
Kohiyossa.   But only a few had helped Tlossos - and those were dead.   The 
High Queen had done the tortures herself - and many had brought lying tales, 
to save themselves.    Pataka did not have anyone to trust - no one who 
would even listen.    And he would need help, to move Nute and the other man 
to some hiding place.  He had the gold and amethyst beads.   But the beads 
might be taken, and no help given.   Only the mad peddler could help, if he 
was not already dead.

In the middle of the village, the fires of the Gathering feast were still 
burning, but the cooks had fled, and the meat was being roasted without 
being turned.    But there were people standing about.   A lot of farmers, 
come in from their lonely homesteads for the Gathering.    Honest folk - not 
touched by the lying and betrayal that soaked through the village.   But 
they had seen Nute tortured, and they would be loyal to the High King - they 
wouldn't help Pataka hide Nute.

"Queen Ishan has attacked the village!" Pataka shouted.  "From the west.    
Everyone should come!   Defend the village!"    The farmers ran - ran east, 
as Pataka had thought they would.    Pataka went in the direction he had 
seen the mad peddler run.     He found the madman, the girl, and three 
village men on the roof of a house, with the High King's warriors all around 
them.   The madman, and one other man, were wounded.    Pataka shot the 
captain of the High King's warriors through the back of the head, and ran 
away.

A milling crowd of confused, frightened men had gathered in the center of 
the village.    Pataka, running with his bow, smashed into them, picked 
himself up, and ran back the way he had come.  They chased him.   There were 
shouts about Queen Ishan - but no one knew where she was.   Pataka, waving 
his bow and shouting "Ishan, Ishan," with the crowd at his heels, ran into 
the space where the High King's warriors were, and the warriors shot him 
dead, and shot at the crowd of villagers behind him, as well.   Then the 
warriors, leaderless but well trained, made an orderly retreat out of the 
village.  The crowd of villagers ran after them.

* * * * * * * * * *

Father, I will go to grandma Ishan, and get help.

The big man was badly hurt, and Dafnya needed his men.   He stared at her.   
  Perhaps he understood - or perhaps he was just too wounded to speak.    
She said: "Men, we will have to leave the wounded.   Give them your cloaks.  
   Be brave, Father, help will come soon."    She did not know if the men 
would believe she was this Prince's daughter.   She didn't look much like a 
princess.  But without a glance behind her, as if she expected to be obeyed, 
  she swarmed down the side of the house.    All three men followed, even 
the one with an arrow in his shoulder.   She said: "Good man, Stranik."

The center of the village was crowded, when Dafnya strode in, followed by 
the three men.   She stood on the bench in front of the headman's house, and 
the three men placed themselves around her.    She shouted to the crowd:

"Bronze makers!  Queen Ishan is outside the village, preparing an attack.    
Queen Kahela will attack from the other side.   The village is rising.    
The High King's warriors have been driven out.   But they are fighting back, 
and Queen Ishan is not here yet.    Men of this village are fighting.  We 
must go help them."
The villagers looked at each other.   Dafnya strode through the crowd, with 
the three men marching smartly behind her.   Some villagers followed, some 
ways behind, as she walked through the village.    They were not joining her 
- just curious.   The High King's warriors had reformed, outside of the 
village.   The mob of villagers, who had run after them with no leader, now 
found themselves charged, and they scattered and ran, headlong into the 
crowd that had followed Dafnya.    There was confusion - no one knew what 
was happening.   The warrior's arrows rained down on the villagers.   Dafnya 
shouted orders.   "Shoot at the warriors - make them dodge arrows.   They 
are shooting us like deer!  Fight back!   Make it hard for them to shoot!"   
She shot at the King's warriors, and the villagers, not knowing what else to 
do, did the same, those who had bows, which not many did.    But even so, 
the King's warriors pulled back out of bow range, and the villagers cheered.

"After them - or they will charge again," Dafnya shouted, and ran after the 
retreating warriors.   But only her own three men followed, and only one had 
a bow.    Seeing a little slip of a naked girl, with a bow much too big for 
her, come running at them, did not cause the High King's warriors to 
scatter.   But Dafnya, while still running, jumped and twisted, bent double, 
curled into a ball, and then untwisted with a violent jerk that bent the 
huge bow, drawing and releasing without a pause.   A warrior caught the 
arrow on his shield, but still, it was an accurate shot at a range a hero 
could hardly have bettered.   Dafnya turned and ran back to the villagers, 
as of course she had to do, since they hadn't followed her.    The villagers 
cheered as she came back.

"They will charge," she shouted.   Then she jumped up to stand on one of her 
men's shoulders.   "They will charge," she repeated.   "Scatter.   Some that 
way, some this.   We have to be around them!    Those without bows or 
shields, take off your cloaks.   Roll them up and use them as shields.   
Guard yourself and guard the archer next to you!   Hurry, here they come!"   
Dafnya shot while still on the man's shoulders, then jumped down and ran 
uphill.    The High King's warriors ran right through the villagers, who 
parted and let them through.  The warriors did not pause to be shot at from 
two sides, but kept running, toward the village.  The leader shouted an 
order, and the warriors began a turn - having divided the enemy in two, they 
planned to deal with the smaller group first.

A few villagers, and some of the farmers who had come in for the Gathering 
of Cattle, had come out to see what was going on.   When the villagers who 
were fighting split apart, and the High King's warriors ran through the 
middle, they found more villagers in front of them, and they shot at them.   
The watching villagers did not shoot back, but they scattered, and the 
King's warriors found themselves completely surrounded, with no way to tell 
who was shooting and who was not.    Their captain had been killed - the 
javelin master was in charge, and they were not familiar with him.    When 
he seemed not to know what to do, the warriors scattered, running in all 
directions, slaughtering all who got in their way with spears and daggers.

Dafnya was with the largest group of villagers.  This crazy girl who shot 
like a hero, who knew what to do - somehow they thought she would keep them 
alive.    "Stand! she shouted.  Don't run!    Not too close together!   
Dodge the points!   Get close and grab the shafts!"    And then the High 
King's spearmen were on them, but scattered and spread out, not charging in 
a mass - and one by one they were pulled to the ground and sliced to 
ribbons, by the villagers who surrounded them.

But in other parts of the field the High King's warriors had better luck.    
The villagers who had not wanted to fight turned to run; they ran into each 
other, pushed, tripped - and the King's spearmen killed one armed but 
unresisting villager after another.    And for those who fought back, the 
warriors' better training made the difference - not many villagers won 
dagger fights.   It wasn't long before the King's warriors held the ground.  
   Many of the villagers had gotten away - but there were a lot of bodies on 
the ground.

The ground the King's warriors held was a barley field.   In front of them 
was the village hill, the gentle slope planted in peas and strawberries.  
There was no village wall - the outlying houses straggled down the hill - 
and between those houses the villagers waited.    They had run from the 
warriors once.    But they would not be surprised and confused any more.   
Behind the King's warriors, on the other side of a bit of swampy ground, 
where the villagers gathered reeds, there was another slope, the foothill of 
a snow-covered mountain.     This steeper slope was terraced, and now in 
fallow, waiting for the fall ploughing.   On the terraces stood a compact 
mass of villagers, now armed with many spears.   In front of them was the 
girl who could bend a hero's bow.   The warriors recognized  the spears the 
villagers now carried.  The King's warriors looked at each other, and 
counted.   The sun now setting in the west, had risen that morning on many 
of their band, who would never see another.

The men on the barley field did not know where their leader was, the javelin 
master.  An old veteran, the closest they had to a leader now, looked at the 
villagers on two sides, and led his men in the only direction that was open 
- into the scattered trees, up the valley, toward the mountains.   A 
freezing night was starting, the warriors did not have their packs, a storm 
was coming, and the valley they had entered, went nowhere.   There was no 
path over the mountains at the head of that valley.

"March into the village" Dafnya ordered.   She marched, with her two men - 
Stranik had been killed - toward the village, and the villagers marched 
after her.

* * * * * * * * * *

Gur led the warriors of the Kohiyossa down the sacred road to the village.

Kahela was exhausted from running up the road, and she could she not keep up 
as they ran back down.    Gur had not wanted to risk attacking the village, 
and he didn't understand why Kahela thought they could win.   But he had 
obeyed her.    His warriors - so many of them were just boys.   They could 
shoot well enough, but they were hopeless at obeying orders.   They will be 
slaughtered in this battle, he thought.   The boys and young women had been 
playing, when Kahela had come running in.   Holding their own Gathering of 
Cattle, they said.  They played their pipes and drums in the mountain style, 
and held races and wrestling matches.    The weaver boys solemnly pretended 
to give each other the sheep.   Gur's cousin Hyaramon danced around the 
circle, and ran the aisle.   "I've run between the fires!" he shouted.   He 
ran towards a naked woman.   "I'll fuck you!"     "I wasn't dancing, I was 
wrestling," the woman answered  "And anyway it's not midsummer.   And you 
can't catch me."    But she laughed as she ran away, and she didn't run very 
fast.   And then suddenly, all the women were naked, and all the boys were 
running after them.   Gur ran about, with a few older women, using their 
belts as whips, trying to stop young women who wanted to play at being 
fucked at Midsummer, from being actually fucked at the Gathering of Cattle.  
  And everyone laughed and laughed.   It was this place - there was Frenzy 
here.   He ... The One who had danced  ... touched them all.   The boys 
laughed as they were whipped.   And Gur laughed most of all.   Since his 
balls had been burnt off, he felt lust all the time.   Watching boys fuck 
women between their breasts, between their thighs, between their buttocks, 
was inflaming, but also satisfying.   Gur thought this pleasure was a gift 
from the God.   Caught up in Frenzy, he licked and suckled on a woman's 
cunt, and as she scratched his paps he felt a peak of pleasure that he never 
expected to feel again.   Truly the God.  He was happier than he had been 
since before the torture, and he laughed with joy, even when he caught a boy 
planting seed in a tattooed cunt.  Laugh-Frenzied.   Randy boys and laughing 
women.     And in no time - in the time from the thought to the action - in 
less than a heartbeat - they were warriors.    When Kahela had run, shouting 
orders, onto the sacred ground.   These laughing, beautiful, naked boys.    
Gur would lead them into a hail of arrows, into spear-play and slaughter.    
They all ran together, down the sacred road, from the ground where the God 
had danced, to the village of the bronze makers.

They approached the village, and Gur formed them up for an attack.   He had 
been a warrior as a young man, but had never seen a battle.   What he 
remembered from his training as a spearman, was not much use now.   It was 
odd to have no idea where the enemy was.    Gur led his warriors up a slope, 
and captured some outlying houses, which were empty, except for a boy who 
was cooking his supper.    "Good appetite, warriors," the boy said.   "I'm 
afraid I don't have enough."  Gur continued on into the village, and the boy 
took his pot off the fire, and came with his new friends.   They marched 
into the middle of the village, sharing out the boy's stew, a spoonful each. 
    Kahela Queen caught up with them, still panting.    Villagers came and 
greeted them.

A gray-haired woman spoke: "Honor, warriors of Ishan; health and happiness 
to the Queen.   The favor of the Lord of Storms be yours.   The hero, Prince 
Aru, fought for us, and helped to drive out the High Queen's warriors.   We 
give him honor.  But he has died of his wounds."

Kahela thought, this can't be happening!   Aru can't be here.   Can't be 
here alone.   But a chill gripped her, and she shrieked.   She too had come 
into this village as a spy.    Aru must have done the same - chosen himself 
as his own spy.   It was exactly what he would have done.  Kahela didn't 
want to be Queen, and Aru hadn't wanted to be High King.   To be prince, and 
when his mother died (he had given a bronze horse, more than he could 
afford, to the Lord of Oaths, as a prayer for her long life) to be honored 
as the chosen king of his little kingdom - that was the life Aru had wanted. 
   And to have a son - Kahela's son - to be king after him.   And Kahela and 
Erdiosh had taken it away from him.   And so he had gone as a spy.   If he 
must be High King, Aru would need to win it - not to have it given to him by 
others who fought in his name.

"Our hearts are stone-like for your loss, Princess."   And the bronze makers 
bowed to her, selecting her from among the warriors by her obvious grief.   
Brave, loyal, Aru.   A fool, nearly.   But he had needed her, in a way Hu 
never did.   Would she ever love a man this strongly, while he was still 
alive?   The gray-haired woman led Kahela into a house where a dead man was 
curled up, naked on his cloak, with two arrows in him and a mangled right 
arm.  His penis had been burned, and there were burns on his thighs.  The 
blood had been washed away.   His weapons were beside him, and the honor cup 
as it would be in his grave.  Kahela had never seen him before.   "It is not 
Aru!"

Gur's shepherds filled the space in the middle of the village.   The great 
fires had burned low; the roasting sheep were burned to char on one side, 
raw meat on the other.   But the boys plunged their daggers in, and found 
some meat they could eat.    And they revived the fires, and began to roast 
the raw mutton, on skewers.   A few villagers came out of their houses.    
These shepherd boys, stealing mutton, were not very frightening.    There 
were pots of stew, burned on the bottom, and cold, and the villagers put 
them back on the fire.   A man brought out a pot of mead.

A young village man stood on a stone:

"Warriors of Queen Ishan!   My father, Laiohtegh, was killed by the High 
Queen - tortured and killed.    Mudan daughter of Koradan brought the tale - 
her lies killed him.    Mudan is your enemy, warriors of Ishan.   Let me 
have vengeance on her!"

A woman spoke: "They made Mudan watch as they tortured her father.  And 
Mudan only told them what everyone knew. Everyone knew Laiohtegh thought the 
baby was the Kohiyossa."
The woman and the son of Laiohtegh drew their daggers, and began to circle, 
looking for an opening.   Other villagers began to shout - all at once.

Young Hyaramon looked around for someone to tell him what to do.    
Conquering a village was not at all what he had expected.   But there was no 
one.   The Queen and Gur had gone off somewhere.   The arrow master - and 
she was just a girl, anyway - hadn't been seen.   The javelin master - just 
a baby, even if he did have his tattoo - was roasting mutton, not paying any 
attention.     And why were these villagers calling them the warriors of 
Queen Ishan?

Then four things happened, all at the same time.  An ugly, lanky man, with 
very short hair, staggered out of a big house, wrapped in a blanket.  Kahela 
and Gur came back.  The sun set.   And a mass of villagers, carrying heavy 
spears, marched into the village center.   Kahela's warriors stood up.   The 
villagers were all around them - they had been sharing mead and charred 
mutton  - was it a trap?    Hyaramon drew his dagger, and raised his shield, 
as his father had taught him.  So this was the day.    He had thought about 
this day often.   He had been training for it, ever since his Little 
Penises.   He had thought about the fighting.   And he had thought about the 
killing.     Were these the ones?  These women?  One woman had been sharing 
her soup with him, passing the spoon back and forth.   A spoon for you, a 
spoon for me - the way his mother used to do.  Was she the one?    Kill her 
so she doesn't kill me?    This good dagger in my hand - stick it into her 
belly?   He looked at his dagger, and at her belly.   Just stick it in?  
There was a spot on her tunic, over her belly button.  Spilled soup.   If 
only she would look at me, I could kill her, Hyaramon thought.   But the 
woman wasn't paying attention to him, she was looking at the ugly man.    
She ran into the house, and came back helping another man.   Hyaramon knew 
him, it was Nute, the peddler.    Everyone knew Nute.

"Vengeance for Laiohtegh," a man shouted, and he waded into the fight, 
waving his dagger about, and not using his shield properly.   The son of 
Laiohtegh turned to look - and was cut.    His ear hung from a flap of skin; 
blood gushed out.   Others joined in on both sides. Some of the shepherd 
boys were fencing against the villagers, with daggers and shields.   
Hyaramon wanted to help them, but he held back.   A villager, one of those 
who had marched in, lowered his spear.   It looked as if Gur's shepherds 
would be attacked from both sides.  More daggers were pulled out, and arrows 
nocked in bows.   Gur began to bellow orders, telling his warriors to pull 
back, to form up.   Someone shot an arrow.    Dagger blows were knocked 
aside with shields.

Hyaramon saw the girl, the arrow master, on the other side of the fires.   
She had climbed on someone's shoulders, and was shouting orders.     But he 
couldn't hear her above the noise.    Why was she on the side of these 
villagers?  The villagers were shouting at each other, shouting about all 
sorts of lies and betrayals.   Gur managed to pull his boys back to one side 
of the fires, and the son of Laiohtegh, who was now giving orders, gathered 
some of his followers on the same side.    Dafnya had managed some sort of 
order on the other side - and the defenders of Mudan gathered there.   But 
some of them were trapped on the wrong side, and there was some desperate 
fighting, and they had to run through the cooking fires to safety.   It 
seemed there would be a battle.   The shouting grew less, and Hyaramon could 
hear that Dafnya was yelling to the villagers not to fight;   Kahela Queen 
was yelling to her warriors not to fight.   But many were fighting.     
There was no moon, only the fading sunset and the flickering fires.  No one 
knew who was a friend, or who might be an enemy.

"Form lines!" Gur bellowed.   "Spears to the front - archers and slings 
behind.   Villagers - fight for us!     That girl - she's on our side.   
Don't be against us - you don't have a chance."

There was a little pause in the shouting, as if everyone had to draw breath 
at the same time.   And in that little breath of quiet, there was a crash, 
and a volcano of sparks climbed into the dark night air.   Everyone looked.  
   Peddler Nute, and his ugly companion, had tried to climb a cooking spit, 
and it had broken under them.   They had fallen into the fire.

Fighters cautiously stepped back, keeping their shields raised, but pulling 
their dagger hands in behind their shields.   Drawn bows were lowered, and 
spearpoints raised, as men dragged the peddler and the other man from the 
fire.   Nute raised himself to his feet.  He was naked.    A few drops of 
freezing rain fell.  Nute shouted:

"Bronze makers!  I have never cheated you!  Hear me!   If any are to be 
punished, bards will judge them.    Do not fight!  Vengeance has been 
claimed - vengeance for the death of Laiohtegh.   A good man; I knew him.   
I will hear this case, if you will.    I will hear both sides.   Or Ishan 
will hear it.   Do not fight.   Do not fight tonight - beware the anger of 
the Wvaksa of Storms!    His Stallions of the Sun will run you down, 
followers of Laiohtegh, if you fight on His holy night.   If you draw the 
blood of vengeance before the words of your enemy have been heard."

Distant thunder rumbled in the mountain valleys, and dark clouds blotted out 
the stars across half the sky.     Two men, using poles, lifted a huge 
steaming pot of soup off the fire.     The son of Laiohtegh made his way to 
the space around the fires.

"For my part, I forgive Mudan, and would clasp the shoulder of friendship 
with her, and take the kiss."

Mudan gave him the kiss, a bit coldly.   He hugged and kissed her like a 
long lost sister, getting blood all over her cloak.   She spoke:

"Peace and joy to all!  For the house of Koradan, we forgive those, whose 
words may have led to my Father's death.    All except Kafassios.   Against 
him I will speak - and claim vengeance before any judge.   And when his 
lying words have been heard, with the Mares of the Lady beside me I will  
trample him down."

"Kafassios is dead."

It was Szhasthar.  The villagers didn't know if she was talking sense, or if 
this was part of her madness.   But she had a long dagger in her hand.    
Her father's masterpiece, the longest dagger ever made; as long as a 
forearm, yet strong. And sharp as chipped Doleinth flint.  But it did not 
shine in the flickering firelight - it was covered with a sticky liquid.  In 
the dim light, the liquid looked black.

* * * * * * * * * *

So we have no headman.

"The High Queen made Kafassios headman - we never chose him."

The storm had borne down on the village.  Strong gusts of wind lifted snow 
from the mountain and carried little flurries down to the valley below.   
Kahela tried to get the villagers to go to bed - but no one would leave the 
fires, except to come back carrying more wood.    In the debate, two sides 
had formed, the same sides that had spilled blood at sunset.   For all the 
blood that had flowed, no one had been killed, no eyes put out.  So they 
argued with good will - and got nowhere.    The son of Laiohtegh proposed 
Idrossos son of Tlossos as headman; Idrossos was a little boy, but his 
mother Frah could act as regent.

"But Frah is not likely to be alive," Mudan protested.

"Well, then I could be regent."

"You want to be the orphan boy's foster father, not for his sake, but just 
so you can act as headman.   A bard would never allow that.   And anyway he 
is not in your clan."

"But Frah is.    She's my cousin.   Was my cousin."

"So what?   The boy's foster father should be - let's see ... his ..."  
Mudan worked out the family tree on her fingers - "his father's father's 
nephew's boy.  No, his younger boy - what's his name?  Idian?"

"Idarian son of Kotarian.    He is not yet tattooed."

"Well, then ..."

"Someone find Idarian - tell him he's going to have a sore penis tonight.   
And that he's the richest man in the village.   Call him Wvaksa Idarian - he 
will guard the doorposts of the house of Tlossos - and be regent headman.   
And tell him he's a daddy."

Mudan said, "No, I don't want Idarian as regent.    We know nothing of Queen 
Ishan, and I have had enough of Queens.    We must have a strong headman, to 
defend the village against the Queen."

"You want to be headwoman yourself - don't you Mudan?   And you betrayed my 
father!   You will never be headwoman!"

Kahela was finding that conquering a village was not what she had expected 
it to be.    She had her armed warriors about her - they had marched into 
this village and taken it.  She was the rebel Queen.  And the villagers 
wouldn't even listen to anything she said.   By shouting as loud as she 
could, she could make herself heard, but the villagers didn't stop wrangling 
even for a moment.

"Queen Ishan has been wounded.   It is Prince Aru who has led a host into 
this kingdom.   I am his wife."

"But Prince Aru is dead."

"No, that man was not Aru."

"But his cloak - and the gold!"

A shy little voice said "He saved me."    And every villager was quiet.   
The wind had stilled, and the only sound was the fire.   A little snow had 
begun to fall.  Dafnya stood up.   She was now wearing a warm woolen cloak 
on top of her own, a man's cloak that draped to the ground.  A wvaksa's 
cloak, dark dyed, and with golden beads set into the embroidery  around the 
neckline.

"I came into this village to spy," she said.  "I think he did too.  He could 
have slipped away, but he was trying to save me.   And so he called himself 
'Prince Aru,' and started a battle with the King's warriors.    He died 
saving me."

Kahela said: "The real Aru is alive, and will claim the Kingship by victory. 
   We will surely win.   We hold already the two largest villages in the 
kingdom; the village of Nohas, and now this one."

Mudan asked: "So Aru will be High King, and his mother will give tribute for 
her kingdom?"

Kahela said: "No, this kingdom will choose a new king - who will give 
tribute to Ishan in her own kingdom."

"I think it will be the conqueror, who will tell us who to choose." came a 
boy's voice from the other side of the fire.

Mudan said: "Idarian is right.   So tell us, - Oh, and health and safety to 
you, O Great  Royal Queenyness -  tell us who we are to choose as our king?"

"You will choose," Kahela insisted, "in council.   We will choose - for I am 
of this kingdom; I am from the village of the law-singer."

Gur spoke: "The weaver village of Nohas has chosen Tektu son of Nohas as our 
headman, and will stand by him for king in the council.    He is a hero for 
his weapon, he is a hero's son, and victorious in battle; wise and just, and 
with many friends.  He was the first of the warriors of the Kohiyossa.   But 
we will hear how  the bronze makers stand."

Mudan said: "The house of Nohas is well known to us.   We will meet this 
Tektu."

Idarian said: "But this village will stand by Idrossos of the house of 
Tlossos."

Mudan said: "You can't be whipped by your mommy any more, Idarian-boykin - 
but that won't stop me from pulling your cloth down.  You may be a 
doorpost-guarder, and you may have a man's tattoo by morning, but the 
village council can still have you whipped.   You will not be regent 
headman, you're just a boy - and you most certainly will not be regent king! 
   You will be whipped right now for claiming such a thing.   Let he who 
says other, speak."

Kahela said: "Well, Tektu is also rather ... young."

Idarian rubbed his bottom.    No one spoke in his defense.   So he'd be 
whipped in front of everybody, a shame whipping with leather.  People said 
they really hurt.  Mudan was having him whipped to put him in his place.   
The house of Koradan would be strong again, now that the High Queen's 
warriors were gone.    But he himself, guarding the doorposts of the house 
of Tlossos, would be a wvaksa.    He would be a power on the council 
himself, if he could keep esteem.     If he cried like a baby when she 
whipped him, and begged for her to stop - and he rather thought he would - 
well, no one would respect him after that.  They would find out he was just 
a little boy, not a wvaksa who could talk to the council.   Idarian thought 
he could, just, summon the courage to ask for the tattoo - to have a needle 
jab soot into his penis.    But once he had been reduced to a howling baby 
by Mudan's whipping, he doubted he would.  But without a tattoo he was no 
doorpost-guarder, and no wvaksa.  The village would watch the tattooing, to 
see if the new wvaksa had courage.   Would he ask for many lines or few?   
Many - horrible pain - or few - marked for life that he was afraid of pain?  
  Idarian didn't feel like a hero.    But the whipping and the tattooing 
were still to come - for now he wasn't ready to be quiet.  He spoke in a 
loud bold voice, playing the part of a wvaksa in the council, even if he 
didn't feel like one.  "If we choose this Tektu - who is no older than me, I 
guess, - as king, how can he give tribute to Ishan?   It has always been her 
kingdom that has given tribute.   It has always been our king who was high 
king."

The villagers looked at Idarian with respect.    Kahela said, "but it is Aru 
who is conquering - driving out the evil High Queen."

"That did not happen here.   We drove out the King's warriors.   I helped.   
  And it was ..."  and he turned and looked at Dafnya.    She had slipped 
the man's cloak to her back, standing by the fire, and her own skimpy cloak 
did not close across the front.   Idarian's eyes dropped to her 
not-yet-tattooed crotch, and then to his own not yet tattooed penis.   She 
saw where he was looking and blushed so darkly it could be seen in the 
firelight, and she covered her face with her arms - which slipped her own 
cloak to her back.    She could not recall that anyone had ever looked at 
her, until that day when Kahela had stolen her, along with the sheep.

"What is your name?"  Idarian asked.

Dafnya's voice was so strangled with shyness that he couldn't understand 
her.  She was trying to say that she did not have a name - she was just 
called sheep-girl or little bitch.   Dafnya had been the name of the lead 
ewe of her flock.   Kahela had got it wrong.

"Her name is Dafnya," Kahela supplied.   "A foundling with no foster 
parents.  A shepherdess.   She kept off wolves with a bow and arrows.  A 
man's bow.  I made her my arrow master."

Mudan said: "Honor and happiness, Dafnya teacher of weapon skill.   Hero.  
You, and no other, rescued this village.   I will be foster mother to you, 
or choose whom you will, if you wish to live here.    Or if you wish to 
depart, you will have gifts - bronze and every valuable thing - as much as 
you can carry.    And if you stay, you will be headwoman.   Let he who says 
other, speak!"

Dafnya fell to the ground.   Idarian decided he wasn't about to be whipped, 
and went off to find the tattoo artist.   Maybe Dafnya wanted her woman's 
tattoos - it was the dark of the moon.    Maybe they could hold each other's 
hands.    Idarian decided he wanted the most intricate tattoo the village 
had ever seen.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mudan rose to speak:

"Idarian is right - this kingdom has never paid tribute to Ishan's kingdom.  
  This kingdom is large, and strong, or it will be; her kingdom is small and 
weak and poor.   Aru can have himself chosen our king - if he has the 
victory.   Then he will be High King.   But if our king is Tektu, and Aru is 
king of his little kingdom, then it will be Tektu who is High King, and not 
Aru.   That is what I think.   We need to ask a white bard."

Kahela said, "There are no bards any more, Mudan daughter of Koradan.    And 
the law-singer has been killed, we think.   The Gathering of Teachers of the 
Law, at my own village, has been scattered to the winds."

"The Law-Singer!   Sugga!   Killed!"    It was a farmer, screaming in 
desperate grief.     The word passed from mouth to mouth.    The farmer 
opened his massive pack, and tossed a handful of barley into the fire.    
His wife tossed in a bit more.    "She is from the Law-Singer's village," 
the farmer said, pointing to Kahela.   They knelt.    Others came up to 
offer sacrifice, and the farmer gave grain to those who had nothing in hand. 
    The fire was nearly smothered, and they had to move the sacrifice to a 
larger fire.   Everyone knelt before Kahela, who was pointed out as the 
Law-Singer's helper.   No one mentioned that she was also the rebel Queen.   
A crowd grew, waiting with bits of cheese or bread, or grain, or small 
articles of wood or basketry.    But the farmer made them wait.    He 
climbed up on a large rock (a fat man, he needed to be helped up), and made 
a speech:

"Bronze makers!   Health and prosperity!   Those who come for the Gathering 
- joy in your sons and grandsons, the best gifts of the Wvaksa of the Storm. 
     Prince Aru has brought a host against the High Queen - the High Queen 
who has killed the Law Singer.    I give them my oxen, my pigs, all I have.  
   My grain in the village grange and a cart to take it to them - and my 
span of oxen.    I trust to others - to the generosity commanded by the 
Wvaksa of the Storm - for my life until the next harvest.    I hold back 
only my seed-grain.   I ask the Law-Singer for fairness."

And then the storm, which had been gathering, broke.   Thunder and gusts of 
wind, to knock a man off his feet.   A house was struck by lightning.   
Hailstones fell like seed sown on a ploughed field.   Everyone scattered and 
ran into the houses.

Kahela ran into a big house.    The peddler Nute was there, with his 
companion, and the madwoman with her long bloody dagger.   She was trying to 
wake the man she had killed.    The house was a blaze of lamps, and the fire 
was high.    Idarian was there, and Dafnya, along with a man with a needle, 
and a drummer.   Bronze makers and farmers pushed into the house behind 
Kahela, until it was jam-packed, and more who came were not let in, but had 
to run through the storm to a less crowded house.    Idarian and Dafnya were 
at one end, holding hands.   The artist was about to start on Idarian's 
penis, and the boy was not tied; nor was there a block of wood under his 
penis, as if the artist thought he would stand still.  The crowd was 
excited, and the ones in front sat so others could see.    The artist gave 
Idarian a skin, and the boy drank, his last drink while still a boy, holding 
the skin with one hand; Dafnya held the other.    White drops drizzled down 
his chin.  So it was Hema, or milk mead - or some poppy concoction of the 
artist's.  The drummer began; a quick, complicated rhythm, not very loud.   
The artist pricked a line, his hand like a dancer obeying the drum.   
Idarian asked Dafnya for a kiss.

This felt like a marriage - more sacred even.  Sacred as when a village 
gathers for a marriage dance, to watch a man and woman fuck for the blessing 
of the Lady.    Sacred as a Queen-making.   But there was nothing of the 
Lady tonight - they gathered to observe the Sky-Father's law, and the Horses 
of the Blast were galloping past.    As each row of jabs went into Idarian's 
penis, the pain, and the courage he drew from the touch of Dafnya's lips, 
could be felt by everyone - everyone but the dead man, and the madwoman.   
Idarian was caught up in the feelings of the watching villagers - he seemed 
to feel no fear, although it clearly was a lot of pain.     The artist, each 
time he stopped for a moment to give Idarian a rest, moved out of the way, 
so that the watchers could see the progress.   But nothing could be seen of 
the pattern, only blood, black soot, and a swollen penis.    The house was 
so packed that no one could move, so people passed small sacrifices from 
hand to hand, so they could be tossed in the fire.    Idarian opened his 
mouth to scream, but did not make a sound.  Whispered prayers to Sugga could 
be heard - prayers for the return of the bards, prayers for fairness, 
prayers for the peaceful settling of quarrels.    The heat in the house was 
almost unbearable; the lamps blazed and the Fire roared, fed by endless 
sacrifice.   Outside, the rain froze as it fell, and turned the hailstones 
into a layer of crumbly ice.

Then the artist left the penis, with the work around the foreskin still not 
done, and drew the tattoo pattern around Dafnya's cunt.   This was 
outrageous - girls' tattoos were sacred to the Lady.   Girls were never 
tattooed by men.   Girls were tattooed in secret, in the dark, in hidden 
sanctuaries deep in the forest, where priestesses conducted rituals in the 
dark of the moon, rituals which were never mentioned at any other time or 
place.  But this artist had found the rituals out.   He made Idarian do, 
what the Priestess had done when Kahela was tattooed - lick the cunt, and 
rub it and caress it with his nose and teeth and hands.     Idarian's penis 
swelled hard, and it was agony.   He did not moan, but tears formed.   But 
the artist would not let him stop.   The drummer had modulated his rhythm, 
and there was now a slow loud beat, with a light tatter-tatter dancing 
around it.    The beat made Kahela think of the crushing of green copper 
ore.

The artist began Dafnya's tattoo at the most painful spot, inside the lips - 
a hidden part of the traditional design.    Idarian held the lips apart.     
Then the artist had Dafnya take the tip of Idarian's penis in her mouth, and 
run her tongue under the foreskin, while the lips of her cunt were cut and 
black charcoal forced inside.    Idarian's seed did not remain in him long.  
  He was now weeping heavily, and groaning; but he was fearless.   Dafnya 
was as serene as a carving - or a Goddess.

Kahela felt the fear of the Lady's vengeance between her shoulder blades - 
like the prick of a dagger .    She writhed and shrugged, as if there were 
an actual dagger stuck in her back, that she could shake off.   The blast of 
the wind, the hail driven against mud walls and wooden windows, was like a 
shield - the Horses of the Blast would protect them, for now, from the 
Lady's anger.   It was the Wvaksa of the Storm, undoubtedly, who had put 
this wicked lust into Idarian's balls, so that He could take His pleasure.   
It was the God's seed that Dafnya was licking off her chin.    The God had 
added another to the countless woman He had taken, paying his Wife back for 
the one time She had yielded to mortals.  But the Lady would seek vengeance 
in turn, and any sort of harm might come - to anyone who got in the way.    
The battle of the Gods was coming.   The Lady would be on the side of her 
grandson, the Kohiyossa - Kahela was sure of that.    But which side would 
her Husband choose?

Then the artist had Dafnya lick and nuzzle Idarian's ear, while she held his 
penis, and held the foreskin back so it could be jabbed on the inside, as 
the design was continued in that hidden place.     Thunder came in great, 
house-shaking booms, and the drummer's rhythms danced and played with the 
sound, making the Wvaksa of the Storm into a red bard.  Then the artist made 
two small burns - dog's eyes - on the head of the penis, where the scars 
would be covered by the foreskin.   And that was it - provided it healed 
well.   There was a bit more to do on Dafnya's tattoo.   Idarian suckled 
Dafnya's teats, while the artist pricked around her shit-eye.   Dafnya asked 
for burns, since Idarian had gotten them, but the artist refused.   Dafnya's 
tattoo was, as far as Kahela could tell, just like her own, and just like 
every other woman's tattoo, in all the lands where cunts were tattooed.  A 
bit more elegant than some, perhaps -  priestesses were not artists, 
usually.

No one prayed to the Lady, no one prayed to the Storm, no one prayed to the 
Sky-Father.    Those great and powerful Gods, between whom they might be 
crushed, were too frightening even to mention.   They prayed for fairness.   
They prayed to the Law-Singer.   And Kahela, most fervently of all, prayed 
and promised sacrifice to the cranky and disgusting old woman who had been 
her neighbor - and who had been, so often, so deeply, deeply, unfair.

* * * * * * * * * *

On the night of the Gathering, sometimes people didn't sleep at all.

They had taken off their clothes, which were wet anyway, and they were lying 
on the floor, and on each other, as there was no room.    The fire was dying 
and the lamps were out; but it was still hot.  From time to time, by some 
trick of the wind, a blast of icy wind and snow would be blown down the 
smoke hole, and anyone who was nodding off, in the steamy dark heat, would 
be suddenly awake.   The wind kept the smoke from escaping, and the room was 
thick with it.   Most of it seemed to end up in Kahela's lungs.

Kahela could not get the drummer's rhythms out of her ears, nor sight of 
Idarian's penis out of her eyes.    Black-smeared and bloody, thick and 
solid, and the faintest lightest touch of Dafnya's lips on the tip had made 
Idarian scream and shake with desire.    But when his penis tip had been 
savagely cut into with the needle, and burned with red-hot bronze, Idarian 
had not regarded it, only looking into Dafnya's eyes, summoning her breasts 
with suckling motions of his mouth, as if unaware that anything was being 
done to his penis.

It made Kahela long for a penis to bite and scratch, yearn for a man's 
desire hotter than red-hot bronze.    And the room was full of hard penises. 
   Young Hyaramon had asked the artist for pricking, but the artist said he 
would have to wait until morning.   Hyaramon wanted burn scars, but a woman 
told him not to bother, and then two old women started to argue about 
whether a man with scars was better than a man wearing a wolf-tail.    On 
the night of the gathering, people would say anything.  Then the old women 
argued about whether hot lamb's marrow soup, was better than cold bear 
grease.   And then they argued about leather dildoes with or without 
clitoris-ticklers, until every penis in the room was as erect as the dead 
man's.   Kahela looked at them all, a forest of dildoes in the flickering 
firelight.   There was no need to boil them in lamb's marrow soup, they were 
hot already - these dildoes had men under them.

The Sky-Father had taken his blood sacrifice.   The pain when they said that 
Aru was dead, had not lifted when she saw another man's body.   It would not 
lift until he held her in his arms.  What no whipping could teach her, this 
pain had.    In a forest of rods, there was only one rod on the green Earth, 
for Kahela.   And she never expected to feel that one again.

The two old women continued to argue across the room:

"Why do you need a tool, anyway?   Is your husband too small?"

    "Oh its not for me - its for him.   You know, for after, for his 
shit-eye."

"What?"

    "The Law - didn't you know?    While she lusts, but his rod wilts, she 
takes his place, and fucks his eye."

"Do men like that?"

    "Ha.  My husband doesn't.   Not when I stick in the clitoris-tickler and 
twist it,
and pump it like the bellows of the forge!    And I give bite for bite, blow 
for blow."

    "I wouldn't beat my husband for getting tired.   All men are tired when 
they shoot their seed."

"But does he beat you enough before?"

    "He doesn't beat me at all.   I bite his paps, and scratch him, when he 
needs it.   He's not a young man any more."

"Listen!  The Law is, bite for bite, and blow for blow.  It says:

     with hardened rod the the time is now,     to slap her breasts, and 
bite her brow;
          her lower lip his teeth must show,     and holy places high and 
low.

And it says: When his  hard slap, soft dove-coo brings, then ...    Well, 
that's when she is ready.
But if he is too quick,

      But when he fucks for his own need,
                   and like a tyrant shoots his seed,
     while still her Lust within her grows,
             turn penises into dildoes -
                     she the man; the woman he.

That's when you ram him up his butt."

   "But why?"

"Well, to punish him.   But also, to make his rod grow hard again.   While 
his penis is limp, and the dildo is hard, you can beat him, but he may not 
touch you, not until his rod hardens again - that's the Law.  Beneath you, 
rammed up, he gets blow for blow and bite for bite.  Your lust will be like 
fire.   He will harden quickly, throw you to the ground, beat you, and fuck 
you - and fuck and fuck and fuck."

     "You learned this from Nakien, didn't you.    I don't need my husband 
to be a sex-lore teacher.
  My gift to my husband is, I am satisfied."

"Mine is, I am not."

Kahela was lying in a tangle of bodies.   The fire had sunk to glowing 
coals.    Flashes of lightning could be seen through the smoke hole, but not 
bright enough to light up the naked boys around her.    But from the 
tightness of the bodies Kahela could feel the painful hardness of their 
pricks - and she could see their eyes, still looking at her, although her 
own nakedness was hidden in the dark.    Shepherd boys whispered to smiths' 
daughters, and said they knew how to hold their seed in, until the girl was 
ready.   The girls whispered back that they should prove it by not using 
their hands.  So the forest of hot dildoes remained.  For all the talk, no 
cunts or shit-eyes were entered that night.   But promises were made.  In 
this, as in all things, gifts to others bring Good Luck from the Wvaksa of 
the Storm.

No one seemed sleepy, and the wind was making a lot of noise, and there was 
thunder.   Kahela couldn't stop thinking of the house that had been struck, 
how the thatch had burned in the rain.   Someone called for a story.

"But we have no bards."

"Doesn't anyone remember anything?   What about The Battle of Kala Khoam?

No - not that!   Anything but that!"

"But it's the only one I know.   I don't know the poetry, or anything, but I 
know the story.   Ker son of Keresani was High King, and he told Manzen ..."

"That's not how it goes - you left out the part about when Manzen and Rhonan 
were born - Ihrona was pregnant, and people asked her who the father was 
..."

"That's not right.   She told everyone she had been fucked by the Sky-Father 
before her belly ...."

"Why are we talking about Ker and Manzen?   We're in the middle of the story 
of the High Queen and Nakien!"

"Because we don't know how that one is going to turn out."

"Well, we know how it turned out for Nakien - the same as for Manzen!"

"We know how it turns out - we will win."

"One battle, perhaps.   But what if the Kohiyossa has been killed?"

"If the baby is the Kohiyossa, then he hasn't been - we know the Kohiyossa 
will fight in the last battle."

"So who will be king - if you know so much?   Do you think it will be 
Idarian?   I'd like to watch him fuck that girl at the king-making."

"They say it will be Prince Aru.   Ishan's boy.   And that woman - she's his 
Queen."

"She'll hear you."

"I don't care if she does.   I want someone from this village to be king."

"How about you?"

"Why not me?"

"Because you're an idiot."

"Shut up!"

Then came a voice Kahela knew; the peddler Nute. "Did someone say that the 
Queen of the rebels was here?"

No one answered.   But everyone stopped talking.   Kahela waited.    "Queen, 
we need to talk."    Kahela waited some more.   "I can help in the fight 
against the High King.  Where is the King of the rebels?"

Kahela still did not answer.    But a voice came from the end of the room - 
Idarian.   "Wvaksa Nute - is that you?"

"I am Nute.   Who asks?"

"Idarian, son of Kotarian - I guard the doorposts of the house of Tlossos.   
  Health and honor to you, friend of the bronze makers."

They were speaking loudly, across the length of the room.   The Horses of 
the Blast were clattering and whinnying around the eves.   Melting snow had 
worked its way through the thatch, and pitter-pattered as it dripped on the 
floor - or someone's face.   The new wvaksa was using the slow formal speech 
of the council, and the villagers listened to his dealings with the peddler, 
judging his skill and courage, as they might judge a boy speaking to the 
council on the day of Little Penises.

Nute said: "Honor, Wvaksa Idarian.   What then of Tlossos?"

"He is dead.  He was captured after the first battle, and died when the 
Queen tortured him - it was as if he willed himself to die.   We all saw it. 
   His wife Frah fled with the baby, the Kohiyossa, but the King's warriors 
followed."

"She was a good woman.   Still is, I hope."

Idarian said: "Wvaksa, on the day after midsummer night, you bought a slave 
- the slave whose penis the God used.   Where is that slave now?"

"I gave him to Nakien, the white bard.    I have heard that Nakien was 
killed by the High Queen, but do not know if this is true."

"I saw him die, peddler.   He was tortured and killed by the doorposts of 
this house, in the same spot you were tortured.   He died well."

"I wish to give him gifts in his grave, and to heap the earth above him - so 
his name will live forever."

"His songs will live forever, and his name will still live when this village 
hill is home to wolves and wild cattle.   But we may be able to find his 
bones.   And the bones of Tlossos as well.   Many will wish to do them 
honor."

Nute asked: "The slave - his name was Arkwan, son of Eos - did they bring 
him here along with Nakien?"

Idarian said "They did not.    The Queen questioned Nakien, under torture.   
She asked: "Do you claim that the slave who danced, was a God?"   Nakien 
denied it.   He said the God we do ...  - the God who danced - had only used 
the slave's legs, just as the Sky-Father uses a man's legs, when He comes to 
a dance.    The Queen was furious, and fanned the coals under Nakien until 
he died, gasping.    Something broke in all of us when we saw him die.   
Those who had been brave until then, scurried to the Queen, with tales, 
hoping to save themselves by accusing someone else.   And if some of us 
didn't bring tales - well, we didn't save anyone, either."   Idarian had 
slipped into his little boy's voice, and you could hear that he was crying.  
"Boys younger than me, were tortured!    And girls!   The Queen made them 
talk.   About their families!  I hid."   He recovered his voice.   "Skulking 
like a coward.  Those who were brave, have burns.  Or they are dead."

Nute said "But if the High Queen had captured this slave ..."

Idarian said: "Arkwan, son of Eos.   I will remember."

"... she would have shown him to you, to prove he was not a God."

"She would surely have shown him, or shown his body.   So I hope Arkwan may 
be alive and free.   And though Nakien denied that Arkwan was the God, I 
think the God is in him."

"He seemed like a man to me, and I traveled with him during the waxing of 
the moon."

"We all felt the God  ... and we haven't felt the same, since midsummer 
night."

"Idarian, honor to you, and may your village have harmony again.   But do 
you know who is the rebel King?    Is he here?   What warriors has he 
gathered?"

"This village owes you much, Wvaksa Nute.  And not least, for saving 
Arkwan's life.  I have heard that Aru son of Ishan has led a host into this 
kingdom.   I do not know where he is."

"So Aru claims the kingship?    I have known him since a boy - I switched 
him at his Little Penises.   He was, he is, a brave man, and not greedy.   
You could do worse."

"A woman, she said she was Aru's queen, said that this kingdom would choose 
its own king, in council.   The village of Nohas - but Nohas is dead - will 
propose their new headman, Tektu son of Nohas."

"Tektu!   But he's a boy.   Well, he got his tattoo.   Nakien pricked him.   
But he is no older than you."

Idarian said: "I think Arkwan should be king.  I want to fight for the 
Kohiyossa in the last battle.  Tell me what you know of Arkwan - was the 
Kohiyossa seed of his penis, as they say?"

The room was dark; not even a glow from the embers of the fire.  The 
villagers were completely still and quiet, not a rustle or a murmur as they 
strained to catch the words, spoken from one end of the room to the other.   
The room was cooling, but no one reached for a cloak.  When Idarian spoke of 
the Kohiyossa, there was a deeper silence; breaths were drawn in and held, 
listening for every word.

Nute said. "I know nothing about the Kohiyossa."

"I do."   It was a new voice, a woman.   "Peddler Nute, I am Kahela daughter 
of Kratik, of the village of the Law-Singer; wife of Aru son of Ishan.   I 
know of the Kohiyossa, of Arkwan, and of Tektu."

Idarian answered: "Honor, Princess, and joy.   Contentment in the village of 
the bronze makers.   We would hear your tale.   But we do not submit that 
Aru should be our king.   What of Arkwan - do you know if he is alive?"

"He went with Nakien to the north, looking for King Taslan."

"Taslan!   Does he too fight against the High Queen?    They say he is like 
the hero of a song - as skilled as the horsemen of Rhonan.   Does he claim 
the kingship?"

"I know nothing of Taslan."

"Then what about this Tektu?   Why does the village of Nohas want him for 
king?"

"Arkwan sent Tektu, and me, and one other, to rescue his baby son, the 
Kohiyossa, if we could.   We were joined by weavers from the village of 
Nohas, and by the warriors of Queen Ishan.  Tektu calls us the warriors of 
the Kohiyossa."

Another man spoke: "Kahela royal princess, what of the Kohiyossa?   Is He 
safe?  Is he the son of the unnamed God?"

Kahela answered.   "I do not know where He is.   I can tell you that the 
baby called the Kohiyossa was born of Arkwan's wife.   And Nakien ruled that 
He is the Kohiyossa."

Idarian said:  "I understand now.   Nakien was in despair, and went to death 
as if he welcomed it.   He must have thought he betrayed the Kohiyossa to 
the Queen."

And then, for a long time, no one said anything.   The fire was quite dead, 
and the room was growing cold.   The sound of the wind had died away.   No 
one stirred.

Then Idarian spoke.   "I give up any claim to the high kingship for my 
foster son, Idrossos son of Tlossos.   Let Tektu, the first warrior of the 
Kohiyossa, be king.   Or Arkwan, whom the One, Deathless and Nameless, has 
chosen."

Kahela said: "I give up any claim to the high kingship for my husband, Aru 
son of Ishan.   Let the king of this land be High King."

Nute said: "I have gold.  Gold to reward those who fight.   Gold to reward 
those who bring food.  And I give it all to the warriors of the Kohiyossa."

And then Nute's lanky young companion spoke, his words twisted and 
misspoken.  "From Ekoopt sent I.   Get my father Nute.   We rebels too 
ankle.  Make my father king.   But we stay.   My father want help fight High 
Queen."

Nute said: "Rebels!   Rebels in Ekoopt!  Against the God?"

"Many wish have other God.   Make you be king."

"I'm no royal.  What are you talking about."

"Your mother ankle, is, princess.     Princess Khunt-Rugyawa take you, be 
you Queen.    And we say your father ..."

"What about my father?"

"We say MankafRugya ankle your father."

"He died before I was born."

"He die moon you born."

"And my real father - I'm supposed to deny him?   I'm supposed to say my 
mother took ..."

"Took God.   He real God.   Her uncle.  Last real God rule Ekoopt."

"But it's not true!"

"But you mother-grandfather be God.  Koo'wi same.   Why not you be king?"

"Why I be king? - Why should I be king?   And how can you fight the God?

"Koo'wi - God - he not liked.   He give to pwiests Rugya.  He say each 
pwiest each village take what he need from farremers.    Ankle very bad."

"So the priests of Rugya are strong.    And are there many rebels in 
Ekoopt?"

"Not many rebels.   We gold have."

"I know about the gold - I've just given it to Tektu."

"No, father.   Koo'wi, he say he have burial-mound bigger any God have.   I 
looker king's tomb.   I steal it."

"Steal his tomb?"

"Steal his gold.   Is hid land in of cedars.   Gold make biggest tomb eveh 
be in Ekoopt."

"But to fight the God ... and if you don't have many rebels ..."

"Father, this fwiend you have - he make feets - sandals.   I give him little 
bit gold.    Hand of jars.  So so.  Gold make him king, land of cedars.    
Has many men.   I buy ships Kafftia, ships Akeawanubia.    Buy horses 
Illiawa.    Daggers Luwwia."

"You want to lead wild men against Ekoopt!   Wild 'Alamu!   Raping 'Alamu!  
And you didn't tell me!"

"Father what you want?   You want rebel, you not want rebel?    I not bring 
you, there be not rebel.   We not man else, make God.    You want go?"

Wvaksa Nute did not give his answer.

Idarian thought - well, the High Queen will lose.   The wealth of Ekoopt is 
against her.   Wealth like an ancient tale.   No, wealth beyond telling.  
When the spearmen charged us, I was sure I would die.  Dafnya held us, kept 
us from running.    We would have died, if we ran - run down and skewered 
like piglets.   My bones felt like water.   They still do.   Dafnya!    In a 
sudden horrid panic, Idarian reached for Dafnya, hugged her to his breast, 
squeezed her tight.  We won the battle of the barley field.  Dafnya won it.  
  If it was victory, with so many dead.  But that doesn't mean we can win 
the war.  We're just miners, not warriors.   We scattered before trained 
warriors.   The fear was terrible.  And the warriors of Queen Ishan - 
they're pitiful.  Dreadful.  Babies.  Half-starved.   I knew we couldn't win 
- but now that's over.   These Ekooptis, they will give gold, and buy 
victory; and sail away.   But what do they care of the Kohiyossa?   Uncle 
Tlossos died for that baby.   What do these foreigners know?   Do they hope 
for a new Earth, after the battle of the Gods?

Kahela was thinking of the gold as well.    Gold in Tektu's hands, or Aru's. 
    Or maybe they will fight each other for it.   The enemy had melted away 
before them - the warriors of the Kohiyossa were invincible.    With the 
Lady fighting for her grandson, they would not lose.   They didn't need this 
gold.   What would it do to them?    Aru wouldn't want it.    But if he had 
it?    And Tektu - but that was just silly; it wasn't possible to see Tektu 
as a king in an embroidered gown, sitting in council with gold around his 
neck.  Tektu king?  The overgrown brat couldn't keep his loincloth clean!    
Tektu would ...  Oh.   Erdiosh.   Erdiosh will want the gold.   He will know 
what to do with it.     Tektu will be High King, and he will hunt, or fight, 
when Erdiosh tells him to, and Erdiosh will rule.   What will Erdiosh do, 
with the wealth of Ekoopt?   Fight the Gods?

Young Hyaramon wondered how much gold he was likely to get, as a warrior for 
the Kohiyossa.    He was going to get his tattoo tomorrow; he was.   But he 
wished he had a girl - he wished he had a woman - to hold his hand, like 
that village boy, Idarian his name was.  He wished he had that woman, 
actually.    Yesterday, she had been the only girl in a war-band of 
bare-penis boys.   And as far as Hyaramon knew, none of them had even asked 
her!   And now she was above them all, as out of reach as the Queen.   With 
a few gold beads on a bit of string though, to hang around a woman's neck.   
But who?   I've been wasting time, playing with village boys, holding 
penises when I should have been ... Oh, Rape the doorposts of the house of 
Hyaramon!  Fuck 'em in the fire!   I don't want to live in the village any 
more.   I don't want to grow old and do nothing but dye woolen cloth.  I 
want to be ...   Well, I guess I'd be king, if they asked me.   They can't 
really want that weaver brat Tektu.   But  ....    I want to be a peddler.  
I want to live on the roads, not spend my life behind doorposts.   I'm old 
for a student, but if Nute will have me ...

The big house was full of men and women, and all of them were thinking about 
the gold.

There was a little murmuring around the room, then quiet.   And then, out of 
the deep silence, the world was made of noise.   And light.    The arrow of 
the Storm-Lord divided, and passed down each post, and the thatch burst into 
flame in many places.    Men and women streamed out of doors and windows, 
and ran naked through the rain, under a sky lit by the burning arrows of the 
Captain of Horses of the Blast.    Some of the High King's warriors, 
weaponless and with their faces to the muddy ground, clutched at their 
knees, and begged for food, and to be allowed inside the houses.

* * * * * * * * * *
[ end of the first half of the third story in the Midsummer Fires trilogy ]

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