“Then we defeat them, and life is simple. No one will ever know what you were planning except me.” A whistle of amusement. “And maybe those swampsnails you’ve been collecting around you—for reasons which mystified me until tonight.”
“They will say nothing. And I told the clan leaders—those few who asked—that I wanted the swamp-dwellers for scouts. To make sure the Utuku didn’t surprise us by coming through the swamp.”
Aktako’s whistle combined amazement and humor.
“And they believed you?”
“I think so. They give almost no thought to the nature of the enemy, Aktako. The Utuku would never come through the swamp. Their tactics are designed for dry land—flat, open areas. In the swamp, they would be at a great disadvantage.”
“That’s what you’re counting on, isn’t it?”
“Yes. That and—” She paused, brown misery washing over her. “And the fact that the Utuku will be wallowing in their victory.”
Brown rippled across Aktako’s mantle as well. But within a short time, the brown deepened to black.
“Life is what it is, Kopporu. We do what we must. I have always taught you that—from the first day you joined my battle group.”
The veteran stroked Kopporu’s arms.
“So bright and fierce you were. And beautiful. I thought for sure you’d choose one of the younger and better looking veterans.”
Kopporu whistled derision. “I may have been young, but I wasn’t stupid. Much good it does you to have a pretty lover when the forks are shattering. I knew what I wanted—a scarred old warrior, wise in battle.”
The two gukuy gazed at each other lovingly. Theirs was an unusual romance. Most Kiktu warriors went through a succession of lovers, but Kopporu and Aktako had been together for eightyweeks. At another time, under other circumstances, their mantles would already be turning white with passion. But on that night of sorrow, there was only the soft green of long affection.
They fell asleep sometime later, their arms intertwined. Aktako’s last words were:
“You know what the biggest problem’s going to be, don’t you? How to keep Guo alive during the battle.”
“I’m not worried about that. Guo’s going to be a battlemother out of legend. The real problem will be to keep her from trying to rescue the Great Mother after the battle’s lost.”
“How will you do that?”
“I don’t know, Aktako. I don’t know.”
Kopporu may not have been worried about Guo surviving the battle, but the infanta herself was sleepless that night.
Not worried about her survival, however, but about her conduct during the battle. She suspected, in the half-cocksure/half-uncertain manner of youth, that she was probably the greatest battlemother produced by the Kiktu in generations. But what she knew, on that eve before the clash, was that she had never been in a real battle before. Her experience was limited to the practice field, and a few minor skirmishes with other tribes. But those skirmishes were meaningless—not least because the opponents had fled instantly upon seeing a battlemother.
The Utuku would not flee. It was not the least of their unspeakable savagery—the contempt in which they held all mothers. Guo knew that the Utuku did not even use the word “mother” in their own language. They simply called them “breeders.” Utuku mothers were maimed at birth: the tendons in their peds slashed, so that the pitiful creatures could not even walk. Mothers captured from other tribes were treated likewise. And then condemned to a life of forced breeding.
I shall not be treated so, vowed Guo silently. They will only take my dead body for meat.
She picked up her mace and hefted it. A club, essentially, with six long blades protruding from all sides—edges out, not points out. It was a clumsy weapon, for a clumsy mother. But what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in size and weight. The weapon was huge. A gukuy warrior could barely lift the mace, much less wield it in combat. The mace was a weapon for battlemothers—designed to compensate for their awkwardness by using their enormous strength.
Staring at the mace, Guo’s mantle turned suddenly yellow. Contempt—for the weapon and herself.
I wanted to use a flail—from the time I first began my training. Like a real warrior, instead of a giant slug.
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166