"The demons will protect the Old Ones," argued Kopporu. "And even if they do not, how can the Kiktu save the Old Ones if we ourselves are destroyed?"
Even before she heard the derisive whistling, Kopporu knew that she had lost the debate. She was universally recognized as the Kiktu's greatest battle leader, despite her relative youth. But she was not a clan leader, and this was not a battle. This was a full meeting of the tribal leaders, where clan status and venerable age weighed heavily in the balance.
And our ancient leaders have grown stiff in their minds, she thought bitterly. They have come to believe in the myth of Kiktu invulnerability.
Even as the thought came to her, one of the old clan leaders spoke.
"The Kiktu have never been defeated!" orated Taktoko. "Never!"
Not in living memory, no. But we too were once a small and unknown tribe, like the Utuku, until our conquests made us famed and feared. Like the Utuku.
"Does not even the Ansha Prevalate fear our flails?" demanded Taktoko. "Have not even their mighty legions whistled in fear at our onslaught?"
A chorus of loud hoots echoed her sentiments. Encouraged, Taktoko continued her peroration.
"The Ansha Prevalate only survives due to our benevolence! Should we choose, even they would fall before our flails!"
A few, faint hoots greeted this last claim. Most of the leaders present maintained a discreet silence.
At least they are not totally mad, thought Kopporu. Taktoko is an idiot. She cannot see the difference between defeating a few invading Anshac legions and conquering Ansha itself. If the Kiktu ever tried to conquer Ansha, we would be destroyed. For that matter, if the Anshac ever seriously attempted to conquer our lands, we would be forced to give way. Just as we will before the Utuku. Except the Utuku will not be satisfied with our lands. They will devour us whole.
She ignored the rest of Taktoko's speech. She had heard it all before—if not quite so mindlessly put—and there was no purpose to be served in further argument. She had lost the debate, as she knew she would. The clan leaders had scoffed at Kopporu's proposal to withdraw southward, with the aim of defeating the Utuku in the course of a long campaign. That was the traditional tactic used by weaker tribes faced with stronger enemies. Some of the battle leaders had been sympathetic, at the beginning, but the clan leaders had been outraged at the implication that the Kiktu were no longer the mightiest tribe on the plains. They had decided to meet the Utuku in the narrow throat in the Papti Plain between the Lolopopo Swamp and the great bend of the Adkapo. That was the traditional boundary of Kiktu territory. The clan leaders, full of pride, were determined to prevent the Utuku from desecrating the tribal lands.
It was the worst possible position, Kopporu knew, for the Kiktu to face the greater numbers and heavier forces of the Utuku. But the decision was now a foregone conclusion. She must look to the future.
Her course of action was clear to her—had been for days, since it became obvious that the Kiktu would attempt to confront the Utuku invaders directly. The tribe would be destroyed, broken into pieces. The clans and battle groups would be mangled beyond recognition. Her duty was now to salvage what she could.
A rush of emotions momentarily threatened to sweep over her. But she pushed it resolutely aside, maintaining iron control. Not a trace of her sentiments could show in her mantle, if she was to succeed in her plan.
Kopporu's attention was brought back to the discussion by the sound of the Great Mother's voice.
The Great Mother, she realized, had spoken her name.
"—that the demons will protect the Old Ones. Do these demons even exist? Has anyone seen them? They are nothing but a tale for new-borns!"
The Great Mother was glaring at Kopporu, her enormous mantle rippling with blue anger and yellow contempt.
They exist, Great Mother. I have not seen them, but I have seen their work. An entire slave caravan slaughtered to the last gukuy. Dead of horrible wounds, like none I have ever seen. And I have spoken to Pilgrims of the Way, seeking refuge in the Chiton.
But Kopporu maintained her silence. She had already lost much of the prestige with which she had entered the meeting. What little she retained would vanish if she engaged in a futile religious debate with the Great Mother. Most battle leaders believed in the existence of the demons, but it was a difficult thing to prove. Especially to old clan leaders, who did not look kindly upon new concepts.
Eventually, the discussion turned to battle stratagems. Kopporu knew that it would be a distressingly short discussion.
Amass our invincible warriors. Attack.
It was a method of battle which had served the Kiktu well in their various clashes with neighboring tribes. Not only did they outnumber any of the other tribes, but even when faced with combinations of tribes the Kiktu had always been able to rely on the justly famed individual prowess of their warriors and battlemothers.
It was difficult to argue with success. But Kopporu knew that the underlying reason for their victories against other tribes was simple:
Because the other tribes fight as we do.
The Kiktu methods had even served, in the past, to defeat invading Anshac legions. But Kopporu had participated in the last battle with an Anshac legion, as a young warrior. She had been stunned by the military effectiveness of the disciplined and organized tactics used by the legion. True, the Kiktu had won the battle. But they had greatly outnumbered the legionnaires, and, even so, had suffered three times the casualties.
In the years which followed, as she rose in status until she became a battle leader, Kopporu had attempted to adopt Anshac tactics to the extent possible. She had never been able to use the Anshac methods as much as she would have liked, of course. The inveterate individualism of the Kiktu warrior was a constant obstacle, as was their loosely organized tribal society.
Despite her efforts, the traditional tactics still prevailed. And those tactics would be disastrous against the Utuku.
They are the most brutal and vicious tribe which has ever existed on the Meat of the Clam. But they do not fight like savages. Their discipline is even harsher than that of the Anshac legions. The Utuku tactics are crude and simple. But what does that matter—when the Utuku warriors fight like mindless clams? And there are so many of them!
As she pondered these thoughts, Kopporu was waiting for the right moment to speak. It came unexpectedly—a gift handed her by the braggart Taktoko.
"And where does Kopporu wish to muster her warriors? In the rear—guarding the gana?"
Silence fell over the meeting. Only the faint sound of the wind—most of its force reduced by the ganahide walls which surrounded the leaders, isolating them from the curious tympani of the tribespeople—could be heard.
Kopporu rose slowly to her peds. She said nothing; simply stared at Taktoko for a long moment. With amusement, she noted the traces of pink which rippled through Taktoko's mantle.
Taktoko has just remembered that I am the best warrior as well as battle leader in this group. Not the best in the tribe—by a small margin. But more than good enough to peel her mantle.
Taktoko was nervously watching Kopporu's mantle, but Kopporu let not a trace of her emotions show.
Taktoko fears blue rage. Ironic—what I fear is a trace of green relief. The arrogant fool has given me exactly what I needed.
When she was certain that she had her emotions under control, Kopporu allowed black to darken her mantle. Her arms assumed the gesture of command. She spoke.
"I will lead the right flank. I demand the privilege, since my courage has been insulted."
As she expected, there was no argument. Several of the clan leaders spoke sharply on the subject of proper conduct in debate, rebuking Taktoko. In soft voices—still loud enough to be overheard—two of the battle leaders exchanged quips as to the probable position of Taktoko. (The old leader's high clan status was not accompanied by any comparable reputation on the battlefield.) The Great Mother even interjected a remark concerning Kopporu's unquestioned valor.
By Kiktu battle standards, leadership of the flanks was considered the most prestigious position. There were no tribesmen to guard one's unprotected side. True, in this coming battle, the small Opoktu tribe would marshall on the right—but the Kiktu did not consider the Opoktu comparable to themselves as warriors. Kopporu herself did not share that general assessment. She had found the Opoktu as brave as any gukuy, within the limits imposed upon them by their small numbers. She even admired them for their cleverness, and was on good personal terms with their battle leader Lukpudo.
In the coming battle, moreover, the right flank was considered the most dangerous position. The Kiktu on the right would be against the Lolopopo Swamp, with little of the maneuvering room that the warriors preferred.
Uncertain allies, and a swamp at my side. They think me brave because of that, when it is those two factors that I will need in order to accomplish—
She hesitated, grieved, completed the thought:
My treason.
That night, in the yurt she shared with Aktako, she finally told her the truth. She was hesitant, but knew she had no choice. Aktako was her most trusted lieutenant, as well as her lover. Without her conscious assistance, the plan could not succeed.
She had expected resistance, even vehement resistance. But she had underestimated Aktako. After listening to the plot, the old veteran simply whistled softly—not in fear, but in admiration.
"I knew you were weaving some kind of scheme, but I didn't realize how big it was. You always did have a better brain than me."
Kopporu began stumbling through an apology, in which the word "treason" featured prominently, but Aktado cut her off with a rude hoot.
"That's nothing but shit! It's not your fault the clan leaders are idiots. You're just trying to save something out of the wreckage."
Ochre indecision mottled Kopporu's mantle.
"But how can you be so sure I'm right? What if we defeat the Utuku?"
"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.
She winced mentally, remembering the hard lesson Kopporu had given her. Guo had thought she could use a flail, at first. Was she not quicker and more nimble than any infanta in memory? She was, in fact. But all things are relative. A quick and nimble battlemother is still far too clumsy to properly wield a flail. Guo had not believed it until Kopporu matched her against Aktako with practice flails and forks. The experience had been utterly humiliating.
That same night Kopporu had come into Guo's yurt. The infanta had attempted to fade the brown misery in her mantle, with no success. Like all mothers—and she hated herself for it—she was all but incapable of controlling her color.
Kopporu no sooner saw the brown than she whistled derision.
"Do you wallow in misery because you can't float on the breeze like a puopoa? Or breathe water like a dikplo?"
Guo was silent.
"Foolish child! You are a mother, Guo."
"I want to be a warrior!" exclaimed the infanta.
"And what is that?"
Guo was silent.
"You think a warrior is grace—and speed?"
Another whistle of derision.
"I will tell you what a warrior is, stupid one. A warrior is not agility and reflexes. Mindless. A warrior is brain, and heart—at the service of the tribe. A warrior faces the truth unflinchingly. Do you understand?"
After a moment, miserably: "No."
"Still have the brains of a spawn! Listen to me, Guo. Learn to face the truth, peeled of its shell. The truth is that you are not and cannot be a warrior. If you still don't believe that, then tomorrow I'll put you back on the field and let Aktako make a fool out of you again."
Kopporu had let that sink in before continuing.
"If you can learn to face that truth, then perhaps you can learn to face another truth."
Unwillingly: "And what is that?"
"It is that if you abandon these foolish fantasies of becoming a warrior, and apply yourself, you can become the greatest battlemother in the history of the Kiktu since Dodotpi. Maybe even greater than she."
Orange astonishment flooded Guo's mantle.
"Really?"
A tinge of green entered Kopporu's mantle. The battle leader stretched out her palp and gently stroked the brow of the infanta.
"Yes, Guo. Really. You are very fast and nimble, for a mother. And you are incredibly strong. Aktako told me she could feel the earth shake every time you smote the ground with your flail."
A humorous whistle.
"Fortunately, she was far away by the time the blow landed."
"She would have been just as far away if I'd been using a mace!" protested Guo.
"True. But only a stupid infanta—or a stupid leader—thinks a battlemother can fight like a warrior. Your flankers will keep the foe from dodging your blows. Your task is to crush the enemy in front of you. And for crushing, the mace is a better weapon than a flail."
Kopporu fell silent. After a few moments, Guo had said softly:
"I will try to learn. With the mace."
"And the shield. And the visor."
Yellow contempt rippled across Guo's mantle, but she did not voice the protest. Again, Kopporu whistled amusement.
"You will learn to appreciate the lowly shield and visor, child. When you become a renowned battlemother, every piper in the enemy's army will be aiming at you. Would you rather be blind?"
Remembering that conversation, Guo's mantle was suddenly flooded a deep green. She, like the other two battlemothers and all of the warriors in the group, adored Kopporu. In part, that was because of Kopporu's brilliance as a battle leader. But her charisma had deeper roots. There was a—greatness in the battle leader's spirit. Even a young infanta like Guo could sense it.
Sadly, Guo reflected that Kopporu's potential would never be realized. Kopporu's clan was small, and Kopporu's own rank within it was insignificant. Her battle group, of course, was the biggest in the tribe. Warriors chose their own battle groups. Most chose the battle groups of their own clan. But many warriors sought acceptance into the groups of renowned battle leaders, regardless of clan affiliation. Almost three fourths of the warriors in Kopporu's group were from clans other than her own—an unprecedented figure in Kiktu history, so far as anyone knew. The clan leaders had complained, but the battle leaders had supported Kopporu. Many of the battle leaders were jealous of Kopporu's status among the warriors, but they were united in their determination to protect their traditional rights.
Guo herself was from a different clan—from the dominant clan in the tribe, in fact. It was unlikely, but not inconceivable, that she herself might someday become the Great Mother of the Kiktu.
She did not view that prospect with pleasure. She had no desire to become a mother. She wanted to remain a battlemother, surrounded by warriors.
Like all infanta, she had her moments of curiosity and interest on the subject of truemales. Strange, silly creatures. Flighty; given to emotional excess. But skilled, it was said, in the ways of pleasure.
But such moments were few and fleeting. Had life been as she would have wanted, Guo would have been born a warrior. A female. She would have taken a lover from the ranks of the veterans, who would bring her joy in the yurt and protection on the battlefield.
A sudden image came to her mind of the beautiful Kopporu reaching her arms into Guo's mantle—
She thrust the image away, horrified. Perversion.
She forced her thoughts to the future. She would probably not survive the morrow, in any event. The word had already spread throughout the tribe's warriors, in whispers—Kopporu was opposed to the plan of battle, although she had insisted on the command of the right flank. The deliberations of the tribe leaders were supposed to be held in confidence, but such news could not be contained. Kopporu herself had said nothing, but the word had spread regardless.
The warriors had greeted the news with mixed emotions. Anger at Kopporu's apparent disdain for the invincibility of the Kiktu warriors. Disquiet, because all knew of Kopporu's genius on the battlefield. Determination to prove Kopporu wrong. Fear that Kopporu was right. But, most of all, admiration for Kopporu's nobility of spirit.
Guo herself had no doubts of her own feelings. Her faith in the battle leader was absolute. And thus, she knew the tribe was doomed. But she would follow Kopporu's example.
She grasped the mace in a huge palp. So fiercely that even a kogoclam would have been crushed within.
The Utuku will never take me alive. I will die with the tribe. And I will slay the savages in numbers beyond counting.
She stared at the mace. It was a gift. Kopporu had given it to her on the day the battle leader announced to the tribe that Guo had completed her training and was accepted into the battle group as a battlemother. It was a gift worthy of a great clan leader. Guo had no idea how Kopporu had managed to obtain it. The haft of the club was made of uluwood, beautifully carved. But the treasure was in the blades—made of the finest bronze, honed to a keen edge. The blades of most maces were obsidian. Guo, as a young and untested battlemother, had expected a mace with flint blades.
That night, Guo made a solemn vow. If she and the Kiktu survived the battle, she would see to it that justice was done. Like many of the younger warriors—and even some of the older ones—she was tired of the stifling regime of the clan leaders. She had no wish to become a mother, but when the time came she would do so—without complaint. She would devote herself to rising within the complex, intrigue-filled world of the mothers until she became the Great Mother of the Kiktu.
When that day came, she would see that Kopporu was given her rightful place in the tribe. Traditions be shat upon.
Let the old clan leaders wail.