Greg Costikyan - Magic of the Plains 01 - By the Sword

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GREG COSTIKYAN
CAST OF CHARACTERS
The Vai
Poai: A member of the Women's Council of the Va-Naleu tribe; wife of the shaman Tsawen;
mother of Nijon.
Tsawen: Nijon's stepfather and shaman of the Va-Naleu
Mo'ian: Great Chieftain of the Va-Naleu.
Nijon: Oonitsaupivia: Nijon, son of Mongoose, the Trickster; our hero.
Vauren: Nijon's rival.
Dowdin: Vauren's close friend and Tsawen's apprentice.
Lai'iani: Nijon's sometime girlfriend.
Naenae: Nijon's horse.
]utson: A warrior.
Dihaen: Another warrior.
The Caravaneers
Mika Nashram: Mountebank and palter.
Fela: Merchant and leader of the expedition.
"Chief Mo'aloo": Actor and sometime confidence trickster.
Dana, Mosha: Soldiers.
The Court
King Manoos: Ruler of Purasham.
Princess Nlavi: His daughter.
Prince Poran: His son.
The Satrap Mesech: Ruler of the Motraian satrapy of Noshen; Nlavi's betrothed.
Marshall Nyekhon: Commander of Purasham's army (such as it is).
Grand Vizier Vakhan: Chief minister of state.
Chancellor Zhemen: Head of Purasham's diplomatic corps.
Divers Others
Mongoose: The Trickster; Nijon's dad.
Brother: Nijon's half-brother, a mongoose.
Detros: A member of the Royal Guard.
The Dragon
Matli: Matriarch of the dragon's collection. Shemli: A maiden.
Dekh: A pest.
Meshed: The keeper of Hekhat Castle.
Laelai: Daughter of the count of Ik.
PRELUDE
The world is wide and high and young: unbounded steppe. The early-morning sky is tinged
with blue and rose; green vegetation ripples in the breeze. Out there are herds of antelope,
mastodon, wild horses, aurochs. Of all its inhabitants, only the humans know this world is
bounded, and they only because they raid and trade with the settled lands of the north,
where the people are tiny and quick.
High soars the eagle; low creeps the snake; but the true master of these plains is not the
lioness, nor yet the mastodon. The masters of the world are men and women, bowlegged with
lives ahorse, herding cattle, hunting, warring. They are hardy, well nourished on cheese,
animal flesh, and blood. For the nonce, their manner of life is secure, for no hoe nor ox-drawn
plow will cut the sod of these great plains.
Atop their hardy, hairy mounts, they roam the wide world at will, and none may stay their
path; for as they are bred to the horse, they are bred to war. The northlanders call them
Vagon, barbarian; for they are the terror of the north, who sweep out each generation to
plunder and burn. To themselves they are merely the Vai, the People. Among them did Nijon
come to manhood. This is his tale.
The encampment was at peace, though the people were not. About it were scattered the
horses and cattle of the folk, each marked with the symbol and color of its owner. Young men
and women tended the herds, lest animals stray or a predator strike. Women worked at curing
leather, mending tools, smoking meat, but always with a sense of anticipation that centered
on the north. They awaited word.
Led by Dikon Khan, the warriors of the tribe, all the men save the youngest and oldest and
those who voluntarily surrendered the warrior role, had ridden north in search of booty. The
wind might bring back word of triumph or tragedy. No metaphor, that: One of the Women's
Council sat always by an oddly shaped pot that hung by horsehair from a post, listening to the
whistle of the air as it passed through the pot's mouth. This was the compact that Tsawen,
the tribal sorcerer, had made with the North Wind: that it would bear tidings.
A gray-haired woman sat there now, head cocked to listen to the whistle. Above, the sun
crept toward the meridian.
At precisely noon, the North Wind spake: "Victory," whistled the pot. "Triumph."
With a shriek, the woman sprang up. Glad cries rose skyward.
They built a great bonfire at the camp center, and brought forth three white calves to
sacrifice in celebration. The liver and lights they would offer to the North Wind in thanks for
its assistance, but-"Where is Poai?" the women asked each other. For she, wife of the
sorcerer Tsawen, must preside over the rite.
It was nearly sunset now. Flagons of kumiss had been brought forth and a great feast
prepared. Women, children,
the few men still present, even the dogs seemed flush with exhilaration. But none had seen
Poai since the morning.
She was not missed long. "Here she is," a young boy cried, and half-dragged her into the
circle of light about the fire. Poai was smiling dreamily.
"Good evening, friends," she said. "Why do you gather thus?"
Could it be she had not heard? The news was quickly imparted.
"At noon, you say?" she said. "It must have been at the same instant that I cried out."
"Cried out?" inquired the chieftain's wife. "Where have you been, Poai?"
Poai looked outward, into the gloaming, across the wide plain. "I lay with Mongoose," she
said.
There was a moment of silence. "The god," she clarified.
Giggles passed among the women. "You spent the afternoon in the arms of a god?" asked the
chief's wife, somewhat skeptically.
"It is so," said Poai, smile beginning to falter. Consider the conundrum facing the chieftain's
wife. Poai's story was simply ludicrous; such things happen only in legend. She must have
been seduced by some smoothtalking stranger, as unlikely as that might be: She was a large,
stocky, muscular woman, quite unattractive by the standards of the Vai; and she was
normally hardheaded, making it hard to understand how she might have fallen for so absurd a
claim.
The penalty for adultery was ostracism from the tribe. That was bad enough; but if Tsawen's
wife was ostracized, the sorcerer would lose so much face that he would be forced to give up
his magic. And if that were so, the tribe would be left without protection, as Tsawen had not
yet taken an apprentice.
There was only one thing to do. "She has lain with a god," proclaimed the chief's wife grimly.
"All honor to Poai!"
And with smirks and snickers, the women of the tribe did her obeisance.
Poai lay exhausted amid piled skins, in the tent she shared with Tsawen. The infant sucked at
her breast, as yet without success; her milk had not yet come in. Tsawen, nearly as
exhausted behind his spirit mask, slumped on the earth nearby.
"Have you chosen a name?" asked Mo'ian, the Va-Naleu chief.
"Nijon," Poai said. "Nijon Oonitsaupivia." The patronymic meant "Son of the God Mongoose."
Mo'ian sighed. He had half-hoped she would opt for the more conventional "Ootsawen," even
though Tsawen was clearly not the father. "The birth was attended by signs and portents,"
said the chief.
"Of course," said Poai contentedly.
"A cow gave birth to a two-headed calf at the very instant that your water broke," continued
Mo'ian. "And a hawk was seen to circle the encampment thrice, flying widdershins."
"How do' you interpret that?" Poai asked Tsawen. "Very favorable," said Tsawen tiredly. "He
will live long, and is favored of the gods."
Poai smiled. "Thank you both," she said. "Is the tribe still so skeptical?"
Mo'ian and Tsawen exchanged glances. Mo'ian sighed. "People prefer scandal to credulity."
Poai considered this. "Well," she said at last. "It is of little account. At least we three know
the truth."
As he left the tent, Mo'ian rolled his eyes.
"Perhaps you should sleep now, dear," said Tsawen, pulling a skin over her torso. She
murmured thanks.
Tsawen soon joined her in slumber; she might be tired by the labor of birthing, but he was no
less exhausted by his magical exertions. He had spent hours and considerable power,
breathing the sacred fumes, sending forth his spirit. The hawk had been no great feat: a
simple compulsion laid on a bird. But the two-headed calf had been the very devil to arrange.
Ten-year-old Nijon peered from behind a boulder at two other boys, Vauren and Dowdin by
name. They labored over a fire. Nijon did not envy them; they had been given a hard task,
largely in punishment for tormenting Nijon himself.
Several large stones sat in the fire. Using sticks as levers, Vauren and Dowdin were rolling one
now, out of the flames and toward a pit. The pit, lined with hides, was filled with water. In
the water floated skeins of wool and several splits of wood from the tsaemol tree.
Laboriously, the boys rolled the hot stone into the water. It hissed as it met the liquid. They
rolled another stone into the pit, and a third. As the water steamed, a green tint infused it,
the hot water cooking dye out of the tsaemol wood. The wool would pick up the dye and turn
green; then the women would spin it, and weave blankets and coats from the richly colored
yarn.
At present, Vauren stood between Nijon and the pit, bending over to pry at a hot stone.
"Hyaah!" Nijon yelled, springing up and bounding down the slope. He gave Vauren a strong
shove-and the boy tumbled into the pit, green water splashing everywhere.
Nijon stood laughing as Vauren sputtered up. Vauren stood in the pit, examining his limbs; his
tawny skin now had a definite viridian cast.
"Why, Vauren," Nijon taunted, "you look positively green. Nauseous perhaps?"
"You bastard," Vauren said between gritted teeth. There was murder in his eyes, but his
parents had been quite clear that there were to be no more fights with Nijon. Nijon only
laughed.
Dowdin, standing to one side, smiled faintly. "Yes, bastard," he mused. "Has Poai told who
your true father is yet, Nijon?"
Nijon lost his grin.
"Rumor has it it's Doowaien," Vauren said nastily, naming the tribal idiot. He stepped out of the
pit and shook his legs.
Dowdin cackled. "A likely candidate," he agreed. "My mother does not lie," said Nijon,
advancing on Dowdin with balled fists.
"True, true," said Dowdin hurriedly, backing away. "She's an honest woman-eh, Oonipivia?" He
omitted the "-tsau-" in Nijon's patronymic, turning it into an expression of contempt: not "Son
of the God Mongoose," but "son of a mongoose"-a deadly insult.
Nijon snarled and struck out at Dowdin, who dodged aside and circled behind Vauren.
"Yes," said Vauren, "who could doubt Poai's veracity? It must be true; Nijon's father is a
mongoose. Have you been growing claws, Nijon? How about your teeth? Prominent incisors,
perhaps?"
Nijon turned to face Vauren, hands clenching.
"That must have been quite a sight," said Vauren, "Poai and the mongoose."
"Yes, yes," said Dowdin, laughing, keeping the pit between himself and Nijon. "Can't you see
it? `Oh, darling,' " he said in a falsetto quite unlike Poai's deep voice. " `A dead snake? For
me? How precious, my pet. Let me smooth your pelt. Oh, yes! Yes, there! And now-' "
With an inarticulate roar of rage, Nijon charged Dowdin. Vauren put out a leg. Nijon tripped
over it-and fell, face-first, into the dye pit.
Vauren and Dowdin took off for the camp, giggling hysterically.
1
Nijon and Lai'iani lay in a hollow not far from the camp, skin wet with the dew that drenched
the grasses all about. Lai'iani's tongue played with Nijon's; through the net of her hair he
glimpsed purple sky, tinged now with rose as the sun's rays broke over the horizon. The only
sounds were the song of insects, horses cropping grass, their own hearts and breathing.
"But Nijon," said Lai'iani, "what if you do not return?" She tucked her head under his chin; one
hand stroked down his side, toward his hip.
"Can you doubt that I shall?" asked Nijon, a little insulted that she would even consider that
he might fail. Against the bare skin of his chest pressed her doeskin tunic, and softness
within; he felt his breath quicken.
"Then," she said, one hand moving inward from his hip, toward more intimate parts, "then I
should never see you again." Gently the hand moved; Nijon felt himself harden.
"True," said Nijon, heart racing, divining where her thoughts were tending. His own hand
moved up her smooth flank, beneath her short kirtle. . . .
Heavy footsteps crunched through grass. "There you are, lad," boomed a contralto voice. Two
strong fingers belonging to Poai, Nijon's mother, took a grip on his right ear and heaved
upward.
Guiltily, Lai'iani rolled away into the grass. Poai hauled Nijon upward by his ear, ignoring his
clothing's disarray. "I've been looking all over for you, boy," Poai said, yanking him toward the
tribal camp.
"Ma!" Nijon protested, trotting sideways along behind that viselike grip on his ear.
"Time to apply your ritual paint, my son," Poai bellowed.
Nijon was led in this undignified fashion, cursing under his breath, toward his family's tent.
Lai'iani pouted behind.
Clad in nothing but bold stripes of ocher and patterns in red paint, Nijon faced his tribe, the
sky achingly blue above him. They had all come to see him off, as tradition demanded. Closest
stood Mo'ian, chieftain of the Va-Naleu, wearing the bonnet and holding the staff that
together dignified his office. The staff was adorned with feathers and mummified snakes; the
bonnet bore the horns of an aurochs, carvings in mammoth ivory, the tail feathers of eagles.
The chief was older now, standing painfully, perhaps wishing that the ceremony were over and
a nice lunch of raw antelope liver about to commence.
A little behind him was Tsawen, Nijon's foster father and the tribe's shaman. The sorcerer
wore his spirit mask, an intricate carving of wood and bone; at his belt was his medicine
bundle, the repository of the tribe's very soul. With him stood Dowdin, now Tsawen's
apprentice. Dowdin wore no mask; he would not make one until his apprenticeship was over
and he was ready to become a shaman in truth. His face bore as close to a grimace of
contempt as was politically wise; there was still no love lost between Nijon and Dowdin.
The warriors stood to the right, the women to the left. Vauren stood with the warriors; he
had completed his walkabout the year before, and had spared no opportunity since then to
impress his superior status on Nijon — or on Lai'iani.
Poai beamed proudly from amid the women. Lai'iani smiled nearby, giving Nijon a searing glance
that promised much upon his return.
Chief Mo'ian stepped forward. "Right," he said, shaking the Staff of Office, shriveled snakes
swinging with the motion. "Ho-ni-ha-ni-ho-ni-ho, and so forth and so on." He performed a few
perfunctory dance steps.
Tsawen scowled beneath his mask.
"Naked you go into the wilderness," the chief intoned. "Naked you shall not return. You go as
a boy; you shall not return as one. Yatata yatata. Off with you, then, lad." He turned to head
back to the camp-and lunch.
"I protest!" cried Tsawen. "You must say the words!" "Oh, bother," said Mo'ian. "He knows the
words by heart. Don't you, Nijon?"
Nijon swallowed. "Ah — yes, Chief," he said, hoping to avoid a quarrel.
"That's not the point," said Tsawen petulantly. "It's more than a sequence of empty words.
It's a ritual. Rituals have magic content, by the fact of being rituals. He won't return a man
solely because we then call him one; he shall be transformed from boy to man, not only by
experience, but by the ritual itself"
"Really, Tsawen," grumbled Mo'ian. "You are a pain." "Someone has to uphold tribal traditions,"
said Tsawen stiffly.
"All right, all right," Mo'ian muttered. He sighed and hopped into an arthritic dance, chanting:
"Ho-ni-hah-ni-ho-ni-ho. . . ."
The dance slowed to a painful crawl. "Ho-(puff)-ni- (pant)-ha-(puff)-ni," chanted the chief.
He paused and stood, hanging on his staff and panting.
Embarrassed, Nijon studied the tribe, avoiding Mo'ian's eyes and wishing Tsawen had held his
tongue. Dowdin and Vauren exchanged a glance, he saw; Dowdin rolled his eyes and Vauren
smirked. They were amused by the old chief's incapacity. Nijon scowled at this disrespect.
At last, Mo'ian finished the dance. After regaining his breath, he stood painfully erect.
"Naked you go into the wilderness," Mo'ian said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Naked you shall not
return. You go as a boy; you shall not return as one. For this is the manhood rite of the Clan
of Naleu: that each boy child shall, unarmed, naked, without tools or aid or artifact, go forth
onto the plain and, by his own wits, survive, prosper, and return.
"Forty days must you live apart; and forty nights. If you should starve or come to mishap, we
shall know you are not fit to join us as a man. But if you survive and return, then shall you
join our councils as a warrior, entitled to all the rights, benefits, liberties, chattels, cattles,
wives, and other items of value of and pertaining thereto. So sayeth Ro-Mo'ian, Great
Chieftain of the Va-Naleu."
Mo'ian shook his staff again. "Is that bloody formal enough for you?" he demanded of Tsawen.
"I have a question," said Nijon.
"What is it now?" asked Mo'ian testily.
"If I am to leave with nothing, why do I take a horse?" Nijon asked. "And an obsidian knife?
And my mongoose talisman?"
The chief looked uneasily up at the sky. "The Laws of the Manhood Ritual," he said loudly, "are
sacred to Dorij the Thunderer, may he smite somebody else! They must be obeyed, lest we
suffer his wrath. All praise Dorij!"
Everybody shouted "Praise Dorij!" and eyed the sky worriedly. It remained as blue and
cloud-free as before. "Look," said Mo'ian softly. "We're bloody horse barbarians. The god can't
possibly want you to leave without a horse. And anyway, a horse isn't an artifact. As for the
other items. . . ." He seemed a little embarrassed. "Well, we tried sending the boys out with
nothing but a horse, but too few survived. So — well, two objects seems like a reasonable
compromise. Two, that's not too much to ask, is it?" He scanned the sky again.
"I see," said Nijon. "May I have my horse, then?" "Right," said Mo'ian. "Get him his horse."
Somebody brought up Naenae. Nijon ran his hand down her neck. She was the first pony he
had owned, a present from his parents on the occasion of his fourteenth birthday. He had
grown considerably since then, and she looked barely big enough to carry the heavily muscled
boy, but Nijon knew she was a sturdy little creature. Naenae would serve him far better than
some skittish stallion.
Tsawen came forward, holding Nijon's mongoose's foot. The talisman was as familiar to Nijon
as his horse; indeed, Tsawen had made it for him when he was yet an infant. "Here you are,
boy," Tsawen said, his voice thick with emotion. "I enchanted it up proper for you. Just rub it
for good luck, there's a good lad." The scrawny older man pulled brawny Nijon into an
embrace; his spirit mask pressed uncomfortably into Nijon's shoulder. Tsawen shook with
emotion. "Come back to us, boy," he whispered.
Then it was Poai's turn. She swaggered up to Nijon, handed him an obsidian knife, and slapped
him resoundingly on the back. She was a big, beefy woman; Nijon suspected he inherited her
strength, rather than that of — whomever his father might be. "Do us proud, there's a good
lad," she bellowed. "Come back a man, or don't come back. Not that there's much danger of
that, boy. You can handle yourself out there."
"Sure, Ma," Nijon said, grinning and ducking his head. "Easy as clubbing porcupines."
"That's my lad!" she crowed. "Go to, boy!"
Then it was the turn of the rest of the tribe. Each came forward to wish Nijon well. Vauren,
grasping Nijon's arm, bore down painfully, grinning nastily; Nijon squeezed back, and had the
satisfaction of seeing Vauren wince. Nijon embraced Dowdin for his stepfather's sake; Nijon
would have preferred to punch the apprentice in the nose, but Tsawen would have been
offended.
At last, Lai'iani came forward, twisting a braid of hair. Nijon grinned, grabbed her, and kissed
her soundly. There were whoops and hollers from the older boys and some of the young men.
After a while, Poai began to hum impatiently. Vauren scowled.
Long moments passed.
"Ahem," said the chief. "Ahem. Ahem! I say, boy, enough of that."
Nijon broke suction and staggered away. "Bye-bye," breathed Lai'iani.
Nijon gave Lai'iani an insouciant grin. And then he mounted his horse, kissed his mother and
stepfather, saluted the chief, and rode, naked, off into the wild and vacant steppe.
He raced through the tall grass, blood thundering in his temples, the wind on his skin. A sense
of eeriness overtook him: The ancestor spirits rode with him, he felt. He was marked out for
great things.
2
An animal coughed — not an antelope. Nijon skittered to a halt.
Ten feet distant, a lioness crouched on a boulder. One of her cubs peered from behind the
rock.
A lioness alone on the steppe was no great danger; a lioness with cubs to protect — that was
another matter. Sweat pouring down his back, panting for breath, bearing only a handmade
bow, a single arrows, and an obsidian knife, Nijon prepared to die.
It had been cool that morning. Wisps of cloud moved lazily across an azure sky. Waving
grasses extended as far as the eye could see. Upwind, a herd of piva grazed — small
antelopes, patterned in black and gray, the males boasting complexly curved horns. Nijon lay
prone in a clump of briza, bow and arrow clutched in one hand. He wormed himself forward.
One of the antelopes raised its head. Nijon froze. It looked about, scanning the distance;
nostrils flared, testing the breeze. Nijon knew the slightest movement would give him away;
the briza in which he lay would rustle and sway. He permitted himself only shallow breaths. At
last, the piv's head lowered, and it returned to grazing.
Nijon swallowed. He had not eaten well since leaving the tribe. Blood drained from the neck of
his long-suffering horse; the flesh of a prairie chicken he'd killed with a well-thrown rock; that
was all. He had fletched his arrows with the dead bird's feathers.
Nijon pulled himself forward. He wanted a quick kill. A hit in the eye was best, or a wound to
one of the veins of the throat. He must get as close as possible; his improvised bow was far
from accurate.
That one was close, now; a female, hornless. It could hardly be thirty feet distant. It pulled
at the grass, then raised its head to chew contemplatively. The face and throat faced Nijon.
He could not hope for a better shot.
He rolled onto his left side and nocked an arrow. It wasn't much of an arrow; a stick, its point
hardened in fire. But a well-aimed shot would kill.
He rolled onto his back, drew the bowstring across his body, and released. . . .
At that instant, the piv lowered its head for the next mouthful of grass. The arrow hit not its
eye, but its flank. Instantly, the creature sprang into the air and fled, squealing. The ground
about Nijon thundered with the beat of small hooves as the rest of the herd stampeded. A
male ran straight toward him. Nijon pulled up his legs protectively; but the male must have
spotted him, for it leapt high, over Nijon's body, and away, across the plain. Nijon cursed and
sprang to his feet. He spotted the piv he had injured.
He had half-expected this. He ran after the wounded piv, not sprinting, but at a speed he
knew he could maintain. On horseback, it would be easy to catch the piv; ride it down, club
it, kill it with the knife. But Naenae was back at the water hole, where he had left her. He
could not possibly have crept close enough to the herd to make a kill, not with a horse; the
pony was too large to hide.
The piv was wounded. Its wounds would tire it; it might well bleed to death, given time.
The piv could run faster than he, in brief spurts; but there is no prey, Nijon told himself, that
a man cannot run down — in time.
But he might have to run for hours.
He would make a kill today, he told himself. He would. He would. He would. Under his breath,
he repeated the words, like a chant. And he touched his talisman, for what good it might do
him.
Hours later. Nijon ran. Ran on. Ran ever on. The wide world had narrowed down to three
things: Nijon, running. The piv, running. The heat of the sun, beating down.
Sweat ran in rivulets down Nijon's back. His right hand was cramped from the effort of holding
the bow, the knife, and his last remaining arrow. His legs were molten, hardly felt, down there
beneath his body; his breath came in short pants.
Right, left, right, left, right, left. He was invincible; he could run forever. He was undone; he
must collapse.
He ran, will driving body beyond its limits; empty stomach, dry throat, limbs awash in fatigue.
Ahead, the piv halted, head down, panting heavily, blood oozing from its wounds. Nijon
slogged on.
He was down to a single arrow. The rest had been expended in the chase. Most were stuck in
the earth, back there somewhere. But one protruded from the piv's flank, blood seeping
around the shaft. The piv was weakening. But as long as it ran, Nijon must too. Run on. Run
always.
As the piv rested, the distance between them closed. Nijon considered another shot, using his
final arrow, but decided against it; the chase was coming to an end, he felt. It would be only
minutes, now.
There was the piv, sides heaving with exhaustion and pain. Twenty feet. If he could get close
enough to grab it, kill it at last with the obsidian knife, a quick stroke to the neck. . . . Fifteen
feet. Ten.
With a snuffling sound expressive of despair, the piv began to move, trotting tiredly down a
rocky slope into the gorge of a stream. Nijon followed grimly, slowing to avoid tripping on
uneven ground.
In a burst of sudden speed amazing in so weary an animal, the antelope darted away at right
angles, directly off downstream.
Almost before Nijon could wonder what had startled the piv, he heard the cough.
Not the cough of an antelope; still less the cough of a man. A lioness. With cubs to protect.
She crouched . . .
And sprang.
He dived to the side and raised the bow, his only meager protection. The lioness hurtled
toward him, claws extended. He had seen the great cats hunt before; she would knock him
down, lie across him, rake with all four claws. . . .
The bow caught the lioness square in the chest. It bent under her weight, then splintered,
but deflected her enough that she fell to Nijon's right. One claw caught him, gouging a deep
furrow across his ribs; that and the glancing impact sent Nijon asprawl. He lost his grip on the
knife as he hit earth; it skittered off. . . .
The lioness regained her footing first. Nijon rolled swiftly away downslope, panting for breath,
stones smashing into already-injured ribs.
He sprang to his feet. Above, the lioness paced down into the gorge, eyes fixed on him, tail
atwitch.
The bow was gone. The knife was gone. All he had left, Nijon realized with despair, was a
pointed stick: his last remaining arrow.
The lioness leapt from a standing start. He tumbled to the left. She missed him, slid on the
scree, and splashed into the stream.
Her back was to him. Instantly, Nijon flung himself on her, wrapping his arms about her neck,
his legs about her flanks.
She roared, rolled in the stream, scrabbling with her paws and flinging her head from side to
side. It was all Nijon could do to hang on. As long as he could, he was safe; but the instant
he let go, she would be upon him.
She squirmed, trying to duck her head under his arm. Holding on with his left arm, legs
clamped about her body, Nijon stabbed desperately toward her face with the arrow.
He felt the point crunch on skull. She rolled over, in the stream; Nijon choked on a mouthful of
water, stabbing again, feeling his arrow skitter off a tooth, perhaps injuring the gum. He could
feel her body twisting out from under his legs, and knew, with a sickening sensation, that his
young life was ended
And the point of the arrow found the socket of an eye. He felt it plunge, deep into the great
cat's brain.
The lioness howled in agony. She bucked and writhed; Nijon kept his grip on her throat, but
his legs were tossed to the side; in her death throes, the lioness raked deep into his calf.
And then she was still.
Half in the stream, Nijon lay panting, shivering in shock. At last, he realized that the water
was filled with red filigree: his own blood. It would not clot, so long as he was in the stream.
Groaning, he pulled himself up onto the scree. Where he passed out.
"Wake up, son," said a voice.
Nijon peeled open an eye. It was night. A moon was out. His wounds had stiffened; he could
barely move.
A furry face hung a few inches from his: small black eyes, protruding nose and whiskers. A
mongoose.
"Shoo," said Nijon.
Mongooses did not eat carrion, and certainly never went after live prey as large as he; but in
his current condition, Nijon felt, it was probably a bad idea to let any animal snuffle around
him.
"Is that any way to talk to your pa?" asked the mongoose. It sat beside Nijon and began to
groom itself, small tongue running over dense fur.
Pain came in waves. The air seemed curiously thick. Although it was night, Nijon felt hot. And
a talking mongoose sat next to him, licking its tail. "Delirium," groaned Nijon. His wounds must
be infected.
The mongoose peered at him. "Yes," it said. "True. But irrelevant. I brought you dinner." It
nodded off to Nijon's left.
Nijon glanced there; to his surprise, a dead snake and two bird's eggs lay on the ground.
摘要：

GREGCOSTIKYAN CASTOFCHARACTERSTheVaiPoai:AmemberoftheWomen'sCounciloftheVa-Naleutribe;wifeoftheshamanTsawen;motherofNijon.Tsawen:Nijon'sstepfatherandshamanoftheVa-NaleuMo'ian:GreatChieftainoftheVa-Naleu.Nijon:Oonitsaupivia:Nijon,sonofMongoose,theTrickster;ourhero.Vauren:Nijon'srival.Dowdin:Vauren'sc...

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