Belief in the Great Akha was not incompatible with organised lechery, for one basic reason: Great Akha paid no attention to mankind. He fought against the destructive light of Wutra, and this served mankind’s interest; but it was not for mankind but himself that Akha fought. It did not matter what mankind did. The ethics of eudemonism sprang from man’s powerlessness.
Long after his death, the prophet Naba changed all that. Naba’s words eventually filtered down from Pannoval to the cavern. The prophet promised that if men and women forswore concupiscence, and lying so indiscriminately one with another that no one knew his own father, then the Great Father, Akha himself, would have regard for them. He would allow them to participate as warriors in the war against Wutra. The war would be brought to an early close. Mankind — this was the essence of Naba’s message — was not powerless unless it chose to be so.
Mankind was not powerless. For the buried Takers, the message was persuasive. It could never be so persuasive in the Holies of Pannoval; there, people had always taken it for granted that mankind could act. But down in the cavern, the charfrals began to burn. Chastity set in.
Within a year, the Takers changed their temperament. The old rigid codification was directed to a restrictive virtue, in the name of the stone god. Those who could not conform to the new morality were executed by the sword, or fled before the sword fell.
In the heat and dialectic of the revolution, it was not enough for the Takers to convert themselves. It never is. Revolutionaries must go forth and convert others. The Faith-Trip of Akha’s Naba was undertaken. Through a hundred miles of underground passages, the Faith-Trip went to spread the message. And the first stop on the way was Pannoval.
Pannoval was indifferent to the returning word of its own prophet, who had been executed and forgotten long ago. It was actively against an invasion of fanatics.
The militia turned out in strength, and battle was joined. The fanatics were prepared to fight. They wanted nothing better than to die for the cause. If others died too, so much the better. Their gossies, howling down the land-octaves, urged them to conquer. They flung themselves forward. The militia did its best throughout a long, bloody day. Then it turned and ran.
So Pannoval bowed to the message of potency and to the new regime. Charfrals were hastily made up especially to be burnt. Those who did not conform fled or were killed.
Those who fled made their way to the open world of Wutra, to the everlasting plains of the north. They went at a time when the snow was in retreat. Grasses grew. The two sentinels kept better watch over the skies, and Wutra himself seemed less savage. They survived.
Year by year, they spread northwards in search of food and a sheltered corner of land. They spread along the Lasvalt River to the east of the great plains. They raided the migratory herds of yelk and gunnadu. And they moved towards the isthmus of Chalce.
At the same time, those ameliorating temperatures were causing a stir among the peoples of the frigid continent of Sibornal. Wave after wave of rugged colonisers moved southwards, down the isthmus of Chalce into Campannlat.
One day, when Freyr ruled alone in the sky, the northernmost tribe from Pannoval met the southernmost part of the exodus from Sibornal. What happened then had happened many times before — and was fated to happen again.
Wutra and Akha would see to that.
Such was the state of the world when Little Yuli left it. Salt traders from the Quzints arrived in Oldorando with news of avalanches and freak happenings. Yuli — now quite ancient — hastened down to see them when they arrived, slipped on some steps, broke his leg. Within a week, the holy man from Borlien was calling, and Laintal Ay was delighting in his carved dog with the moveable jaw.
An epoch was over. The reign of Nahkri and Klils was about to begin.
V. Double Sunset
Nahkri and Klils were in one of the rooms of the herb tower supposedly sorting deer skins. Instead they were looking out of the window and shaking their heads at what they saw.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Nahkri said.
‘I don’t believe it, either,’ Klils said. ‘I just don’t believe it at all.’ He laughed until his brother slapped him on the back.
They watched a tall aged figure running crazily along the banks of the Voral. Nearby towers obscured the figure, then they saw it again, skinny arms and legs flying. It stopped once, scooping up mud to plaster over its head and face, then ran on with its tottering gait.
‘She’s gone mad,’ Nahkri said, smoothing his whiskers pleasurably.
‘Worse than that, if you ask me. Crazy, high in the harneys.’
Behind the running figure went a more sober one, a boy on the verge of manhood. Laintal Ay was following his grandmother to see that no harm came to her. She ran ahead of him, crying aloud. He followed, glum, silent, dutiful.
After shaking their heads, Nahkri and Klils put them together. ‘I can’t see why Loil Bry’s behaving like that,’ Klils said. ‘You remember what Father told us?’
‘No.’
‘He told us that Loil Bry only pretended to love Uncle Yuli. He said she didn’t love him at all.’
‘Ah, I remember. So why’s she keeping up the pretence now that he’s dead? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘She’s got some clever scheme, with all that learning, you see. It’s a trick.’
Nahkri went over to the open trap. Women were working below. He kicked the door shut and turned to face his younger brother.
‘Whatever Loil Bry does, that’s not important. Nobody understands what women do. The important thing is that Uncle Yuli’s dead and now you and I are going to rule Embruddock.’
Klils looked frightened. ‘Loilanun? Laintal Ay — what about him?’
‘He’s still a kid.’
‘Not for long. He’ll be seven, and a full hunter, in two more quarters.’
‘For long enough. It’s our chance. We’re powerful — at least, I am. People will accept us. They don’t want a kid ruling them, and they had a secret contempt for his grandfather, lying about all the while with that madwoman. We must think of something to tell everyone, to promise them. Times are changing.’
‘That’s it, Nahkri. Tell them times are changing.’
‘We need the support of the masters. I’ll go and speak to them now — you’d better keep away, because I happen to know that the council think you’re a trouble-making fool. Then we win round a few leading hunters like Aoz Roon and the others, and everything will work out.’
‘What about Laintal Ay?’
Nahkri hit his brother. ‘Don’t keep saying that. We’ll get rid of him, if he’s any trouble.’
Nahkri summoned a meeting that evening, when the first sentinel had left the sky and Freyr was moving towards a monochromatic dusk. The hunting party was home, most of the trappers were back. He ordered the gates closed.
As the crowd assembled in the square, Nahkri appeared on the base of the big tower. Over his deerskins he had thrown a stammel, a coarse woollen garment of red and yellow, without sleeves, to lend himself dignity. He was of medium height, with thick legs. His face was plain, his ears large. Characteristically, he jutted his lower jaw forward, giving his features an ominous, top-heavy quality.
He addressed the crowd in a serious way, reminding them of the great qualities of the old triumvirate, of Wall Ein, of his father, Dresyl, and of his uncle, Yuli. They had combined bravery and wisdom. Now the tribe was united; bravery and wisdom were common qualities. He would carry on the tradition, but with new emphasis for a new age. He and his brother would rule with the council, and would always give ear to what any man had to say.