There had been more words once, he thought. But that was all he needed to say. "Go! Go!" he muttered, rising and kicking.

"That one, that one-" He pointed to two bodies. "Eat. Others, Meat Cave. Pretties, Pretty Cave." He stopped to wrench loose a thumb, hacking at the joint with a rock; jamming it in his mouth, he led the way. There was no need for Words, this was old custom. The men followed, those who were not too hungry; they settled by the bodies, cuffing the little ones and makers aside to wait their turn. There was only one Pretty in the Pretty cave; many became Meat before long. She cowered aside as they entered, giggling as strings of drool fell on her swollen belly. That was good. The little ones the Pretties made often learned Words; even though the Wise Ones must watch, that nothing ate them.The others were busy, ripping off the clothes and weighing the new Pretties down, many to a limb. One was stirring, mumbling; he knelt between her legs, gripped her, entered, began to pump.

The other Men grunted and rocked in chorus. Her eyes opened.

Megan wrenched out of Piatr's grasp with a shriek-"NO, NEVER AGAIN!"-eyes blind; seeing through Alexa's eyes, not her own, clawed and screamed as Alexa could not-mouth blocked by eager, pawing hands, and mouths, weighed down by bodies that rubbed themselves against her, waiting their turn.

Alexa got a garbled scream free-anger, horror, rage, fear-and fought with the strength of utter despairing. Alexa, though a Zak, had no power; but Megan did. And for seconds she could "touch" her crewwoman with it, at cost; a killing drain of her power. Piatr slapped her once, twice, trying to break her out of the deadly cycle. He could almost see her failing, cheeks hollowing, falling in, not even strength to keep her heartbeat regular. He cut off the arteries in her neck, barely enough to knock her unconscious, cutting off whatever she was feeding.

Alexa's body grew hot under their hands and suddenly they weren't holding a Pretty but a snake that writhed in their hands and Vilelem tried to push away from what wrapped around him.

Snake! It had been a snake that killed Old Father's Father!

Wrapped around his neck by the Enemies! Snakes came in and ate little ones, squeezing, squeezing! Screaming, he voided bowels and bladder, rearing backward, flailing. The others exploded outward from the writhing shape, not caring that their eyes and hands told different tales. Even the group moaning and rocking by the other Pretty started up, although not the one mounting; his eyes were squeezed shut. Blindly, Vilelem struck out. And suddenly was fighting the Pretty again; an elbow crashed into his throat, and he dropped. The Pretty was screaming too, tiny Enemy eyes stretched wide into the dimness.

She turned, ran. Her skull met rock with a dull chunk, and she fell to the rustling dung-matted grass of the cave's floor. Vilelem moaned, waiting as his breathing slowed. The Pretty stayed a Pretty. Faces crowded back to the entrance of the Pretty Cave, those who had fled: the others had not had time to notice anything unusual, there was often commotion when a new Prettywas brought in.

"Quick, quick," he gasped hoarsely. "Bring wrapwrap, wraptight, take to Meat Cave!" But for all his cuffing, none would approach her. Shrinking, he forced his way back to her and laid the first loop of leather rope around her. That made the others bold: they crowded near to finish the binding, and carry her out. The group about the other Pretty unfroze. Vilelem clutched his genitals in shock; they were comfortingly present, but he wanted to be sure. Bent over, he ran to the niche of the skull and crouched beneath it.

"Old Father, make strong," he crooned. "We be good. Old Father, Old Father! Are we not Men!" There was fresh screaming from the cave of the Pretties, but it did not reassure him as it should. He would stay with Old Father.

Shkai'ra's head broke surface, and she forced herself to breathe in slowly through her mouth, reaching down to pull Sova up beside her. The others broke surface quickly, moving up the slippery rock slope. The stink was like a blow, numbing the nose and taste buds; the darkness lay on their eyes like spoiled liver, and a confusion of screams, shouts, wails echoed directionless from rock all about them.

"Fire!" she whispered harshly. Jimha fumbled the lid of the firepot open, and they stripped the torches from their fishbladder covers and thrust them into the pot. "Careful, careful, don't put it out for the love of each and every god." She was afraid, she realized with a start. It was a very long time since she had been afraid of danger; the darkness weighed down on her with a physical presence. This was not war, it was like being shrunk tiny and hunted by maggots through their tunnels in a corpse...

The light flared. Her sigh of relief turned to a snarl as she saw the sentinel waiting by the narrow exit, starting up and throwing a spindly forearm before its eyes. This cave was small, there must be... That was a human voice screaming. She started forward; the shore was slime, then dry, crusted filth on a base of leaves and straw. Her hand went over her shoulder; enough room to draw and strike...A small form darted past her; the torchlight glinted red on the knife in its hand. The Karibal was just straightening up when Sova struck him. Her knife was nine inches, battle-poinard; only the breastbone stopped her hysterical, ripping stroke.

Shkai'ra lunged and dragged Sova back, free of the gutted body. The Thane girl rose; her face was clenched in the torchlight, wet, still sobbing, white about mouth and nose, but the knife in her hand trembled only slightly.

"No time for plans; they'll have seen the light, even with all that noise. Follow me!" Shkai'ra plunged through the slit into the cave beyond. The crewfolk followed, with torch and bared steel.

Francosz was staring fixedly at the man on the floor next to him. The one who was still alive. With no legs and one arm. The screaming and shouts changed pitch once, but he almost didn't notice. Even in the dark, there was enough light from the patches of yellow that were crawling on the man to see that his nose was gone, raggedly, as if worried free of his face. He rubbed leather-bound wrists slowly over the ragged edge of something that he lay on, a bone perhaps.

Mucus was running down his face, tears as well, but if he could wear through the binding... "Maaah... ahma," he whimpered. "Sssovaah, Shkk'aiii... ahhhn... nybody." It was a low, dull monotone. The little ones would be back soon. Very far away he saw flicker of fire, shut his eyes, looked again. It was stronger. The screams were changing to panicked squeals as the creatures tried to hide from the light. He heard his name, others, blinked and began to shout, trying to get up on his knees, kicking out against old bones that crumbled.

Megan opened bleary eyes to lie for a minute staring at Piatr's worried face, too weary to do more than lie there and breathe.

His face was bloody.

"Did I do that?" she whispered. "Sorry-""It's all right, Captain, no worse than a cat." He held a cup to her lips but she turned away.

"What's happened? Are they back?" She turned her head from one side to the other, slowly, every muscle in her neck aching. "I can't even feel your presence, Piatr. I can't-"

"Hush. Overstrain like that could kill you. I don't know what's happening. They'll be back, drink this." Her eyes were already closing and she tried to avoid the cup again, then took it and lay still. She didn't see the worried look Piatr threw out in the direction of the cliff. Of course they'll be back. Koru, I wish I knew what was happening.

The things ran before the fire, squealing, blinded, almost spitting themselves on the crew's swords. Shkai'ra hacked through them, shouting for Francosz and the others. With a slow crackle the leather boats caught fire, and the grass on parts of the floor. She felt a strong draught start at her back, heat striking from behind. Like in a chimney, she thought, then, "Osman! There might be another way out! Cut them off if you can."

He was to her left and disappeared into the smoky dimness, following the breeze to its way out, to kill these things before they escaped if they could flee through the holes the air used.

Shkai'ra raised her torch and stepped into an annex cave. A movement from the corner of her eye and she wheeled, lashing out with her foot. Her heel punched into the pigeon chest of a Karibal, sending it back against the rock with a crackle of ribs, a rock dropping from its dying hand. A woman was huddled in one corner of the triangular opening, a human woman, hugely pregnant; she blinked and squinted against the light, running her hands over the curve of her stomach.

"Ba-be," she said, and giggled. Shkai'ra looked into her eyes for a moment; the Kommanza's mouth twitched, and she placed the point of her saber against the woman's neck and pushed.

There was another figure lying more to the center, spread-eagled; Ilge.Shkai'ra thought she was dead, then caught a slow rise of her chest. Her body glistened, wet with blood and mucus and semen; there were no serious wounds. "On the body," Shkai'ra said hoarsely. "On the body. " Carefully she reached down and stooped to throw the limp form over one shoulder. The main cave was brighter now; the ground cover had caught, and the layer of rancid smoke was falling quickly from the high ceiling, building faster than the draught could carry it away.

Misshapen forms scuttled, most of them very small; the crewfolk stamped and struck with glazed, hysterical passion. She heard Sova call out from another narrow slit, "Francosz!

Francosz!"

The Kommanza started forward, coughing with the thickening smoke. She wasn't conscious of that, or the weight on her shoulder, nor of eyes glaring too hard and sore for complete sanity. But when a Karibal darted at her as she strode over smouldering punk she turned, driven by reflex deeper than mind. Alone of the ones she had seen, this one wielded a sword, one-handed, and even in the dim light she could see how time had eaten it. His other paw clutched a skull to his breast. Her automatic parry met it in mid-air, and it snapped. The Karibal froze, unbelieving. Her return snap-thrust speared through his chest, and the skull dropped to the floor where wisps of smoke were rising. The almost-human mouth leaked blood as it fell to its knees, scrabbling for the ancient bone.

"Vadda," it mumbled. "Vilelem isch... gud yhunga..." and collapsed, great eyes staring.

Shkai'ra halted for a moment, kicked it out of her path; an impulse made her stoop to pick up the broken hilt. "What-" she began as she sidled into the smaller cave, stopped, turned her head aside, forced it back. Sova was withdrawing her knife from the mutilated figure lying beside her brother and Mikail, the two still alive. Wordless, Shkai'ra cut Francosz's bonds, slapped him sharply when he swayed.

"No time for that! Get Mikail, this place is going to burn!"

They retreated, coughing, crouched to avoid the worst of the thick smoke. Francosz kicked one of the little ones loose fromMikail's leg where it clung, gnawing. The others joined them at the pool. Furnace heat was on their skins; the air seemed thin to straining lungs, eyes dried; Shkai'ra could feel the draught of the fire increasing, beginning to pulse.

Vodolac was the last out of the main cave. "Other way out... I blocked it, Red-hair. Don't think any are left," he coughed. The one boat was a roaring mass of flames, the other was smoking.

Shkai'ra could feel the hairs on her arms crisp and curl, smelled scorching hair. Beneath her feet, the smouldering punk was becoming painful.

"Out! Yuri, take Alexa, Vodolac-Mikail, Sova-help your brother. Out!" she slapped Ilge's face lightly. "Ilge! Wake up, hold your breath, hear me? Hold your breath." She hoped that there was a spark of understanding in the woman's eyes, thrust Ilge's hands under the weapons belt to free her own arms for swimming; the woman a dead weight on her back. Don't drown now, she thought, and plunged into the welcome relief of the cold river.

The sleet was still hissing against the stemcastle windows when Megan awoke; grey afternoon light lay on the wool, a sad undertone to the warmer flicker of the lamp. Shkai'ra rose as she saw the Zak's eyes open, knelt to put a supporting arm under her shoulders and hold a cup to her lips.

"Beef tea," she said with a smile. "You look like a reject quarry slave; whatever that spook-pushing does, it takes energy."

Megan drank, then hugged Shkai'ra closer. "I saw... bits," she said. "Did you get everyone out? My crew? And what was it... like in there?" Shkai'ra looked out over her shoulder, at a rock where smoke still whisped from crevices.

"Ilge, Alexa, Mikhail, Francosz... Safe. The others are dead; dead and cremated, with everything else in there. As to what it was like..." She paused. "You don't want to know," she said.

Megan nodded, then a faint, puzzled frown crossed her face. "I...

was angry with you. Did I dream that?" The Kommanza laid her back on the pillows."I don't remember it," she said and nodded to an ancient, broken sword in the corner.

"They had that," she said. "Seemed to think highly of it. What the hell is it?"

Megan blinked, focusing. "Sickle-sword," she said. "Thane, no doubt of it. Old, old, though. I've seen drawings of swords like that in records of the Thane migrations, from when they first came to the riv-" She halted, stiffening, turning to glance at the rock and back to Shkai'ra. "Hanged Man's Rock," she whispered.

"The Thane leader's son and daughter- nine hundred!. Koru, nine hundred years in there!"

She blanched and fell back onto the pillows. Shkai'ra hastily picked up a slat of board wrenched from the type of box used to ship Zak dried beef. There was a symbol branded into the thin wood. "Osman picked this up," she said. "In the outer cave, while he was blocking the main land exit. They had some gauds piled up there, bolts of cloth, that sort of thing: I'd say they'd been taking ships as well-at a guess, boring holes in the bottom. And fencing the loot to somebody."

Megan stared wide-eyed at the board. Her hands clenched on the bedframe. "That's the trade-seal of my House. Habikul.

Habiku was dealing with those things, he probably set them on us..."

"Hush, think about it later, sleep," Shkai'ra said.

"Sleep! I..." Megan stopped, blinked and yawned. "More exhausted than I thought," she mumbled in a small voice.

Should be sleepy, with the draught in that broth, Shkai'ra thought, stroking her hair and humming until Megan drifted into troubled sleep, lines still creasing her forehead. Habiku, the Kommanza thought, looking at the board. Habiku, I would have killed you for my kh'eeredo's sake. Now you're piling up a debt to me personally.

Chapter FifteenAENIR'SFORD.

ELEVENTH IRON CYCLE, SEVENTH DAY.

"Get-back-into-bed!" Shkai'ra said, as the tunic settled over her head. Megan pulled her foot back from the rug and sat cross-legged on the rumpled bunk, her back to the ledge and sterncastle windows. Outside, the last of the night's snow was flicking past, big soft flakes turning dawnlight to a pearly grey.

From somewhere came a feint rhythmic chanting and creaking, as a ship was warped out of the water into a winter-quarters slip.

The cabin was dark, and chill enough to raise ridges on Megan's skin. Both women ignored it, being used to worse.

"Why?" Megan asked. "You going to stop dressing and come back to hand-feed me something hideously expensive like peeled grapes?" She felt around on the floor for her boots with her feet, not wanting to tilt her head around far enough to look; it might make her head hurt worse. "When we're married, will you nag me like this whenever I'm sick?"

"Incessantly," Shkai'ra said. "And if getting back in is the only thing that will keep you flat... all right." She began pulling the tunic back over her head. "If you really want me to come back to bed, it's a better way to spend the morning than arguing with chandlers, but you're not getting up or doing anything strenuous until you've recovered."

Megan laid her head on Shkai'ra's shoulder and closed her eyes. Physically, except for the solid beat of headache, she felt-not well-but able. Fit enough to get out of bed. She wasn't tired. After all, sleeping for three days solid will rest you, she thought, but the light still hurts a little. It was as if she could see pain flickering on the corners of her vision like the colors-not-seen. My magic teacher had mentioned them but said I'd never have to worry about them since I'd never be a high-strength witch.

"Strenuous? Not now, I have a headache." Megan grinned."I'm bored, Shkai'ra, and I'm recovered enough to want to get up. I suppose you'd rather argue with me than with the chandler, hmm?" Shkai'ra opened her mouth but Megan plowed on, interrupting before she could speak. "You want to find a beast healer for Ten-Knife. The poor old cat's in pain."

The tall woman sighed. "He hasn't even been leaving rats in the bed." It would be easier in the Zak enclave of Aenir'sford with a Zak along. She twitched the blankets back; Ten-Knife was curled in his usual spot down at the foot of the bed. He had always detested the cold; these days he took it less well than before, moving stiffly in the mornings.

Getting old, she thought. How long had it been? Six years, since the ambush in the mountains of western Fehinna. The Blue Ridge tribesfolk had left her for dead; the cat had been there the next morning, kept the scavengers off her while she lay with one leg pinned under a dead horse. And he must have been eight or nine then. Grey along the jowls now, grey flecks on his paws.

More gaunt than the sleek black beast she remembered; irritable much of the time, clinging at others. Just lately... what was it called? A fancy name for not being able to piss, she thought.

When he could, it was painful and evil-smelling.

The cat woke and yowled fretfully, pulling its head away from her fingers and then giving them a quick lick. She scratched in the favorite place beneath his jaw.

"All right," she said, looking up to meet Megan's eyes. "But take it easy. Just a nice quiet walk; lunch at an eating-house.

We see about a healer, bring them back here. You get an early night."

"Certainly!" Megan took up scratching under his chin as Shkai'ra got up again. "Stupid old cat," she muttered. He purred and started to really chew on her fingers. "Ouch, stop that." That was a trick he had started when they had been stuck in that fisher cabin. Especially when the two of us argued over his litter habits during blizzards. When I complained that he was digging up the whole goddess-damned floor and Shkai'ra would get the crazy look in her eyes, he'd crawl into somebody's lap and start chewing, purring like a fiend andkneading with those claws that could stab through heavy cloth.

Several times we ended up yelling at him instead and he'd hiss back, then give us the haughty noble look.

She strained to hear him, trying to quiet the mutter and babble in her head. Sometimes she'd get thoughts bleeding over from everyone on the ship along with the headache that snapped like a taut wire between her ears and sometimes there would be silence; like being dead, muffled in the walls of her skin, swamped with flesh and blood and the white hiss that locked her in.

Her head started pounding in time with her heartbeat and she stopped trying. "A quiet walk. Do you think I could talk you into giving me a backrub when we get back?" She scratched, winced, and scratched again with more care. Another thing about being mindburned, she thought sourly. Can't control the vermin. We need some fleabane!

Shkai'ra began latching her coat. "If you begged, I might," she said, her voice warm as she tossed the Zak's clothing from the hanger to the bed.

The door from the companionway opened, and Piatr limped through with a cloth-covered tray: chai, hot biscuits, jam. The smells filled the air, along with a colder blast before he kicked the panel shut behind him.

He looked at Megan, who was trying to pull on her trousers without moving her head, set the tray down on the table and planted fists on hips, shooting a resentful glance at Shkai'ra.

"Get-back-into-that-bed!" he said tartly. Megan started to laugh and stopped because it hurt, just curved one corner of her lip in a half smile.

"No."

Piatr sighed and asked of the ceiling, "Do I care if my Captain staggers out of her deathbed to tramp around a snowy, cold city with her barbarian lover? Do I care if she loses her powers? Do I care that she's not well enough? Do I-""All right. You've made your point, high priest of the mouth; but I am still getting up." The Zak slid her foot into her second boot, poised the heel to stamp into it, stopped, and stood up instead. "Piatr, I'll be careful. I promise."

He glared at Shkai'ra and said resentfully, "I thought you said that if we both tried, she'd stay in bed."

Shkai'ra sighed. "I tried everything from seduction to sitting on her," she said. "We could tie her wrists and ankles to the bunk, but that's a little disrespectful toward the Captain, nia?

I'll try to keep her quiet. Honest."

"Honest. Honest! Honest! Remind me never to buy a horse from you, little sister. Oh, all right. But eat first." He guided an indignant Megan to her stool and pushed her down. "Chai. Three biscuits with something sweet, no less..."

Megan adjusted her cloak as they climbed from the jollyboat; the Zingas Vetri was anchored in mid-harbor, not having urgent cargo to unload, the glint of the cage in the bow shining in the hard sun. The Zak looked at Sova's proffered arm, laid a hand on it and climbed the ladder to the wharf. "Thank you," she snapped and turned away.

"Now I know why babies are so irritable," she muttered. "For good reason. Everyone helps you all the time."

The boat pulled away for its return journey; many of the crew were going ashore for business or pleasure. Francosz has a cold and quite sensibly wants to stay where it's warm, with the watch and six crew and Ten-Knife; the cat alone good as a squad of Benai guards, in his present temper. She worried briefly about the ship-wards, not being able to set them herself- Mateus has set wards all his life, she told herself. Harborwards are simple enough. Stop worrying.

It was daylight, and she was well and favorably known here in Aenir'sford. Aenir Sieche, in the Aenirska tongue. The half-circle harbor on the southern edge of the island was busier than she had ever seen it, even before the seige three vears ago.Twin islands, shaped like a lopsided pear split by a thin channel, with its narrow end upstream and the haven facing southwest toward the Thanish shore.

The ex-Thanish shore, she reminded herself. The snow had cleared, and it was shaping into one of those painfully clear early winter days, with a sky that looked as if it would bleed blue.

The metal arch a hundred feet over the harbor entrance shone brilliant against the color, its dragons' heads, each three hundred feet from bedrock at the harbor entrance, locked together in love or combat, newly polished. A wonder that had been built with Zak hands... minds, really. Megan smiled at their shine, briefly remembering them soot-blackened with the boom half-hacked away. Clean, the harbor gate invisible under the water, they looked nothing like the defense they were.

Shkai'ra looked up at them again, with a hissing in-drawing of breath between her teeth. Partly in awe; she had seen larger structures, the Sun Temple of Ulizbuah, the Pyramids of Quairun, but not of metal.

So much, she thought. Tens of tens of tens of manweights.

You could buy a kingdom with it, in the resource-poor world the Ancestors had left; a world where weapons of real iron were the stuff of power, and the soil that fed mankind was cultivated with tools of wood and stone.

Yet there was more in the look she gave it than hard-edged Kommanz greed. There was something to the shape and curve and molding of it, as if the cold steel quivered with reptilian life.

A straining tension where the fanged mouths met, graceful and alien with a blind and ancient ferocity. The sleek, wedge-shaped heads strained together; the skin of her shoulders prickled with a sudden image of that conflict ending, the victor rearing cloud-high in triumph, then turning to look downward at the pygmies below with eyes like windows into primeval night...

She shook off the fancy. Witchery, and waste, she thought.