White Head cackled and wheezed. “Those, they were nothing!” he said, waving at Rakki’s gun. “There were giant-bird weapons that the gods flew in. They sent down giant bullets that burned all the land—like fire mountains. Broke the ground up like the holes that open when the world shakes.”
Rakki felt a rush of anger at White Head’s ridiculing his newly acquired source of so much pride, but a cautionary instinct made him bite it down. “Attend to your work, old man,” he growled. “I have things to do.”
He moved to the cave entrance and went out. Rubble and rocks lay strewn over the area inside the rampart. There had been ground tremors in the last few days, and beyond the rampart part of the cliff line had fallen, blocking the trail leading east. Workers were clearing a new path over it. Continual rolls of thunder and deep groaning sounds from the ground were coming from the direction of the fire mountains. With all their powers, the Oldworld gods hadn’t been able to prevent the destruction of their world beneath bolts that fell in torrents from the skies and walls of moving water that Rakki had been told devoured mountains. Nobody had been able to tell him what had been the cause of it all. Some said that spirit beings, controlling such things as the earth-fires and the skies, became displeased when men failed to live as the spirits wanted, and so destroyed them. White Head had once talked about “devils,” who were enemies of the gods and had similar powers. Rakki wasn’t sure if he believed it. To him it sometimes sounded more as if those who talked of spirits invented them as a way of inducing men to live as they wanted, which usually meant feeding and protecting them—another way to harness the strong. But in any case, he was usually too preoccupied with surviving from one day to the next to think too much about it.
Jemmo was outside at the far end of the enclosed area, observing the butchering of several animals that had been killed by rocks falling into the pens. Wakabe, another of the Oldworlders, was explaining the procedure. At least Rakki and his companions would eat well before they departed and carry ample provision for the journey. Jemmo had taken to wearing a light Oldworld body garment—originally with sleeves extending down the arms, but Jemmo had found them constricting and had them cut off—with an Oldworld belt above his loin cladding and a cape made from hide, fastened at the neck with a clasped thong. He was also wearing the hide foot-sheaths taken from Bo, but he had removed the thick undersurfaces because they were clumsy and slipped on the rocks. Uncovered soles of feet gave a better grip. Yes, that’s good. Concern yourself with your looks and keep your mind on things inside the caves and the rampart, Rakki thought to himself. Worry about being safe and become soft like the Oldworlders. Then, when I return, toughened from travels over great distances, we will face each other.
He was about to move on, when he saw a figure approaching him. It was Zomu, one of the Swamp warriors who had taken part in the ambush in the ravine. He made a sign motioning Rakki back behind a rock flanking the cave opening, at the same time casting a look around them that said he wished to talk privately. Rakki said nothing and waited.
“I say this because I know the day must come when you and Jemmo fight,” Zomu began, keeping his voice low, his eyes still roaming. “I believe Rakki will rule the swamp lands and the caves. When your word is the law, I want you to remember who helped you.”
“What is it you have to say?” Rakki asked.
“Jemmo is filled with bad blood. A madness burns within him for Shell Eyes. He would see her dead rather than with you. I ask you to be careful. She could be in danger when you leave tomorrow. That is my warning.”
“How do you know this?”
“Careless talk by Iyala that I overhear.” Iyala was one of Jemmo’s henchmen.