“We have met before, Vainte. You would not remember. I do. You were Eistaa of Alpeasak when you sent me to the birth beaches. I returned.”
Vainte expressed cold amusement at the obvious and presumptuous anger of a mere male. Signed coarsely that she would be happy to send him to the beaches again, instantly if needed. But her attention was on Arnwheet who stepped back, eyes wide with fear, looking from her to the other murgu that came down the slope. The two of them who held hesotsan moved with harsh angularity, not at all like Nadaske. He took another step backwards but stopped when the first one signed cessation of movement.
“I heard you speaking to this male. You are yilane and that is unusual/impossible. But it has happened. Approach me, that is a command. Do you understand?”
Arnwheet shuffled forward, shivering with fear, signed understanding of meaning. Vainte bent close, he could smell the foulness of her breath, reached out one thumb and touched the metal knife that hung around his neck.
“What does this artifact of metal signify? This one is smaller, but I have held another like this in my hand. And this smaller one, I have held it too, long ago. I was sent the larger one as a sign I should end the war that I was winning. It hung from the neck of the ustuzou of death, Kerrick. Explain instantly.”
Arnwheet understood what this Yilane was saying, although he did not understand the name she mentioned since the way Vainte spoke Kerrick was incomprehensible. But the meaning was clear.
“There is only one other knife like this. It hangs about the neck of my… efensele.” This was the nearest he could get, could think of no term for father in Yilane.
“Then you are efensele of the one I seek. But where is he, why are you here alone? Inform me quickly of the meaning of this, male,” she ordered, looking at Arnwheet with one eye, Nadaske with the other.
Nadaske did not bother to answer. Freedom was ended, life was ended. This was Vainte, known for her cruelty. She would be immensely displeased at his escaping the hanale and the death of the city, then living as free as any female. She would see that he suffered in many ways before he died on the beaches. All was ended. There was a movement in the shrubbery and he glanced that way. An animal of some kind, it did not matter, nothing mattered now.
Kerrick and Herilak had just reached the inlet when Dall burst from the bushes on the other side and hurled himself into the water, thrashed across it sobbing and gasping. Herilak pulled him from the water and shook him.
“You were beaten before for coming here. Now you will have a beating…”
“Murgu — out there! They come from the sea, murgu—”
Herilak took him by the jaw and pulled him close. “What kind of murgu? The kind that kill with death- sticks?”
“Yes,” Dall said, then fell whimpering to the ground. Herilak spun about to follow Kerrick who had hurled himself into the water. Caught up with him on the other side, held him with a restraining hand.
“Slowly and silently, do not rush or you rush to your death.” He fitted an arrow to his bow.
Kerrick pushed his hand away, ran on, not hearing his words. There were Yilane here — and they had Arnwheet. He stumbled through the sand with Herilak close behind him. Ran along the shore and past the dune that shielded Nadaske’s small campsite. Stopped with a cry of horror.
Herilak stopped as well, saw the four murgu, two of them armed, the boy there as well. He pulled the arrow to his chin, released it.
Kerrick pushed his arm aside and the arrow thudded into the dune.
“Don’t! They’ll kill him. Drop your bow. Do this for me, Herilak, do this thing for me.”
He laid his own death-stick on the ground but Herilak stood firm, seeing only the ones he must kill. Seeing one of them aiming at Arnwheet. If this had been his son he would not have hesitated, although it would have meant the child’s death, would have killed them all.
Arnwheet was Kerrick’s son. Because of Herilak the boy had almost died once already. He could not be permitted to die now even if it meant Herilak’s own death. Slowly, never taking his eyes off of them, he bent and placed the bow on the ground. The ugly marag behind Arnwheet grunted and quivered, its jaw opening to show the sharp, pointed teeth.
“You are correct in obedience,” Vainte said, her arms arched in triumph, her jaw agape to sign eating-of- victory.
“Let the small one go. I will stay in his place,” Kerrick said.
“You value your efensele ahead of your own life?”
“It could be a matter of great importance to this ustuzou,” Akotolp said. “I have studied these animals. There is live birth without eggs, great attachment among small efenburu…” She grew silent at Vainte’s sharp command, her victorious speaking.
“It will end here, Kerrick. You have fought me too long, killed too many. This is my victory. I have my own city now. It will grow and prosper. You and these other two ustuzou now die. But die in the knowledge that your deaths are only the first. For I shall return with fargi and creatures of death grown by ever-loyal Akotolp. I will return and pursue your kind across all of Gendasi*. To seek out every stinking lair of your kind and kill every one of you. Think of that as you die. Think of it, slowly and carefully. I give you time so you will die with that knowledge uppermost in your thoughts.”
Vainte signed triumph in everything as she lifted her weapon. There was silence, the stillness of horror all about her. Enge could not move or act, gripped hard by the conflict of beliefs and affection. Arnwheet was terrified, Nadaske as unmoving as a statue. Only Akotolp signed understanding, perfection of action.
Nadaske shifted and Vainte let one wary eye look at him, then back to Kerrick when she saw that the helpless male was turning away from her, unable to watch.
Nadaske faced the frightened boy, placed thumbs of sympathy and understanding on his shoulders.
Vainte raised the hesotsan, aimed at Herilak. “You shall be last, Kerrick. Watch your efensele die first.”
Nadaske lowered his hands, seized the metal knife where it hung on Arnwheet’s neck, tore it free and turned swiftly about.
Thrust it hard into the side of Vainte’s neck.
Time stopped. Vainte’s eyes were wide with pain, she gasped, shuddered, her hands clamped so tight on the hesotsan that it squirmed in her grip. Nadaske still held the knife tight between strong thumbs. Blood spurted out as he twisted it.
Vainte crumpled, fell, turning and firing the weapon as she went down. The sharp crack was muffled as Nadaske dropped on top of her.
Akotolp, never a Yilane of action, simply stared in horror at the two bodies. Even before she thought to raise her own hesotsan she had it torn from her hands by Enge.
“The killing is over!” Enge cried out, holding the weapon high over her head, throwing it strongly out into the water.
“The killing is over,” Kerrick echoed in Marbak, placing his hand gently on Herilak’s arm as he grabbed up his bow. “That one is my friend. She does not kill.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t — but what of the fat marag?”
“That one dies,” Kerrick said, the cold of winter in his voice. First in Marbak, then speaking in Yilane. “You die, don’t you Akotolp? You should have died when Alpeasak died, but I see that you have escaped. Now you are a follower of Vainte. But she is dead. Your city dead, your eistaa dead. Why are you alive? There is no need to kill you, for now you kill yourself. Follow her into death.”
With a great surge of fear Akotolp knew that the ustuzou spoke correctly. It was the end, the end…
Her eyes were glazed as she fell, sprawling hugely on the sand. Still moving: soon dead.
Weeping fiercely Arnwheet ran to his father, grasped him about the legs. Kerrick picked the boy up and held him tightly.
“It is all over,” he said with gentle weariness. “Our friend Nadaske is dead, but he could not have died in a better way. When you are older you will understand. He will never have to go to the beaches. He will always be remembered — for he killed this one who would have killed us all.” He looked at Enge. “Are there others?”
“No — just Daughters of Life. No others like these.”
He looked down at Vainte, dead at last. The creature of death, dead beneath the one who had killed her. Bitter bile rose in his throat and he felt a terrible sorrow.
