Each time the armsman said it, the pitch of his voice rose, and the knife point pushed a little harder into his back.

There was a deep thud like the sound of a stick hitting a melon, and the man suddenly slacked his grip and fell to the ground.

Talen turned. Nettle stood holding a hunk of firewood like a club.

"Good work," Talen said.

"Get his sword!" Nettle said.

Talen bent over and s.n.a.t.c.hed the sword from the dirt. It was heavy and did not feel right in his hands. He picked up the man's dagger and tossed it to Nettle. Then he felt his back where the man had p.r.i.c.ked him. When he pulled his hand away, blood stained his fingers.

"You call your men off," Da said to the big armsmen. "You tell them to drop their weapons."

"You're dead, Koramite," the big armsman said. He tried to break Da's grip, but Da simply pushed the knife closer.

"Now," Da commanded.

"We can take them," one of the other armsmen said. The other five armsmen spread out a bit and moved forward.

Ke darted out, grabbed the Hog, and stood to face them. Ke might be able to hold his own against one of these armsmen, but there were six. Talen wasn't going to be of much use. River backed up to the house. Talen knew she was going for her bow, but by the time she got in, strung it, and came back out, these men would already be upon Talen and the others.

Da stabbed the big armsman's shoulder then put the blade back to the side of the man's neck.

The big man cried out in pain as lood began to soak into the cloth of his tunic.

"One more step, and this big fellow bleeds out in my yard," Da said.

"Put your weapons down!" The big armsman called out.

The other armsmen hesitated.

Da pressed the knife closer. Blood welled up on the armsman's neck.

"Drop them!" the leader bellowed.

The men looked at each other, then reluctantly dropped their swords.

"Everything," said Da. "And kick them away."

"Do it," the leader said. His face was red and strained, a ma.s.sive vein standing out on his forehead.

The men threw daggers after their swords. The two with the crossbows added their weapons.

"River, Nettle," Da said. "Bows."

River and Nettle dashed into the house to retrieve the bows.

Da stood the big man up. A few moments later, River and Nettle returned. They tossed a bow and quiver to Ke and another to Talen. Talen caught his, strung his bow, and then nocked an arrow.

Da shoved the big man away, sending the armsman stumbling forward a number of steps.

Da said, "I'm going to give you ten seconds to get across that stream. Then I don't want to see you here ever again. You can make complaints to the Shoka warlord to get your weapons back."

The man looked at the arrows pointing at him. "You're going to pay for this, goat lover."

Da took a quick step toward him. The man raised his arm in defense, but Da was too quick. He punched the man, once, twice, in the face and folded his nose to the side. The armsman yelled out. Da stepped forward and kneed him hard in the groin.

The man doubled over in pain and dropped to one knee. Blood ran out his nose into his moustache and beard.

Da grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back. "Am I going to see you again?"

The man sucked in great breaths. "No, Zun," he managed at last. This time there was no mockery in the tone. "No."

"Because if I do," said Da. "I'm just going to a.s.sume you're one of those men who hasn't got the sense to know when to leave well enough alone. And there's only one way to deal with those types. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good," said Da. "You're a big man, a fine a.s.set; I'm sure your Fir-Noy commanders would hate to lose one with your good sense. And just in case you change your mind, I'm going to alert the Shoka warlord that there's someone lost on his lands."

Then Da released him, looked at the other hunters, and began his count. "One," he said.

These weren't cowards, but Talen could see they knew they'd been beaten.

The big man got to his feet, holding his nose, the blood darkening his unkempt beard, but he didn't say a word. He limped off toward the stream. Two others helped the man Nettle had brained.

Talen and his family followed a comfortable distance behind the men, stopping at the crest of the stream bank. Talen kept his bow up but did not dare to keep his arrow fully drawn lest he accidentally loose it and strike one of them. Da may have beaten the leader, but the presence of these men still frightened him. The possible consequences of this altercation frightened him even more. You couldn't shame part of an order and not expect the rest to rise up against you. Who knew what string of events this had initiated?

The hunters splashed across the creek. On the other side, one of them turned. It appeared he was going to say something, but before he could speak, Ke's bow hummed.

The man dodged to the side, but Ke hadn't been aiming to hit him. The arrow sped past and sunk into a tree.

"Keep moving," Ke shouted.

The man climbed to his feet.

"Don't badger them," said Da.

But Ke had another arrow nocked. "I won't. I'll just maim a few."

"Ke," Da warned.

The armsmen hurried to the woods. Just before they disappeared round a bend, one of them turned and gestured an insult. Then he too turned and slipped into the trees.

"Those men will be back," said Talen. "And they'll bring the rest of their cohort with them."

"There's no cohort," said Da. "This wasn't a military mission. If it had been, we would have seen many more. And it would have been led properly. These were opportunists. Nothing more."

"Someone ought to follow them anyway," said Ke. "Just to be sure."

Da nodded. "But you use that bow only as a last resort. We blew the fire out of them. I don't want you stoking it up again."

"They won't even know I'm there," Ke said, then loped after the men.

"River," said Da. "I need you to scout the hills around the farm. I don't want any more surprises."

"Yes," she said.

Da turned to Talen and Nettle. "And you two, go see to that dog."

12.

The Mother HUNGER STOOD UPON the cliff. Hundreds of feet below him a river surged. He knew its name-the Lion. He knew many names now, all of them taken from the villager named Barg. And more would grow in him over the next few days as he finished digesting the soul of this man. But he wanted no more.

At first, each name had been a delight and thrill. Each had added to a building ecstasy, but then it all changed horribly. The image of the girl he'd killed in the village of Plum-the son, the pretty wife-they rose in him again. Those images swelled like a tide of grief, and he floundered in it like one drowning because it was not the girl, the son, the wife, but his girl, his son, his lovely, precious wife.

Somehow, in some wicked way, he was the villager Barg, twisted beyond all reckoning.

It made no sense. But new words tumbled into him every hour. New ideas. In some inexplicable way he'd mixed with the villager like copper and tin mixed to make bronze. He was Hunger and Barg and all the small things he had eaten: a rat, two lazy dogs, a mult.i.tude of insects, a horse.

After devouring Barg, he had reached out and, with his own rough hands, wrenched the life from his daughter. He'd separated her, taking her Fire and soul and casting her body aside. He'd swallowed her whole, but he hadn't eaten her like he had Barg. He'd swallowed her into the place the Mother had told him to.

But he could have chosen not to. He could have run away.

The image of his wife's back breaking, of her folding over like a stick of wood, took his vision away.

Lords, he could have spared her, his son, and little Rose. Oh, sweet little Rose. His grief stretched wide and he roared at the confusion and pain. But Hunger had no tears. No way to purge the pain. And he could not escape. The souls of his family struggled within him, imprisoned inside that place the Mother had made. They would not get out. Could not. Even he didn't know how to release them-that was the power of the Mother. So he could not open his stomach directly. But perhaps there was another way.

He looked down at his legs and arms. Earth and gra.s.s . . . it was not right. It was not his body. He could feel worms burrowing through his limbs. This morning he'd pulled away chunks of the gra.s.s growing on his legs and stomach and dug in. He was nothing more than dirt and sticks and stone.

There was a name for what he was, but it floated away from him. Nevertheless, it was a body. And bodies could be broken. And would that then not break the binding within him and set his family free?

Hunger knew he must die.

The river surged at the bottom of the gorge below him. If he broke himself upon the rocks below, perhaps he could undo the horror. It would not bring him back as father or husband. But perhaps it would release their souls, and they could find a way to continue in the world of the dead.

The Lion was a treacherous river and had drowned many men. He spotted a run of thick rapids and marked it as his target. He would break upon the rocks there and sink to the bottom. In time the rushing waters would carry his body out to sea.

A voice came into his mind. "Stop," it said. It was the Mother, reaching out to him. "This will do you no good. Have you not learned yet to trust me? I told you not to eat the humans, but you disobeyed."

He felt her pull. Felt the pain only she could give him. But maybe she could ease the grief. Maybe she could ease his yearning and emptiness. Maybe she wouldn't punish him. Hunger looked at the waters below and hesitated.

She would hurt him. She would be furious. "I only ate one. Only one. And he didn't have any stink. You said not to taste the ones with stink."

"You're right. That is what I said. And you did well to cease your frenzy. Come back to me."

"It hurts," he said. "I only ate one, but even this one hurts."

"Of course. Don't you see?" she said. "It's the man you ate that's riding you, filling your mind with these thoughts. The filthy man. You've given him power over you."

The man wasn't filthy. The man was . . . Hunger. It was he himself.

"I am an . . ." he paused, then the word came to him, tumbled in with the weight of a ma.s.sive stone. "I am an abomination," he said. "Let me go."

"Come to me," she said. "I will give you rest. I will show you how to eat these men and not suffer."

Her pull was not overwhelming here, not like in her cave, but he could feel the ease only she could give him. He almost turned then. Almost returned to her. But Hunger now knew the name for what he was, and that thing was not meant for this world.

"Come to me," she repeated.

"No," he said. "You made me. Not the man. You are the river of darkness. But I choose one of light."

Then he stepped back, and before he could change his mind, before she could say another word, he charged the chasm and, with a mighty leap, flung himself into the yawning gorge.

A satisfaction washed over him, for at least this deed was right. He plummeted in silence. He knew he should feel a giddiness, a rising thrill or panic. A man would feel that. And that's what he had been. But all he felt was the black hunger of his heart.

Then the surging river rushed up at him and he crashed violently into the rocks. Part of his body slipped away. He waited for the breaking to continue, waited to dissolve and disperse like sediment. Waited to die.

The water pushed him off the rocks, and he tumbled into the torrent, bounced off another stone, turned in the rush. He waited for another part to slip away, but the rushing current simply carried him along.

He waited and waited and then realized his mistake. Dirt! Cursed, rotten dirt! How could you kill dirt? He hadn't even felt the pain of impact.

He sunk into the river's depths, sc.r.a.ping, rolling, b.u.mping along the bottom as the water ran its turbulent path.

Maybe the river would carry him out to sea. He might walk in the depths there, might even be eaten by a leviathan. Surely such a beast could kill him. Or maybe it would avoid him altogether, for what creature of the sea ate dirt?

The force of the water soon lessened and he found himself in a deep eddy, deposited in the shadow of an overhanging rock. He lay in a bed of sand at the bottom of this calm nook of the river. A school of large trout eyed him in the dark green and blue depths. Far above them, the sun shone like a pale dot. Maybe he could lie here forever, let the river cover him up with sand and mud.

But if he did, his family would lie here with him, imprisoned in his gut.

He needed help. And of the seven Creators, there was only one he thought might answer.

"Regret," he prayed in his mind. "Deliver me. Destroy this creation. Dissolve me forever."

But it was not Regret that answered him.

"If you will not learn obedience through pleasure," said the Mother, "then you will learn it through pain."

Hunger braced himself. He did not know what magical bond she held him with, but she could always find him. And she could deliver a white hot flame that burned all thought from his mind.

"Come to me," she said.