"People evolve to barbarism and usually stop there. Little civilizations rise and fall under the tide of barbarism." She yawned and thought about the history of Earth and some of the less well-prepared slow-boat colonies. "Sometimes, it seems that barbarism, for all its horrors—and they are many—is the natural state of a sentient species. So many, many times humanity has slid into barbarism in one area or another on one planet or another. In fact, we came within a centimeter of it on an interstellar scale during the Dagger Years; I think only your great-to-the-umpteenth grandmother prevented it. Not that that was what she was thinking about—"
She broke off as a yawn interrupted her, then winced as she stretched.
"God, I hurt," she observed, and lay back and closed her eyes. "Which, I might add, is a consequence of another mortality factor: living in a jungle ain't easy. It's a very competitive environment. Something is always trying to eat you, and finding things you can eat is hard."
She reopened her eyes looked up at Roger as the rain began to fall once more. The thunder of it on the thatch was lulling, and she yawned again.
"Roger, we're in a jungle," she said, and her tone was oddly ambiguous. "Jungles try so hard to kill you. They're always trying to." She stopped and smiled at him. "I've tried to get you to listen to me so often, but I'm going to try again. You have to check your tongue. You have to keep your temper. Learn from Pahner, don't piss him off, okay?"
He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him quiet.
"Just... try to bite your tongue from time to time, all right? That's all I ask."
The last two days of strain had drained her, and she could feel herself drifting off despite every intention of staying awake. Not only was the social organization of the natives fascinating, but opportunities to catch Roger in a mood to learn anything but sports and hunting tricks were rare. Yet, despite that, she simply couldn't keep her eyes open.
"Jungles are beautiful," she continued in a mumble, "until you have to live in them."
Her eyes closed, and despite the heat, flies, and noise of festive preparation, she slept.
"You're making me proud, brother," Cord said, watching the gathering feast. Its lavishness would extract a price from the tribe, but it showed they were of good status. Something that would be important for this "Roger" to remember.
"It's the least I can do for my brother," Delkra replied. "Ayah! And for these odd strangers." He paused for a moment, then gave a grunting laugh. "They look like basik, you know."
Cord clacked his teeth sourly. "Thank you so much for pointing that out, brother. Yes, I'd made the same connection."
The small basik were often found around open areas in the jungle. Their mid-legs were foreshortened, and when they were frightened—which was virtually all the time—they ran on their hind legs with their upper limbs flopping loosely about. They were a beast of choice when it came to training young children to hunt, since they were small, harmless, cowardly, and stupid.
Very stupid.
"Get used to it, brother," Delkra said with another grunt. "Others will make the same connection."
"I suppose," Cord conceded. "And, demons know they're just about as stupid in the jungle. But although I've only seen those weapons of theirs used twice, I know to fear them. And rarely is the guard of a lord taken from among the most foolish. I don't underestimate them."
Delkra clapped his lower limbs together and changed the subject abruptly.
"Asi, at your age!"
"You keep saying that, brother," Cord observed. "You're not that much younger."
"Tell me a truth unknown," the chief replied somewhat sourly.
Cord understood, of course. Both of them would soon have to leave the Warrior Path, and although those who'd survived it enjoyed great status, few lived long thereafter. It was a thought neither enjoyed contemplating, and the shaman looked around, searching for a neutral change of subject. His gaze flitted about the familiar village which he soon would leave behind forever, and his eyes narrowed as he noticed a puzzling absence.
"Where is Deltan? Hunting?"
"One with the mists," Delkra said, rubbing his hands together to drive away bad luck. "An atul."
"What?" the shaman gasped. "How? He was surprised?"
"No," the chief snapped. "The spearhead broke."
"Ayah!" the shaman said, but he refused to show the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd never had children, not even daughters. A single paring as a youth had resulted in the death of the brood wife from an infection that was, unfortunately, all too common. Since then, he'd never taken another mate, and his brother's children had become as his own. Delkra certainly had enough to go around; half the females in the tribe had brooded a litter for him at some point. And he ran heavily to males in his broods.
But Deltan had been one of the special ones. He'd shown a flair for the learning of the shaman, and Cord had hoped that someday the fine young warrior might follow in his own footsteps. Now that was done, and it boded poorly for the tribe that he must leave with his asi and there would be no shaman to pass on the traditions. He'd hoped to pass on a few critical pieces of knowledge to Deltan before leaving, or perhaps to have him accompany them on the first leg of the humans' travels.
"Ayah," he repeated. "Evil times. The iron?"
"Bad," the chief spat. "Soft and rotten beneath a brittle exterior. It looked fine, but..."
"Aye," the shaman said, "but—"
"There's no other choice," the chieftain interrupted. "It must be war."
Cord clapped opposite hands in negation.
"If we war with Q'Nkok, the other tribes will pick our bones."
"And if we don't," the chief pointed out, "Q'Nkok will continue taking our lands and giving feck back! We must have the lands or the tribute. As it is, we have neither."
Cord clasped all four arms around his knees and rocked back and forth. His brother was correct; the tribe was in a lose/lose situation. They could neither survive a war with the local city-state nor permit the present intolerable trends to continue, yet war was the only way to stop it. There seemed no way out.
"Q'Nkok is to be our first stop," he observed after a moment. "The humans want to trade for such things as only the shit-sitters can provide. We will discuss this with the humans."
"But—" his brother started to object.
"The humans aren't good in the jungle," Cord overrode the objection, "but they are very wise, nonetheless. I know they're shit-sitters, but they're smart and, I think, honorable shit-sitters. If I had my old master here, I would ask him for advice. But I don't. Far Voitan is fallen, and all its heroes with it. I can't ask my master; therefore, we will ask the humans."
"You're a stubborn flar beast," Delkra told him.
"But I'm also right," Cord retorted with a grunting laugh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eleanora awoke to a high-pitched, atonal chanting and a low-tempo, muffled drum beat. Her eyes flickered open, and she froze in adrenaline shock at the sight of a swaying vampire larva. The perspective was weird as the flickering firelight of full dark combined with the swaying dance of the creature to make it seem a strange hallucination. It seemed to shrink to the size of a caterpillar, and then swelled suddenly up to the size of a... Mardukan in a mask.