Sundrinker

might he had found no path through the eternal fires and had, indeed, been frightened into turning back as the solid earth, itself, quavered and rolled under his feet to the accompaniment of the bellowing of countless thunderous voices and in the near distance new fire had belched from the earth with a heat so great that it seared his skin.

Duwan believed. He knew the often told tales of the great journey by heart, and would, dutifully, pass them on to his young when the time came, but it was still hard to believe that Drinkers had actually made their way through that land of endless fire. On the evening following his recovery he found cause to reinforce his unspoken doubt, for the village minstrel had already composed the Song of Duwan The Drinker, and to say that it departed slightly from the truth was a kindness. As he listened, Duwan first smiled, and then had to hide his laughter, for the song made him so heroic, built his quick thinking actions into such bravery that he wondered anew if such stretching of the truth had not been applied to all the Drinkers' history.

For example, the old tales spoke of war, war and heroism, war and death, and yet no generation of Drinkers now living had ever experienced war. From northeast to southwest the valley was dotted with villages, none more than a swift dash without rest from the next, but no one had, in the history of the valley, raised an edged weapon against another. There had been times when Duwan wondered if the endless drills, the concentrated training, the mock battles had not been invented merely as a ruse to keep the growing energies of the young under control and to keep them out from underfoot. Still, the magic of the metalmakers gave one pause. To have the ability to know exactly where in the earth and rocks to find those scattered flakes, to know how to crush and wash and blend and then to fire the metal and shape it was an ability that could not have come naturally to any one there in the valley. And the quietly voiced tales of the old, hard-skinned ones rang with emotion, if not total truth, as they spoke of gushing wounds and death and the Enemy.

Perhaps, Duwan thought, as the minstrel, by popular demand, repeated The Song of Duwan The Drinker, there had been embellishing, stretching, and, if so, what harm? Perhaps, beyond the land of the eternal fires, there was an Enemy. If so, the years of training, the hard, muscle wrenching struggles, and the resulting skills with short and longswords, bow and spear and knife might yet be called upon one day. There had been times, when he was younger, when he had dreamed of the Enemy, had, in his mind, placed this Drinkerlike foe at the entrance to the valley to be met with metal clashing on metal, with blades sharp and deadly and with flying shafts of frightful penetrating ability. Thus, he had dreamed, he would prove himself and become legend. To have become a part of the lore by losing a hand was not to his liking, but he had, before the evening was far gone, become stoic in his acceptance. It was, it had been meant to be, and he would adapt.

The purpose of the gathering in the square, with all the village present, with the young ones bunched, wide-eyed, near the glowing fires, and the elders sitting in all dignity cross-legged on the warm earth, was to honor Duwan, who had used his wits and his sword with admirable quickness. Of course, in those wondrous days of the long light, almost any excuse was good for a gathering, with Du, the source, low over the southern cliffs to indicate eveningtime, but Duwan took some satisfaction in knowing that he was well respected, and he stood to speak his gratitude only to find that his words froze in his throat. His father, chosen Village Elder long before his son's sprouting, was an accomplished speaker. Shamed, Duwan forced out some words, not really knowing what he said, but evidently he did not make a fool of himself, for his short speech was well received with coos from the females and a whistling hiss from the males.

The fermented juices of the narrow-organed short brother had something to do with the good spirits, as cups formed of half the shell of the nut brother passed from hand to hand with great laughter and small jokes and good will.

Alning was there, but she sat far back away from the cozy fires and refused to look at Duwan, so that he, hurt, drank more than his share to feel his head become light and his blood fiery.

Mothers began to coax their reluctant young away for sleep period. At a signal from Duwan The Elder the flowering young departed, Alning among them. Most of the mature females retired to their houses, leaving the warriors and the elders, who moved to congregate more compactly around the fires. Cups were passed. Duwan The Elder gave a contented sigh and sank back to lean on his elbows. The minstrel plucked the multiple strings of his instrument almost idly, but the sounds that came were soft and dreamy.

'We must consider the matter of my son,' Duwan the Elder said at last. Duwan's head jerked up. He'd been dreaming cozily of Alning, wondering how he could approach her to say that he was sorry for his harsh words.

The warriors and elders gave a hiss of assent.

'Who will speak?' Duwan the Elder asked.

For long moments there was silence, then Manoo, the Predictor of Du, lifted a hand lazily. 'Elder,' he said, 'we have spoken among ourselves. He is your son.'

Duwan the Elder shook his head in sad negation. 'No matter,' he said.

'The traditions are for my son as well as your son.' Puzzled, Duwan sat up, his right hand clasped onto his cocked knee.

'There is peace,' Manoo the Predictor said. 'Perhaps for once we can waive tradition.'

'And when we waive all tradition, and we forget, and the Enemy comes?' Duwan the Elder asked. 'No. He is my son, but he is of the Drinkers, and he will be governed by our laws.'

'I will speak, then,' said a tall, strong warrior, aged to his prime, skin just beginning to roughen.

'We hear, Leader,' Duwan the Elder said.