Eric Flint - Mother of Demons

Arrut kudh pakta. Indira made the translation. Crest of the shell , essentially.

"We call it a phalanx," she said.

" Falanuksh," repeated Ghodha. "With their great numbers, and discipline, the Utuku can be a terrible foe. Many armies have broken against them."

A long silence ensued. For the next four hours, Indira watched as the young human leaders, consulting frequently with Nukurren, began changing and adapting their tactics. They were fumbling, at first; grew more assured as time went by. But still, Indira knew, they were groping for answers.

The voice of Ghodha interrupted her thoughts.

"You are fortunate to have Nukurren. She was the greatest warrior of the Anshac legions."

Indira turned and looked at the Pilgrim war leader.

"I did not realize you knew her."

Ghodha made the gesture of negation.

"I did not really know her, Inudira." A faint ochre ripple, with a hint of brown. "The caste divisions in Ansha are rigid. I was high caste-not Ansha, like Ushulubang or Rottu, but very high. Nukurren belonged to no caste, not even a low one. She was born into a helot slave pool. Clanless and outcast." Another ripple, the brown now predominant. "As such, and despite her incredible prowess, she was despised by such as-myself. In my former time, as a high commander."

Ghodha paused, took a deep breath. (In this, humans and gukuy were quite alike-a thing difficult to say was usually prefaced by a full intake of oxygen.) The brown ripples spread and suffused her entire mantle. That shade of brown which signified remorse.

"All my life, before I decided to adopt the Way and follow Ushulubang, I have been trained in arrogance. It comes very easily to me. I have tried to combat it, but it is often difficult. I shall try harder in the future. I will not always succeed, I fear, but I will try."

Indira began to speak, but was interrupted by Dhowifa. The little male's voice was even softer than usual.

"Nukurren thought you were the best of the legions' high commanders," he said.

An orange ripple broke up the brown of Ghodha's mantle.

"It's true," added Dhowifa. "She told me several times." The quick, complex wash of ochre/pink/azure which suddenly colored the little male's mantle was exquisite in its subtlety. Indira was not certain, but she thought it was a brilliant emotional exhibition of diffident apology, leavened by humor (no, not humor-good feeling).

"Actually, she thought the best tactical commander was Ashurruk."

"Of course!" exclaimed Ghodha. "Ashurruk was superb on the battlefield."

"But she thought you were the best thinker. The best-I can't remember the word, I'm not a warrior-the best-"

"Strategist?" asked Ghodha.

A lightning-quick ripple of greenish color. "That's the word!" said Dhowifa.

Ghodha turned and gazed down at the training field.

"So." A whistle. "I must apologize to her."

"Oh, you needn't," said Dhowifa. "Nukurren was never offended by you."

"Perhaps not," replied Ghodha. The former Ansha commander's mantle was suddenly replaced by a dull, matte black. (Stolid determination, Indira knew, closely related to the ebony sheen of implacable purpose.) "I hope not. But my offense is much deeper. Until this very moment, I had never realized that common warriors thought about their commanders. Assessed them, even, much as commanders assess their troops." A short silence; then, a ripple of yellow contempt. "As if commanders are the only ones who think. As if warriors are but brainless beasts."

Indira felt a sudden wave of immense affection for Ghodha sweep over her. In that one moment, she felt a deep regret that she had no way of showing her feelings on her skin as could a gukuy.

She was born into an Anshac upper caste, and trained as a high commander of the legions. For such as she haughtiness and condescension and insult are as natural as breathing. Yet only such a one who also possessed a great soul would have left it all to follow a despised and outlawed sage, for no other reason than devotion to some higher purpose.

She turned away and gazed back onto the training field. The tactics which the young human leaders were developing, working with Nukurren, were beginning to crystallize. But it was also obvious to Indira that they were still hesitant, still uncertain, still unsure of themselves.

She watched as Jens Knudsen, passing by Nukurren during a pause in the action, casually stroked the huge warrior's scarred mantle. She watched as Ludmilla exchanged banter with the outcaste veteran. She watched as Joseph stood by the despised pervert, the former helot, the soulless monster whose mantle never showed any color; stood by her, deep in conversation, his brow furrowed with thought.

Young humans, barely beyond childhood, of every color; allied to a soulless monster whose mantle never showed any color; desperately seeking to forge an instrument which could stave off destruction.

And doing very well, thought Indira, given their handicaps. They are almost there. They need only the finishing touch. And, most of all, the confidence that they are right. The confidence which the Mother of Demons could give them. The Mother of Demons, who knows the secrets.

There are no secrets! she heard her own voice shrieking. But it was a lie.

This secret I do know. It was discovered long ago, in another time, on another planet.

A vivid image flashed through her mind, the superimposed vision of a dark forest in Poland, and the Utuku defeated. No, more than defeated. Shattered, slaughtered, butchered. Their blood soaking the needles of pine trees which never existed on Ishtar; their entrails strewn beneath the branches of an alien growth. Death and destruction in a demon forest.

At that moment, Indira almost spoke. Almost stepped forward and went onto the training field.

But other visions came, and paralyzed her. Vision after vision after vision.

Yes, I know the secret. And all the secrets which come with it.

She saw the horsetail standards of the Mongol tumens, shivering with triumph in the forest. And the pitiless faces of the horsemen and their generals. And the cities like hecatombs. And the peasant woman lying in the doorway of the wretched hovel in which she had toiled her life; her short life, now ending, as she lay there, naked, violated, bleeding to death; her last sight the disemboweled bodies of her children. Lives which had no meaning to the warriors who rode away, toward new triumphs, beyond the brief pleasure they had taken from ending them. But lives which had been as precious to their victims as the life of the Great Khan had been to him, in his grandeur at Qarakorum.

Indira turned and walked away. Her steps were quick, very quick, almost running; the pace of a mother abandoning her children. She was glad, then, that she had no way of showing her feelings as could a gukuy. For her skin would have fairly glowed with brown misery-that particular shade of brown which signified guilt.

As soon as she left, Joseph and his lieutenants broke off the exercises and trotted over to Ushulubang. Jens Knudsen followed, after a brief exchange of words with Nukurren. Soon thereafter, all the human warriors and gukuy Pilgrims came as well, until the old sage was surrounded by a silent crowd. Only Nukurren remained behind, standing alone on the training field.

Ushulubang said nothing, until Joseph spoke in a voice filled with youthful anguish.

"Why will she not tell us?" he demanded.

"How to defeat the Utuku?" asked the sage mildly. Joseph nodded.

"Maybe she doesn't know," said Jens.

Ushulubang made the gesture of negation. "She knows. It is quite obvious."

Joseph's face was filled with fury. His body almost shook with rage.

"Then why will she not speak?"

Ushulubang's mantle flashed blue/black-the color of furious condemnation. The color of execution.