“You don’t know. Not really. No.
“In the first hundred years, the garrison twice tried to take over the city. But the women had not forgotten their years as warriors, Stephon, Michael. They fought back. Also, they greatly outnumbered the men. It is part of our governance to see that they always greatly outnumber the men.”
Michael said nothing. He was beginning to have a horrible suspicion, a terrible surmise. His eyes sought the shadows behind her. Was there movement there?
“In the two hundred fifty years after that, warriors have tried to take over this city, or other cities, time after time. None of the rebellions have succeeded, Michael. What kind of fools would we be if we were not aware and prepared for such things? Would we be worthy to govern Women’s Country?”
“Who’s with you, Morgot!”
“We,” said a voice from the darkness under the trees. “The humble. The lowly. Those who have left you.”
“Show yourselves,” cried Stephon. “Only cowards hide in the dark.”
“Cowards do many things,” said the voice. “Cowards kill their Commanders and make it look like a bandit attack. Cowards plot in secret. Cowards breed insurrection. Cowards plan the abuse of women.” One of the shadows under the trees moved. It was a man, or at least of a man’s height and bulk, dressed as Morgot was, all in black with a black hood over his head and only his eyes showing.
Behind him in the dark were other shadows. Michael counted six or eight. “I suppose it isn’t cowardly to attack when you outnumber us.”
“I see no outnumbering,” said Morgot. “There are three of you. There is one of him. There is one of me.”
“I am required to tell you,” said the shadow confronting them, “what our code of behavior is. We never attack merely to wound or incapacitate. If we are driven to attack at all, there is no point in leaving our opponents alive. We never kill except in self-defense.”
“Self-defense!” snorted Patras. “Sneaking up on us in the middle of the night!”
“Self-defense,” repeated the shadow. “The defense of ourselves and our cities. The defense of Marthatown. The defense of Women’s Country.”
Patras did not delay. He had been waiting a chance, waiting a moment’s inattention, and he thought he saw it now. He lunged toward the figure before him, but it was suddenly not there. He turned to find it facing him with something in its hands, a short stick. The stick moved, spun, became a silver wheel, and Patras looked down at where his sword hand had been.
“Never to wound,” said the shadow. The silver wheel spun toward Patras’ neck, and through it.
Michael grunted as though he had been kicked in the stomach. The man in black vanished into the darkness. Michael and Stephon held their breaths.
Morgot spoke again. “What you just saw? We call that one of our mysteries, Michael. Something the women warriors and the servitors learn and practice together. Martha Evesdaughter knew of these mysteries, and she taught them to her daughters. You have been asking our daughters about it. It and the other mysteries have their own honor. Never to be used for anything trifling. Never to be used for anything slight. For self-defense only, and always to rid Women’s Country of those who are not and will not be part of it….”
She rose from her place and came toward him. “Stephon, you think I am mad. I see you do. Pick up your shield, Stephon. Pick up your shield and come to me. See if you can use your dagger on me. See if you can catch me and stick your little dagger in me as you would have done with the helpless women of Marthatown.”
Stephon stared at her. She was slight, small, shorter than he, obviously without the strength of arms he had. He did not bother with the shield. He was no longer surprised or afraid. He could counter the weapon he had seen by catching the wheel on his sword. He was in control of himself. He crouched to make a smaller target and lunged toward her, repeating the mistake Patras had made.
Something flashed across the distance between them and buried itself in his face. He screamed, dropping his weapons. His hands went up to push the blood out of his eyes. Through the dark curtain of blood he could see a silver glimmer as the wheel spun. He fell. He had no leg on that side.
“Never to wound,” said Morgot sadly. “Always to kill. We try to be merciful.” He did not even feel the blow which finished him.
Michael had seen, almost without believing. The thing that hit Stephon in the face was a toothed missile thrown from the hand. The silver wheel which cut off Patras’ leg was a curved blade at the end of a chain, whirled by a short handle. A blade heavy in the middle, sharp at the edge. A blade that would whirl flat, with the sharp edge foremost. A blade that would need a shield to counter….
“You wondered what weapons we had,” Morgot said, stepping forward into the firelight. “You wondered, Michael. You set Barten on one of my daughters and Chernon on the other, trying to find out. Barten ruined one of my daughters and Chernon almost killed the other.”
“Morgot….”
“Yes. Morgot.”
In the woods the other shadows stirred restlessly. Michael dropped his weapons. “I will not fight a woman.” He licked dry lips. “I will not fight the mother of my sons.”
“Michael, murderer of Sandom, conspirator with thieves and murderers, greedy, ambitious destroyer, it was men like you who brought the devastations upon us. Do you think I would have had you as the father of my sons? You did not father any of them!”
He scarcely had time to comprehend what she had said, scarcely time for the rage these words created to fill him with bloody violence before there was another figure beside her. It, too, stripped its hood away. Michael didn’t recognize the face, except that
