Zach Hughes - Killbird

Scanned by Highroller. Proofed by the best elf proofer. Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet. Killbird by Zach Hughes Chapter One On the second day of the second moon of summer I saw the bloodflag hanging limply atop Yuree's hidehouse. A hunter's morning it was, with the mist hanging in the lows. The Lake of Clean Water was there, under the mist. The sun was climbing toward his first leap over the Far Hills. I had been awake to see the stars die in the early light, to hear the call of the nightbirds as they settled into their secret places, to prepare myself, with water heated over a low fire, using the honed edge of my hardax to scrape away my curse. I untied the flap of my hidehouse and stood, my face smarting. It is said that not one in a thousand has the curse. I had never known another. For all those beyond the Far Hills who, one in a thousand, suffered, I uttered a prayer to the gods of man. And in the midst of my prayer I saw it, looking up the slight slope to see the couch cover with the almost unnoticeable blood signal. I felt my face burn with a new feeling, not only from the scraping. With my heart pounding I dived back into my hidehouse. The day was not unexpected, had, indeed, been foretold, within half a moon period it turned out, by old Seer of Things Unseen. Because I was of an early-rising nature, due to my curse, I was the first, waiting outside the hidehouse of Strabo of the Strongarm, my hardax lying atop the pile of buythings. It was not an unimpressive pile, I felt, topped by the well-tanned skins of the swimmers. In addition to the swimmer skins, soft fur for the soft skin of Yuree, there were two handcut buckets of wood filled with the sweetness of the stingers, a pile of god's jewels, two huge skins of the two largest bears ever to be killed by a member of the Strongarm family, and toys carved to please Yureefemales being, at best, somewhat frivolous. Indeed, I had nothing to be ashamed of, except myself. I heard movement inside the large hidehouse where Strongarm slept and then the flap was untied and thrown open and I saw the powerful arms which gave our family head his name. Still a young man, Strabo had the eyes of a killer of birds, the legs of a perfect man, the stout, short body of our people. He wore the feathers of a family head with authority, and it was he who had shown the courage to take the family over four ridges into the Valley of Clean Water, thus bringing new prosperity to all. I beg to be considered, honorable father, I said, bowing my head. Strongarm merely glared at me. He had his hardax in one hand, and he extended it, granting me the boon with the traditional motion, but then Strabas was looking past him, her sun-browned skull showing the same delightful shape as Yuree's own lovely head. It is only the Haired One, then? Strabas asked, looking around in disappointment. It is early yet, Strabo said. Even as he spoke I heard movement behind me and turned to see not one but two premen trudging up the slope carrying a pile of buythings. Yuree, daughter of the family head, would receive many offers. I recognized, behind the pile of buythings, Logan, son of Logman. His browned skull gleamed in the light of the early sun, and my heart sank. How could I even dream of being considered when the most handsome premen of the family would be piling their buythings in front of the Strongarm hidehouses? Eban of the Hair, Strabas said, watching Logan move closer with obvious approval, are you not son of the dead Egan the Hunter? And was not his pairmate the daughter of Siltan the Wise? I know the intent of your questioning, honorable mother of us all, I said, bowing my head. I have talked with the Seer of Things Unseen, and you need have no concern, for it is recorded that my mother, daughter of Siltan the Wise, was not daughter of his loins but prize of battle, thus there is no blood taboo. Yes, it is true, Strabo muttered, although it seemed to pain him to say such. I could not fault the pairmate of our family head for her concern. Inbreeding is the enemy of any family, and the all but starving weaklings of the low slopes are proof of that, mating indiscriminately with no thought of the future. Humph, Strabas said, turning her attention to Logan, who placed his buythings carefully and put his hardax, not nearly as good as mine, atop. Logan looked at me and rubbed the top of his head meaningfully, his fingers sliding over the slightly oily surface of his skull. I looked away. My own skull still tingled from its daily scraping. Now others began to arrive, until, by the time the sun was burning away the mist, there were eleven premen, all unpaired, waiting in front of the Strongarm hidehouse. It was then that Yuree chose to make her appearance. I felt my face burn and knew the pleasant weakness of my knees which I had begun to feel long before she was due to come of age. She looked at me and smiled, her beautiful skull gleaming with a morning application of oil to protect it from the sun. But her smile, although I felt it was for me alone, was also spread around to encompass Logan, Teetom his running friend, Young Pallas and the others. Is that all, then? Strabas asked, looking down the slope toward the hidehouses of the family, where morning cookfires were beginning to smoke. Is not every eligible preman in the family enough for you? Strabo asked, patting his pairmate on her well-shaped haunch. And so, Eban, son of Egan the Hunter, what do you speak? I speak the sweet of the stingers, I said, placing the two buckets of the delicious and sticky stuff at Yuree's feet. The hides of the swimmers to be soft on Yuree's skin, the hides of the bears, one killed by my father, one by myself. I speak playthings to please, the chewed skin of the deer for nighttime comfort in the cold of the winters. My hardax, the ax of Eban the Hunter, will provide. My hidehouse is new, of the finest skins, and behind it, in the sun, the provisions for winter are drying already. Well spoken, Strabo said. He speaks not of his hair, Strabas muttered, looking at my skull and my face, where the stubble of my hair made a darkness. And Logan, son of Logman, what speak you? Strabo asked. Logan's buythings were more numerous, but contained nothing as important as a bearskin. The others were comparable. I was beginning to be sorry I had gone first before it was over, for there was nothing to do but stand and listen as the premen of the family made their offers and their promises. When at last it was over and all had spoken, there was a silence. The females of the family, leaving their cookfires, had begun to gather. I felt as I usually felt when the family gathered, as if all eyes were on me, on my prickly skull, my darkened face, my limbs which were not as strong-looking and beautiful as those of the other premen. My body, too, was somewhat of a curse, although, since I was merely a preman, there was hope. But where Logan, for example, was squat and thick, his arms short and powerful, his legs shorter from the knees down than from the knees up, I was thin, almost as thin as the starving weaklings of the low slopes, and my arms were long, my legs long and slim. It was not that I was not strong. The games proved, to the surprise of all, that my slim arms with their bunched muscles at the bicep were strong, that my long legs, making me a full hand taller than any of my contemporaries, were powerful and, surprisingly, seemingly tireless. It was my legs which were the secret of my success as a hunter, for I could cover half again as much ground in a stride as, say, Logan with his short and beautiful limbs. But it was time for the selection. Strabo pulled himself erect. Well spoken, all of you, he said. You do me and my daughter honor, and the choice will be difficult. You all know the custom. It is for the mother to speak first. Strabas stood forward. She was dressed in her finest, although the weather was hot for swimmer skins. It is cruel for me to have but one choice, she said, smiling at the young premen who waited in expectation. I know you all. I have known your fathers and your mothers and, in some cases, your fathers' fathers. But the custom is the custom, and while I would choose you all, could I but do so, I must harden my heart and choose but one. That one, my choice, is She paused, but it was not effective, because we all knew her choice. Even he knew it, for he was shifting from one foot to the other, a proud smile on his face. Logan, son of Logman, she said. The assembled females oohed in agreement. And now I must choose, Strabo said. He looked up at the sun and made a worship sign. My pairmate has spoken well, and I, too, regret that by not saying names I exclude some of the finest young premen of the family. But the custom is the custom, even for Strabo of the Strongarm. I choose Young Pallas and Cree the Kite. As father, Strongarm had two choices. In actual practice, the custom was not always fulfilled, for if the daughter coming of age was not desirable or rich there would seldom be enough premen to fulfill all of the allowed choices. It was considered to be honorable if two premen applied at a coming of age, shameful if there was only one, so that in some cases buythings were exchanged merely to have at least two applicants. Once, when I was very young, I remember Stillas the Housemaker leading a two-man raid on another family merely to capture one preman to assure his daughter of having two applicants. After the choice was madethe family member, of coursethe captured preman was released. And now there was a pause as Yuree, shy and smiling, stood before us. My father and mother honor me with their wise choices, she said. I am the most honored of prewomen. It is not pride which forces me to choose, but the custom, for who am I to question the age-old ways of the family? And so, with humbleness, I choose my three. The way she emphasized the three told me that she did feel a little pride, for not many girls had the opportunity to choose three. My choices, Yuree said, are Teetom I found myself holding my breath. Yorerie the Butcher There was an intake of breath, for that choice was a surprising one. Yorerie the Butcher, preparer of meat, always smelly, crude, cursed with a bent of tongue which made speech difficult, was an unlikely choice. But, on the other hand, so was Teetom, the shadow of Logan. Teetom was a mean-natured preman with a hint of cruelty in his makeup, as if to make up for his weakness. He had been a sickly child and, as a result, was stunted, was two hands shorter than Logan. And my third choice, Yuree said, as I prepared to pick up my buythings and go back to my loneliness, is Eban, son of Egan the Hunter. And as she said it she looked me full in the face, a smile lighting her lips. Those who had not been selected began to pick up their buythings. When they had gone, Strabo sighed and stood forward. And now, as is the custom, the new woman will be given her chance to choose. It was breath-holding time again, for two things could happen. First, Yuree could make a choice and it was all over. Secondly, she could refuse to make a choice and then it was in the hands of the gods of man. May I look first? Yuree asked, with a charming smile directed at her father. Yes, my daughter, Strabo said proudly, pleased that she was wise enough to examine the offerings before making a choice. Many prewomen let their hearts rule and choose without regard for the future or for the ability of their pairmates to provide for them. Yuree started at the end of the line, with the pile of buythings offered by Yorerie the Butcher, made delighted sounds, pawed through, leaving the pile untidy, and moved on. It was several minutes before she came to my pile, and then I stood as if frozen, afraid to look down, as she knelt and pulled my pile apart. Such lovely bearskins, she cooed, and I flushed, hoping, for the first time, that she would choose me immediately. But, she went on, Logan's offerings are beautiful, as are those of Cree and Teetom. It is so difficult. It is difficult, Strabas agreed, kneeling beside Logan's pile of buythings, but consider this, she said, holding up a lovely beaded skirt of deerskin. There is no need for haste, Strabo said. Yuree stood, smoothing the tight little skirt of grass over her shapely rump. It is sooooo difficult. I knew that she was not going to pick. It was going into the hands of the gods of man. So be it, I said to myself. Can you not choose? Strabas asked, holding up the deerskin skirt. No, Mother, I cannot. I am too honored by the offerings of the finest premen of our family, Yuree said. She will not choose, Seer of Things Unseen had told me, not a half moon past. She will extract the last measure of it, sending it into the hands of the gods of man. And Seer was right. We will leave it to the gods of man to choose, Strabo said, with a smile of satisfaction. Will you, Yuree, daughter of Strabo of the Strongarm, give a sign, a sign to encourage? This was Logan. I will, she said. She put her hand on her chin. She made such a pretty picture that I felt my knees go weak again. But I must have time to think. My sign will be suspended from the top of the hidehouse before the sun seeks its rest. I knew it all, all aspects of the custom. Only two nights past I had sat before the fire of the Seer of Things Unseen and she, sucking the juices from tender meat which I had prepared for her, unable to chew with her toothless gums, had told me once again. She will not choose, Seer had said. And she will demand brave and dangerous things. For, you see, she had two choices. If asked to give a sign, she could, if she chose, give a hint as to the identity of her first choice and, thus assured, that lucky preman could apply himself to the last tests with confidence. However, she could also choose to forego giving a clue and to demand a task, a test, a gift. Eban, old Seer had said. It is said you have the curse, and yet would your scalp burn in the sun if your curse was allowed to grow? Indeed, when I was young and let my hair grow it was unnecessary for me to oil my skull against the summer sun, but curse it was, along with my skinny limbs. It is said, Seer went on, that beyond the far hills are families who do not consider hair as a curse, but as a protection, even an adornment. They must be mad, I said. Is it not mad to seek danger in order to be considered for the dubious joy of being pairmate to a spoiled child? Seer asked. She was talking about the prewoman I loved, had loved for as long as I could remember. If a preman cannot face danger for what he desires, I answered, he does not deserve to be called man. She will send some of you to find death, Seer said. So be it, I thought, as I, having waited the long day through, saw Strabo of the Strongarm come from his hidehouse and reach for the message string, and then I moved closer and watched as he tied on the clue which Yuree was giving us. I saw the other chosen watching, and I saw Teetom's face blanch, he being the first to see as Strabo stepped away. I saw it then. There was no mistaking it. I'd seen it before, on Strabo's father when he was family head, on Strabo himself. The thing which hung there was multicolored, connected by the hard veins, lumpy, hard, beautiful and deadly. All Yuree was asking her future pairmate to do was bring her a necklace of dragon guts. Chapter Two I spent the night alone atop a dome. God likes chaos. I used my hardax to chop and strew underbrush and a few trees, working in the late-evening light until I had transformed the very peak into a tangle in the center of which I made my bed and lay down with the fire burning low, godsticks in my hands making the sign. God of Chaos, I prayed. I have prepared a small place for use, feeble as I am, unable to wreak the huge and terrible beauty which is in your power alone. I use it to pray to you, to pray to you to guide me into, the land of the dragons, to give strength to my arms and courage to my heart. God sent a sign. I saw it coming from the far horizon, to the west, where the hills were high and the forests deep, from where Strabo had led us to the Valley of Clean Water. It was burning there in the night sky, a star larger than the rest, moving relentlessly toward me but high, high, up there where the gods of man lurk. It moved directly over me and continued until, after a long, long time, it went below the lower hills from which the sun rises to sink, some say, into the field of large water which is there beyond the deadly flats where once, Seer of Things Unseen says, there were giants in the old days. A sign. God spoke. I rubbed my godsticks and made the sign and fought sleep. I thought of my father. When I was to go on my first hunt he gave me the hardax. Dragonskin. Lovely and deadly and capable of cutting rock. Jagged, laced to the sturdy wooden handle with animal thongs. I had never allowed one spot of the red dragon's blood to stain it, polishing it daily, oiling it with the fat of the swimmers. I had learned early that there is a certain amount of oil in the skin, so on long hunts I rubbed it, being careful of the sharp cutting edge kept keen by constant honing, against me, my face, my belly, my arms. Until it gleamed. No one had a finer hardax. And no one had such a father. I awoke with the sun and did not scrape my curse. I would be away for days, moons perhaps. There would be no one to see my shame. I ate of the fruit from trees and went down the hill to find Seer of Things Unseen at her cookfire. I gave her a softened and well-cooked piece of deermeat. Seer, I said, it is said that the dragons inhabit the far hills toward the rising sun. So you are determined to go, she said. I ask your blessing and I beg to be allowed to share a bit of your wisdom, as much as my poor head can absorb. You go to find death. Perhaps. As your father did. Then I will live in the memory of men as being brave. Ghosts hear no praise, she said. She sighed and coughed. There be dragons in the far hills. There have always been and there always will be, for brave men such as Egan the Hunter, who last slew a dragon and presented its gaudy guts to the elder Strabo, come but once in a thousand moons. You think I am not one of those men? I asked. You are but a child, and a dragon's teeth are sharp, far-reaching and deadly. But I am the son of my father, and he slew a dragon. And was slain, she said grimly, by still another dragon. I am fleet of foot, I said. More so than anyone else in the family. A dragon's teeth travel with the swiftness of an evil thought, Seer said. And his eyes are death, searing and blasting and burning. I will not allow him to spit his teeth at me nor to catch me in his evil eye, I said, full of the confidence of youth. Eban, my son, she said, don't go. Stay. There are other prewomen. The daughter of Bla the widow looks upon you with interest. I shuddered. The daughter of the widow was ugly and of shrill voice. Yuree's voice was the coo of the woodland birds. Well, there is this, Seer said. Perhaps you will not find a dragon. She chuckled. I'm sure the others won't. So perhaps you won't and then it will all be in the hands of the gods of man, foolish as that may be for those who tempt them. Perhaps I won't, I said, but I will try. Yes, she said. How will I know? When you see the white bones of death, you will know. No one alive in the family had even seen a dragon. My father had, had slain one, but he was dead. And my mother had died of grief. I left the Valley of Clean Waters, climbing the near ridge to look down and out and up to still another ridge, and for the first few days I walked in fear, expecting to see the white bones of death, sign of a dragon, behind every tree, at the top of each ridge, in the bottom of each valley. I traveled light, my hardax, my sleepskin, a bag of dried meat, for the hills were abundant in summer with fruit and game large and small. I ate well and drank deeply from free-flowing springs of cold and delicious water and made my bed under the trees, looking upward to see the cold stars and, once, twice, the sign from God, the glowing messenger which came from the west and burned fire as it passed over me. I didn't know which direction the others chose, and I didn't care. Perhaps Logan would make a serious effort to find a dragon, perhaps not. I, like the Seer of Things Unseen, had little confidence in the sincerity of the others. Many times I had lost myself in the hills, leaving the family far behind to wander and seek the view from the next hilltop. Once I traveled as far as the low slopes, there to see the inbreeders, weak, starving, fighting among themselves and breaking the basic rule of God. I had no desire to go among the inbreeders, to see the blood of man spilled, as they spilled it on the slightest provocation. How they must breed, to be able to afford to squander life, God's greatest gift. Not that I fear them. In my healthful strength I could lift two of them and toss them headlong, but they are sick with the ultimate sickness, the madness, and I fear contagion. I set my course away from the known haunts of the inbreeders, making my way slowlyseeing places not before seen by members of my familytoward the unknown hills to the north of the place where the sun rises, into vast and lonely forests, unaware of the passage of the days, for time was not important. Should the others come before I returned, the custom demanded a full moon of waiting. And when I returned with the necklace, and I was determined to do so, it would be over and the gods of man would be robbed. There came a day when the hills descended in front of me and there were high ridges only behind me and I could see a vista which was strange and forbidding. I moved slowly, my skins tied high to bare my chest and belly to feel danger, and there was none. There were deer and once or twice a distant sight of a bear, tempting me. I denied myself repetition of the test of manhood, killing one of the huge and dangerous animals. Two bearskins awaited me, awaited to decorate and make warm the floor of my hidehouse for my pairmate. A tawny lion stalked me, making the stubble of hair which was growing on my neck crawl with warning, but my shouts scared the animal away. I made note of him, for not since my father's father had a member of the family killed a lion. Killing a lion was on the same order of bravery as collecting a necklace of dragon's guts and almost as dangerous, for my father's father told tales of a lion killing two men while bearing five arrows in his body, one so near his heart that blood pumped out as he moved. I first sensed danger when I came down a long, sloping hillside, moving cautiously through the trees, which were decreasing in size. I felt it begin to tingle in my chest, and then I bared my belly and wiped away the sweat and I could feel it better, a little warning tingle which made my heart pound. I moved back and came down another way, a mile distant from my first approach to the valley's bottom, and the tingle was so faint I went forward. There, where the tingle originated, I saw a heap of rubble, the stones and strangeness which gave home to the spirits which warned with a tingle in the chest and belly, and I felt very much alone. There was a stream and then a hill. Beyond the hill, I thought, I could see the deadly flats, and that would be the limit of my travel, for no man goes down into the flats and returns. I climbed the hill, picking my steps with the unconscious silence of the hunter, careful of loose stones. I peeked over the top of the hill and saw a valley stretching before me. I felt no danger. I stood and started walking down the hill and almost stumbled over the bleached white bones of a deer. A jangle of alarm was in my head, and I fell to the ground, rolling quickly to shelter behind a large rock. Cautiously I looked out, and not a dozen steps away there was another pile of bleached bones. When you see the white bones of death My blood pumped. My face burned. Inch by inch, rock by rock, I eased my way down the hillside. There could be no mistake. The white bones of death were everywhere, some of them old, some so old they were nothing more than white ash. There were no freshly killed animals. Either the dragon had depopulated the area of wildlife or the survivors had learned, through experience, not to walk on that deadly hillside. Knowing that I had never faced such danger, not even when I stood alone with only my longbow against the giant black bear, I rested, feeling the sun warm my back, willing my heart to stop its wild poundings. My mind did things of its own. I yearned for a running mate, a friend, such as Logan's Teetom, even a Teetom, who in my hour of loneliness could say, You can do it, Eban. You can do it. Oh, gods of man, I had been alone so long, so long. When my father failed to return from the hunt and there came a report that he had last been seen heading toward the far hills where there were dragons, I was but a bare-assed learner, running free through the camp, permitted to snatch food from any fire, treated with the sometimes amused but always fond tolerance of all. I mourned for my father, but even then, having been on my first hunt, I had my hardax, and with my father dead, I was the man. I told my mother not to weep, for she had her man. And then the curse came and darkened my skull and nothing that Seer of Things Unseen could do would cause it to go away, and was it grief for my father or shame for me which caused my mother to weaken, to spend her days lying in the hide-house sighing, weeping, and then burning with the fever? I had never had anyone, since then. Life, of course, is God's most precious gift, so even an accursed one was sacred, but there were the taunts from my contemporaries, the laughter behind my back. When it became evident that I was to be different in other ways the shame of it pushed me into myself. I set up my hidehouse, legacy of my father, on the far fringe of the family area, went my solitary way, and in my desperation and unhappiness took chances, bracing the fierce bear, nearly dying in his clutch as his great heart pumped out his life just in time to keep his carnal-smelling maw from closing over my head. Soon, however, they did not taunt me. Although striking a fellow man is punishable, certain games, tests of strength, are encouraged; and soon I was able to handle my peers with an ease which caused mutterings. It was no test at all to pin Logan, or Young Pallas, or even the hulking Yorerie to the ground in a wrestling match. In games of skill and endurance I excelled, running faster than the swiftest, able to trot for endless hours to bring a deer to bay and then, his giant carcass dragging to the ground, to carry the animal back to camp to turn him over to the family of Yorerie the Butcher for preparation and sharing. My longbow was two hands longer than even the longbow of the family head, Strongarm, and only the respect which I owed to our family head prevented me, in hand games, from besting the Strongarm himself. But I was and had always been alone. There was only one bright spot in my life, and that was in the form of a sunny-faced prewoman, Yuree, who, perhaps in pity at first, came to me and talked to me. She was so beautiful, her body short and round and soft, her skull gleaming and oiled, her wide eyes alert as the eyes of a frightened female deer. Even as a child she knew her powers, sending me to the top of the tallest fruit tree to toss down the ripest fruits with no more authority than her smile. Eban, I remembered her saying, as I lay behind the rock and let my eyes cover the ground in front of me, counting the bleached piles of bones which, it seemed, grew more numerous further down the slope, what will you do when I come of age? I don't know, I mumbled, not daring to think that I, the freak, the accursed one, could presume to ask for her. Oh, you pain me, she said. Will you not ask for me? Yuree, I said, finding it hard to breath. Do I dare think you'd want me to ask? Of course, silly, she said, with a teasing smile. Not that I promise to choose you. It will be honor enough to be allowed to ask, I said. But the daughter of the family head could not be pairmate to a haired one. Oh, pooh, she said. We'll have Seer burn it off. I wore the blisters for days, after I tried to burn away my curse myself. And now I could feel the summer sun doing it's work on my partially exposed scalp, the hair being by now about a finger long and tawny like the hide of a lion. And was that a noise from below? And so it was only Yuree with whom I could talk, share my shame, my dreams. When she would sneak away from her hidehouse on a spring night and lie in my arms and allow me to touch her lips with mine, to do all those wonderful and blood-rousing things which prepeople are allowed, her skirt or loincloth tucked securely between her legs to mark the only off-bounds area, I dared to think of it, of her in my hidehouse, with me bringing her the spoils of the hunt, for I was, truly, Eban, son of Egan the Hunter. I will dress you in lion skins, I said. Oh, will you? she breathed, her voice made low and funny by my kisses on her bared torso. Oh, will you? For you I will gather a necklace of dragon guts, I promised. Ha. I had not remembered that. Was that a sign? So long ago I had promised her. Oh, gods of man, it was. It was a sign. I was the favored one. She had remembered, and the multicolored thing hanging from her father's hidehouse was the sign that it was, actually, unbelievably, Eban who was the favorite. At that moment I was ready to slay two dragons, three dragons, a dozen dragons, to festoon my Yuree in gaudy and lovely guts. And at that moment I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a tawny shape move swiftly from cover to cover. So it was not only the possibility of a dragon before me. There was the lion behind me, having tracked me, stalked me. It was a tight situation. If I moved, the dragon's teeth would come spitting to kill me. If I remained behind the rock, I would end up with four manweights of lion on my back. Keeping in shelter, I strung my finest arrow, tipped in dragonskin, to my bow, put my hardax atop the rock ready for use, rolled to my back so that I could watch. The lion was silent, but I caught a glimpse of him as he moved closer. His intentions were clear. I considered running for it, back up the slope, but he was above me and I was at a disadvantage. The game continued for a long, hot, sweaty period during which the sun moved perceptibly. I listened for sounds from below, for sounds of the dragon. There was nothing. Only the sun and the buzz of insects and the loose rock which rolled down toward me just before the lion coughed, leaped, made his charge, arching high to come down at me from up the slope, his tawny hide shining against the sky. I loosed my best and most deadly arrow and reached for the hardax even as he was airborne, and then he was descending, claws showing from his pads, and my arrow lodged ineffectively in his haunch. In that swift and instant moment of action I wondered if my father had died thus, at the claws and fangs of a lion instead of in a spitting storm of dragon's teeth. So I was to die, mauled and maimed, food for the lion of the mountains. But then there was a terrible sound, even as the lion began his descent, and I saw his body seem to pause in midair and the life run out of him with blood springing from his head, and then I was rolling to keep his vast weight from landing atop me and he was beside me, jerking out his life. A sound such as I'd never heard before, a wail of ghostly anguish, high-pitched, whining, came from below. There was a rumble, a hard clanking sound. Oh, gods of man. I took one moment to make sure the lion was dead. He looked intact, with only his head damaged, pulped, bloody, but the hide excellent with only the one arrow hole in the flank. I retrieved my arrow and lay beside the dead animal, admiring his magnificent coloring, the powerful and now useless muscles, the yellowish and deadly teeth exposed in a death's-head grin. The sound from below came to a halt. From directly below there was the bellow of a dragon's voice, and teeth swept up the slope, making leaves dance and fall and sending a shower of dust into my eyes as they struck against the rock which protected me. More frightened than I'd ever been, I waited for the deadly rain to cease. It was said that very old dragons had long since spit out all their teeth and had only their deadly eyes. This, then, was not one of them, although all dragons are ancient. Silence. I lay there, forcing myself to review everything I'd ever heard around the campfires on the subject of dragons. By the will of God, dragons did not breed. God help man if they did. By the will of God, dragons stayed on their dragon paths, beaten into hardness by the eternity of their vigilance, for dragons were God's first creations, were on earth before God made man from the fresh, red bones of a bear and made him walk upright, as the bear does on occasion. What else did I know? The range of the dragon's teeth is limited, and the teeth cannot penetrate rock or a huge tree. The dragon's eyes are deadly at closer range, but can kill only in line of sight, being deflected by trees, stone or, one old man claimed, by a stout shield of animal hide. Dragons protect. What? Only God knows, but it was said that originally the intention was to keep man from leaving the mountains to enter the deadly flats. So. I was not exactly an authority on dragons, and down there, hidden by the trees, I had me a dragon. The lion had attracted the dragon's attention, and the sounds I'd heard had been the dragon moving to a point directly below me. I thought about that. It seemed to me that it would be best to get out of there and make a new approach. I began to crawl up the hill, keeping very, very low. In an open area the ground around me suddenly spurted dust and there were deadly snaps in the air. I leaped for a rock, and the teeth crashed against it. Then with one leap I was among the trees, and the teeth thudded harmlessly into the tree trunks. I made another approach. I went far to the north and came down. There were no bones of death there. The range of my dragon seemed to be limited. I had a bad moment when I saw, overgrown and ruined, something I'd never seen, a dragon's path, dark and eerie, cut by eons of vigilance into the hillside, flat, wide. I hid and waited. Nothing happened. I moved to a vantage point. To the south along the dragon's path there was a huge rock slide, closing off the path. So, I reasoned, the dragon's northward patrol was ended by the slide. I crept toward it, climbed the chaos of the rocks, peered over. The dragon's path continued, and, oh, gods of man, he was there, to the south an arrow's flight, squat, ancient, awesome. His round head in the middle of his squat body was motionless, but even at that distance I could see the gleam of his fearsome eyes. I held my breath, ready to leap down the rock slide if he saw me and came after me. The path was in better shape on the far side of the rock slide, hard and shiny, with only a few small trees and weeds growing in it. The tracks of the dragon were in the center, and it was well beaten. The path had been cut into the side of solid rock so that a cliff towered above it, ending in a slope of rock topped by the forest. I heard a scream, and the dragon's head turned slowly, the eerie wail creaking into my ears, and then the rumble as he turned and slowly, feet pounding and clanking, came toward me. I lowered myself, peering out between two rocks. He halted halfway to me and went to sleep. There was silence. I studied the land. Below the dragon's path the slope fell away into a deep ravine, from which I could hear the sound of a stream. Among the trees I could catch glimpses of white bones. To the south, beyond the point from which the dragon had spat death upon the lion, there was another rockslide. The dragon was effectively penned into a section of his path not more than an arrow's flight long. Well, Eban the hunter, I said, it is only to kill him now. How? That was the question. Once, according to legend, a dragon had been killed by rolling burning logs down on him from above, but my father had slain his dragon in a different way. I looked to the cliff which towered above the dragon's path, highest in the center of the remaining range. I made my plans. It was early afternoon, and I wondered if I would do well to wait for darkness. Could dragons see in the night? We knew so little about them. Yes, I would await the coming of night. I withdrew, walking fearfully along the abandoned portions of the dragon's path, and made my camp, dined on dried meat and fruits, slept well in spite of what I faced. I awoke, willing myself to do so, with the moon not yet above the hills, and in an almost inky darkness, I made my way to the top of the cliff. The dragon was a dark and foreboding blackness down below. I began to gather rocks, hefting stones as large as I could handle, rolling some into place. Once I dislodged a loose stone and sent it clanking and crashing downward, and the area near me was lit, suddenly, by the fierceness of the dragon's eye, a blinding blaze of light as if from the sun which, as I cowered back into the forest, swept back and forth and then went away. When the sun sent its warning of morning in the form of false dawn, I had a pile of rocks higher than my head. My hope was that once I dislodged them, pulling away the small log on which they all rested, they would gather their brothers as they rolled down the slope in a growing slide which would bury the dragon and make him immobile. I waited until the light was good, and it was almost my undoing. For as I readied myself, the dragon, who had been in perfect position, moved, first making that eerie scream, then jerking into motion, his peculiar feet making clanking sounds on the pathway which he had beaten down into hardness with his eons of patrol. He went to the far south and paused. I waited for an hour and was impatient. I steeled myself and stepped out to the brink of the cliff and stood there, my body exposed. Nothing happened. Had he expended his teeth? If so, he still had his eyes. I knew that from the incident of the night. But he had to be moved back to the center of the cliff to be a target for my manmade rock slide. Dragon, I said softly. Come to me. Be a nice dragon and come to be killed. He didn't hear. Dragon, I yelled. Creak. Clank. I dived for the trees as teeth spattered around me. Well, I had his attention. I could hear him now, clanking, pounding the hard path. He halted below me, and I dared look out. Teeth thudded into the trees above me. And then I saw his eye, the one looking toward me, glow. A lance of fire shot out, bright, hurting my eyes, searing the trees only hands above my head. I tried to dig myself a hole. Yes, I had his attention. But he was not quite in the proper position. I examined him. His tough skin, parts of which would be so wonderful for making hardaxes and other tools, was bleeding. All old dragonsand all were oldbled, their dark blood seeping through the tough skin to redden and blotch. This, I felt, in spite of his supply of teeth, which seemed to be endless, was a very old dragon, blood-spotted almost everywhere except in his gleaming eyes. I wanted him to move. I threw a branch, and a lance of fire caught it in midair, and he moved, just as I wanted him to. Dragons, I decided, were not too smart. He was directly below my pile of rocks, and I rolled quickly, kicked the log, and it went bounding down the cliff, followed by a growing rumble as my rock pile fell and, as I'd hoped, gathered force and went sweeping down in a cloud of dust and a rumble like summer thunder. And over it there was the creaking and clanking as the dragon tried to avoid the oncoming mass. I watched, fascinated and praying to my gods, and then the first stones were upon him, making hard sounds as they glanced off his hard skin, and then the force of it hit him and I saw him tilt and I heard the rattle of his teeth flying everywhere with his eyes flashing and then he was going over and the rocks piled up on him, crushing him, imprisoning even his huge strength under many, many manweights of rock and dirt. All was silent. The echo of the roar of the landslide faded. I waited. Then, heart in mouth, I began to make my way down the fresh dirt and exposed stones of the cliff, and I lived, did not feel the blasting shock of his teeth or the searing flame of his eyes. He was almost completely covered. He was on his side, and even in his extremity he tried to kill me, sending out his teeth, rattling them against the stones which covered him, blasting and smoking the stones with the force of his eyes. I waited and watched his death struggles, and it was half the day before he ceased to try to burn his way out of the pile of rubble with his eyes. The rocks were hot to the touch, and I had to wait for them to cool. Finally, in the early evening, I neared, coming up on his weak side, his exposed belly. He spat one last burst of teeth and then was silent. By nightfall, I had his belly exposed, being careful not to move the rocks which kept his head from turning. His huge, flat, continuous feet were moving slowly, grinding away at nothing. I was careful to avoid them. I kept remembering little things. The dragon's belly is his weakest part, my father had told me. And so it was. Still, breaching that belly took the better part of two days, during which I nearly ruined my hardax, put bruises and cuts on my hands, sweated, cursed, tugged, banged away with large stones. I was attacking a plate on the dragon's skin much like the plate on a turtle's belly, and his bones were hard and tough. When at last I had one edge of the plate lifted slightly, I was able to force a branch into the rift to use as a lever. With all my strength I heaved, and one by one the bones gave and then the plate clanged off to ring against the stones and the hard pathway. Inside were wondrous things. Huge, horned arteries, which I attacked with my poor, mutilated hardax. When I cut through one of them the dragon spat fire at me and the feet stopped grinding away. I cut more arteries and small veins and began to gather them, the small veins, because they were indestructible and invaluable for tying things together, for fishing lines, for decoration, since they came in various colors. Soon I had a pile of treasures and was busily cutting my way deeper and deeper into the dragon's entrails. I cut a different kind of artery, and ichor or something similar jetted out. I got some of it on my hands and expected it to burn, but it was cool and slick. I tried to wipe it away. It was oily, like the extract of fat swimmer meat. I wished for something to catch it in, but I had nothing. It would have been invaluable for oiling skulls, for those who were lucky enough not to be cursed. But the true treasures were still beyond my reach after three days of hard and frustrating labor, and it was not until the fourth day that I found what I sought. I had cut and ripped my way into the entrails of the now thoroughly dead beast, and there were wonders. A store of teeth, long, hard, shiny. I took several, although they were heavy. And then the guts, the gaudy little pretties. They were in several boxlike compartments, all connected in a wondrous way, but the veins connecting them were small and flexible and it was the work of mere hours to collect enough to make a dozen necklaces. They came in various sizes, and different colors, with the little veins sticking out both ends, and I bent the veins together to form a huge multistrand necklace and stood atop the dead dragon, the token of my victory around my neck, sweating, bleeding from accidental contact with sharp points of dragon's skin, and sang my victory song. I had only two more chores before going home in triumph. I searched the dragon for a suitable piece of skin to replace my mutilated hardax. I found a small plate and used up the remaining edge of my old hardax to cut the bones holding it. Honed and ground and shaped, it would make a beautiful hardax. Then I bundled all the treasure I could carry into my sleepskin and rolled rocks to hide the carcass of the dragon. There was much treasure left. I would return, with all of the men of the family, and strip the carcass, making the family of Strabo of the Strongarm the richest family of the mountains. We could trade for buythings with every family within trading distance. And one thing else. The carcass of the lion. I was fortunate. The threat of the dragon's teeth had, apparently, kept away the small carrion eaters and even the flying eaters of the dead. The lion was swollen, and when I began to skin him he stank dreadfully, but his skin was intact. The extent of my triumph was just beginning to hit me. Not only dragon's guts, but a lionskin. The name of Eban the Hunter would live forever in the memories of my people. Well, to this day I don't know whether it was worth it, skinning a long-dead lion. Stench? Gods of man! I soaked in the first stream I crossed for hours and it was still with me, wearing off, but lingering on the skin, as I made my way homeward, singing my victory song as I went. Chapter Three They heard me coming. The small children were out first, laughing and pointing at me, for I had not scraped my curse and it was finger-long on my skull and finger-joint-long on my face. I paid them no mind. Then there were the women, some calling my name. Old Seer, hobbling from her hidehouse, her toothless mouth contorted in a welcoming smile. I had my treasures hidden under my sleepskin. Logan brought a bearskin, a small boy shouted at me. Logan is brave, I said. Gods of man, I was confident. What have you got? the lad asked, trotting along beside me. Besides hair? You will see, small one, I said. There was a gathering in front of the hidehouse of Strabo. I went there, beginning to wonder if I should not have halted long enough to scrape away my shame, but my hardax was ruined and I had not had time to hone an edge on my new one. So, Strabo said, scowling. You have returned at last. What speak you? Am I not the last? I asked. You are. Then I ask to be heard last, I said. Seer of Things Unseen was seated in the shade, making rhythm on a hollowed log. They spoke, in the order of their return. Teetom, first, had only swimmer skins. He said he had searched for dragons for a moon and they were extinct. Yorerie had skins and jewels of gods, some oblong and red. And so it went. There was a restlessness. It was known by one and all that they did not matter, that the decision was to be between Logan and, perhaps, the Haired One. And then came Logan, with his right leg bandaged, healing slowly, limping. The bear had reached him with its fearful fangs. He spoke well and bravely. In addition to the bearskin, he had flint. As he spoke, Strabas, mother of my beloved, smiled in approval. And now, at last, it was my turn. While the others talked, and all eyes were on them, I had arranged my treasures, keeping them hidden under my sleepskin. How speak you, Eban the Hunter? Strabo asked. I have fared well, I said. My honorable father, I ask your permission to spread my boon among the family. Is it so rich, then? Strabas asked, greed in her eyes. Rich enough for all, I said. Permission, Strabo granted. First, I said, pulling out the lionskin, a special gift for Yuree, to warm her, to pleasure her, to give her honor. There was a collective gasp, and the women crowded forward to finger the lionskin. I made no haste, willing to savor the moment, thinking of even greater triumph to come. I had planned it so carefully. I didn't know, then, that I was simply stupid to think that I could buy their love and respect. Oh, they accepted my gifts. They accepted them. And now, I said, for the hunters, for the men of my family I reached into my pile of treasures and brought out the prearranged veins of the dragon and, with gasping and speculation, distributed one length to each man of the family. A dragon? Strabo asked, his eyes wide. I have not forgotten the family head, I said. My father presented your father with the tribe's greatest treasure. I can do no less than match his generosity. So saying, I pulled out a necklace of dragon's gut, a match for the one my father had given the elder Strabo. I hung it around Strabo's neck. He beamed and fingered it. The family was hooting in rhythm with Seer's beats. The sounds hung in the still summer air. I glowed with pride. Is there nothing, then, for me? Yuree asked, pouting. Be patient, I begged. For the mothers of the family, each one, and for my friend, Seer of Unseen Things I brought them out one by one. One gaudy dragon's gut for each woman, three for Seer, who was the oldest. You buy your death, she whispered. I grinned confidently at her. The three dragon's guts looked good on her stringy neck. And now, I said, facing Yuree. My greatest pleasure is to present the beautiful and desirable Yuree, and I pray that she will accept and honor me by choosing me, with this. Women cried out, began to scream and yodel in rhythm, for I held out and then put around Yuree's neck the greatest and most beautiful necklace ever seen. It was three strands thick and hung to her waist, and she went red with pleasure and smiled at me. And as a further gift, I shouted, over the din of the women's singing, I have the carcass of the dragon well hidden, waiting for all the men in the family to gather treasure, to make the family of Strabo the Strongarm the richest in the mountains. Honor to Eban the Hunter, Seer said. Honor, honor, the women chanted. Honor to Eban the Hunter, slayer of dragons. It is honor to me, Strabo said, kneeling in front of me. A family head had not kneeled to a man since Strabo's father knelt to pay honor to my father. I put my battered hardax on Strabo's shoulder. The honor, honorable father, is shared, I said. And I renew my pledge to serve you and the family. I do this with great joy. He rose. There were tears in his eyes. Had I a son like you he said. If it be God's will, I will be your son, I said. Yes, he said. It is time. He turned. The chanting died. My daughter, he said. You have seen. You have heard. Will you now choose? Yuree opened her mouth. I saw it form that beautiful word, yes. But it was not to be. We have not as yet been assured that the gods of man approve, Strabas said, stepping between me and Yuree. Woman, Strabo said, the choice is Yuree's. No, Strabas said, it is the custom. The mother has the right of last appeal to the gods. There was a muttering. I'd never heard that one. Neither, apparently, had Strabo. He turned to Seer of Things Unseen. It is true, Seer said, shaking her head. The right was last exercised in the time of your father's father, but it is the custom. So be it, Strabo said. Did Yuree have a look of regret on her face? With the dawn, then, Strabo said. If none of you needs more time for preparation. Now, sometimes customs can be silly. I felt a great pity for the others, for the likes of Young Pallas and Teetom and Yorerie. They were out of it. Everyone knew it. Everyone knew that if Strabas hadn't spoken up, claimed her last appeal, Yuree would have chosen me and the gods could have gone on sleeping in their high places. Now, because an old woman did not want a haired one for a son, we all faced them, those sleek and fatal gods. Yet, because of custom and honor we went to our hidehouses and began to take out the birds, stored so carefully, the thin membranes of scraped hide, the tiny but strong lengths of hollowed wood. Because no preman could refuse, having gone so far, six of us would dare the displeasure of the gods of man in the light of a summer dawn. It is said that God gave man wings in a moment of weakness and, realizing it, then placed limitations upon man. And, the limitations being not enough, He then placed the gods of man in the heights to limit man's forbidden pleasure, his escape from the surface of the earth to be limited by his fear of retribution, by his weight, by the vagaries of wind and air. And yet the right to wings was man's from the time he could scrape skins. Only fools, however, abused that right. Wings were reserved for splendid and ceremonial occasions, and the flights were a hymn of praise to the God who loves chaos. I had flown last during the festival of the new growth, when the crops were peeking out of the ground, and we flew, the young ones, to praise God and to beg for the rains and the gentle sun. And now I would fly for another reason, the best reason I'd ever had. And, moreover, instead of the brief and swiftly finished hop from a small hilltop in a hidden valley, secluded from the eyes of the gods of man, I would fly from the dome upon which I had built my fire, created my chaos, prayed to God before I went to slay the dragon. And beside me would be five others, risking all, some of them, all of them save myself and Logan, for nothing. For from that dome, high above the surrounding hills, there was no protection from the eyes of the gods of man. The gods of man would look down, see, select, and choose to speak or remain silent. What was it in me which prevented me from scraping my shame on that night of all nights? Pride? Was I so sure of my manhood, having slain a dragon, that I no longer feared the disapproval which comes to a haired one? I have learned, since, that pride is a sin against the God of chaos. I spread my wings and oiled them carefully, making the very thin membrane soft and pliant. I reinforced the riggings with the veins of the dragon, making mine the strongest wings of all. I spread them and rigged them, and they arched up. I tried the saddle, and it was soft and comfortable, and, with the wings ready, I prayed, rubbing my godsticks, until the village was quiet. Then I slept to waken to the happy and excited cries of the young ones as they anticipated the glorious day when six sets of wings would adorn the sky at once and fly high, not in a sneaking hop from a low hill. God made man smaller than the deer, so that his body weight could be lifted by the wings. With so much pre-planning, then, how was his gift of wings so frivolous? If he had not meant man to fly he would not have given him wings, and that was a puzzle, for the gods of man, the killbirds, always waited. Man never knew, even on a short and secretive flight, when God would be angered and send His messenger flashing down from the skies. Never before had I felt His presence so vividly as I carried my wings to the dome, Young Pallas trudging along behind me, Logan in front of me. The men were working atop the dome, clearing a path for takeoff. There was feasting and singing. I passed nearby Seer, and she touched my arm. Oh, Eban, it is not too late, she said. She is the daughter of a family head, I said. Pride. My pairmate-to-be deserved the test. The last time a mating had been put into the hands of the gods of man was during the lifetime of Strabo's father, when Strabo's younger sister had come of age and was sought not only by men of the family, but by men of an adjoining family from whom our family had since been separated by distance, thanks to the inspired move by Strabo of the Strongarm. Yuree deserved the best, and without the ultimate test of courage, without the approval of the gods of man, she would not be getting it. I regretted, momentarily, that Yuree was not on the dome to see the takeoff. But it made sense. She was far away, down the long slope, in the valley, at a distance of the walk of a four fingers' movement of the sun. There she could greet the victor, the final choice. I could almost feel her arms around me. May the killbirds be sleeping, Seer said, as I left her. Are there any who would withdraw, without malice? Strabo asked. As he expected, as demanded, no one spoke. Teetom was white of face as he fussed with his wings. You know the custom, Strabo said. He who flies longest, who tempts the gods longest without destruction, is the victor. We know, Yorerie said, in his thick-tongued way. We all knew. We knew that once we had cleared the ground there was no dishonor in ending the flight as quickly as we chose. In fact, honor came to the man who landed first, for he did not continue to risk a precious life. But I was not after honor. I had honor, more than any man in our family. I was after Yuree, and to win her I would fly to the low clouds, to the dim blue of the high places, into the lair of the gods of man, the killbirds, themselves. But there was a look of determination on the face of Logan, too. May the killbirds be sleeping, Strabo said, making a gesture with his hardax. There was a low, mourning chant as we poised there in a line, standing in the cleared runway with our hearts pounding, looking forward to that glorious freedom of flight and fearing it at the same time, none of us knowing who would be chosen by a streaking killbird. Above us there were soft little white clouds and vast areas of blue sky. Clouds would not have helped, for killbirds see through them. God have sympathy, Strabo said, as we began running. Then the ground fell away under my feet and I leaned and felt the wings bite into the air and experienced the giddy happiness of leaving the ground with the trees brushing my feet before my wings caught hold and lifted me. Below I could see Teetom's wings tumbling as his feet dragged a treetop and he was out of it. The first. Five of us left. Logan above me and Yorerie, yelling a crazy song of happiness, by my side. Ha, Yorerie, I called, trilling the words. Ha, Eban, he trilled back. And then he was off on a wind, lifting, and I felt the same uplift and soared, the green trees growing smaller below me, the valley coming into my view. I soared to within a few wing lengths of Yorerie. Below I could see Cree the Kite landing in a hillside clearing. Two down with honor. I looked up. The sky was clean. No telltell track of whiteness to speak of the thunder of a killbird. Ha, Yorerie, I called. Go down, for even should you win she will exercise her last appeal and reject you. Ha, Eban, he called, laughing, speaking more clearly than I'd ever heard him speak. I care not. I have known I would be rejected, but I fly. Oh, the fool. He had been in it all along merely for the chance to risk a long and soaring flight. Young Pallas wisely went in at the grassy side of the stream, three arrow flights from the dome. Three down. Logan high above me, soaring, circling. The fool. He was going to make a real contest of it, and with Strabas in his favor would Yuree have the strength to reject him should he win? I found a rising wind and rode it, circling. We were being foolish. We should have gone in a straight line for the finish point, a meadow in the center of the valley. Instead we circled and soared, riding the hot breath of the valley, warmed by the sun, and above us the trackless sky posed a deadly threat. Fobs, later known as the Fool, defied the gods. Defied tradition. Defied the advice of his elders, flying his wings without occasion, for his own pleasure, defying God one time too many, as we all watched, we young ones. The killbird appeared, high, first as a streak of white and then as a gleaming dot which sped downward with the speed of lightning, and the great blast left nothing but a rain of debris and tatters of scraped skin from Fobs' wings. Yorerie, for God's sake, go down, I yelled, as I circled close. My eyes were searching the sky. We had been aloft forever, it seemed, much too long, long enough for a killbird to see, to come, to blast. Yah, yah, yah, Yorerie yelled, banking, sweeping away so gracefully that it caused a knot in my throat. I dared not leave the rising current of heated air, for Logan was still above me. Yorerie was skillful. He soared back to within a wingspan of me. Let us both go down, he said. For she will reject your hair. No, I said. She will not. I go, he said, dropping away, arrowing away toward the meadow. I saw him make his landing, standing, keeping his precious wings from damage. And then it was just the two of us, Logan above me. I began to try to soar to his level, seeking the turn of air which would lift me. When I was near, he laughed. Go down, Haired One, he said. You seek death or rejection. Would it please you, living with the knowledge that it was her mother who chose you? I asked. I don't care who makes the choice, he yelled, so long as I am chosen. Let the gods of man decide, then, I said grimly, sweeping away from him so that when the killbird came we would be far apart, leaving the gods of man a choice. So be it, he yelled after me. They were sleeping, I felt, for we had been in the air so long, so long. Fobs the Fool had not flown so long on his fatal flight. Surely the killbirds were sleeping, or God was sympathetic. Surely Logan would know fear. Surely he would go down so that I could go, after him, to claim my prize. From far below I could hear yelling. Come down, come down. We were drifting slowly back toward the dome, circling, gaining height on the column of warm air, and I dreamed that there were no killbirds and man could fly at his pleasure and seek new height and extend the delicious feeling of being free forever. I did not see the telltale streak of white. I heard the screaming from the ground and then looked up, around, and there, high, near the sun, I saw it, the streak. We were high above the dome. It would be close, for the killbird traveled swiftly, if we tried, now, to reach the safety of the ground, to hide beneath the trees. There, I yelled, pointing with my head. He saw it. Oh, God, he cried. Will you go down? I yelled. Let the gods of man choose, he said. Fool, fool, I cried. He seemed to be frozen with terror, but he was determined. He was set in a circle, riding the column of air. I yelled, Break out of the circle. Take action. He seemed not to hear me, and, above, the white streak grew and grew behind the killbird as he thundered down. Then I could hear the low rumble of his growl, and I, death not being my object, took action, swooping away from the circling Logan. I aimed for the dome with the intent of going into the depression behind it, putting the bulk of the hill between me and the streaking, roaring killbird while Logan was still circling. I tried to extend the line of the killbird to estimate if he had chosen one of us as a target. It was too far up to tell. I could see the family, at least half of them, Strabo, Seer, all the others, on the dome below me, their faces uplifted, fingers pointing to the death which streaked out of the sky. I had put considerable distance between me and Logan. He still circled. And then it became apparent as the line behind the killbird jogged and the roaring sounded ever louder, the killbird coming so fast that he left his growl behind him, that he had selected and, instead of the relatively stationary target offered by the circling Logan, he had chosen me. So be it, I said. But I was not ready to give up. I dived with the roar in my ears, the killbird a distinct thing now, sleek, deadly, shiny, the sun reflected off his skin, his deadly nose pointed directly toward me. I dived toward the dome. Wind sang in my ears, put fierce strain on my frail wings. They would break and I would tumble into the trees. But they held, and I flashed over the dome so low that I could see the teeth in Strabo's mouth as he yelled at me and the roar was in my ears and the killbird was so near I could make out the marking of his skin. Then I was over the dome and diving, and below me was a valley. To put the hill between us, that was my intent. Then the killbird would soar past and be unable to change directions so swiftly to pursue me into the valley, where I would land, in the trees, and lose, for Logan was still high, circling. And then I was past and diving fast while my wings protested and behind me there was a great blast which seized me and lifted me, stopping my dive, throwing me forward. I fought for control. I was alive and the killbird had done his worst and I would climb again and outlast Logan and all would be right with the world. Then I felt something splat against my legs and looked down to see a piece of human flesh, navel clearly visible, slide off my legs, leaving very red blood, and I screamed, looked back, having gained control, to see the top of the dome leveled. All dead. Strabo. The Seer of Things Unseen, half of the family. I had led the killbird directly to them. I turned, hot tears in my eyes. The top of the dome had become the chaos pleasing to God. Trees blasted, stumps burning, a glint of killbird skin, a huge hole. No sign of people, except a severed leg in a damaged treetop. Oh, God. Oh, God. So many lives. So many precious and irreplaceable lives. Half the family. The family head. My old friend, my only friend, Seer. Logan was streaking for the meadow. I watched him go. Finding the column of air, I soared. I looked up. Come, I cried. Come, killbird. Take me. For I do not want to live. The killbird's white trail was wisping out, becoming indistinct. The blue sky was empty. I considered diving down, straight down, to smash into the rocks, but that was a sin which I did not need. Having been responsible for so many deaths, I did not need to extend my time in the burning place by taking my own. I dared not tempt God further. For to seek death would be to rob Him of His right to judge, to punish. I knew the first taste of that punishment already. I had lost. I was the last one in the air, but I had lost everything. For I had killed the father of the one I loved, and she was now so far beyond my reach that there was no hope. For our customs are the things of survival, and to condone what I had done would unravel the very threads of our means of survival in a world of chaos. I could not even go back. As a bringer of death I was the most abhorred thing in man's world. Yuree. Yuree. How I loved you. Come, killbird, I begged. Please, God, take me. Punish me. Free me from my sadness. The cold blue sky was empty. I strained my eyes, climbing higher and higher, riding the updrafts. I was drifting away from the valley of my people. The Lake of Clean Water far below was beginning to disappear as hills intervened. Looking back, it was a glorious flight, but I was in no condition to enjoy. I merely flew there, higher and higher, begging God to send a killbird that never came. I was moving toward the far hills to the east, to the place where I, in my youthful arrogance, thought that I had gained the world merely by slaying a dragon. And in the end I had to come down, for the updrafts deserted me, and I considered crashing into rocks or trees, but again that was taking God's prerogative. I landed in a little clearing, far from the valley of my people. I respected my wings, folding them. I lay in the grass and willed myself to die. The mind might wish death, but the body never does. It rebelled, after God only knows how long, and I found myself seeking food from the fruit trees, drink from the clear stream. I had nothing, only my wings. It was chill. I covered myself with grasses for warmth, and by morning I had decided that God wanted me to live. What I would do with my life was now in God's hands. I packed my wings. If a man is to live he must have tools. I carried the wings to the place of the dragon and took what I could with my bare hands. I found a very unsatisfactory piece of dragon skin which I honed for days until it was ready to mount, using dragon veins, to a crude handle. I made a longbow and strung it with dragon veins, fashioned arrows from wood, tipped them with crude pieces of dragon skin. Then I could hunt for meat, and life became an endless series of days, meaningless days. I used the dragon for my house, sleeping in the cavity which I had cleared out. Many times I wondered about Yuree. The summer days began to grow short, and I set about making myself warm skins for winter. I was alone. I built a hide lean-to to cover the cavity in the dragon and gradually began to build up a winter's supply of sun-dried meat and nuts from the trees. And then, with the first chill of the coming winter putting a coating of frost on the bleeding skin of the slain dragon, I contemplated spending the long winter nights alone in a dead dragon, and there was something akin to panic in me. I still wished only to die. I could not die. God apparently wanted me to live and to suffer. To seek death was a sin. But perhaps there was a way. I stood one day with the chill of the winter kissing my back and gazed out toward the flats. It was taboo to go there, but it was a sort of well, I guess you could say common-sense taboo, with no punishment other than danger and death involved. I mean, it was not a sin for me to go there but it was foolish. No man ever went into the flats and came back alive. But wasn't that what I wanted? And to find death there would not be a sin, merely foolishness. Moreover, if God wanted me to live and suffer he could keep me alive in the flats to suffer there, couldn't he? I could not face winter alone in that dragon's hide. I sought out the highest ridge overlooking the distant undulation of rolling hills which led to the lows and assembled my wings. I took only my hardax and my longbow. Their additional weight would slow my flight, but would not make it impossible. I waited for a warm day with a wind from the hills behind me. The distant valley shimmered with heat. I ran, leaped, and flew. I used the updrafts. I used all my skill. I was tempting the gods of man, and I didn't care. And they didn't care about me, for no killbird came to blast me into forgetfulness. At the center of the valley I felt, on my exposed belly, the warning, the tingling. And down there were the piles of stone and other things which, legend says, were the homes of the giants. Shivering, I almost wished there were giants, giants who could squash me with a fist and put an end to it. I flew away from the source of the warning tingle, however, and cleared a ridge, found an updraft on the other side, rode it to clear another ridge. I suppose it was an epic flight, the longest man has ever made. It extended for half a day, over ridge after ridge as the land dropped away under me until, in the late afternoon, the winds and the updrafts failed me and I sank slowly downward, into a flatness which, after living my life among the mountains, seemed sinister and eerie. I took a good look as I went down. The land was mostly barren, with rocks exposed, the dirt a dirty red. Far away there was a line of trees which seemed to mark a stream, but they were stunted and unhealthy, unlike the trees of my mountains. I landed running, stumbled over a rock, went tail over wings and smashed the delicate bracings. It didn't matter. I would have no use for wings in this flat desert. I was not hurt. God was looking out for me, keeping me alive to suffer. I salvaged some dragon's veins from the wings and set off toward the distant trees. There was a little rabbity type of animal there in the flats, existing on God knows what, and I killed one with an arrow, skinned him, smelled him, found him to be unsavory but edible. I carried the carcass to the tree line and found a stream of reddish water which tasted tepid. I used my hardax and a piece of flint for a fire and settled in. I awoke with a feeling of eyes upon me. I leaped to my feet, clutching my hardax. I saw them then. There were three of them. Two men and a woman, the woman lank of body, thinner than I, and with a filthy mane of hair on her skull. The men were equally sorry, with hair on face and head. They were dressed in tattered and filthy skins, and their eyes were sunken into their faces. Who are you? I asked. Who are you? one of the men asked. His words were distorted but understandable. I am Eban the Hunter, I said. What do you hunt? the woman asked, licking her lips. I have hunted bears and lions, I said, with a swift pride which soon faded as I remembered. This is no bear, one of the men said, pointing to the remains of the rabbity animal which had been my meal. If you are hungry, eat, I said. The man leaped toward the carcass and began to tear it with his hands, the other two pushing and yelling, trying to grab a bit for themselves. It sickened me. I stepped forward and pushed one of the men. He was frail, and he fell to his back. The other scrambled away on his hands and knees. Only the woman remained, the food clutched in her hands. There is enough for all, I said. I took the animal and cut it into pieces with my hardax, handing each a share. Eat, I said. You are great and mighty, the woman said. I will be your She said a word which is sometimes used, with shame, by young boys trying to shock. I turned red. You like I be your? she asked. No, I said harshly, nor do I want to hear such language. I will cook for you and tend your fire, then, she said. As you will, I said. I will sleep. Yes, she said. Sleep. I will stay awake and keep the fire for you. The two men huddled together and seemed to go to sleep. I curled up and closed my eyes, opening them now and then to look at the woman. Her clothing was mere tatters, showing her long flanks and the curve of her breasts. I slept. Later in my life I saw men, if the inbreeders deserve the name, seek death by their own hands. But a real man, however sure he is that life is not worth living, clings to life with all his strength, even as his mind wishes ease in eternal sleep. I had a feeling, perhaps not fully realized, that if death was all I sought it would come to me as a pleasant surprise in my sleep that night. So that urge, that sacred will to live, kept my hand on the handle of my crude hardax. A good hunter, it is said, sleeps with one eye open. I'm sure that both my eyes were closed, but there was something in me which was vigilant, for I woke and rolled with one movement and the dragonskin head of my own arrow plunked into the ground where I had lain. It was, on my part, instinctive, I suppose, for if I had been fully aware I would not have done as I did, leaping with one fluid movement to vault the dying fire and shed the blood of the man who had seized my longbow and used it to try to kill me. His skull split with an ease which made it difficult for me, as he fell, to remove my hardax from it. And then I was whirling to meet a new threat as the dead man's companion screamed in rage and, using both hands, tried to break my skull with a huge rock. As it was the rock struck me a glancing blow on the shoulder, numbing it, but it was my eating hand, not my hunting hand, and I swung the hardax, driven by anger at the betrayalI had, after all, shared my food with themand by the instinct of survival. The ax flashed in the dying light of the fire and took the second inbreeder on the side of the throat, sliding across bone to sever the large artery there. His life pumped away as he dug futilely in the barren red dirt with his broken and dirty nails. I turned to the woman, who was crouching on the ground, my ax held high. Please, please, she cried. I wanted to warn you, but they would have killed me. Is this the way your people reward hospitality? I asked. We have eaten nothing for three suns, she whimpered. Do not kill me. I will be your That word caused me to curl my lips in disgust. And then I was struck by the sure knowledge that I had taken life. To be sure, I examined the men. The first, his skull cracked, was surely dead, and the second was gasping out his last breath. I saw the gleaming bone of the skull and was struck by its fragility. The skulls of my people are thick and strong and protect the mind. The inbreeder's skull was thin, so thin. No wonder my ax buried itself in it. Dead. Men dead at my hand. I fell to my knees and thrust my face into the dry red dirt. I wailed. I prayed the prayers of the dead. The woman sat, chewing on one dirty fingernail, watching me. Are you driven mad, then? she asked, as I raised my face, now streaked with my tears and the red earth. Will you kill me? I have had enough of killing, I said. Do you not mourn your dead? I do not mourn them. she said. I found grass and dead sticks for the fire, no longer interested in sleep. I dug holes with my ax and buried the two men. The earth was hard and the work long, and when it was finished the sun was a redness to the east. They took me away from my village, the woman said. Come there with me and I will cook for you. I wanted no part of them. But she looked weak and helpless in the morning light. I told her to remain. I walked about and shot a rabbity animal and cooked it over the open fire. She devoured half of it greedily and carried the remainder in the folds of her filthy skirt. I had made my decision. I will take you to your family, I said. She led the way downstream, and there was a little pitiful growth of woodlands into which she ran, leaving me behind. I followed, and soon I could hear the sounds of young voices, and around a bend in the trail I saw a collection of sorry structures built of grasses, mud, sticks and odd-looking things which I did not recognize. The woman was standing in a clearing on the edge of this collection of shacks, waving to me to hurry. But as I neared I felt the voice of the spirits on my belly. I paused, turned, finding that the warning came from the village. I shook my head and called out to her. She came. Do you not feel it? I asked. I always feel hunger, she said. She held out the greasy remains of her breakfast. Come to my home and I will cook for you and be your Fool, I said. There is warning here. Warning? Death. Some die, she said, shrugging. All die, I said. I go. She burst into tears. Please, please, she begged. There is warning, and to ignore it is slow death by the sores and fever. No. There is no sickness. Not since the cold of winter. I go. Take me with you. I travel fast and alone. You are strong. I am weak. I have no one since the death of my mate. You will find another of your kind. She looked at me in puzzlement. Of my kind? Are you not of my kind? I shuddered. No. I turned. She stood there, weeping. She was slim, as I was, and in spite of her personal filth and the dirty, tattered skins she wore, she was woman, a pretty picture when I was not close enough to see the dirt under her fingernails and the scaling of unwashed skin. For a moment I considered taking her. I would not be alone. But my path led eastward. I had no right to add another's life to my foolish risk. To put distance between myself and temptation, I broke into a ground-eating trot, aiming for a distant line of low hills where there were trees. Twice I had to detour, once around an immense area of God's chaos where the warning was strong and again past a smaller area. By nightfall I was climbing the long slope to the hills and found there a stream. I had eaten nothing all day. I tested the water, and it was silty but clean. I drank deeply, removed my skins, washed them, spread them on a bush to dry, sank myself into the water, snorting, washing my hair and my skin, rubbing it until it glowed with the sand from the stream's bottom. Refreshed I built a fire and listened to the night noises. Hunger came to me. I heard rustlings in the undergrowth and, with little effort, captured an ugly small furred animal with a long tail. Skinned, he was fat. I cut away most of the fat and cooked a haunch over the fire and was settling down to a not very satisfactory meal when I heard noises. First the unskilled walking sounds of a man unused to being in the forest at night, then the unmistakable sound of a woman weeping. I knew immediately who it was, but I sat quietly. The sounds approached. She saw the fire and came running. I have no one, she said, sobbing. I handed her meat. She ate, heedless of the dripping onto her already filthy skin skirt. She saw the fat which I had put aside to oil my hardax and, finished with the cooked meat, speared fat with a stick and held it over the fire. It sizzled and dripped, the droppings making splashes of fire on the coals, and then she ate it. I am Mar, she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I will be your I forbid you ever to use that word, I said sternly. It's a love word. It's a filth word. I obey, she said. I will warm your back as you sleep. No, I said. She stank. Not since skinning the dead lion had I smelled such rot. I will sleep now and tomorrow you will return to your village, I said. Not giving her a chance to answer, I rolled into my bed of leaves and grass. She sat for a long time and then curled up on the ground near the fire. During the night she came and slept by my feet, her hand touching my tough and blackened sole. Several times I pulled my foot away, but each time she returned, the touch light and, somehow, comforting. At dawn there was a chill in the air, and I left her there sleeping while I hunted and shot a climber. He was tough and stringy, but the meat, unlike the fatty repast of the evening, was good. She ate more than her share. I set out at a fast pace. She kept stride with me, which was more than any of my people could do. Her legs were long and supple, like mine. Seeing that I did not want to talk, she was silent. Beyond the low hill there was a valley which stretched onward, with areas of God's chaos strewn everywhere. I picked a likely route. It was not, by any means, a straight line, since I felt the warnings each time I neared an area of God's chaos, and she questioned my wandering. You do not feel the warning? What warning? There, I said, pointing toward a rubbled area, stark and forbidding. There we find things, she said. Building materials for our houses. Pretty things. There is death, I repeated. She looked at me strangely. At midday we saw, coming to meet us, a small group. I considered moving to one side, but remembering the ease with which I'd handled two of the inbreeders, and knowing more curiosity than fear, I waited. The group consisted of a haired man, three small children and a woman far along toward giving life. Thank the gods, the man said, hurrying the last small distance to meet us. A woman. My mate Is it time? Mar asked. She has been feeling the pains since morning, he said. Mar arranged the family's sleepskins in the meager shade of a runted tree, and the woman lay moaning as the convulsions came. I sat and watched. The man squatted on his heels. The children went off to explore the nearby countryside. There, I said, to the east. Can you tell me of the country? The man shrugged. What's to tell? The same. Have you been far? Five days, he said. We go to the coolness of the low hills. Are there dragons? The dragon of the grass plain, he said. Two days march, then go north past a range of wooded slopes to avoid his path. Tell me of him. A dragon is a dragon, he said. He is old and has no teeth, but his eyes live, as he does. Our talk was halted by a scream from the woman in labor, and I looked to see Mar lift a wet and repulsive bundle which, as she wiped it with grass, was a kicking and bawling baby, and then there was another. Eagerly, when Mar gave the signal that it was over, the man ran to the shade of the tree. I saw him halt in midstride. His wail was hoarse and painful. Curious, I went to look past him. One of the newly born was unlike anything human I'd ever seen. The skull had flowed down into what should have been the face, displacing one eye completely and moving the other low, where it glared out from beside a maw which replaced the nose, leaving only a gaping, raw, red hole. The mouth was small and lipless, and inside I could see tiny pointed teeth. The arms were flippers, as of a hardshell of the lakes, and the legs were shortened, with no feet at the end of rounded stubs. With a hoarse cry, the father seized the thing and, holding it by its footless legs, dashed its horrible head against the tree. He tossed it aside and then raised the other baby to examine it. It was female, and it was active and well shaped. One out of one, the man said. The gods are kind. He turned to me proudly. I was still sickened and shocked by his cruelty to the malformed young one. She will be called after your mate, who delivered her, he said. And should it be your desire, she is yours as a gift, for, as you see, we have three already. Thank you, I said. I have no time for a child. So be it, he said. Perhaps you would like the oldest girl, there. He pointed. His oldest daughter was, perhaps, six summers. She was naked, save for a loincloth. Of course, he said, since she has survived the dangerous years, and is already good he used the word which seemed to come to these people so easily"I would have to have something. Say, that hardax you carry. Have you people no shame? I exploded. I could stand the sight of him no longer. I turned and ran from the scene, heading east. I heard Mar running behind me. After a while I walked and she came to my side. You are different, she said. Are you a holy man from the distant mountains? I am of the mountains, I said. I should have known. God forgive me, she said. Don't strike me dead because I tried to tempt you with my unworthy body, holy man. I marched long and fast, and she stayed beside me uncomplainingly. When I found a suitable campsite I quickly built a couch of leaves and grass and, feeling sorry for her in her seeming helplessness, built one for her. Then, with a fire going, I found large fish in the stream, which were easily speared with my arrows. Mar watched with fascination. You are so wise. Children take fish in this fashion, I said. Let me try, she begged. I handed her the longbow. She fumbled with it. I put my arms around her to show her how to hold it, and the stench of her assaulted my nostrils. Gah, I said. You smell long dead. If I were rich, she said, I would have scents to make me smell sweet. There is a better and simpler way, I said. There is the stream. It is bottomed with clean, white sand. Wash yourself. I obey, she said. She walked to the stream, cupped her hands, splashed water into her face and came, her face dripping, to smile at me. Is that better? I could not believe that the inbreeders did not know the clean joy of a bath. It would be better, I said, if you removed your clothing, pounded it and rubbed it with stones to remove the stench and the biting insects, and rubbed yourself all over with sand. She recoiled, shocked. Holy father, she said, are you mad? Well, it was her body, and as long as I didn't have to smell it, so be it. I fed the two of us with roasted fish, which made a pleasant change of diet, and slept. I awoke with the stench of the dead lion in my nostrils and felt warmth at my back. She was cupped around me, making a pleasant little buzzing sound as she breathed. I pushed her away, and she groaned and came back to put one arm over me. It was overwhelming, the stench. I shook her awake. Get on the other side of the fire, I said, in your own bed. She went, weeping. What kind of man are you to deny a woman the pleasure of the warmth of your body on a chill night? she protested. When you cease to smell like a dead lion I will warm you, I said. You are cruel and horrible and totally uncivilized, she said, turning her back and burrowing down into her couch. I? Uncivilized? I leaped to my feet. I dragged her by the arm from her couch. I will show you civilization, I said, pulling her toward the stream. She seemed to realize my intentions and began to scream and fight. I found myself with an armful of woman and had to use all my strength to subdue her without hurting her. When I had her bundled into my arms she was still kicking and wailing, and then I was at the stream. I threw her bodily into it. She landed with a great splash and came to the surface, spitting water. There was a full moon, and I could see the beams of it reflecting, shattered by her splash. She screamed and started flailing the water and went under. The fool was going to drown in water which came only to her waist. I waded in, pulled her by the hair to her feet and got a few scratches as she tried to climb my body as if I were a tree. When at last I had her calmed, she stood there, my arms around her, shivering and weeping. You will kill me, she said. I am only going to wash you, I said. And, so saying, I began to take the clothing off her. She seemed resigned at first, letting me denude her. I had a shock when her breasts were bared, for, slim as she was, she had beautiful, large, full woman's breasts. Now, I said, kneel, bring sand from the bottom, rub it over your skin. I will wash your clothing. You are going to kill me, she said. Oh, gods, I said. I took handfuls of sand, and as she stood there, weeping, I scrubbed her, feeling a strangeness in my body as my hands covered the roundness of her body, the hips, the hard back and soft rump, the full legs. To do the job right I washed thoroughly between her legs, and when I was doing that she ceased her sobbing for a moment and, in the moonlight, looked at me with her eyes half closed. I scrubbed her until her skin was red and then washed her long hair repeatedly until, by sniffing her in various places, I detected only the fresh and natural scents of a clean body. I led her from the stream. Go to the fire, I said. Warm yourself. I will wash your skins. She went. I beat her clothing with stones and rubbed it with stones and rinsed it repeatedly, and finally, after a long time, it was reasonably clean, but with a faint lingering aroma. Then I went to the fire. She was in her own couch, curled into a ball. I put her clothing onto a bush to dry and removed my own wet hides. I rubbed the water from my skin, shivering with the chill. In my couch I pulled leaves to cover me. She had her back turned. If that was the way she wanted it, so be it. I slept. I awoke, feeling only a short passage of time, to feel her soft warmth at my back. It was pleasant, and there was only the fresh scent of cleanliness. I could tell by her breathing that she was not asleep. Much better, I said. Now we can give each other warmth. I will die of the chill, she said. She was shivering. Feeling slightly guilty, I turned and put my arms around her to give her my warmth. Her softness was disturbing. There was no sin in my actions. Nor was there sin when, with a sigh, she lifted her head and placed her lips on mine. All premen and prewomen may play so. And it was pleasant. Her lips full, soft. Her hands clasped my back and gave little spots of warmth. I let my hands know her back and her soft rump and, although she was not protected with a loincloth, carefully avoided the forbidden spot. I had done as much many times with Yuree, and the memory of it was white-hot pain. I ceased my activity. She did not. I lay as if made of stone, and her hands went to my manhood, and it grew, and then she was atop me, her weight sweet, and I was still thinking of Yuree when I felt myself touch the forbidden and her hand guiding me. It is sin, I gasped, trying to push her away. She clung and engulfed me, and I was weak, knowing feelings which I had never known. And what was one more sin on the head of a killer of his own people? We slept little as she taught me. You are notwere notprewoman, I said, during a lull. What? Oh, yes, I said, you said you had a mate, who died or was killed. Yes. But none like you, she whispered. Now you will be with child, I said. No. I am barren. That is sad, I said. Barrenness was not unknown to my people. I would have taken the little girl, she said. Perhaps you are not barren, after all. She laughed. I have tried many times with many mates. I was shocked. I rolled away and gave her my back. Did I say something wrong? she asked. Many mates? I asked, feeling jealousy. Oh, as many as my fingers, no more. Shame, I said. You speak of shame and you a holy man? I am not a holy man. Then you are mad. Perhaps, I said. I was silent. At last, I went to sleep. When I awoke she was cooking the fish which I had suspended in a tree out of the reach of small animals. I ate. I resolved not to repeat my sin with her, but my resolution failed after we had eaten and she came to me. We spent half a moon there, near the stream, and in that time I taught her and she taught me. She learned, finally, that fatal chills do not come from wetting the body all over, and, indeed, before we left she had begun to swim in a frantic, flailing, half-sinking sort of way. I had utilized the time to kill climbers, tan their hides, and fashion her a garment, using the few strands of dragon's veins which I had to hold it together. She looked charming in her reddish skirt which rose to cover her breasts and hang by one strap across a tanned shoulder, and I found myself forgetting, for long periods at a time, that I was Eban the Killer of his People and that I had lost happiness when the killbird struck the father of my intended pairmate. I could even forget, for a while, when Mar was in my arms, that she had known other men, as many as her fingers. Mar was, as best she could account, the number of summers counted by the fingers of two hands and the toes of one foot. She had no numbers, as I did. I told her that was fifteen, and she said, Yes, two hands and one foot. It was a signal of coming winter which broke into my idleness, my happiness there in that grove of stunted trees beside the stream where big fish swam. We must go, I said. We will go back to my village, there to spend the winter in my house, she said. We will not, I said. We will go to the south and the east. There be dragons, she said fearfully. It is you who followed me, knowing my intentions. I did not know you were mad and would go to the east forever. Perhaps not forever, I said. Why was I driven? I had Mar. Although game was not as plentiful, and was small and stringy, there was game in those flatlands. I could have built a hut, a cave, something. But there were those moments when I remembered and knew that to the east was my salvation, the deliverance of Eban the Killer of His People. There was death, and an honorable death at God's will and not from my own hand. There was Mar, however. Had I the right to risk her life? Mar, I said, there will be danger. When there is, I will warn you and you will retreat. If I am killed, you will go back to your people. It is far, she said. I would not be able to find them. I would starve. Follow the setting sun, I said. And I will prepare food for you, food which will last. I dried meat in the sun, carrying it as we journeyed uneventfully toward the south and east, staying just ahead of winter. We encountered few of the inbreeders, avoiding them as I avoided the more and more numerous areas of God's chaos. At night the winter stars were the same as those of my mountains. And many times, as I lay awake, I saw God's messengers, stars larger than the rest, high, swiftly moving, traveling from flat horizon to flat horizon. I did not know what I sought. I had nothing for which to live, save Mar. And she would not mourn me, for she had known men, as many as the fingers of two hands. Chapter Four I fully expected to be dead. Now the time of long nights was nearing. From the notches I'd made on the handle of my hardax I knew that the new moon was the first moon of the winter and that in the mountains there would now be snow, the animals entering into the long harshness of shortage, the deer growing poorer as the days passed, the great bear sleeping, but in this strange land the winter's breath was merely a frost, a thin layer of white which melted and faded with the rise of the sun, and although the nights were cold, the days were warm. Once I tried to estimate, at the end of a purposeful but not strenuous day's walk, the distance we had covered in arrow flights. The numbers grew until they were beyond my comprehension, and the total distance between me and my home and my people was of such a vastness! And I was not dead. We heard talk of dragons, and we saw, in the few people we encounteredso far south and east were we now, at the start of winter, that we went a full moon without seeing a trace of man, and then only in the form of a corpse left lying beside a woodlandthe signs of death. Few wandered so far. One day we saw a new kind of bird, white, flying low and crying out with a raucous screech. The air smelled different, damp, humid, even on the chill days of early winter. Mar could not understand, nor, in confidence, could I, the urge which kept me going. Past death now, I think, looking back, that it was pride, or perhaps curiosity. Could it all be such a sameness? The flat, slightly rolling ground, the stunted trees, the occasional streams, the vast and sprawling heaps of God's chaos? It was far more dangerous in the mountains, with lions, bears and dragons. Dragons in the east? Ha. We had heard of dragons, for example the dragon of the grassy plain, but we had seen none. I concluded that the only danger in the east was to people like Mar, who, I had concluded, did not have the gift of the warning, could not feel the spirits of the dead, perhaps the dead giants, calling out from the chaos of God to tell of death. Someday, I thought, I would return and tell the people of the mountains, the only true men, that there was no danger in the far hills nor beyond. They would not believe me, of course, for from childhood man was taught that death lay there, and had been taught so for so many generations that it was a part of our legacy. Perhaps I still sinned in my pride, thinking that someday I would return and tell strange tales and, perhaps, enrich the knowledge of my people. At any rate, I continued on more east now than south, and the countryside changed from rolling hills to a flat plain with only mild undulations, scanty vegetation, and even scantier game, consisting mostly of little rodents and hares. The soil was sandy and coarse and poor, and now and then, where there was chaos, the surface could be seen from a distance to have a sheen, as if made of sand-colored ice. But the areas of warning, the heaps of God's chaos, were more scattered. We encountered a large river and followed it. There were trees along the stream, and the water was drinkable, if muddy. I began to wonder if that river would lead to the fabled field of large waters, the unending lake, or if that was merely some myth out of our past. We encountered swamps along the river, sometimes pushing through them, sometimes skirting them. In the swamps were wondrous creatures, snakes which did not flee, as did the harmless snakes of the mountains, but stayed to fight and poison their prey with their fangs, larger reptiles with huge scales, turtles, and a delicious large variety of frog, the legs of which made feasts equaled only by the meat of the fanged serpents. To build up enough frog's legs for a meal, we entered one swamp, waded, found high ground, killed snakes and frogs until, seeing a rise ahead, we carried our booty out through thick woods to step without much forethought into an open field grown with a tall form of grass. I froze instantly and then went into action, thrusting Mar back into the trees. There, within arrow flight, was the old and bloody head of a dragon. Thank God he had been sleeping. We circled and came out of the swamp in another area, carefully this time, and, gods of man, there were dragons everywhere, ancient, their blood coloring their hides, their heads motionless but deadly. All the dragons of the world seemed to be congregated in that field. I could not help but stay to stare and think of all the riches inside those beasts, and for a long time I counted, reaching three hundred before I forgot which dragons I had counted. And all the time none of them moved. I began to notice things. The nearest dragon sagged on his feet, his belly on the rankly grown ground, a gaping hole in his side. He looked as dead as the dragon I'd killed. Here, dragon, I called, standing for a moment, exposed. I leaped back, but there was no hail of teeth, no flash of deadly eyes. While Mar cowered among the trees, I stepped out into the weed-grown field and dared them, all of the tens of dragons which I could see. None moved. All were holed, battered, dead on their feet. I danced and sang. I called out to them, always ready to leap for safety. Nothing. Leaving Mar in shelter, I crawled toward the nearest dragon. I gained the shelter of its tough-skinned hide, below the holes which spat teeth and the glaring eyes, most of which were shattered. He was dead. Very dead. I looked into the hole in his side, and there, exposed, were his guts. I made use of them, jerking them out one at a time, and, sitting there calling for Mar to join me, I wove a necklace for her. She refused to come. She was frightened. I kept calling, and finally she edged out, broke into a run and fell heavily down beside me, winded. I put the necklace of dragon's guts around her neck. She threw it off and shuddered. That woman. Throwing away what any civilized woman would have done most anything to own. I retrieved it. Look, I said, I know you're uneducated, but this is silly. I don't want dirty dragon's guts on me, she said. Are they not pretty? Well, yes, in a sort of way, she admitted. Among my people they are treasured and worn by only the bravest of the brave, those who have slain dragons. Ugg, Mar said, as I put the necklace back around her neck. Slowly, cautiously, I began to explore the field of the dead dragons. Soon I became confident. They were all dead. I moved freely from one to the other. All were damaged. One was split wide open. I explored. There were plenty of veins for the taking, so I stocked up and then found smaller pieces of broken skin suitable for arrow heads. A clear piece of something, dragon's bone, maybe, was so sharp I kept it. It would be great for scraping skins. It was rounded on one edge, about a finger's joint thick, and sheared into a sharp edge which ran across the curve of it. I could look through it and see things on the other side, but they were distorted and twisted, curved and funny. Never had I seen such a treasure as that field of dragons. It must be, I said, where all dragons come to die. Then let us leave, before one comes which is not quite dead, Mar said. The animals of the fields had made nests in some of the dragons. It was good hunting. We slept there, in that graveyard of terrible beasts, Mar