Dzhenushkunutushen turned away, saying: “Any Utuku who bites me will die horribly.”
Nukurren appreciated the humor of the remark. Then, after further thought, wondered if it was a joke.
Two days later, the white demon reappeared in the hospital. He was accompanied by the female demon who was skilled in the healing arts, Mariyaduloshruyush.
“Mariya tells me that you are now able to move about,” said Dzhenushkunutushen.
“That is true. Not easily, and not very well. But I am able to walk.”
“I would like to ask you—” The female demon began rapidly speaking in the human language. Enagulishuc, it was called. Nukurren thought she was displeased.
“She is angry with me,” explained Dzhenushkunutushen.
“Why?”
“Because what I wish to ask of you will not be good for your health.”
“Ask.”
The female demon left abruptly, after making that odd motion of spreading her arms which Nukurren suspected was the demon equivalent of the gesture of disgruntled acceptance.
“I would like to ask you to come to the training field and observe.”
“Why?”
“You are the best gukuy warrior we have ever encountered. I think you could teach us much. Yoshef—he is the” (Nukurren made him repeat the term until she grasped it) “kapitanu of our army—did not like the idea. He is suspicious of you. But I insisted.”
“Why?”
The demon paused. Two small, bright blue demon eyes stared into one large, iron gray gukuy eye. Then:
“You know why—Sharredzhenutumadzhoru.”
Three days later, feeling her health returning quickly, Nukurren went to the training field. She was accompanied by Ertatu, but Nukurren had no need of her guidance to find the way. The harsh sounds of demon voices were the only guide she needed. Much harsher sounding than usual. It was the demon battle language, she knew.
At the edge of the open field, Nukurren squatted and observed the demons racing back and forth in complex maneuvers. It took her some time to separate the logic of the actions from the sheer dazzling display of speed. By now, of course, she had come to understand the demon way of moving, and so they no longer seemed to flicker. Still, they were so fast; so agile; so—different.
And then, as she watched, not so different. They were practicing tactical maneuvers, and once Nukurren became accustomed to the blinding speed of the demons, she was eventually able to discern the basic patterns of the exercises.
Nukurren’s only previous experience with the demons in combat had been the attack on the slave caravan. That episode had been too chaotic for her to have made any assessment of the demons’ tactical methods. Now, seeing those methods displayed in training exercises, Nukurren was puzzled by what she saw.
Eventually, the demons paused in their exercises and made that bizarre folding motion with their bodies which enabled them to rest on the ground. The word for that in Enagulishuc, Nukurren had learned, was sitting. She was fascinated to see water (at least, she thought it was water) dripping down the faces of the demons, and quickly deduced that such was the demon method of eliminating excess heat. It seemed bizarre to her, as well as messy and slightly disgusting. Gukuy expelled excess heat through increased evaporation in their breath.
Soon, Dzhenushkunutushen approached and sat down facing her.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Nukurren considered her reply. It would be unwise to offend the demon. He, and to some extent his lover Ludumila, had been the only demons to show some signs of friendship toward Nukurren and Dhowifa. On the other hand . . .
Nukurren decided. Whatever else, Dzhenushkunutushen was gurren otoshoc, and thus entitled to respect.
“A question. How many of you will mobilize for war with the Utuku?”
The demon hesitated. Then: “Triple-eighty.”
“So few?”
Silence. The demon looked away for a time. It was, Nukurren realized, a critical moment.
Dzhenushkunutushen turned back. His bright blue eyes were unwavering.
“There are no more ummun than that on this world, Nukurren. Except a very few too old to fight.”
Nukurren made the gesture which, in Anshaku, is called unnudh wap kottu. The gesture expresses a sentiment which is not readily translatable into English. A different human culture had an equivalent—that particular bow by which one samurai acknowledges another.
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