Authors: Christopher Stasheff
“Ulahane
raped a human woman,” Yocote told her. “Bolenkar is the bastard son of that
crime. His father made many other slaves that way; they are called Ulharls. No,
Bolenkar would not tell you that he is less than his father, for he seeks to
become greater. He
can
not, so he is doomed to perpetual anger.”
“What
could kill a god?”
“Another
Ulin,” Yocote said. “Ulahane slew Lomallin—then Lomallin's ghost slew Ulahane.
Both ghosts mounted to the heavens and fought with stars for weapons, and
Lomallin's ghost slew Ulahane's. All that is left of Ulahane's spirit is the
residue that resides in the Ulharls, and the hatred and lust and greed that
they imbue in humankind and the other younger races.”
“So
the green god lives, and the scarlet god is dead?” Masana asked.
“Even
so.” Yocote sighed and gave up trying to convince her that the Ulin were not
gods.
“Then
assuredly we worship the wrong god! I shall do all I can to turn my tribe to
the worship of your Lomallin! What sacrifice does he wish?”
“Your
arrogance, your cruelty, your greed and hatred,” Yocote told her, “all the
emotions that might cause you to fight with other people of any race. These
Lomallin wishes you to give up, to try to exterminate in yourselves as if they
were victims on his altar. He wishes you to live, not die; he wishes happiness
and joy, not misery and pain.”
Masana
stared, eyes round in wonder. “He would have us give up conquest?”
“It
would be a sacrifice indeed,” Yocote said with a straight face. “Why do you
Vanyar love to conquer so?”
“It
is not a love only, but a need. We have never seen the lands from which our
kind sprang; we have been riding and fighting in conquest for three generations
now. Our grandfathers began it when they fled from the centaurs who rode down
from the north and conquered our ancestral country.”
“The
Vanyar were chased from their own lands?” Yocote asked, surprised. “What manner
of people were these who pushed them out?”
“Half
man, half horse; they have horses' bodies, but are men from the waist up,”
Masana said. “They wear long moustaches and cut their black hair short. They
shoot with short bows made of horn and wood, and are as numerous as the grass
on the plain.”
Well,
that last was how the western folk thought of the Vanyar. Was there a people so
vast in numbers that even the Vanyar thought them uncountable? Yocote shuddered
at the thought. “They are hard, these centaurs?”
“Very
hard; they show no trace of pain, and delight in slaughter and in rapine—or so
said our grandmothers; we ourselves have never seen them.” Masana shuddered,
too. “Pray to all gods that we never shall!”
“So
your grandfathers needed to conquer new lands in which to live.” Yocote
frowned. “But why do you continue to do so?”
“Because
the centaurs might come again,” Masana said, “and because by the time our
mothers were born, we Vanyar had filled the lands our grandfathers had
conquered. If we were to live, we must needs do so by conquering more.”
“You
must bear many babes. Do your women bring them forth three and four at a time?”
“Litters
like those of dogs?” Masana scoffed, but her eyes brightened with anger. “No.
We only know it is a woman's duty to bear as many children as she can.”
Yocote
was astounded. “What blasphemy is this? Women die from too much
child-bearing—their bodies wear out!”
Masana
shrugged. “There are always more women to take their places—or so say
Bolenkar's priests. They tell us a woman must always be willing, no matter
whether she wishes it or not.” Her tone was becoming bitter. “If she is not
willing, so much the worse for her! I wonder if those priests would say this if
they had themselves been raped—but rape is all to the better, they say;
Bolenkar would rather have rape than have the woman knowing pleasure. Thereupon
he tells us another reason to conquer—to capture unwilling women and beget
children upon them by force. If a man wants slaves, says Bolenkar, he should
get them himself—get their mother by conquest, then get them upon her!”
“So
your men have many slaves.” Yocote shuddered. “Axe the children reared as
slaves, or as Vanyar?”
“The
boys are Vanyar. The women are slaves.” The sardonic set of her mouth told him
that even the full-blooded Vanyar women were slaves, but she dared not say it.
“But
children require food, clothing, warmth, and shelter,” Yocote replied. “How is
a Vanyar warrior to gain them?”
“By
conquest,” Masana replied.
“And
if he fails?”
“Then
they die.”
Yocote
shuddered. “It is otherwise among the western peoples, even among us gnomes!
Among humans a man may not wed until he has built himself a house, cleared land
to farm, and proved his ability to provide by raising crops and bringing home
meat from the hunt for a year or two—and must prove also, of course, that he
can slay a bear who threatens them, or even a bandit.”
“And
how many children does he sire
before
he weds?”
“Some
do,” Yocote admitted, “but they must bring home food for the babes nonetheless,
even should they marry another—and they are viewed with contempt for years
after.”
Masana
nodded slowly. “That is better for the women, yes— but once they are wed, how
many children do they bear?”
“As
many as the Creator gives them,” Yocote replied. “Some have none, some have
fifteen—but most have only four or five.”
“Four
or five in a woman's whole lifetime?” Masana said in disbelief. “How comes
this?”
“I
am still a bachelor,” Yocote said sheepishly, “so I do not truly know—but our
shamans say that a man must not lie with a woman, even his wife, unless she
wishes it.” He could not help a sly smile. “Of course, I am told that many men
are quite skilled at bringing their wives to wish it.”
“A
wondrous law!” Masana cried. “Is this what Lomallin teaches his people?”
“Lomallin's
ghost, and the still-living Ulin woman Rahani,” Yocote told her.
“But
if what you say is so, a man who has four or five wives would father only
twenty or twenty-five children!”
“Twenty-five?”
Yocote stared. “Where would he find food for so many? No, most of our folk wed
only one wife—or only one at a time, at least; there are some couples that
divorce and find new partners.”
“Only
one wife?” Masana said with surprise. “How could he be content?”
“Ah.”
Yocote smiled. “Therein are our
women
skilled. You might as well ask how
a woman can be content with the same husband for a whole lifetime, and I must
admit that some cannot, even as some men cannot—but most of our men seem
skilled at keeping their wives content with their lot, and with their men.”
“Rahani
must teach them both wondrous things,” Masana muttered.
“We
are told that this is better for the children,” Yocote added. “They are secure
in their parents' love, and in having the attention of one man and one woman,
whom they know to be their mother and father.”
“It
is true, it is very true! For a child to have to struggle for the father's
attention, against the children of the favorite wife, is as cruel as the mother
struggling for some small part of her husband's regard! In fact, many have no
more attention than he gives his cattle, and less than he gives his horse!”
“Even
so,” Yocote agreed. “Thus we limit the number of marriages, and folk wed
later—and thus are there fewer children born to our folk. That is sad in
itself, perhaps, but happier in that there is more assurance that none of the
children will starve. But we boast that more of our women are happy than among
the city-folk of the south, and that more men are happy, too.”
“I
think that I like your notion of happiness,” Masana said. “But what happens
when a father dies in war?”
“Then
all the other folk of the tribe band together to see to it that his wife and
babes do not starve, or go too badly in want,” Yocote told her. “Still, wars
are rare among us, and generally nothing more than a hundred men or so in one
single battle.”
His
face darkened. “At least, so it was until Bolenkar's emissaries came among us.”
“I
shall be his emissary no longer,” Masana said, with sudden and total
conviction. “I shall match my spells against those of his priests, and if I
die, I die—but if I live, I shall free the Vanyar from his tyranny!”
Yocote
stared, amazed at the transformation he had wrought.
Masana
saw, and smiled. “Do not be so surprised, little shaman—you have told me things
I never knew, given me knowledge that Bolenkar and his priests have withheld
from us! Of course I have embraced a teaching that could so bless me, and all
my kind! It is not you who have persuaded me, but truth itself—and the truth
shall free us all! Come, let us go back to the world of men and women, and I
shall sing the Vanyar this song of freedom! Away!”
With
that, her form seemed to melt, to vibrate, and to harden again into the shape
of the hawk. She climbed aloft in a crackling of wing beats and shot off toward
the World Tree, then began to slip and slide through the air in a spiral about
it, descending.
Yocote
hurried to follow her, changing back to the form of the badger as he did.
Singorot
stood panting, and Culaehra could visibly see the man summon the last of his
energy. He swung his huge broadsword with a convulsive heave, and Culaehra
ducked under its path with ease. The Vanyar tried to change the direction of the
slash at the last moment, and Culaehra, with a flash of inspiration, rose just
enough for the blade to catch Corotrovir and slam it back against his
helmet—and he could have sworn the sword snarled at him for it. He fell to the
side, rolled up to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear it, and heard the
murmur of satisfaction from the Vanyar with the groan of his own people—but in
truth, the stroke held very little force compared to Singorot's first blow. The
man had tired, and badly. So had Culaehra, of course, but with a lighter sword
and lighter armor, he was nowhere nearly so weary as Singorot.
He
was sick to death of this pantomime, though. He wished heartily that Yocote
would waken so he could end it.
Then
he heard a thrum of exclamations from the Vanyar. With a quick glance he saw
the Vanyar shaman returning, her warriors supporting her as she came. She was
still alive! Anxiety for Yocote thrilled through him, and he almost turned to
glance at the little shaman, but saw Singorot swinging his sword back and up in
a great circle. He was mightily tempted to kick the fellow in the belly and be
done with it, but knew he had to let Singorot save the esteem of his own men,
or he would have a blood-feud with full hatred on his hands. Again a lucky
thought rose, and he rolled up his shoulder, tucked down his head, and charged
the Vanyar, for all the world as if they held no swords.
Singorot
saw him coming, of course, but could not bring the great sword around in time
to stop him. They met with a crash, and the Vanyar went sprawling. So did
Culaehra, but it was the Vanyar's people who shouted in anger.
Culaehra
was first to roll back up to his feet. Singorot floundered, finally managing to
roll to hands and knees, looking about, dazed, for his sword. Everyone could
see that Culaehra had time and more to cut off his head ...
But
by that time no one was looking, for the Vanyar shaman was calling out, and all
her people were turning to look. Culaehra risked a quick glance at Yocote and
saw the little man unfolding and rising, blinking, bemused. Culaehra turned
back to Singorot; the big man was on his feet again, his sword raised to guard,
but taking many quick glances at his shaman. A moment later he was watching his
shaman but taking many quick glances at Culaehra. With vast relief, Culaehra
stuck Corotrovir into the ground before him and folded his arms. Singorot
stared, first with surprise, then with quick calculation. The message was
clear—Culaehra could seize the sword again in a second, but was not now brandishing
it. What could it mean, but truce? The big Vanyar slowly lowered his own sword,
then jabbed it into the ground before him and let go. His relief was hard to
miss.
Culaehra
gave him a little bow; Singorot returned it. Then, very deliberately, Culaehra
turned to watch the Vanyar shaman, as if he could understand her words.
Surprised, Singorot stared, then turned to the shaman eagerly.
Whatever
she had said, it provoked a storm of controversy. Singorot caught up his sword,
sheathing it as he ran to join the knot of people around the shaman. They were
arguing furiously, arms waving, some voices angry, others high in delight.
Culaehra
caught up Corotrovir and sheathed it as he sidled back to Yocote. “Welcome
back, shaman. You do not know how glad I am to see that you live.”
“I
can guess,” Yocote said sourly. “Be ready to defend Masana, warrior. She may
need it more than any of us, in moments.”
“Masana?
The Vanyar shaman?”
“The
same.”
“You
have been busy in your trances, have you not?”
“We
have established that Lomallin is mightier than Bolenkar if the two must
confront one another, yes—and I told her our notions about marriage and family
life. She seemed to prefer them to the Vanyar code.”
“As
well she might,” Lua said with a shudder.
Culaehra
glanced down with a frown. “What do you know about Vanyar ways?”
“I
have spoken with Vira and her women. They heard great boasting and bragging
from their captors—how they would rape them all again and again, begetting
children upon them time after time. Then as soon as the children were born,
they would resume raping, until they got them with child again.” Lua shuddered.
“I am not surprised that a female shaman would prefer the way of Lomallin and
Rahani.”