AND SEVEN TIMES
     NEVER KILL MAN
                    George R.R.Martin

  Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they
need, and ye can;
  But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!
  —Rudyard Kipling



   Outside the walls the Jaenshi children hung, a row of small gray-furred
bodies still and motionless at the ends of long ropes. The oldest among
them, obviously, had been slaughtered before hanging; here a headless
male swung upside down, the noose around the feet, while there dangled
the blast-burned carcass of a female. But most of them, the dark hairy
infants with the wide golden eyes, most of them had simply been hung.
Toward dusk, when the wind came swirling down out of the ragged hills,
the bodies of the lighter children would twist at the ends of their ropes
and bang against the city walls, as if they were alive and pounding for
admission.
  But the guards on the walls paid the thumping no mind as they walked
their relentless rounds, and the rust-streaked metal gates did not open.
  "Do you believe in evil?" Arik neKrol asked Jannis Ryther as they looked
down on the City of the Steel Angels from the crest of a nearby hill. Anger
was written across every line of his flat yellow-brown face, as he squatted
among the broken shards of what once had been a Jaenshi worship
pyramid.
   "Evil?" Ryther murmured in a distracted way. Her eyes never left the
redstone walls below, where the dark bodies of the children were outlined
starkly. The sun was going down, the fat red globe that the Steel Angels
called the Heart of Bakkalon, and the valley beneath them seemed to swim
in bloody mists.
   "Evil," neKrol repeated. The trader was a short, pudgy man, his features
decidedly mongoloid except for the flame-red hair that fell nearly to his
waist. "It is a religious concept, and I am not a religious man. Long ago,
when I was a very child growing up on ai-Emerel, I decided that there was
no good or evil, only different ways of thinking." His small, soft hands felt
around in the dust until he had a large, jagged shard that filled his fist. He
stood and offered it to Ryther. "The Steel Angels have made me believe in
evil again," he said.
   She took the fragment from him wordlessly and turned it over in her
hands. Ryther was much taller than neKrol. and much thinner; a hard
bony woman with a long face, short black hair, and eyes without
expression. The sweat-stained coveralls she wore hung loosely on her spare
frame.
   "Interesting," she said finally, after studying the shard for several
minutes. It was as hard and smooth as glass, but stronger; colored a
translucent red, yet so very dark it was almost black. "A plastic?" she
asked, throwing it back to the ground.
  NeKrol shrugged. "That was my very guess, but of course it is
impossible. The Jaenshi work in bone and wood and sometimes metal, but
plastic is centuries beyond them."
  "Or behind them," Ryther said. "You say these worship pyramids are
scattered all through the forest?"
   "Yes, as far as I have ranged. But the Angels have smashed all those
close to their valley, to drive the Jaenshi away. As they expand, and they
will expand, they will smash others."
   Ryther nodded. She looked down into the valley again, and as she did
the last sliver of the Heart of Bakkalon slid below the western rhountains
and the city lights began to come on. The Jaenshi children swung in pools
of soft blue illumi-jnation, and just above the city gates two stick figures
could be seen working. Shortly they heaved something outward, a rope
uncoiled, and then another small dark shadow jerked and twitched
against the wall. "Why?" Ryther said, in a cool voice, watching.
  NeKrol was anything but cool. "The Jaenshi tried to defend one of their
pyramids. Spears and knives and rocks against the Steel Angels with lasers
and blasters and screechguns. But they caught them unaware, killed a
man. The Proctor announced it would not happen again." He spat. "Evil.
The children trust them, you see."
  "Interesting," Ryther said.
  "Can you do anything?" neKrol asked, his voice agitated. "You have your
ship, your crew. The Jaenshi need a protector, Jannis. They are helpless
before the Angels."
   "I have four men in my crew," Ryther said evenly. "Perhaps four hunting
lasers as well." That was all the answer she gave.
  NeKrol looked at her helplessly. "Nothing?"
  "Tomorrow, perhaps, the Proctor will call on us. He has surely seen the
Lights descend. Perhaps the Angels wish to trade." She glanced again into
the valley. "Come, Arik, we must go back to your base. The trade goods
must be loaded."



   Wyatt, Proctor of the Children of Bakkalon on the World of Corlos, was
tall and red and skeletal, and the muscles stood out clearly on his bare
arms. His blue-black hair was cropped very short, his carriage was stiff
and erect. Like all the Steel Angels, he wore a uniform of chameleon cloth
(a pale brown now, as he stood in the full light of day on the edge of the
small, crude spacefield), a mesh-steel belt with hand-laser and
communicator and screechgun, and a stiff red Roman collar. The tiny
figurine that hung on a chain about his neck—the pale child Bakkalon,
nude and innocent and bright-eyed, but holding a great black sword in
one small fist—was the only sign of Wyatt's rank.
  Four other Angels stood behind him: two men, two women, all dressed
identically. There was a sameness about their faces, too; the hair always
cropped tightly, whether it was blond or red or brown, the eyes alert and
cold and a little fanatic, the upright posture that seemed to characterize
members of the military-religious sect, the bodies hard and fit. NeKrol,
who was soft and slouching and sloppy, disliked everything about the
Angels.
   Proctor Wyatt had arrived shortly after dawn, sending one of his squad
to pound on the door of the small gray prefab bubble that was neKrol's
trading base and home. Sleepy and angry, but with a guarded politeness,
the trader had risen to greet the Angels, and had escorted them out to the
center of the spacefield, where the scarred metal teardrop of the Lights of
Jolostar squatted on three retractable legs.
   The cargo ports were all sealed now; Ryther's crew had spent most of
the evening unloading neKrol's trade goods and replacing them in the
ship's hold with crates of Jaenshi artifacts that might bring good prices
from collectors of extraterrestrial art. No way of knowing until a dealer
looked over the goods; Ryther had dropped neKrol only a year ago, and
this was the first pickup.
  "I am an independent trader, and Arik is my agent on this world,"
Ryther told the Proctor when she met him on the edge of the field. "You
must deal through him."
   "I see," Proctor Wyatt said. He still held the list he had offered Ryther,
of goods the Angels wanted from the industrialized colonies on Avalon and
Jamison's World. "But neKrol will not deal with us."
  Ryther looked at him blankly.
   "With good reason," neKrol said. "I trade with the Jaenshi, you
slaughter them."
   The Proctor had spoken to neKrol often in the months since the Steel
Angels had established their city-colony, and the talks had all ended in
arguments; now he ignored him. "The steps we took were needed," Wyatt
said to Ryther. "When an animal kills a man, the animal must be
punished, and other animals must see and learn, so that beasts may know
that man, the seed of Earth and child of Bakkalon, is the lord and master
of them all."
   NeKrol snorted. "The Jaenshi are not beasts, Proctor, they are an
intelligent race, with their own religion and art and customs, and they ..."
  Wyatt looked at him. "They have no soul. Only the children of Bakkalon
have souls, only the seed of Earth. What mind they may have is relevant
only to you, and perhaps them. Soulless, they are beasts."
  "Arik has shown me the worship pyramids they build," Ryther said.
"Surely creatures that build such shrines must have souls."
   The Proctor shook his head. "You are in error in your belief. It is written
clearly in the Book. We, the seed of Earth, are truly the children of
Bakkalon, and no others. The rest are animals, and in Bakkalon's name we
must assert our dominion over them."
  "Very well," Ryther said. "But you will have to assert your dominion
without aid from the Lights of Jolostar, I'm afraid. And I must inform
you, Proctor, that I find your actions seriously disturbing, and intend to
report them when I return to Jamison's World."
   "I expected no less," Wyatt said. "Perhaps by next year you will burn
with love of Bakkalon, and we may talk again. Until then, the world of
Corlos will survive." He saluted her, and walked briskly from the field,
followed by the four Steel Angels.
  "What good will it do to report them?" neKrol said bitterly, after they
had gone.
   "None," Ryther said, looking off toward the forest. The wind was kicking
up the dust around her, and her shoulders slumped, as if she were very
tired. "The Jamies won't care, and if they did, what could they do?"
   NeKrol remembered the heavy red-bound book that Wyatt had given
him months ago. "And Bakkalon the pale child fashioned his children out
of steel," he quoted, "for the stars will break those of softer flesh. And in
the hand of each new-made infant He placed a beaten sword, telling them,
'This is the Truth and the Way.' " He spat in disgust. "That is their very
creed. And we can do nothing?"
  Her face was empty of expression now. "I will leave you two lasers. In a
year, make sure the Jaenshi know how to use them. I believe I know what
sort of trade goods I should bring."



   The Jaenshi lived in clans (as neKrol thought of them) of twenty to
thirty, each clan divided equally between adults and children, each having
its own home-forest and worship pyramid. They did not build; they slept
curled up in trees around their pyramid. For food, they foraged; juicy
blue-black fruits grew everywhere, and there were three varieties of edible
berries, a hallucinogenic leaf, and a soapy yellow root the Jaenshi dug for.
NeKrol had found them to be hunters as well, though infrequently. A clan
would go for months without meat, while the snuffling brown bushogs
multiplied all around them, digging up roots and playing with the
children.
   Then suddenly, when the bushog population had reached some critical
point, the Jaenshi spearmen would walk among them calmly, killing two
out of every three, and that week great hog roasts would be held each
night around the pyramid. Similar patterns could be discerned with the
white-bodied tree slugs that sometimes covered the fruit trees like a
plague, until the Jaenshi gathered them for a stew, and with the
fruit-stealing pseudomonks that haunted the higher limbs.
  So far as neKrol could tell, there were no predators in the forests of the
Jaenshi. In his early months on their world, he had worn a long force-knife
and a hand-laser as he walked from pyramid to pyramid on his trade
route. But he had never encountered anything even remotely hostile, and
now the knife lay broken in his kitchen, while the laser was long lost.
  The day after the Lights of Jolostar departed, neKrol went armed into
the forest again, with one of Ryther's hunting lasers slung over his
shoulder.
   Less than two kilometers from his base, neKrol found the camp of the
Jaenshi he called the waterfall folk. They lived up against the side of a
heavily-wooded hill, where a stream of tumbling blue-white water came
sliding and bouncing down, dividing and rejoining itself over and over, so
the whole hillside was an intricate glittering web of waterfalls and rapids
and shallow pools and spraying wet curtains. The clan's worship pyramid
sat in the bottommost pool, on a flat gray stone in the middle of the
eddies; taller than most Jaenshi, coming up to neKrol's chin, looking
infinitely heavy and solid and immovable, a three-sided block of dark,
dark red.
  NeKrol was not fooled: he had seen other pyramids sliced to pieces by
the lasers of the Steel Angels and shattered by the flames of their blasters;
whatever powers the pyramids might have in Jaenshi myth, whatever
mysteries might lie behind their origin, it was not enough to stay the
swords of Bakkalon.
   The glade around the pyramid-pool was alive with sunlight when
NeKrol entered, and the long grasses swayed in the light breeze, but most
of the waterfall folk were elsewhere. In the trees perhaps, climbing and
coupling and pulling down fruits, or ranging through the forests on their
hill. The trader found only a few small children riding on a bushog in the
clearing when he arrived. He sat down to wait, warm in the sunlight.
  Soon the old talker appeared.
  He sat down next to neKrol, a tiny shriveled Jaenshi with only a few
patches of dirty gray-white fur left to hide the wrinkles in his skin. He was
toothless, clawless, feeble; but his eyes, wide and golden and pupilless as
those of any Jaenshi, were still alert, alive. He was the talker of the
waterfall folk, the one in closest communion with the worship pyramid.
Every clan had a talker.
   "I have something new to trade," neKrol said, in the soft slurred speech
of the Jaenshi. He had learned the tongue before coming here, back on
Avalon. Tomas Chung, the legendary Avalonian linguesp, had broken it
centuries before, when the Kleronomas Survey brushed by this world. No
other human had visited the Jaenshi since, but the maps of Kleronomas
and Chung's language-pattern analysis both remained alive in the
computers at the Avalon Institute for the Study of Non-Human
Intelligence.
  "We have made you more statues, have fashioned new woods," the old
talker said. "What have you brought? Salt?"
   NeKrol undid his knapsack, laid it out, and opened it. He took out one
of the bricks of salt he carried, and laid it before the old talker. "Salt," he
said. "And more." He laid the hunting rifle before the Jaenshi.
  "What is this?" the old talker asked.
  "Do you know of the Steel Angels?" neKrol asked.
  The other nodded, a gesture neKrol had taught him. "The godless who
run from the dead valley speak of them. They are the ones who make the
gods grow silent, the pyramid breakers."
   "This is a tool like the Steel Angels use to break your pyramids," neKrol
said. "I am offering it to you in trade."
   The old talker sat very still. "But we do not wish to break pyramids," he
said.
   "This tool can be used for other things," neKrol said. "In time, the Steel
Angels may come here, to break the pyramid of the waterfall folk. If by
then you have tools like this, you can stop them. The people of the pyramid
in the ring-of-stone tried to stop the Steel Angels with spears and knives,
and now they are scattered and wild and their children hang dead from
the walls of the City of the Steel Angels. Other clans of the Jaenshi were
unresisting, yet now they too are godless and landless. The time will come
when the waterfall folk will need this tool, old talker."
  The Jaenshi elder lifted the laser and turned it curiously in his small
withered hands. "We must pray on this," he said. "Stay, Arik. Tonight we
shall tell you, when the god looks down on us. Until then, we shall trade."
He rose abruptly, gave a swift glance at the pyramid across the pool, and
faded into the forest, still holding the laser.
   NeKrol sighed. He had a long wait before him; the prayer assemblies
never came until sundown. He moved to the edge of the pool and unlaced
his heavy boots to soak his sweaty, calloused feet in the crisp cold waters.
   When he looked up, the first of the carvers had arrived; a lithe young
Jaenshi female with a touch of auburn in her body fur. Silent (they were
all silent in neKrol's presence, all save the talker), she offered him her
work.
   It was a statuette no larger than his fist, a heavy-breasted fertility
goddess fashioned out of the fragrant, thin-veined blue wood of the fruit
trees. She sat cross-legged on a triangular base, and three thin slivers of
bone rose from each corner of the triangle to meet above her head in a
blob of clay.
   NeKrol took the carving, turned it this way and that, and nodded his
approval. The Jaenshi smiled and vanished, taking the salt brick with her.
Long after she was gone. neKrol continued to admire his acquisition. He
had traded all his life, spending ten years among the squid-faced gethsoids
of Aath and four with the stick-thin Fyndii, traveling a trader's circuit to a
half-dozen stone age planets that had once been slaveworlds of the broken
Hrangan Empire; but nowhere had he found artists like the Jaenshi. Not
for the first time, he wondered why neither Kleronomas nor Chung had
mentioned the native carvings. He was glad they hadn't, though, and fairly
certain that once the dealers saw the crates of wooden gods he had sent
back with Ryther, the world would be overrun by traders. As it was, he had
been sent here entirely on speculation, in hopes of finding a Jaenshi drug
or herb or liquor that might move well in stellar trade. Instead he'd found
the art, like an answer to a prayer.
   Other workmen came and went as the morning turned to afternoon and
the afternoon to dusk, setting their craft before him. He looked over each
piece carefully, taking some and declining others, paying for what he took
in salt. Before full darkness had descended, a small pile of goods sat by his
right hand; a matched set of redstone knives, a gray deathcloth woven
from the fur of an elderly Jaenshi by his widow and friends (with his face
wrought upon it in the silky golden hairs of a pseudomonk), a bone spear
with tracings that reminded neKrol of the runes of Old Earth legend; and
statues. The statues were his favorites, always; so often alien art was alien
beyond comprehension, but the Jaenshi workmen touched emotional
chords in him. The gods they carved, each sitting in a bone pyramid, wore
Jaenshi faces, yet at the same time seemed archetypically human:
stern-faced war gods, things that looked oddly like satyrs, fertility
goddesses like the one he had bought, almost-manlike warriors and
nymphs. Often neKrol had wished that he had a formal education in extee
anthropology, so that he might write a book on the universals of myth. The
Jaenshi surely had a rich mythology, though the talkers never spoke of it;
nothing else could explain the carvings. Perhaps the old gods were no
longer worshipped, but they were still remembered.
  By the time the Heart of Bakkalon went down and the last reddish rays
ceased to filter through the looming trees, neKrol had gathered as much as
he could carry, and his salt was all but exhausted. He laced up his boots
again, packed his acquisitions with painstaking care, and sat patiently in
the poolside grass, waiting. One by one, the waterfall folk joined him.
Finally the old talker returned.
  The prayers began.
   The old talker, with the laser still in his hand, waded carefully across the
night-dark waters, to squat by the black bulk of the pyramid. The others,
adults and children together, now some forty strong, chose spots in the
grass near the banks, behind neKrol and around him. Like him, they
looked out over the pool, at the pyramid and the talker outlined clearly in
the light of a new-risen, oversized moon. Setting the laser down on the
stone, the old talker pressed both palms flat against the side of the
pyramid, and his body seemed to go stiff, while all the other Jaenshi also
tensed and grew very quiet.
   NeKrol shifted restlessly and fought a yawn. It was not the first time
he'd sat through a prayer ritual, and he knew the routine. A good hour of
boredom lay before him; the Jaenshi did silent worship. and there was
nothing to be heard but their steady breathing, nothing to be seen but
forty impassive faces. Sighing, the trader tried to relax, closing his eyes
and concentrating on the soft grass beneath him and the warm breeze
that tossed his wild mane of hair. Here, briefly, he found peace. How long
would it last, he mused, should the Steel Angels leave their valley . . .
   The hour passed, but neKrol, lost in meditation, scarce felt the flow of
time. Until suddenly he heard the rustlings and chatter around him, as the
waterfall folk rose and went back into the forest. And then the old talker
stood in front of him, and laid the laser at his feet.
  "No," he said simply.
    NeKrol started. "What? But you must. Let me show you what it can do .
. ."
  "I have had a vision, Arik. The god has shown me. But also he has
shown me that it would not be a good thing to take this in trade."
  "Old talker, the Steel Angels will come . . ."
   "If they come, our god shall speak to them," the Jaenshi elder said, in
his purring speech, but there was finality in the gentle voice, and no
appeal in the vast liquid eyes.



  "For our food, we thank ourselves, none other. It is ours because we
worked for it, ours because we fought for it, ours by the only right that is:
the right of the strong. But for that strength—for the might of our arms
and the steel of our swords and the fire in our hearts—we thank Bakkalon,
the pale child, who gave us life and taught us how to keep it."
  The Proctor stood stiffly at the centermost of the five long wooden
tables that stretched the length of the great mess hall, pronouncing each
word of the grace with solemn dignity. His large veined hands pressed
tightly together as he spoke, against the flat of the upward-jutting sword,
and the dim lights had faded his uniform to an almost-black. Around him,
the Steel Angels sat at attention, their food untouched before them; fat
boiled tubers, steaming chunks of bushog meat, black bread, bowls of
crunchy green neograss. Children below the fighting age of ten, in smocks
of starchy white and the omnipresent mesh-steel belts, filled the two
outermost tables beneath the slit-like windows; toddlers struggled to sit
still under the watchful eyes of stern nine-year-old houseparents with
hardwood batons in their belts. Further in, the fighting brotherhood sat,
fully armed, at two equally long tables, men and women alternating,
leather-skinned veterans sitting next to ten-year-olds who had barely
moved from the children's dorm to the barracks. All of them wore the
same chameleon cloth as Wyatt, though without his collar, and a few had
buttons of rank. The center table, less than half the length of the others,
held the cadre of the Steel Angels; the squadfathers and squadmothers,
the weaponsmasters, the healers, the four fieldbishops, all those who wore
the high, stiff crimson collar. And the Proctor, at its head.
   "Let us eat," Wyatt said at last. His sword moved above his table with a
whoosh, describing the slash of blessing, and he sat to his meal. The
Proctor, like all the others, had stood single-file in the line that wound
past the kitchen to the mess hall, and his portions were no larger than the
least of the brotherhood.
   There was a clink of knives and forks, and the infrequent clatter of a
plate, and from time to time the thwack of a baton, as a house-parent
punished some transgression of discipline by one of his charges; other
than that, the hall was silent. The Steel Angels did not speak at meals, but
rather meditated on the lessons of the day as they consumed their spartan
fare.
   Afterwards, the children—still silent—marched out of the hall, back to
their dormitory. The fighting brotherhood followed, some to chapel, most
to the barracks, a few to guard duty on the walls. The men they were
relieving would find late meals still warm in the kitchen.
  The officer core remained; after the plates were cleared away, the meal
became a staff meeting.
   "At ease," Wyatt said, but the figures along the table relaxed little, if at
all. Relaxation had been bred out of them by now. The Proctor found one
of them with his eyes. "Dhallis," he said, "you have the report I
requested?"
   Fieldbishop Dhallis nodded. She was a husky middle-aged woman with
thick muscles and skin the color of brown leather. On her collar was a
small steel insignia, an ornamental memory-chip that meant Computer
Services. "Yes, Proctor," she said, in a hard, precise voice. "Jamison's
World is a fourth-generation colony, settled mostly from Old Poseidon.
One large continent, almost entirely unexplored, and more than twelve
thousand islands of various sizes. The human population is concentrated
almost entirely on the islands, and makes its living by farming sea and
land, aquatic husbandry, and heavy industry. The oceans are rich in food
and metal. The total population is about seventy-nine million. There are
two large cities, both with spaceports: Port Jamison and Jolostar." She
looked down at the computer printout on the table. "Jamison's World was
not even charted at the time of the Double War. It has never known
military action, and the only Jamie armed forces are their planetary
police. It has no colonial program and has never attempted to claim
political jurisdiction beyond its own atmosphere."
  The Proctor nodded. "Excellent. Then the trader's threat to report us is
essentially an empty one. We can proceed. Squadfather Walman?"
   "Four Jaenshi were taken today, Proctor, and are now on the walls,"
Walman reported. He was a ruddy young man with a blond crewcut and
large ears. "If I might, sir, I would request discussion of possible
termination of the campaign. Each day we search harder for less. We have
virtually wiped out every Jaenshi youngling of the clans who originally
inhabited Sword Valley."
  Wyatt nodded. "Other opinions?"
  Fieldbishop Lyon, blue-eyed and gaunt, indicated dissent. "The adults
remain alive. The mature beast is more dangerous than the youngling,
Squadfather."
   "Not in this case," Weapons-master C'ara DaHan said. DaHan was a
giant of a man, bald and bronze-colored, the chief of Psychological
Weaponry and Enemy Intelligence. "Our studies show that, once the
pyramid is destroyed, neither full-grown Jaenshi nor the immature pose
any threat whatsoever to the children of Bakkalon. Their social structure
virtually disintegrates. The adults either flee, hoping to join some other
clan, or revert to near-animal savagery. They abandon the younglings,
most of whom fend for themselves in a confused sort of way and offer no
resistance when we take them. Considering the number of Jaenshi on our
walls, and those reported slain by predators or each other, I strongly feel
that Sword Valley is virtually clean of the animals. Winter is coming,
Proctor, and much must be done. Squadfather Walman and his men
should be set to other tasks."
   There was more discussion, but the tone had been set; most of the
speakers backed DaHan. Wyatt listened carefully, and all the while prayed
to Bakkalon for guidance. Finally he motioned for quiet.
   "Squadfather," he said to Walman, "tomorrow collect all the
Jaenshi—both adults and children— that you can, but do not hang them if
they are unresisting. Instead, take them to the city, and show them their
clanmates on our walls. Then cast them from the valley, one in each
direction of the compass." He bowed his head. "It is my hope that they will
carry a message, to all the Jaenshi, of the price that must be paid when a
beast raises hand or claw or blade against the seed of Earth. Then, when
the spring comes and the children of Bakkalon move beyond Sword Valley,
the Jaenshi will peacefully abandon their pyramids and quit whatever
lands men may require, so the glory of the pale child might be spread."
  Lyon and DaHan both nodded, among others. "Speak wisdom to us,"
Fieldbishop Dhallis said then.
  Proctor Wyatt agreed. One of the lesser-ranking squadmothers brought
him the Book, and he opened it to the Chapter of Teachings.
   "In those days much evil had come upon the seed of Earth," the Proctor
read, "for the children of Bakkalon had abandoned Him to bow to softer
gods. So their skies grew dark and upon them from above came the Sons
of Hranga with red eyes and demon teeth, and upon them from below
came the vast Horde of Fyndii like a cloud of locusts that blotted out the
stars. And the worlds flamed, and the children cried out, 'Save us! Save
us!'
   "And the pale child came and stood before them, with His great sword
in His hand, and in a voice like thunder He rebuked them. 'You have been
weak children,' He told them, 'for you have disobeyed. Where are your
swords? Did I not set swords in your hands?'
  "And the children cried out, 'We have beaten them into plowshares, oh
Bakkalon!'
   "And He was sore angry. 'With plowshares, then, shall you face the Sons
of Hranga! With plowshares shall you slay the Horde of Fyndii!' And He
left them, and heard no more their weeping, for the Heart of Bakkalon is a
Heart of Fire.
   "But then one among the seed of Earth dried his tears, for the skies did
burn so bright that they ran scalding on his cheeks. And the bloodlust rose
in him and he beat his plowshare back into a sword, and charged the Sons
of Hranga, slaying as he went. Then others saw, and followed, and a great
battle-cry rang across the worlds.
  "And the pale child heard, and came again, for the sound of battle is
more pleasing to his ears than the sound of wails. And when He saw, He
smiled. 'Now you are my children again,' He said to the seed of Earth. 'For
you had turned against me to worship a god who calls himself a lamb, but
did you not know that lambs go only to the slaughter? Yet now your eyes
have cleared, and again you are the Wolves of God!'
   "And Bakkalon gave them all swords again, all His children and all the
seed of Earth, and He lifted his great black blade, the Demon-Reaver that
slays the soulless, and swung it. And the Sons of Hranga fell before His
might, and the great Horde that was the Fyndii burned beneath His gaze.
And the children of Bakkalon swept across the worlds."
  The Proctor lifted his eyes. "Go, my brothers-in-arms, and think on the
Teachings of Bakkalon as you sleep. May the pale child grant you visions!"
  They were dismissed.



   The trees on the hill were bare and glazed with ice, and the
snow-unbroken except for their footsteps and the stirrings of the
bitter-sharp north wind—gleamed a blinding white in the noon sun. In the
valley beneath, the City of the Steel Angels looked preternaturally clean
and still. Great snowdrifts had piled against the eastern walls, climbing
halfway up the stark scarlet stone; the gates had not opened in months.
Long ago, the children of Bakkalon had taken their harvest and fallen back
inside the city, to huddle around their fires. But for the blue lights that
burned late into the cold black night, and the occasional guard pacing
atop the walls, neKrol would hardly have known that the Angels still lived.
   The Jaenshi that neKrol had come to think of as the bitter speaker
looked at him out of eyes curiously darker than the soft gold of her
brothers. "Below the snow, the god lies broken," she said, and even the
soothing tones of the Jaenshi tongue could not hide the hardness in her
voice. They stood at the very spot where neKrol had once taken Ryther, the
spot where the pyramid of the people of the ring-of-stone once stood.
NeKrol was sheathed head to foot in a white thermosuit that clung too
tightly, accenting every unsightly bulge. He looked out on Sword Valley
from behind a dark blue plastifilm in the suit's cowl. But the Jaenshi, the
bitter speaker, was nude, covered only by the thick gray fur of her winter
coat. The strap of the hunting laser ran down between her breasts.
   "Other gods beside yours will break unless the Steel Angels are
stopped," neKrol said, shivering despite his thermosuit.
   The bitter speaker seemed hardly to hear. "I was a child when they
came, Arik. If they had left our god, I might be a child still. Afterwards,
when the light went out and the glow inside me died, I wandered far from
the ring-of-stone, beyond our own home forest, knowing nothing, eating
where I could. Things are not the same in the dark valley. Bushogs honked
at my passing, and charged me with their tusks, other Jaenshi threatened
me and each other. I did not understand and I could not pray. Even when
the Steel Angels found me, I did not understand, and I went with them to
their city, knowing nothing of their speech. I remember the walls, and the
children, many so much younger than me. Then I screamed and struggled;
when I saw those on the ropes, something wild and godless stirred to life
inside me." Her eyes regarded him, her eyes like burnished bronze. She
shifted in the ankle-deep snow, curling a clawed hand around the strap of
her laser.
   NeKrol had taught her well since the day she had joined him, in the late
summer when the Steel Angels had cast her from Sword Valley. The bitter
speaker was by far the best shot of his six, the godless exiles he had
gathered to him and trained. It was the only way; he had offered the lasers
in trade to clan after clan, and each had refused. The Jaenshi were certain
that their gods would protect them.
  Only the godless listened, and not all of them; many—the young
children, the quiet ones, the first to flee—many had been accepted into
other clans. But others, like the bitter speaker, had grown too savage, had
seen too much; they fit no longer. She had been the first to take the
weapon, after the old talker had sent her away from the waterfall folk.
  "It is often better to be without gods," neKrol told her. "Those below us
have a god, and it has made them what they are. And so the Jaenshi have
gods, and because they trust, they die. You godless are their only hope."
   The bitter speaker did not answer. She only looked down on the silent
city, besieged by snow, and her eyes smoldered.
   And neKrol watched her, and wondered. He and his six were the hope of
the Jaenshi, he had said; if so, was there hope at all? The bitter speaker,
and all his exiles, had a madness about them, a rage that made him
tremble. Even if Ryther came with the lasers, even if so small a group
could stop the Angels' march, even if all that came to pass—what then?
Should all the Angels die tomorrow, where would his godless find a place?
  They stood, all quiet, while the snow stirred under their feet and the
north wind bit at them.



   The chapel was dark and quiet. Flameglobes burned a dim, eerie red in
either corner, and the rows of plain wooden benches were empty. Above
the heavy altar, a slab of rough black stone, Bakkalon stood in holograph,
so real he almost breathed; a boy, a mere boy, naked and milky white,
with the wide eyes and blond hair of innocent youth. In his hand, half
again taller than himself, was the great black sword.
   Wyatt knelt before the projection, head bowed and very still. All
through the winter his dreams had been dark and troubled, so each day he
would kneel and pray for guidance. There was none else to seek but
Bakkalon; he, Wyatt, was the Proctor, who led in battle and in faith. He
alone must riddle his visions.
  So daily he wrestled with his thoughts, until the snows began to melt
and the knees of his uniform had nearly worn through from long scraping
on the floor. Finally, he had decided, and this day he had called upon the
senior collars to join him in the chapel.
  Alone they entered, while the Proctor knelt unmoving, and chose seats
on the benches behind him, each apart from his fellows. Wyatt took no
notice; he prayed only that his words would be correct, his vision true.
When they were all there, he stood and turned to face them.
   "Many are the worlds on which the children of Bakkalon have lived," he
told them, "but none so blessed as this, our Corlos. A great time is on us,
my brothers-in-arms. The pale child has come to me in my sleep, as once
he came to the first Proctors in the years when the brotherhood was
forged. He has given me visions."
  They were quiet, all of them, their eyes humble and obedient; he was
their Proctor, after all. There could be no questioning when one of higher
rank spoke wisdom or gave orders. That was one of the precepts of
Bakkalon, that the chain of command was sacred and never to be doubted.
So all of them kept silence.
   "Bakkalon Himself has walked upon this world. He has walked among
the soulless and the beasts of the field and told them our dominion, and
this he has said to me: that when the spring comes and the seed of Earth
moves from Sword Valley to take new land, all the animals shall know
their place and retire before us. This I do prophesy!
   "More, we shall see miracles. That too the pale child has promised me,
signs by which we will know His truth, signs that shall bolster our faith
with new revelation. But so too shall our faith be tested, for it will be a
time of sacrifices, and Bakkalon will call upon us more than once to show
our trust in Him. We must remember His Teachings and be true, and
each of us must obey Him as a child obeys the parent and a fighting man
his officer: that is, swiftly and without question. For the pale child knows
best.
  "These are the visions He has granted me, these are the dreams that I
have dreamed. Brothers, pray with me."
   And Wyatt turned again and knelt, and the rest knelt with him, and all
the heads were bowed in prayer save one. In the shadows at the rear of the
chapel where the flameglobes flickered but dimly, C'ara DaHan stared at
his Proctor from beneath a heavy beetled brow.
   That night, after a silent meal in the mess hall and a short staff
meeting, the Weaponsmaster called upon Wyatt to go walking on the
walls. "Proctor, my soul is troubled." he told him. "I must have counsel
from he who is closest to Bakkalon." Wyatt nodded, and both donned
heavy nightcloaks of black fur and oil-dark metal cloth, and together they
walked the red-stone parapets beneath the stars.
   Near the guardhouse that stood above the city gates, DaHan paused
and leaned out over the ledge, his eyes searching the slow-melting snow
for long moments before he turned them on the Proctor. "Wyatt," he said
at last, "my faith is weak."
  The Proctor said nothing, merely watched the other, his face concealed
by the hood of his night-cloak. Confession was not a part of the rites of the
Steel Angels; Bakkalon had said that a fighting man's faith ought never to
waver.
  "In the old days," C'ara DaHan was saying, "many weapons were used
against the children of Bakkalon. Some, today, exist only in tales. Perhaps
they never existed. Perhaps they are empty things, like the gods the soft
men worship. I am only a Weaponsmaster; such knowledge is not mine.
   "Yet there is a tale, my Proctor —one that troubles me. Once, it is said,
in the long centuries of war, the Sons of Hranga loosed upon the seed of
Earth foul vampires of the mind, the creatures men called soul-feeds.
Their touch was invisible, but it crept across kilometers, farther than a
man could see, farther than a laser could fire, and it brought madness.
Visions, my Proctor, visions! False gods and foolish plans were put in the
minds of men, and . . ."
  "Silence," Wyatt said. His voice was hard, as cold as the night air that
crackled around them and turned his breath to steam.
   There was a long pause. Then, in a softer voice, the Proctor continued.
"All winter I have prayed, DaHan, and struggled with my visions. I am the
Proctor of the Children of Bakkalon on the World of Corlos, not some
new-armed child to be lied to by false gods. I spoke only after I was sure. I
spoke as your Proctor, as your father in faith and your commanding
officer. That you would question me, Weaponsmaster, that you would
doubt— this disturbs me greatly. Next will you stop to argue with me on
the field of battle, to dispute some fine point of my orders?"
  "Never, Proctor," DaHan said, kneeling in penance in the packed snow
atop the walkway.
  "I hope not. But, before I dismiss you, because you are my brother in
Bakkalon, I will answer you, though I need not and it was wrong of you to
expect it. I will tell you this; the Proctor Wyatt is a good officer as well as a
devout man. The pale child has made prophecies to me, and has predicted
that miracles will come to pass. All these things we shall see with our very
eyes. But if the prophecies should fail us, and if no signs appear, well, our
eyes will see that too. And then I will know that it was not Bakkalon who
sent the visions, but only a false god, perhaps a soul-feed of Hranga. Or do
you think a Hrangan can work miracles?"
  "No." DaHan said, still on his knees, his great bald head downcast.
"That would be heresy."
  "Indeed," said Wyatt. The Proctor glanced briefly beyond the walls. The
night was crisp and cold and there was no moon. He felt transfigured, and
even the stars seemed to cry the glory of the pale child, for the
constellation of the Sword was high upon the zenith, the Soldier reaching
up toward it from where he stood on the horizon.
  "Tonight you will walk guard without your cloak," the Proctor told
DaHan when he looked down again. "And should the north wind blow and
the cold bite at you, you will rejoice in the pain, for it will be a sign that
you submit to your Proctor and your god. As your flesh grows bitter numb,
the flame in your heart must burn hotter."
  "Yes, my Proctor," DaHan said. He stood and removed his night-cloak,
handing it to the other. Wyatt gave him the slash of blessing.



  On the wallscreen in his darkened living quarters the taped drama went
through its familiar measured paces, but neKrol, slouched in a large
cushioned recliner with his eyes half-closed, hardly noticed. The bitter
speaker and two of the other Jaenshi exiles sat on the floor, golden eyes
rapt on the spectacle of humans chasing and shooting each other amid the
vaulting tower cities of ai-Emerel; increasingly they had begun to grow
curious about other worlds and other ways of life. It was all very strange,
neKrol thought; the waterfall folk and the other chinned Jaenshi had never
shown any such interest. He remembered the early days, before the
coming of the Steel Angels in their ancient and soon-to-be-dismantled
warship, when he had set all kinds of trade goods before the Jaenshi
talkers; bright bolts of glittersilk from Avalon, glowstone jewelry from
High Kavalaan, duralloy knives and solar generators and steel powerbows,
books from a dozen worlds, medicines and wines—he had come with a
little of everything. The talkers took some of it, from time to time, but
never with any enthusiasm; the only offering that excited them was salt.
  It was not until the spring rains came and the bitter speaker began to
question him that neKrol realized, with a start, how seldom any of the
Jaenshi clans had ever asked him anything. Perhaps their social structure
and their religion stifled their natural intellectual curiosity. The exiles
were certainly eager enough, especially the bitter speaker. NeKrol could
answer only a small portion of her questions of late, and even then she
always had new ones to puzzle him with. He had begun to grow appalled
with the extent of his own ignorance.
   But then, so had the bitter speaker; unlike the clanned Jaenshi—did the
religion make that much difference?—she would answer questions as well,
and neKrol had tried quizzing her on many things that he'd wondered at.
But most of the time she would only blink in bafflement, and begin to
question herself.
   "There are no stories about our gods," she said to him once, when he'd
tried to learn a little of Jaenshi myth. "What sort of stories could there be?
The gods live in the worship pyramids, Arik, and we pray to them and they
watch over us and light our lives. They do not bounce around and fight
and break each other like your gods seem to do."
  "But you had other gods once, before you came to worship the
pyramids," neKrol objected. "The very ones your carvers did for me." He
had even gone so far as to unpack a crate and show her, though surely she
remembered, since the people of the pyramid in the ring-of-stone had
been among the finest craftsmen.
   Yet the bitter speaker only smoothed her fur, and shook her head. "I
was too young to be a carver, so perhaps I was not told," she said. "We all
know that which we need to know, but only the carvers need to do these
things, so perhaps only they know the stories of these old gods."
  Another time he had asked her about the pyramids, and had gotten
even less. "Build them?" she had said. "We did not build them, Arik. They
have always been, like the rocks and the trees." But then she blinked. "But
they are not like the rocks and the trees, are they?" And puzzled, she went
away to talk to the others.
   But if the godless Jaenshi were more thoughtful than their brothers in
the clans, they were also more difficult, and each day neKrol realized more
and more the futility of their enterprise. He had eight of the exiles with
him now—they had found two more, half dead from starvation, in the
height of winter— and they all took turns training with the two lasers and
spying on the Angels. But even should Ryther return with the weaponry,
their force was a joke against the might the Proctor could put in the field.
The Lights of Jolostar would be carrying a full arms shipment in the
expectation that every clan for a hundred kilometers would now be roused
and angry, ready to resist the Steel Angels and overwhelm them by sheer
force of numbers; Jannis would be blank-faced when only neKrol and his
ragged band appeared to greet her.
   If in fact they did. Even that was problematical; he was having much
difficulty keeping his guerrillas together. Their hatred of the Steel Angels
still bordered madness, but they were far from a cohesive unit. None of
them liked to take orders very well, and they fought constantly, going at
each other with bared claws in struggles for social dominance. If neKrol
had not warned them, he suspected they might even duel with the lasers.
As for staying in good fighting shape, that too was a joke. Of the three
females in the band, the bitter speaker was the only one who had not
allowed herself to be impregnated. Since the Jaenshi usually gave birth in
litters of four to eight, neKrol calculated that late summer would present
them with an exile population explosion. And there would be more after
that, he knew; the godless seemed to copulate almost hourly, and there
was no such thing as Jaenshi birth control. He wondered how the clans
kept their population so stable, but his charges didn't know that either.
  "I suppose we sexed less," the bitter speaker said when he asked her,
"but I was a child, so I would not really know. Before I came here, there
was never the urge. I was just young, I would think." But when she said it,
she scratched herself and seemed very unsure.
   Sighing, neKrol eased himself back in the recliner and tried to shut out
the noise of the wall-screen. It was all going to be very difficult. Already
the Steel Angels had emerged from behind their walls, and the
powerwagons rolled up and down Sword Valley turning forest into
farmland. He had gone up into the hills himself, and it was easy to see that
the spring planting would soon be done. Then, he suspected, the children
of Bakkalon would try to expand. Just last week one of them—a giant
"with no head fur," as his scout had described him—was seen up in the
ring-of-stone, gathering shards from the broken pyramid. Whatever that
meant, it could not be for the good.
   Sometimes he felt sick at the forces he had set in motion, and almost
wished that Ryther would forget the lasers. The bitter speaker was
determined to strike as soon as they were armed, no matter what the
odds. Frightened, neKrol reminded her of the hard Angel lesson the last
time a Jaenshi had killed a man; in his dreams he still saw children on the
walls.
  But she only looked at him, with the bronze tinge of madness in her
eyes, and said, "Yes, Arik. I remember."



   Silent and efficient, the white-smocked kitchen boys cleared away the
last of the evening's dishes and vanished. "At ease," Wyatt said to his
officers. Then: "The time of miracles is upon us, as the pale child foretold.
   "This morning I sent three squads into the hills to the southeast of
Sward Valley, to disperse the Jaenshi clans on lands that we require. They
reported back to me in early afternoon, and now I wish to share their
reports with you. Squadmother Jolip, will you relate the events that
transpired when you carried out your orders?"
   "Yes, Proctor." Jolip stood, a white-skinned blond with a pinched face,
her uniform hanging slightly loose on a lean body. "I was assigned a squad
of ten to clear out the so-called cliff clan, whose pyramid lies near the foot
of a low granite cliff in the wilder part of the hills. The information
provided by our intelligence indicated that they were one of the smaller
clans, with only twenty-odd adults, so I dispensed with heavy armor. We
did take a class five blastcannon, since the destruction of the Jaenshi
pyramids is slow work with side-arms alone, but other than that our
armament was strictly standard issue.
   "We expected no resistance, but recalling the incident at the
ring-of-stone, I was cautious. After a march of some twelve kilometers
through the hills to the vicinity of the cliff, we fanned out in a semicircle
and moved in slowly, with screechguns drawn. A few Jaenshi were
encountered in the forest, and these we took prisoner and marched before
us, for use as shields in the event of an ambush or attack. That, of course,
proved unnecessary.
   "When we reached the pyramid by the cliff, they were waiting for us. At
least twelve of the beasts, sir. One of them sat near the base of the
pyramid with his hands pressed against its side, while the others
surrounded him in a sort of a circle. They all looked up at us, but made no
other move."
   She paused a minute, and rubbed a thoughtful finger up against the
side of her nose. "As I told the Proctor, it was all very odd from that point
forward. Last summer, I twice led squads against the Jaenshi clans. The
first time, having no idea of our intentions, none of the soulless were
there; we simply destroyed the artifact and left. The second time, a crowd
of the creatures milled around, hampering us with their bodies while not
being actively hostile. They did not disperse until I had one of them
screeched down. And, of course, I studied the reports of Squadfather
Allor's difficulties at the ring-of-stone.
  "This time, it was all quite different. I ordered two of my men to set the
blastcannon on its tripod, and gave the beasts to understand that they
must get out of the way. With hand signals, of course, since I know none of
their ungodly tongue. They complied at once, splitting into two groups
and, well, lining up, on either side of the line-of-fire. We kept them
covered with our screechguns, of course, but everything seemed very
peaceful.
   "And so it was. The blaster took the pyramid out neatly, a big ball of
flame and then sort of a thunder as the thing exploded. A few shards were
scattered, but no one was injured, as we had all taken cover and the
Jaenshi seemed unconcerned. After the pyramid broke, there was a sharp
ozone smell, and for an instant a lingering bluish fire—perhaps an
afterimage. I hardly had time to notice them, however, since that was
when the Jaenshi all fell to their knees before us. All at once, sirs. And then
they pressed their heads against the ground, prostrating themselves. I
thought for a moment that they were trying to hail us as gods, because we
had shattered their god, and I tried to tell them that we wanted none of
their animal worship, and required only that they leave these lands at
once. But then I saw that I had misunderstood, because that was when the
other four clan members came forward from the trees atop the cliff, and
climbed down, and gave us the statue. Then the rest got up. The last I saw,
the entire clan was walking due east, away from Sword Valley and the
outlying hills. I took the statue and brought it back to the Proctor." She
fell silent but remained standing, waiting for questions.
  "I have the statuette here," Wyatt said. He reached down beside his
chair and set it on the table, then pulled off the white cloth covering he
had wrapped around it.
   The base was a triangle of rock-hard blackbark, and three long splinters
of bone rose from the corners to make a pyramid-frame. Within,
exquisitely carved in every detail from soft blue wood, Bakkalon the pale
child stood, holding a painted sword.
  "What does this mean?" Fieldbishop Lyon asked, obviously startled.
  "Sacrilege!" Fieldbishop Dhallis said.
  "Nothing so serious," said Gorman, Fieldbishop for Heavy Armor. "The
beasts are simply trying to ingratiate themselves, perhaps in the hope that
we will stay our swords."
  "None but the seed of Earth may bow to Bakkalon," Dhallis said. "It is
written in the Book! The pale child will not look with favor on the
soulless!"
   "Silence, my brothers-in-arms!" the Proctor said, and the long table
abruptly grew quiet again. Wyatt smiled a thin smile. "This is the first of
the miracles of which I spoke this winter in the chapel, the first of the
strange happenings that Bakkalon told to me. For truly he has walked this
world, our Corlos, so even the beasts of the fields know his likeness! Think
on it, my brothers. Think on this carving. Ask yourselves a few simple
questions. Have any of the Jaenshi animals ever been permitted to set foot
in this holy city?"
  "No, of course not." someone said.
   "Then clearly none of them have seen the holograph that stands above
our altar. Nor have I often walked among the beasts, as my duties keep me
here within the walls. So none could have seen the pale child's likeness on
the chain of office that I wear, for the few Jaenshi who have seen my
visage have not lived to speak of it—they were those I judged, who hung
upon our city walls. The animals do not speak the language of the
Earthseed, nor have any among us learned their simple beastly tongue.
Lastly, they have not read the Book. Remember all this, and wonder; how
did their carvers know what face and form to carve?"
  Quiet; the leaders of the children of Bakkalon looked back and forth
among themselves in wonderment.
   Wyatt quietly folded his hands. "A miracle. We shall have no more
trouble with the Jaenshi, for the pale child has come to them."
   To the Proctor's right, Fieldbishop Dhallis sat rigidly. "My Proctor, my
leader in faith," she said, with some difficulty, each word coming slowly,
"surely, surely, you do not mean to tell us that these, these animals—that
they can worship the pale child, that he accepts their worship!"
   Wyatt seemed calm, benevolent; he only smiled. "You need not trouble
your soul, Dhallis. You wonder whether I commit the First Fallacy,
remembering perhaps the Sacrilege of G'hra when a captive Hrangan
bowed to Bakkalon to save himself from an animal's death, and the False
Proctor Gibrone proclaimed that all who worship the pale child must have
souls." He shook his head. "You see, I read the Book. But no, Fieldbishop,
no sacrilege has transpired. Bakkalon has walked among the Jaenshi, but
surely has given them only truth. They have seen him in all his armed dark
glory, and heard him proclaim that they are animals, without souls, as
surely he would proclaim. Accordingly, they accept their place in the order
of the universe, and retire before us. They will never kill a man again.
Recall that they did not bow to the statue they carved, but rather gave the
statue to us, the seed of Earth, who alone can rightfully worship it. When
they did prostrate themselves, it was at our feet, as animals to men, and
that is as it should be. You see? They have been given truth."
 Dhallis was nodding. "Yes, my Proctor. I am enlightened. Forgive my
moment of weakness."
   But halfway down the table, C'ara DaHan leaned forward and knotted
his great knuckled hands, frowning all the while. "My Proctor," he said
heavily.
  "Weaponsmaster?" Wyatt returned. His face grew stern.
  "Like the Fieldbishop, my soul has flickered briefly with worry, and I too
would be enlightened, if I might?"
  Wyatt smiled. "Proceed," he said, in a voice without humor.
   "A miracle this thing may be indeed," DaHan said, "but first we must
question ourselves, to ascertain that it is not the trick of a soulless enemy.
I do not fathom their stratagem, or their reasons for acting as they have,
but I do know of one way that the Jaenshi might have learned the features
of our Bakkalon."
  "Oh?"
   "I speak of the Jamish trading base, and the red-haired trader Arik
neKrol. He is an Earthseed, an Emereli by his looks, and we have given
him the Book. But he remains without a burning love of Bakkalon, and
goes without arms like a godless man. Since our landing he has opposed
us, and he grew most hostile after the lesson we were forced to give the
Jaenshi. Perhaps he put the cliff clan up to it, told them to do the carving,
to some strange ends of his own. I believe that he did trade with them."
   "I believe you speak truth, Weaponsmaster. In the early months after
landing, I tried hard to convert neKrol. To no avail, but I did learn much
of the Jaenshi beasts and of the trading he did with them." The Proctor
still smiled. "He traded with one of the clans here in Sword Valley, with
the people of ring-of-stone, with the cliff clan and that of the far fruit
tangle, with the waterfall folk, and sundry clans further east."
  "Then it is his doing," DaHan said. "A trick!"
   All eyes moved to Wyatt. "I did not say that. NeKrol, whatever
intentions he might have, is but a single man. He did not trade with all the
Jaenshi, nor even know them all." The Proctor's smile grew briefly wider.
"Those of you who have seen the Emereli know him for a man of flab and
weakness; he could hardly walk as far as might be required, and he has
neither air-car nor power sled."
  "But he did have contact with the cliff clan," DaHan said. The
deep-graven lines on his bronze forehead were set stubbornly.
   "Yes, he did," Wyatt answered. "But Squadmother Jolip did not go forth
alone this morning. I also sent out Squadfather Walman and Squadfather
Allor, to cross the waters of the White Knife. The land there is dark and
fertile, better than that to the east. The cliff clan, who are southeast, were
between Sword Valley and the White Knife, so they had to go. But the
other pyramids we moved against belonged to far-river clans, more than
thirty kilometers south. They have never seen the trader Arik neKrol,
unless he has grown wings this winter."
  Then Wyatt bent again, and set two more statues on the table, and
pulled away their coverings. One was set on a base of slate, and the figure
was carved in a clumsy broad manner; the other was finely detailed
soaproot, even to the struts of the pyramid. But except for the materials
and the workmanship, the later statues were identical to the first.
  "Do you see a trick, Weaponsmaster?" Wyatt asked.
   DaHan looked, and said nothing, for Fieldbishop Lyon rose suddenly
and said, "I see a miracle," and others echoed him. After the hubbub had
finally quieted, the brawny Weaponsmaster lowered his head and said,
very softly, "My Proctor. Read wisdom to us."



  "The lasers, speaker, the lasers!" There was a tinge of hysterical
desperation in neKrol's tone. "Ryther is not back yet, and that is the very
point. We must wait."
   He stood outside the bubble of the trading base, bare-chested and
sweating in the hot morning sun, with the thick wind tugging at his
tangled hair. The clamor had pulled him from a troubled sleep. He had
stopped them just on the edge of the forest, and now the bitter speaker
had turned to face him, looking fierce and hard and most unJaenshi-like
with the laser slung across her shoulders, a bright blue glittersilk scarf
knotted around her neck, and fat glowstone rings on all eight of her
fingers. The other exiles, but for the two that were heavy with child, stood
around her. One of them held the other laser, the rest carried quivers and
powerbows. That had been the speaker's idea. Her newly-chosen mate was
down on one knee, panting; he had run all the way from the ring-of-stone.
  "No, Arik," the speaker said, eyes bronze-angry. "Your lasers are now a
month overdue, by your own count of time. Each day we wait, and the
Steel Angels smash more pyramids. Soon they may hang children again."
  "Very soon," neKrol said. "Very soon, if you attack them. Where is your
very hope of victory? Your watcher says they go with two squads and a
powerwagon—can you stop them with a pair of lasers and four
powerbows? Have you learned to think here, or not?"
  "Yes," the speaker said, but she bared her teeth at him as she said it.
"Yes, but that cannot matter. The clans do not resist, so we must."
  From one knee, her mate looked up at neKrol. "They . . . they march on
the waterfall," he said, still breathing heavily.
   "The waterfall!" the bitter speaker repeated. "Since the death of winter,
they have broken more than twenty pyramids, Arik, and their
powerwagons have crushed the forest and now a great dusty road scars
the soil from their valley to the riverlands. But they had hurt no Jaenshi
yet this season, they had let them go. And all those clans-without-a-god
have gone to the waterfall, until the home forest of the waterfall folk is
bare and eaten clean. Their talkers sit with the old talker and perhaps the
waterfall god takes them in, perhaps he is a very great god. I do not know
these things. But I do know that now the bald Angel has learned of the
twenty clans together, of a grouping of half-a-thousand Jaenshi adults,
and he leads a powerwagon against them. Will he let them go so easy this
time, happy with a carved statue? Will they go, Arik, will they give up a
second god as easily as a first?" The speaker blinked. "I fear they will resist
with their silly claws. I fear the bald Angel will hang them even if they do
not resist, because so many in union throws suspicion in him. I fear many
things and know little, but I know we must be there. You will not stop us,
Arik, and we cannot wait for your long-late lasers."
  And she turned to the others and said, "Come, we must run," and they
had faded into the forest before neKrol could even shout for them to stay.
Swearing, he turned back to the bubble.
   The two female exiles were leaving just as he entered. Both were close to
the end of their term, but they had powerbows in their hands. NeKrol
stopped short. "You too!" he said furiously, glaring at them. "Madness, it
is the very stuff of madness!" They only looked at him with silent golden
eyes, and moved past him toward the trees.
   Inside, he swiftly braided his long red hair so it would not catch on the
branches, slipped into a shirt, and darted toward the door. Then he
stopped. A weapon, he must have a weapon! He glanced around frantically
and ran heavily for his storeroom. The powerbows were all gone, he saw.
What then, what? He began to rummage, and finally settled for a duralloy
machete. It felt strange in his hand and he must have looked most
un-martial and ridiculous, but somehow he felt he must take something.
  Then he was off, toward the place of the waterfall folk.



   NeKrol was overweight and soft, hardly used to running, and the way
was nearly two kilometers through lush summer forest. He had to stop
three times to rest, and quiet the pains in his chest, and it seemed an
eternity before he arrived. But still he beat the Steel Angels; a powerwagon
is ponderous and slow, and the road from Sword Valley was longer and
more hilly.
   Jaenshi were everywhere. The glade was bare of grass and twice as large
as neKrol remembered it from his last trading trip, early that spring. Still
the Jaenshi filled all of it, sitting on the ground, staring at the pool and the
waterfall, all silent, packed together so there was scarcely room to walk
among them. More sat above, a dozen in every fruit tree, some of the
children even ascending to the higher limbs where the pseudomonks
usually ruled alone.
   On the rock at the center of the pool, with the waterfall behind them as
a backdrop, the talkers pressed around the pyramid of the waterfall folk.
They were closer together than even those in the grass, and each had his
palms flat against the sides. One, thin and frail, sat on the shoulders of
another so that he too might touch. NeKrol tried to count them and gave
up; the group was too dense, a blurred mass of gray-furred arms and
golden eyes, the pyramid at their center, dark and unmovable as ever.
  The bitter speaker stood in the pool, the waters ankle-deep around her.
She was facing the crowd and screeching at them, her voice strangely
unlike the usual Jaenshi purr; in her scarf and rings, she looked absurdly
out of place. As she talked, she waved the laser rifle she was holding in one
hand. Wildly, passionately, hysterically, she was telling the gathered
Jaenshi that the Steel Angels were coming, that they must leave at once,
that they should break up and go into the forest and regroup at the
trading base. Over and over again she said it.
  But the clans were stiff and silent. No one answered, no one listened, no
one heard. In full daylight, they were praying.
   NeKrol pushed his way through them, stepping on a hand here and a
foot there, hardly able to set down a boot without crunching Jaenshi flesh.
He was standing next to the bitter speaker, who still gestured wildly,
before her bronze eyes seemed to see him. Then she stopped. "Arik," she
said, "the Angels are coming, and they will not listen."
  "The others," he panted, still short on breath. "Where are they?"
  "The trees,” the bitter speaker replied, with a vague gesture. "I sent
them up in the trees. Snipers, Arik, such as we saw upon your wall."
   "Please," he said. "Come back with me. Leave them, leave them. You
told them. I told them. Whatever happens, it is their doing, it is the fault
of their fool religion."
   "I cannot leave," the bitter speaker said. She seemed confused, as so
often when neKrol had questioned her back at the base. "It seems I should,
but somehow I know I must stay here. And the others will never go, even if
I did. They feel it much more strongly. We must be here. To fight, to talk."
She blinked. "I do not know why, Arik, but we must."
   And before the trader could reply, the Steel Angels came out of the
forest.
   There were five of them at first, widely spaced; then shortly five more.
All afoot, in uniforms whose mottled dark greens blended with the leaves,
so that only the glitter of the mesh-steel belts and matching battle helmets
stood out. One of them, a gaunt pale woman, wore a high red collar; all of
them had hand-lasers drawn.
   "You!" the blond woman shouted, her eyes finding Arik at once, as he
stood with his braid flying in the wind and the machete dangling uselessly
in his hand. "Speak to these animals! Tell them they must leave! Tell them
that no Jaenshi gathering of this size is permitted east of the mountains,
by order of the Proctor Wyatt, and the pale child Bakkalon. Tell them!"
And then she saw the bitter speaker, and started. "And take the laser from
the hand of that animal before we burn both of you down!"
  Trembling, neKrol dropped the machete from limp fingers into the
water. "Speaker, drop the gun," he said in Jaenshi, "please. If you ever
hope to see the far stars. Let loose the laser, my friend, my child, this very
now. And I will take you when Ryther comes, with me to ai-Emerel and
further places." The trader's voice was full of fear; the Steel Angels held
their lasers steady, and not for a moment did he think the speaker would
obey him.
  But strangely, meekly, she threw the laser rifle into the pool. NeKrol
could not see to read her eyes.
   The Squadmother relaxed visibly. "Good." she said. "Now, talk to them
in their beastly talk, tell them to leave. If not, we shall crush them. A
powerwagon is on its way!" And now, over the roar and tumble of the
nearby waters, neKrol could hear it: a heavy crunching as it rolled over
trees, rending them into splinters beneath wide duramesh treads. Perhaps
they were using the blastcannon and the turret lasers to clear away
boulders and other obstacles.
   "We have told them," neKrol said desperately. "Many times we have told
them, but they do not hear!" He gestured all about him; the glade was still
hot and close with Jaenshi bodies and none among the clans had taken the
slightest notice of the Steel Angels or the confrontation. Behind him, the
clustered talkers still pressed small hands against their god.
   "Then we shall bare the sword of Bakkalon to them." the Squadmother
said, "and perhaps they will hear their own wailing!" She holstered her
laser and drew a screechgun, and neKrol, shuddering, knew her intent.
The screechers used concentrated high-intensity sound to break down cell
walls and liquefy flesh. Its effects were psychological as much as anything;
there was no more horrible death.
   But then a second squad of the Angels were among them, and there was
a creak of wood straining and snapping, and from behind a final grove of
fruit trees, dimly, neKrol could see the black flanks of the powerwagon, its
blastcannon seemingly trained right at him. Two of the newcomers wore
the scarlet collar—a red-faced youth with large ears who barked orders to
his squad, and a huge, muscular man with a bald head and lined bronze
skin. NeKrol recognized him: the Weaponsmaster C'ara DaHan. It was
DaHan who laid a heavy hand on the Squadmother's arm as she raised her
screechgun. "No," he said. "It is not the way."
  She holstered the weapon at once. "I hear and obey."
  DaHan looked at neKrol. "Trader," he boomed, "is this your doing?"
  "No," neKrol said.
  "They will not disperse," the Squadmother added.
   "It would take us a day and a night to screech them down," DaHan said,
his eyes sweeping over the glade and the trees, and following the rocky
twisted.path of the waterwall up to its summit. "There is an easier way.
Break the pyramid and they go at once." He stopped then, about to say
something else; his eyes were on the bitter speaker.
  "A Jaenshi in rings and cloth," he said. "They have woven nothing but
deathcloth up to now. This alarms me."
  "She is one of the people of the ring-of-stone," neKrol said quickly. "She
has lived with me."
   DaHan nodded. "I understand. You are truly a godless man, neKrol, to
consort so with soulless animals, to teach them to ape the ways of the seed
of Earth. But it does not matter." He raised his arm in signal; behind him,
among the trees, the blastcannon of the powerwagon moved slightly to the
right. "You and your pet should move at once." DaHan told neKrol. "When
I lower my arm, the Jaenshi god will burn and if you stand in the way, you
will never move again."
   "The talkers!" neKrol protested, "the blast will—" and he started to turn
to show them. But the talkers were crawling away from the pyramid, one
by one.
  Behind him, the Angels were muttering. "A miracle!" one said hoarsely.
"Our child! Our Lord!" cried another.
  NeKrol stood paralyzed. The pyramid on the rock was no longer a
reddish slab. Now it sparkled in the sunlight, a canopy of transparent
crystal. And below that canopy, perfect in every detail, the pale child
Bakkalon stood smiling, with his Demon-Reaver in his hand.
   The Jaenshi talkers were scrambling from it now, tripping in the water
in their haste to be away. NeKrol glimpsed the old talker, running faster
than any despite his age. Even he seemed not to understand. The bitter
speaker stood open-mouthed.
  The trader turned. Half of the Steel Angels were on their knees, the rest
had absent-mindedly lowered their arms and they froze in gaping wonder.
The Squadmother turned to DaHan. "It is a miracle," she said. "As Proctor
Wyatt has foreseen. The pale child walks upon this world."
   But the Weaponsmaster was unmoved. "The Proctor is not here and
this is no miracle," he said in a steely voice. "It is a trick of some enemy,
and I will not be tricked. We will burn the blasphemous thing from the soil
of Corlos." His arm flashed down.
  The Angels in the powerwagon must have been lax with awe; the
blastcannon did not fire. DaHan turned in irritation. "It is no miracle!" he
shouted. He began to raise his arm again.
  Next to neKrol, the bitter speaker suddenly cried out. He looked over
with alarm, and saw her eyes flash a brilliant yellow-gold. "The god!" she
muttered softly. "The light returns to me!"
  And the whine of powerbows sounded from the trees around them, and
two long bolts shuddered almost simultaneously in the broad back of C'ara
DaHan. The force of the shots drove the Weaponsmaster to his knees,
smashed him against the ground.
   "RUN!" neKrol screamed, and he shoved the bitter speaker with all his
strength, and she stumbled and looked back at him briefly, her eyes dark
bronze again and flickering with fear. Then, swiftly, she was running, her
scarf aflutter behind her as she dodged toward the nearest green.
   "Kill her!" the Squadmother shouted. "Kill them all!" And her words
woke Jaenshi and Steel Angels both; the children of Bakkalon lifted their
lasers against the suddenly-surging crowd, and the slaughter began.
NeKrol knelt and scrabbled on the moss-slick rocks until he had the laser
rifle in his hands, then brought it to his shoulder and commenced to fire.
Light stabbed out in angry bursts; once, twice, a third time. He held the
trigger down and the bursts became a beam, and he sheared through the
waist of a silver-helmeted Angel before the fire flared in his stomach and
he fell heavily into the pool.
  For a long time he saw nothing; there was only pain and noise, the
water gently slapping against his face, the sounds of high-pitched Jaenshi
screaming, running all around him. Twice he heard the roar and crackle of
the blastcannon, and more than twice he was stepped on. It all seemed
unimportant. He struggled to keep his head on the rocks, half out of the
water, but even that seemed none too vital after a while. The only thing
that counted was the burning in his gut.
   Then, somehow, the pain went away, and there was a lot of smoke and
horrible smells but not so much noise, and neKrol lay quietly and listened
to the voices.
  "The pyramid, Squadmother?" someone asked.
  "It is a miracle," a woman's voice replied. "Look, Bakkalon stands there
yet. And see how he smiles! We have done right here today!"
  "What should we do with it?"
 "Lift it aboard the powerwagon. We shall bring it back to Proctor
Wyatt."
  Soon after the voices went away, and neKrol heard only the sound of the
water, rushing down endlessly, falling and tumbling. It was a very restful
sound. He decided he would sleep.



  The crewman shoved the crowbar down between the slats and lifted.
The thin wood hardly protested at all before it gave. "More statues,
Jannis," he reported, after reaching inside the crate and tugging loose
some of the packing material.
  "Worthless." Ryther said, with a brief sigh. She stood in the broken
ruins of neKrol's trading base. The Angels had ransacked it. searching for
armed Jaenshi, and debris lay everywhere. But they had not touched the
crates.
   The crewman took his crowbar and moved on to the next stack of
crated artifacts. Ryther looked wistfully at the three Jaenshi who clustered
around her, wishing they could communicate a little better. One of them,
a sleek female who wore a trailing scarf and a lot of jewelry and seemed
always to be leaning on a powerbow, knew a smattering of Terran. but
hardly enough. She picked up things quickly, but so far the only thing of
substance she had said was, "Jamson' World. Arik take us. Angels kill."
That she had repeated endlessly until Ryther had finally made her
understand that, yes, they would take them. The other two Jaenshi, the
pregnant female and the male with the laser, never seemed to talk at all.
   "Statues again." the crewman said, having pulled a crate from atop the
stack in the ruptured storeroom and pried it open.
  Ryther shrugged; the crewman moved on. She turned her back on him
and wandered slowly outside, to the edge of the spacefield where the
Lights of Jolostar rested, its open ports bright with yellow light in the
gathering gloom of dusk. The Jaenshi followed her, as they had followed
her since she arrived; afraid, no doubt, that she would go away and leave
them if they took their great bronze eyes off her for an instant.
  "Statues," Ryther muttered, half to herself and half to the Jaenshi. She
shook her head. "Why did he do it?" she asked them, knowing they could
not understand. "A trader of his experience? You could tell me, maybe, if
you knew what I was saying. Instead of concentrating on deathcloths and
such, on real Jaenshi art, why did Arik train you people to carve alien
versions of human gods? He should have known no dealer would accept
such obvious frauds. Alien art is alien." She sighed. "My fault, I suppose.
We should have opened the crates." She laughed.
  The bitter speaker stared at her. "Arik deathcloth. Gave."
   Ryther nodded, abstractly. She had it now, hanging just above her
bunk; a strange small thing, woven partly from Jaenshi fur and mostly
from long silken strands of flame red hair. On it, gray against the red, was
a crude but recognizable caricature of Arik neKrol. She had wondered at
that, too. The tribute of a widow? A child? Or just a friend? What had
happened to Arik during the year the Lights had been away? If only she
had been back on time, then . . . but she'd lost three months on Jamison's
World, checking dealer after dealer in an effort to unload the worthless
statuettes. It had been middle autumn before the Lights of Jolostar
returned to Corlos, to find neKrol's base in ruins, the Angels already
gathering in their harvests.
  And the Angels—when she'd gone to them, offering the hold of
unwanted lasers, offering to trade, the sight on those blood-red city walls
had sickened even her. She had thought she'd gone prepared, but the
obscenity she encountered was beyond any preparation. A squad of Steel
Angels found her. vomiting, beyond the tall rusty gates, and had escorted
her inside, before the Proctor.
   Wyatt was twice as skeletal as she remembered him. He had been
standing outdoors, near the foot of a huge platform-altar that had been
erected in the middle of the city. A startlingly lifelike statue of Bakkalon,
encased in a glass pyramid and set atop a high redstone plinth, threw a
long shadow over the wooden altar. Beneath it, the squads of Angels were
piling the newly-harvested neograss and wheat and the frozen carcasses of
bushogs.
   "We do not need your trade," the Proctor told her. "The World of Corlos
is many-times-blessed, my child, and Bakkalon lives among us now. He
has worked vast miracles, and shall work more. Our faith is in Him."
Wyatt gestured toward the altar with a thin hand. "See? In tribute we
burn our winter stores, for the pale child has promised that this year
winter will not come. And He has taught us to cull ourselves in peace as
once we were culled in war, so the seed of Earth grows ever stronger. It is a
time of great new revelation!" His eyes had burned as he spoke to her; eyes
darting and fanatic, vast and dark, yet strangely flecked with gold.
   As quickly as she could, Ryther had left the City of the Steel Angels,
trying hard not to look back at the walls. But when she had climbed the
hills, back toward the trading base, she had come to the ring-of-stone, to
the broken pyramid where Arik had taken her. Then Ryther found that she
could not resist, and powerless she had turned for a final glance out over
Sword Valley. The sight had stayed with her.
   Outside the walls the Angel children hung, a row of small
white-smocked bodies still and motionless at the end of long ropes. They
had gone peacefully, all of them, but death is seldom peaceful; the older
ones, at least, died quickly, necks broken with a sudden snap. But the
small pale infants had the nooses round their waists, and it had seemed
clear to Ryther that most of them had simply hung there till they starved.
  As she stood, remembering, the crewman came from inside neKrol's
broken bubble. "Nothing," he reported. "All statues."
  Ryther nodded.
  "Go?" the bitter speaker said. "Jamson' World?"
   "Yes," she replied, her eyes staring past the waiting Lights of Jolostar,
out toward the black primal forest. The Heart of Bakkalon was sunk
forever. In a thousand thousand woods and a single city, the clans had
begun to pray.