From howell_g@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz Sat Jun 10 19:40:38 PDT 1995 Article: 32108 of alt.fan.furry Xref: netcom.com alt.fan.furry:32108 Path: netcom.com!csus.edu!news.ucdavis.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!news-e1a.megaweb.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!uunet!comp.vuw.ac.nz!newshost.wcc.govt.nz!usenet From: howell_g@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz Newsgroups: alt.fan.furry Subject: story:Human Memoirs part 6 Date: Sat, 10 Jun 95 22:46:45 +1200 Organization: Wellington City Council Lines: 1589 Message-ID: <3rbt7e$1oj@golem.wcc.govt.nz> NNTP-Posting-Host: ix.wcc.govt.nz The Human Memoirs Part 2 Section B A light but steady snow was drifting down outside, covering Mainport and the Citadel in a chill white blanket. Inside the keep, for the past week or so, it had not seemed any warmer than the air outside. I had taken to wearing my cloak inside and was not pleased when Tahr assured me that it would be getting colder. We walked down a passage, our breath visible in the chill air as we talked. Central heating was something this place could really use. Tahr was trying to describe the layout of the Keep and not having a great deal of success. It seemed like the place had been designed by a hundred different architects, all of them having something different in mind and quite possibly more than a few not knowing what they were doing at all. A lot of the place was actually built into the hill itself, like they took a granite crag and chipped away at it to turn the whole thing into the citadel. Actually, that wasn't too far from the truth; and if you think that would've taken a while, you'd be right. I myself couldn't quite grasp how old the place was. Now Tahr was taking me to a section where some of the original construction remained. It was a place I'd been through before, but now she took me down a side corridor. "Look." "At what?" "The carvings. Take a good look." I did. There was something funny about the Sathe in them. . . Goddamn! "They've got tails!" Well, stubby, short ones, but they were unmistakably tails. There were other differences as well. The posture, the shape of the head, there were probably more, but the granite was too worn to tell. "You see now?" she spread her hands. "This was an early part of the Citadel, walled up and only recently uncovered. We do not really know exactly how old it is." "But. . . but how can the. . . " I was so flustered I found myself speaking in English. I tried again. "But this is CARVED into the wall! Sathe must have had tails. . . a. . . avery long time ago. Uh-uh. No way. I do not believe the Citadel is that old." She hissed in exasperation, then caught my arm. "Come on." I followed her through the dim corridors deeper in to the Citadel. Deeper than I had ever been before. Tracks had been worn in solid stone by the passage of millions of pairs of feet. The walls were covered with script, some looking fresh, others just faint impressions in the rock. The rooms were smaller and not as well constructed as the ones in the outer areas of the Citadel, more primitive. We emerged from a doorway into a cloister surrounding a huge open field: the very core of the Citadel. The snow had formed a hard crust over the grass that lay underneath. As we walked across it, we left two different sorts of tracks: my bootprints, and Tahr's strange four-toed prints. The snow drifted down, losing the Citadel walls on the far side of the circle in swirling whiteness. At first the objects in the centre of the circle were similarly masked, slowly becoming clearer as we approached. I felt my jaw begin to sag. A circle of huge stones stood out in the middle of the white carpet, snow-iced granite slabs about fifteen feet tall and six thick standing on end and joined together, edge to edge, at the very core of the Citadel. Time had worn down edges, leaving the stones ragged, uneven. It would have been like Stonehenge or one of those places, but for the stones being joined together, making a nearly solid ring, or perhaps a wall. With snow, the silence, there was an air of dreamlike silence - timelessness - about the place. Tahr touched my hand, beckoning me to follow. Through a gap between the monoliths: a gate. Inside, snow was backed around the inside of the wall, hiding a rampart. There were lumps in the snow: squares and rectangles. Ancient stubs of walls buried, the remains of buildings. A small village, houses gathered around a central gathering place. I followed Tahr to the centre of the circle. She brushed snow from a buried stone and sat down, flakes settling on her fur. She wore no cloak yet seemed unaffected by the still, cold air. No sound made it through the curtain of snow, and I stood there in the silence, turning around on the spot, my cloak wrapped around me against the cold. The stones were huge, ghostly shapes in the whiteness. It was a cold, timeless place. A circle of memories and ghosts, none of them human. "What is this place?" I finally whispered. "This is the Circle," she replied quietly. "This is the heart of the Citadel, of Mainport, of the Eastern realm." I cleared the rock beside her. Lichen grew there, hidden under the snow. Beneath that there were indentations in the rock that at one time may have been carvings. I sat, turning to watch her. She continued. "No one knows just how long ago it was. . . certainly it was before any records were kept, before written language even, when Sathe still had tails. The stones you see here are old, but not as old as the Clan ground we stand on. We were born here, birthed from the womb of time, here we grew and learned. From the forgetfulness of the past to today. Sathe pass, but the land endures. "Across the Realms, in ages past, Sathe came together to grow. Where they succeeded there are the ancient Clan grounds. Where they failed: nothing but dust and a few fallen stones." She waved her arm in a gesture encompassing what lay beyond the white wall surrounding us. "As you can see, the eastern Realm succeeded. We have kept building the Citadel, our heritage, each Born Ruler adding to it so their descendants will always know their Clan was standing over the Realm. It has pushed the town out as the walls moved outwards. Only recently have we started building new settlements." "How recent is 'recently'?" I asked. "About three or four hundred years ago." Tahr replied. I looked around at the time worn rocks. "Sometimes we find caves," she continued in quiet tones, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "Sometimes tools, sometimes skeletons of. . . we think Sathe, but they have no hands. "Now do you believe?" I nodded slowly. "I do not have much choice. You can be very convincing." She hissed and swatted me on the arm. "Hang on. . . If you have been building this place for those thousands of years, then why are there not enough Sathe to fill all those empty rooms in the citadel?" She looked away from, then back at me as though trying to make a decision about something. "Many families have left for the frontier towns. There are not nearly as many Sathe in Mainport as there were fifty years ago. I am starting to get cold, so you must be frozen. . . yes, you are shivering. I think we should go back now." It was true I was starting to shiver, but for some reason I her story about families emigrating grated. Why would whole families up and move out? I was sure that there weren't television adds and glossy sales brochures advertising a life of easy riches in the small towns. This is not the kind of culture where people just move on a whim: where they live is all they know. Adventure is a risk. She had something she didn't want to tell me. Well, that was her perogative, I wouldn't push her. . . but I was curious as hell. Behind us, the stone circle disappeared in the drifting snow. Back in my room, I banked up the fire until I had a roaring blaze going. Then I pulled the drapes on the evening snowscape outside, stripped, wrapped myself up in a sheet and flopped down before the warm hearth. Standing around in the snow had gotten me soaked. The cloak was not - of course - water resistant, and the melting snow had seeped right through the fabric. I huddled in front of the fire and prayed that the stuffy feeling in my sinuses wasn't another cold coming on. I could foresee that they would be a irritation all too common here. ****** I could pay my way in this world I discovered. I didn't have any particular skill, but a little knowledge can go a long way:far better than American Express. Accepted in more places as well. Those long months ago Tahr had tolerated me because I seemed to be an intelligent animal of some kind - a novelty. As time passed she realised there was more to me than met the eye, had come to understand what I could mean for her people. She had so nearly betrayed the Eastern Realm to protect not only me, but the learning I carried. Now her gambling could bear some fruit. Textiles, both linen and llama-wool based cloth, were a major trade item in the Sathe culture, especially in the Eastern Realm where the climate was ideal for cotton plants. Collected by hand, the wool would be laboriously cleaned then wound by hand onto spindles: a slow, tedious process that produced yarn with patches that were sometimes too thin, sometimes to coarse. It was only a matter of a week to build spinning wheels and improve on the looms. With these the weavers and draperers could not only greatly increase their productivity, the yarn and cloth would be of a much higher quality and able to fetch a higher price from the merchants of other Realms. The success of those projects boosted my confidence and the faith of the Sathe. I asked for - and received - some tools to help me: A draughting board, T- squares, quills and ink, a plentiful supply of paper. Some of the stuff like protractors and compasses I had to design from scratch and I worried about how inaccurate they were. It's a paradox:how did you build precision machinery without precise measuring equipment? and how do you make precise measuring equipment without precision machinery? I had trouble with that one when I had to come up with a solution to the problem of putting a regular thread on a lathe to be used for making the threads on screws, bolts, drill-bits, etc. The answer I came up with had to do with heavy weights turning a mechanism that etched a spiral line up a rotating steel rod. . . But I'm getting ahead of myself again. There are any number of inventions that can claim to have had a significant effect on my own history: the wheel, gunpowder, the aircraft, television, the microchip - to name a few. And they all did. They weren't quite what I was after. A couple the Sathe were already familiar with, others were impossible with the materials I had to work with, or I didn't want them. Aircraft: now I thought about balloons for a while, but decided there was something that was perhaps not as impressive, but was simpler, safer, and could have just as much of an impact in the long run. . Invented in my world by Johann Gutenburg, the letterpress printing press made mass communication possible, suddenly presenting a way to print thousands of pamphlets, documents, or books in a fraction of the time it took scribes to write it out by hand. It meant that classical works and teachings - previously only available to the clergy or wealthy - could become available to the man on the street. It took longer than the spinning wheel, but eventually I had a working printing press based on one of those old mimeograph machines. It was bulky, and the letterheads gave me a headache. I started with a batch made from copper, but they were not an outstanding success: ink just doesn't adhere well to copper and the metal fluctuates too severely under temperature changes. Another batch made from a softer, coarser tin-lead-antimony mixture finally worked. Some of the other things I came up with were even simpler, but they had their place. My hair had grown ridiculously long over the past weeks, and I was not entertained by the idea of hacking it off with a knife: it gives a lousy cut and hurts into the bargain. I had taken to wearing it tied back with a headband, but now I was starting to look like a damn hippy. Well, necessity IS the mother of invention. I did a trade with one of the blacksmiths in the Keep's smithy: I gave him several tips on producing higher-grade steel and sword blades and in return he helped me make a pair of scissors out of a couple of daggers. He profited all the way in that one, being so impressed by the simplicity of the idea that I had no doubts he would probably start to sell a few on the side. There was no way that I could cut my hair myself, even if I did have a good mirror, which I didn't. Sathe don't cut their fur - they shed. So where the hell am I going to find a barber? Tahr was astonished when I knocked on her door and told her what I needed. "You would like me to WHAT?!" I repeated myself: "I need some help cutting my hair, if you could." She stared at me as though I was crazy. "But why would you want to cut it?" I sighed. "My hair does not stop growing while it is short, like your fur. It grows. It becomes uncomfortable." I untied the headband to demonstrate. "Ah. . . I see what you mean," she said, obviously amused, then gave an overly-dramatic sigh. "I, the Shirai, grooming animals. . . " "Well, if you don't want to, I could always go down to the stables and ask a groom. . . " I gave her an expectant look. "Oh, very well," she hissed. "I will cut your fur." I bowed deeply. "Thank you, High One. I will be forever in your. . . " "Ah, stop the noise," she playfully cuffed me over the ears, grinning. "Now, sit down. How do you use these things?" She worked slowly and carefully at first, then picked up speed, using her claws to rake the hair into position, then trimming it with rapid snips of the scissors. I watched red clumps falling onto my lap. "Do all h'mans have to do this?" Tahr asked. "Most of them," I said. "There are humans who specialize in. . . ah. . . cutting hair. That is their job." She came around front and looked at my face to see if I was joking. "You are serious. They actually make money just shaving each other?" "Someone has to do it." She snorted. "I have said it before and I will say it again: your world sounds strange." "Yours is rather weird," I retorted, then yelped as she yanked out a few strands of hair with one pull. "Oh, I am so sorry," she said smugly. "Sure you are." She didn't answer, but I could imagine her smirking to herself as she returned to the business of cropping back my hair. There was quite a pile of copper coloured hair in a ring around the chair when she finished. I checked the result in a small mirror she had. Interesting style. It resembled a Sathe mane: shorter on top, longer at the back and sides. "Hey, not bad. . . " "And not good?" she grinned. "No, it is good." Well, it was. . . different. "Have you done this before?" "Well," she looked coy. "I have groomed llamas before; there is not a great deal of difference." "Thanks a lot." While I cleared up the strands of hair lying around, Tahr was examining the scissors. "Can these cut other things?" she asked. "What?" I looked up from my work with the small brush. "Oh, yes. They can cut parchment, cloth. . . better ones can cut metal." She picked up a sheaf of parchment lying on her desk. The scissors cut through the yellowish material cleanly and easily. "What other devices are you dreaming up?" she asked. "Well, I left your scholars in the library drooling over a device that can print a document over and over, as many times as is necessary. Humans call it a printing press. There are hundreds of other things that I should be able to think of." I dropped the hair into the fire, where it sputtered and curled before being consumed by the flames. The chimney was drawing well and the smoke was quickly sucked out of the room. "Since I groomed your fur, there is something you can do for me," Tahr smiled. With some trepidation: "What?" "That thing you did to my back the other night. Could you show me how?" "Um. . . fair enough." Despite the chill in her bedroom she stripped off and sprawled on the bed while I settled beside her. She sighed and rumbled softly while I showed her how to rub and pinch flesh between the fingers, how to read the muscles. I'm not even sure she was listening, just lying there, half- dozing while I worked. Her fur was so different from human skin: coarse, dark on the outside, softer, lighter in near her skin. I couldn't use oil, but the fur helped some. Her rump wriggled as I ran my fingers down the side of her spine. "I must try this on a Sathe male," she murmured after a while, "It will drive him crazy." I didn't say anything. "What about you, K'hy?" she suddenly rolled over and arched her back, her fur-tufted crotch thrusting up. "This would not do anything for you, would it?" I yanked my hands back like she'd turned red hot, unable to tell if she was joking or not. "Umm. . . Look, Tahr, we have been through this before. You are. . . beautiful, but I just cannot. . . " I trailed off. "You did not seem to find it so difficult back in the cave," she retorted. "I KNOW you enjoyed it as much as I. . . By my Ancestors, why are you not more like us in the mind?" she lounged back and tapped her temple with a claw. I was flustered, embarrassed, and a bit angry. "You want me to act like a Sathe? Before the unsuspecting Tahr could move, I grabbed her and pinned her arms to the bed. She just stared back at me in surprise. "Is that what you want me to do?" I demanded. "To take you like Tarsha did?" Her eyes sudden turned big and black and I realized what I had just said. "Oh God! Tahr, I am. . . I am sorry." I rolled and lay beside her on the bed, covering my face with my arm. "That was. . . I did not mean it like that." She didn't say anything, but I felt her hand on my chest, her other one drawing my arm away from my face. "K'hy, your eyes are watering." She reached out and caught a tear on a clawtip as it meandered down my cheek. "Aw, shit ," I muttered and wiped my sleeve across my face. "You do want to join, do you not?" she smiled at me: that lackadaisical drooping of her ears. With one hand she toyed with a strand of my hair. Her other hand. . . "I. . . Tahr, but. . . Jesus! " I was out of the bed, backing away from her. "Tahr, don't. . . " I stumbled out the door, my head swimming in confusion. She was sitting there staring at me as I fled back to my quarters. How could she be so. . . so blase about it? She's alien, that's how! My desk was covered in paper; plans and sketches and ideas. I stood and stared gloomily at them for a while, then one sweep of my arm sent them fluttering to the floor. The inkwell made a satisfying crash as the heavy glass shattered and the contents stained the floorboards. " WHY ME?!" I screamed it at the top of my voice. Of course there was no reply. Mainport shone in the moonlight, the light being reflected from the snow that softened the contours of the landscape. Five floors below me, the snow-covered courtyard surrounding the Keep was almost glowing: black shadows and silver-blue snow dotted with the tracks of the Sathe who had crossed it in the day. A few were still moving around, dark shadows on the pale backdrop. Five floors down. . . would it be quick? God! What was I thinking?! I shook my head and slowly made my way to bed, tugging off my boots and bouncing them off the walls. The bed was cold and empty. I huddled there, knowing it always would be. ****** Tahr on the wagon fending off shadowy assailants. On both side her comrades and friends were dying on steel blades. The water flowed red, a solid red. The whole river ran blood. She turned to me, eyes wide with fear, pleading. Blood; her's and her companions' made her fur soggy. She held out a hand. I slow motion I saw the crossbow bolt hit her in the chest, sinking in. Her head flew back, mouth open in a red tinted scream, before she crumpled out of sight. . . The M-16 in my hands vanished as I moved forward, toward the figure lying in the mud amidst the corpses. I nudged it over with a boot. Tahr lay with her ribs laid open, spilling her lifeblood into the earth. Her eyes flickered open, her mouth working in agony and we were on a gravel beach, her blood streaming over the stones to a red sea. "K'hy? Help me. . . " "Tahr. . . No! Oh, God,no!" I turned away. Turned away and started off down a road that stretched over the horizon. "K'hy. . . " "No!" I was walking back down the road. Behind me a dark shape sprawled in the mud, joining the earth and stones in unmovingness. Death isn't a state of mind - it's a condition. . . "TAHR!. . . no" Tahr stood before me in the water, wet fur clinging to her curves, a playful grin on her face. I continued, walked past her. Tahr sprawled out on her cloak near my feet in that relaxed attitude that only cats can adopt, her fur blending in well with the golden grasses. "Dreams can say a lot about one. What are your dreams, K'hy?" I left her again. She crouched on the soft sand in a cave, the light of a dying fire flickering across her tan fur. She was naked. Glowing eyes watched me, then she stabbed a sword into the sand between us. "You can't even accept what you want. Hah! Find yourself, K'hy." I turned my back and walked on. "Tahr! No. . . Wait!" The whole scene grew smaller, dwindling in the distance behind me. There were flames, heat. Through the roiling inferno I could see a figure writhing: dying. Sometimes human, sometimes not. Then there was a flare of whiteness and everything faded. . . Like a film looping. Back at the ford, I saw her die again. "TAHR!" There was a lurch like falling and I woke up grabbing at sheets, my heart hammering. The darkness of my room surrounded my like a comforting blanket. My own were in disarray, half on the bed, half on the floor. The whole bed was drenched and chill with sweat. For a long time I lay there, watching moonlight waxing and waning across the far wall, listening to my heartbeat settling down. The floorboards were rough and cold under my feet when I swung out of bed, crossing the pool of blue light from the window to the water jug by the door. I took a long drink straight out of the pitcher, then dashed a handful across my face and leaned against the chill stones of the wall, clenching and unclenching my white-knuckled hands, shivering. What was that old poem I'd learned way back? There'd been an old drifter who'd stopped by for lodgings with his ragged hat and scarf, everything he owned in a beat-up pack. He'd been a history professor or some such once and was an encyclopedia of personal observations of the world. There was something he'd told me, original or from some old sonnet, I never knew: Here we all are, by day; by night we're hurled By dreams, each one, into sev'ral worlds I was living a dream. When was dawn due? I sighed down at the jug in my hands. I wanted to wake up. "K'hy?" I whirled, banged my shin against the chest. There was the shadowy man/ not man shape of a Sathe standing just inside the door: "It is me." Tahr. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, looking away from her. "The guards summoned me. You were crying out. They were not sure what to do." She paused, then asked, "The dreams again?" "No. . . not those," I ran my hand through my hair, surprised at the trembling. "Different," I said. "It is nothing." Her shadow moved: "You were screaming. Nothing?" "Tahr. . . please." She came closer. "You are shaking all over. Get back to bed, you will freeze!" It was then I realized that I was still naked, and so was she, but she grasped my arm firmly and with and almost clinical detachment led me back to the bed where I collapsed on the fine cotton sheets. She drew the heavy fur covers up over me then perched herself on the edge of the bed and studied my face for a while before speaking. "Not the same?" she asked with wrinkles marching up her muzzle. "Worse?" I closed my aching eyes and swallowed. "Different." "Ah." There was an awkward hesitation, a tension, then she shifted. "You will be all right?" she asked. I nodded and she patted my shoulder then stood to leave. "Tahr." The name caught in my throat. She stopped and turned, eyes flashing with a titanium shimmer. I held my hand out to her: "Please, I need a friend tonight." She stared at my hand, then took it. I pulled her and she fell on me and pinned my arms to the bed: gently, hissing soft laughter. ****** Something was tickling my nose. I pulled my head away from Tahr's furry side; snorted. She didn't stir. I reached over to touch her, gently, then lay back and idly ran my fingers through the soft fur on her mane, thinking. Last night had been. . . good. Bewilderingly strange, but good. I was coming to realise just how much this strange woman meant to me. There'd been none of the fumbling from the first time, more laughing and teasing, biting and careless claws, and this morning there was none of that guilt that had plagued me last time; instead I had a craving for a cigarette. Outside it was snowing again; fat flakes adhering to the fogged windowpanes like intricate lacework, the clouds looking like lumps of lead against a steel grey background. The air in the room was chill but the bed was as warm as blood. Tahr stirred against me, rolling over and nestling up against me, still curled up in a small ball. I ran a finger up the top of her broad nose, tracing out the light stripes that pushed over her forehead. She was warm and soft, so was the bed. I dozed for a while. I opened my eyes when I felt her stir and shift as if to get up. Tahr blinked down at me. "Oh, I thought you were asleep." "No." I stretched out and rubbed my eyes then put my arms behind my head and blinked sleepily, "Not really." She placed splayed fingers on my chest and leaned over to stare down into my face. "Feeling better now?" she asked. "Much," I smiled back. "Huh, I too," she grinned at me. "You know some interesting tricks. Last night, it was fun." "That is the idea." She shook her head in slow imitation of me. "Fun? So often they climb on and pump away until THEY are satisfied. I have never had a male work to please ME before. I have never been able to look down on the male before, I have never been able to set my own pace. Different. Fun." "Gee," I scratched my head. "I have been called many things by women, but not usually 'fun'." Tahr laughed and raked claws lightly down my ribs, then squirmed so she was lying on top of me like a warm, heavy rug. I could feel her breathing, her heartbeat. "You are so strange, my strange one," she murmured, stroking my face. "In your body and your mind and your moods. Your moods, perhaps they are the strangest thing about you. You turn me down so vehemently, then you join with me with such intensity. . . Why did you change your mind?" I casually laid my arms around her. Her fur was strange against my naked skin, the tough guard hairs and the softer down-like insulating layers beneath. Warm. Erotic in a way. "I do not really know," I half-lied. And Tahr watched me with an amused expression. "Huh," she breathed gently. "That nightmare must have been a bad one." Lying there with her pinning me I couldn't turn away to avoid her eyes. Instead I stared up past her at the ceiling, the wood and the rafters. "Just say it made me realise what you mean to me. I needed a friend; you were there." "Just a friend?" she dipped her head and rasped a tongue like wet sandpaper around my nipple, nipping with sharp teeth. I yelped. "Alright! More than just a friend!" "Hmmm," she purred. "You vicious female." I stroked the fur along her spine, lightly tracing the ridges of vertebrae. She gave a stuttering hiss. Ticklish? "Vicious?" she grinned, carnivore teeth near my face. "Reminds me. You are still interested in using a sword?" "I. . . Yes." "This afternoon," she said, "I want to do some sparring. I need the practice. You may want to come along to watch. See how it is done." "Sure, friend." She laughed down at me and licked my neck and chin. "Do you feel in the mood again? A? Good! This time I am on top!" It was in the early afternoon, after a remarkably stimulating morning, that I followed Tahr to the exercise hall. The hall was in the innermost ring of the citadel, the ring just before the central keep. To get to it we had to cross the central courtyard, ankle deep in drifts, the falling snow cutting visibility way down. The ice on the cobbles made footing treacherous. . . well, treacherous for me anyway; Tahr's claws stopped her feet from going where she didn't want them to. At least my boots kept the cold out. Even the thick pads on Tahr's feet wouldn't be enough to keep out the biting chill; she must have been rather uncomfortable by the time we got across. In the shelter of a doorway I batted snow off my cloak while Tahr did the same with her fur. "Jesus. Are winters here usually like this?" She looked up at the leaden skies. "Not usually. It is rather mild for this time of year." I followed her up the narrow circular staircase. Sathe coming down stepped aside as we made our way up. "Mild?!. . . It must be twenty below out there!" "Twenty below what?" "Forget it." Mild! God, we never had it this bad back home, not even during New York winters. At the top of the stairs a cold stone hallway was flanked by rooms filled with racks and displays of battered armour and weapons. Sathe in the corridor bore arms and armour of various types. I could feel their eyes on my back as we passed. Tahr ignored them. The size and temperature of the room at the end of the hall took my breath away. Like the Citadel, it was built on a grand scale. Rectangular in shape, it must have been about the size of a large cathedral, a football field. High around the rim - just below the heavy wooden ceiling - narrow windows let in scattered beams of light. It was rather dim for me, but the Sathe there seemed to be having no trouble. It was also cold, with my breath frosting in the chill air. Sathe were everywhere: drilling, standing around watching others fighting. The room was echoing to the clashing of metal as soldiers sparred. Others were using wooden swords, much like the ones used in Kendo. Circular mats of woven straw covered the floor and on these hand to hand combat was underway. Unlike human gyms, there was no smell of stale sweat in the air. "I have to get some equipment," Tahr told me. "You can look around for a while. Just watch at first, see if you learn anything." "Go ahead," I said to her retreating back. I wandered around, staying near the wall out of the way of the trainers and trainees. There was a large noisy crowd standing around watching something that I couldn't quite see. Anyway, curiosity got the better of me. The sathe in the back of the crowd didn't notice me when I came up behind them; they were so absorbed in trying to watch what was going on in front of them. I was able to see over their heads without to much trouble. A Sathe soldier was warily circling one of the biggest Sathe I have ever seen. He came very close to matching my five- foot eleven, maybe a couple of inches shorter. His build matched his height; muscles along his arms and across his chest rippled under the dark-cream fur. Their breath was fast, hanging in glittering clouds in the cold air as they circled each other. Fur was standing on end and their ears were flattened back. Each of them had their hands and feet wrapped in strips of cloth, preventing them from using their claws The crowd was obviously divided: Some were supporting the rather worried looking soldier, and the rest the giant. The two circled each other on the straw mats. . . well, the soldier was doing all the circling; the giant just stood there grinning at his opponent. This continued for about a half a minute before the soldier made his move. He darted in and swung a punch at the giant's head. The giant hardly seemed to move, he swayed back just far enough to avoid the blow and swung his own hand in a blow that sent his opponent staggering back. The blows had seemed more like slaps: arms swinging wide before striking. I wondered at this before I realised that a Sathe couldn't punch! Think about it. A Sathe has claws in the ends of his fingers, as well as the tendons for retracting and extending them. If a Sathe made a fist and punched something, he would be crushing the tendons and muscles around those claws between the claw and the bones in his hand. Despite the padding, there would be serious chance of the claw punching through the palm of the hand itself. Kind of like clenching your fist with overgrown nails then punching something. When not fighting in earnest, Sathe usually slapped their opponents. It may not sound like a very dangerous way to fight - pretty pathetic in fact - but I know from experience that a good hit could still rattle your brains; and if the claws were drawn, it could easily be lethal. The soldier had gathered his wits about him again and was once again trying to commit grievous bodily damage to his opponent. "Hah! come on, little one. You are having some trouble?" the giant goaded. The crowed cheered and jeered him on. The soldier mustered his courage and moved in again. The giant blocked his blow and the returning one sent him spinning to the mat where he stayed for the count. The crowd burst into excited chatter. Cash changed hands amidst cries of triumph and curses of disappointment. "Anyone else feel like trying their luck?" the giant grinned. I wondered if some idiot was going to volunteer. "Huh, Thraest!" called some smartass in the crowd, "Why don't you try THAT one?" I felt eyes start to turn in my direction and others took up the cry. Uh-uh, I began to back away but the crowd closed in behind me and a corridor opened up, clearing the way between the overgrown rug and myself. Thraest swaggered across to me, weighing me up with his eyes all the way. He stopped and deliberately grinned again. I tell you, a Sathe who can actually look you straight in the eyes and give you a smile like he'd like to have you for dinner don't inspire confidence. "Can you understand me?" he asked. "Yes," I nodded cautiously. There was a slight murmuring around us but he did not seem very perturbed. He slowly looked me up and down. "So, do you have a name?" "Kelly." "K'hy." He wrinkled his muzzle like he didn't like the taste. "All right, K'hy, I am Thraest." "Get on with it!" someone yelled. Thraest turned and snarled at the crowd. The front ranks shrank back a pace or so. The giant rumbled in his throat, then spoke to me again, "Are you a good fighter?" I shrugged: "I can usually hold my own." "Ah, modest," his scarred ears twitched slightly. "Would you be interested in placing a wager on a match between the two of us? Just a friendly match." I looked pointedly over at his previous opponent, who was being carried off. A few spectators in the back rows egged me on. "And what would the wager be?" I asked. "I have no coin." Again his ears flicked. "Well, I suppose a bet is not necessary. I have not had a decent sparring partner for some time. And it could be an interesting match, that is if you are not afraid. . . and I will not use my claws," he added with a glance at my hands. Goading me. He was the king of the heap and I was a new kid on the block who needed to be put in his place. It didn't matter that I really had no interest in their pecking order; I was bigger than he was and therefore a potential threat. One of his fingers was stroking the tooled leather of a padded glove. "Very well," I nodded slowly. The crowd cheered its approval. And that little voice inside said You're gonna be sorreee. . . We moved onto the mat and there was a brief burst of chatter as bets were placed. The crowd was growing quite rapidly, more Sathe converging on the crowd. "What are the rules?" I asked. "No claws." "That is it?" "That is it," he grinned and the gloves creaked as he flexed his hands. My heart hammered as we each moved to opposite sides of the mat, dropped into defensive crouches. The mat crackled and rustled under our feet as we circled. Thraest darted forward, fast, and swung: a wide, sweeping blow that I dodged without too much effort, but only just managed to avoid his other shot: faster and closer. Then he danced back, out of reach. Appraising me. He's faster, maybe stronger, used to this. I've got the reach, the stamina, and this is MY kind of fighting. I ducked forward and feinted with my left hand, a wide swing mimicking the Sathe technique, while my right jabbed up, nailed Thraest in the gut. It was like punching a tree. I nearly broke my goddamned knuckles. Still, his breath deserted him with a 'whuff' and he staggered back a few steps. He recovered quickly and managed to block the hook I threw at his head, stepping inside the blow. Before I knew it, we were grappling. Thraest had the edge on me in arm strength, but his grip was surprisingly weak. We swayed back and forth for a few seconds before he hooked his foot behind my leg and shoved me over backwards. Reflex made me keep my grip on his arm - pulling it over my head as I fell - and plant a foot in his stomach. He flew over me and hit the mat with a loud thud and exhalation of air. Some of the crowd cheered. He was up again, shaking his head to clear it, and came at me. No style this time, just brute force and a flurry of blows. I went into the classic boxing stance and managed to block and dodge most of them, but the ones that got through left me with a split lip and spinning head. I staggered back a couple of steps with blood running down my chin. Then, as he followed, I punched him hard, a straight right jab to the nose. Thraest yowled, hands flying up to his face as he reeled back. When he lowered them blood was pouring in a steady flow from his nostrils. I followed that blow by pivoting on my left heel and bringing my right boot around into his ribs: hard, staggering him again. And the crowd was going wild! Blood drawn on both sides. He was mad now, his muzzle wrinkled back in a blood- bespattered snarl. A thread of glistening saliva snapped into droplets as he shook his head. Then he crouched, yowled and rushed me. I brought my boot up; hard under his chin and practically flipped him over onto his back. Sweat trickled down my face. Breathing hard, I backed off and wiped my face. He was down for the. . . He rolled onto all fours, worked his jaw, then clambered to his feet. He wants MORE ?! Again he came at me and again I took a couple to the head. By that time neither of us were steady on our feet and the room seemed to be waltzing up and down. I shook my head and managed to dodge a foot aimed at my groin. He caught me off balance; charging in again and grappling, bearing me over backwards. I tried to throw him again but he twisted and I hit the mat hard and he landed on top of me, a blood-smeared puma face baring teeth at me. A glove smashed into the side of my head and redness swam acoss my vision. Desperately I tried to push him off. Christ! he weighed a ton! His foot came up and raked down my leg and there weren't any gloves on his toe claws. I cried out, my hand fumbled through coarse fur and locked around his throat. I squeezed. He was raising his arm for another strike when I got his neck. He jerked away. Perhaps that might have broken a Sathe's grip on his throat, but my grip's a lot stronger than a Sathe's. I held on while his eyes widened, then he gagged and tried to pull away again. I squeezed harder, my own face aching from the savage grin plastered across it. He was making choking noises. His gloves pawed at my face and arms, trying to claw, his mouth hung open, his tongue curling as he made faint hacking noises. I held on, held on even when pale membranes began to cover his eyes. Then he went limp and heavy. I was panting hard enough for both of us. I pushed him aside and he fell to the mat, suddenly sucking air in huge, gulping lungfuls. I wobbled to my feet and stood over him, fist raised, waiting. It wasn't necessary: this time he wasn't getting up again. I don't know who was more surprised; me or the spectators. I released him and just stood there while a ragged cheer went up and my supporters started collecting their bets. Quite a few seemed to have put their money on me. Suddenly my legs refused to hold me up any more and I found myself sitting on the coarse matting while my brains tried to unscramble themselves. Damnation; I can't see how anyone could get any enjoyment out of boxing. The scratches on my leg were oozing thick blood, matting into the hairs. Shit. At least Thraest was still alive. He'd rolled over and was lying on his back gasping for breath. The blood leaking from his nostril bubbled in time with his breathing. I touched my own lip and looked at the smear of red on my hand then back over to the fallen Sathe giant. His head lolled around and he squinted at me through the swelling around his eyes. For a time he just stared at me, then - ignoring the Sathe gathered around - hauled himself across the couple of metres separating us to sit beside me. "So," he began, then coughed and rubbed his throat, "you do bleed." "What did you think I would do?" I retorted, rubbing my jaw. "Leak sawdust?" He blinked, then - slowly - his ears dipped in a smile. "Saaa! But it was a good fight. How can you hold on like that?" I held up my hand, rotating it. "Put together differently." He stared at my hand also, his muzzle twitching, then asked, "Where did you learn those tricks?" "Part of my job." "What was that?" "Same as you: a warrior." He lifted his hand, then dropped it to the mat again. "I did not know there are more like you. Where are they?" "Long way from here," was all I said as I climbed to my feet. "Ah," He reached up to wipe the blood from his nose. "You know, we should try again some time. I might have better luck." Now he knew how I fought? Shit, he'd probably wipe the floor with me. I shrugged and said, "I shall see." When I found Tahr, she was already busy; sparring with a young Sathe male decked out in purple lacquered leather leg, arm, and chest armour. They were both damn good. The blades of the wooden swords they were wielding were hardly visible. Held in a two-handed grip, the laminated blades slashed and parried at an incredible speed, meeting with abrupt smacks of wood on wood, but always under control. I slumped down on a convenient bench, and dabbed at my split lip, watching them for half an hour as they danced around each other. They would face off, eyes locked in concentration, raise the blade in a salute, then blur forward to meet in the centre of the mat. Maybe thirty seconds at most and a blade would make contact. I'd always thought they aimed at the heart or something; you know, those movies where the hero would swing in on a chandelier and dispach the villian with a thrust through the heart. The Sathe weren't playing that game: they were aiming for the arms, the wrists, legs, a stomach if there was an opening. Just a tap and they would fall back, salute, start over. For an hour they kept this ritual going until they started slowing and making obvious mistakes. They both seemed to come to a tacit agreement to call it a day. Tahr looked around and came over to me, working at the ties on her cuirass. She stopped cold when she got a goot look at my face. "K'hy. . . By my mother's tits! what happened to you?!" "I got into a bit of a. . . competition," I slurred, thanks to my battered mouth. She looked exasperated. "Can I not leave you alone for a few minutes without you getting into trouble?" "Sorry," I mumbled: chagrined. Tahr stared down at me, her wooden scimitar swinging idly in her hands. "Well. . . who won?" "I did." "Really?" she affected surprise. "If you won, I would hate to see what the loser looks like. Who was it anyway?" "Some arrogant asshole called Thraest. Not such a bad guy after you beat the stuffing out of him." Tahr turned to the Sathe she had been sparring with, standing a discreet distance behind her: "Who is this Thraest?" "Thraest? Ma'am, he is captain of the guard in the northern quarters, also the biggest Sathe and ego in the Eastern Realm." His muzzle wrinkled in a grin, "Huh, I would have paid to see him finally have his ears clipped. . High One, this is the individual I have been hearing about?" "I do not know what you have been hearing, but his name is K'hy. . . K'hy, this is H'rrasch." I stood and bowed slightly to him. He looked surprised and hesitantly returned the gesture. "K'hy, bowing is not necessary. He is simply a warrior," Tahr sighed, raking claws through her mane. "Why did you choose a fight?" "I did not have much of a choice." Her ears began to lay back: "Explain." "Well, he challenged me and I could not back down from that." She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. "Too proud to back away from a fight? Let me guess: he suggested you were afraid." "Well what would you have done?" I retorted. "I can not imagine you walking away from a fight. And as for pride, I have been dragged all around the countryside while you passed me off for a pet. I have been attacked, tortured, and generally walked over. I think I have the right to try and salvage a little self respect." She blinked, her ears drooping slightly, then batted me softly on the side of the face. "Yes, I suppose you do. Come on, it is time we started back." I waited with that trooper - H'rrasch - near the stairs while Tahr returned her weapon and padding to the nearby armoury. The young male was wrapped in an awkward silence, unsure of my status. "Was that a good work out?" I asked him, trying to break the ice. It didn't translate. He looked up at me: surprised, almost scared: "Work out?" "I mean the practice; did it go well?" "Oh, ah. . . yes. Yes, very well. A good challenge." "Tahr is good with a sword?" "I. . . I have seen much worse," he said, flicking ears back. Then he asked, "How long have you known her?" "Tahr?" God, how long has it been. "I think about three quarters of a year, I am not entirely sure. . . Why do you ask?" He made an absent gesture with one hand. "Huh, never before have I heard anyone speak to a Candidate in such a. . . casual manner." "I guess I have never really thought of her as a candidate," I replied. "In fact I only recently found out that she was the Shirai's daughter." "Why did she not tell you before?" I gave a small laugh. "I never asked." He didn't have time to answer, Tahr appeared through a door beside us. She noticed our abrupt silence. "Anything I might have missed?" she asked. "Uh, no ma'am," H'rrasch hastily replied. ****** I was sore and aching when I got back to my dark and cold room. It was still early - about 8:00 pm - and I didn't feel like turning in yet. The day's activities had left me drenched in sweat. It didn't bother me too much, but a Sathe would really have something to turn his nose up at. Without television, radio, or books, the bath was one way to pass the cold winter days. The warmth of the water warmed the air and my bones, loosening the muscles. The tiny windows kept the room dark, so I could stretch out on one of the submerged benches and just doze; listening to the gurgling of the water. I barely opened my eyes when the door opened, admitting a dim patch of light from the corridor and a trio of Sathe. I didn't expect them to stay at the sight of me, but to my surprise they stripped off and slipped into the steaming water on the other side of the pool. They chatted amongst themselves and I listened to the low, sibilant sounds of their voices without really listening to what they were saying. I felt a strange, warm glow that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water: they were beginning to accept me. ****** The fire in the hearth in the Great Hall blazed fiercely, logs that were not completely dry sputtering and popping as the flames licked up around them. The fireplace itself was about three metres long, and the heat it gave off warmed a large arc of the big room. Overhead, coloured banners hung from wooden rafters. Swords and crossbows of various types hung from the stone walls, interspaced with oil lamps every several metres. I lounged in a chair in front of the fire. Despite the heat coming from the fireplace, it was still cool in the room, and I was wrapped in my cloak, not paying to much attention to the goings on around me. This Great Hall was the social centre for the inhabitants of the inner keep. Sathe of all walks of life, male and female, sat or stood; drinking, talking, laughing. Games were also popular; I saw what looked like a variation of checkers being played by a pair off in a corner. Elsewhere a group of pre-adolescent cubs were kicking a small leather sack around, and bets were being placed on a pair of females who were arm wrestling. Things near the fire were a bit quieter. A troubadour had a small audience gathered around her, the flickering orange light on their fur turning the scene into something surreal. The instrument that she was playing was a lot like the one I had seen being played in The Reptile all those weeks ago. The bulky instrument had a very deep, mellow sound that the troubadour used to a good effect in her songs. The music was strange to me, even though I'd had time to grow accustomed to it, I was used to the fast paced music of home. Sathe music is slow and flowing, the sounds blend into one another. Once you get used to the weird pitch, it's beautiful in its own way. The songs she sung were heavy with dialect, but comprehensible; songs of ancient leaders and heroes and wars. Nothing like modern human music. I wish that this journal could bring across some measure of this music, but translated. . . I feel it would mean very little. In Sathe they have ryhme and metre; in English, they'd be awkward, nonsensical. Yet in reality, it was something I enjoyed listening to. I still do. The deep notes put forth by the pseudo-lute were something you could lose yourself in. I dozed, lulled by the flowing notes; somehow they reminded me of water, drippping in a forest after heavy rain, waves on a lake shore. . . I guess I was almost asleep when a tug on my sleeve jolted me awake. "Huh?" I looked around, then down into a pair of green eyes. "Why do you look so funny?" the tiny Sathe cub asked, his claws still snagged in my sleeve. He twisted his hands to untangle them, then he discovered my watch and started poking at the liquid crystal display behind the glass. I stared, not quite sure what to do. "Hfay! Stop that!" A young female cub had appeared from between a couple of tables and was making a beeline for the small ball of fluff who immediately abandoned my watch and ducked behind my chair, squealing. The girl stopped a few metres away from me, obviously worried. "I am most sorry, High One. He did not mean to disturb you. I swear it will not happen again," she said, her hands fidgiting nervously. "It is all right. He is not causing any problems." At the moment, the object of our discussion had found how different my fingers were and was trying to find out what ways they bent. "Is he your brother?" "N. . . No High One, I just look after him." "Hey, do not be afraid of me," I said. "I do not bite. Promise." Hfay clambered into my lap. "Tell me a story," he demanded. Fifteen minutes later I had a small group of Sathe sitting in a circle around me. Almost all of them were cubs, but there were a couple of adults including the troubadour listening attentively as well. I was not sure how well ghost or horror stories would go down. Sathe do not have religion or believe in a afterlife, and I did not want to risk scaring the cubs. I shouldn't really have worried about that. ". . . and so the crow opened her beak and let out a terrible screech.The cheese that she had held in her beak dropped down to the waiting fox who grabbed and swallowed it." "That is boring," piped up a tan cub with black stripes. Various sounds of agreement rose from the small group. Well, not everyone would like Aesop's fables. I sighed and looked across at the troubadour where she sat, ears flickering in amusement. "Any suggestions?" I asked. "Interesting," she smiled. "Stories about talking animals, bearing a lesson. I must remember those. . . but I think they would like something a little more lively, with some action and excitement in it. A tale of a great hero perhaps? Do you know anything like that?" Something more lively. . . a great hero, Okay. I spent a few seconds gathering my thoughts. "In a land unimaginably far from here, a mighty warrior returned from a war in another distant land. A war in which he had given up his sanity for his homeland. The horrors he had seen in this war, the misery he had endured, the comrades he had seen fight so valiantly then be betrayed by his masters. It was because of this, it was because this was all he knew, that his mind had been twisted. He walked on the thin, razor edge of madness, unable to return to a peaceful life. "The name of this warrior was Rambo. . . " Hell, they loved it. ****** The heavy black oak door swung to behind me with a muffled moan of protesting hinges. My quarters were cold and dark, the flames in the hearth having died to a small pile of glowing embers. I sighed, wished for an electric heater, then set down to the task of rekindling the fire. So few places back home still have fireplaces and those who do seem to think they're a charming anachronism, quaint and pleasant, a luxury. I can tell you that when they're your only source of heat they aren't so pleasant. You can't just say, I don't feel like lighting the blasted thing tonight' and turn on a radiator. You light the thing or freeze. I stuck another twig into the growing fire and wondered how many fireplaces there were in the Citadel. Pity the miserable sod who had the task of cleaning the chimneys. When the small pile was blazing, I tossed on a back log and got myself a goblet of bittersweet wine. I had been telling rehashed human stories for the past two hours and my mouth was raw. Astonished how well mindless crap like Rambo went down. There's definitely a market for action adventure amongst the young, no matter what their race, creed, colour, or species. And the astonished look on the troubadour's face when I got going. . that's something I'm going to remember for a long time. I'll have to try Star Wars on her some time. Sitting on the desk, sipping from the pewter receptacle, I stared absently out the window. The myriad diamond-shaped glass panes that made up the window were acting like hundreds of tiny mirrors; in each of them I could see myself outlined in the dancing firelight, the stars showing faintly through the dopplegangers. A scratching at the door disturbed my thoughts like a stone tossed into a still pond and I started, spilling dark droplets of wine. "K'hy?" called a voice; muffled through the door. Tahr. "It's open," I called. "Come in." The young Shirai did so, letting the door close behind her. A large Sathe armchair made of interwoven leather straps and had been moved into my chambers and she flopped down in it: heavily. "Hiya, Tahr. What is up?" "Up what?" "Figure of speech. I meant: what is happening?" "Oh," she waved a hand vaguely. "There are matters of state to attend to. . . and my father." "Ah." I looked at the slender goblet. It offered no revelations so I drained it. "Would you like some?" I offered. She waved a No. "So, how is he? Any change?" Again she waved her hand vaguely then let it drop back onto the carved arm of the chair. "Yes, but not for the better I fear." I was quiet for a second, shifting nervously. "I am sorry." She was quiet as well, there was something on her mind. "I. . . I do have something to tell you K'hy. You know that the Challenge will be tomorrow?" I looked at the date on my watch; the 20th of December, the winter solstice would be on the evening of the 21st. Tomorrow. "Uh, yeah! I had lost track of the time. So?" She waved her hand, palm down. "I do not think you know what is going to happen. I have not told you everything." An alarm went off inside me. "K'hy, we fight for the position of Born Ruler." "What do you mean 'fight'?" It sounded like a stupid question. . . Hell, it was, but she took it in her stride. "Tomorrow night, at midnight, the candidates go to the Circle and there they fight. They fight two at a time, the victor of one battle, fighting the victor of another. Do you understand?" I nodded, the message still seeping in. Elimination rounds. God, it sounded like the ancient Roman Circus Maximus. "To the death?" Now she hesitated, scratched at that strange little furred web between her fingers with a clawtip. "That. . . It depends upon the Sathe fighting," she finally replied. "Sometimes in the madness of battle they can kill. . . Or after. It is up to the victor to decide." "Oh, jesus." One corner of her mouth twitched in a blatant imitation of my grin: a flash of white teeth. "Saaa! There have been no deaths for a long time now. However. . . " "However what?!" The artificial smile stayed, like an actor's mask, hiding what was really beneath. "We live in interesting times. Things can happen, change." "You think they would go as far as to kill you?" "Huh!" She delicately scratched her muzzle with a claw tip. "I cannot say for certain what may happen. There is a great deal at stake: Power, an entire Realm, and you." "ME?!" "Yes." She hugged herself, as if suddenly cold, one hand rubbing at the opposite arm. "K'hy, understand this: whoever controls the Eastern Realm also controls you and your knowledge." "You as well?" "Saaa! K'hy, I would do anything for you! But I also love my people. I want to work WITH you, to help you as you help us, but there are others who will use you as a means to an end. No offence intended, K'hy, but to many Sathe you are an. . . " ". . . ugly misfit," I finished glumly. "None taken." I sighed heavily and got up from the desk to lean against the window sill. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window for a second. Goddamn, where had I lost control? There were things going on that I had no control - no knowledge - of. Here I was being bandied about like a prize at a county fair and my closest friend and lover was telling me she may die the next day! "Shit! Damnation!" On my feet, I went over to lean spread- eagle against the window frame, swearing impotently at nothing. "Why the hell do you have to do this?" From behind me she said, "Because I was born to do this. All of my life I have trained and been taught to do this one thing. For eighteen years. Now the time is here, and I must go. "I have talked to Rehr. He has promised that if anything should happen to me, he will try to ensure sure that you are well treated. That is all he can do." I turned to face her again. "Tahr, if you died I. . " I began, then trailed off. "What?" she asked. "Nothing," I shook my head. Oh, Jeeze! If she died. . . "K'hy. If I should. . . " now she stopped and studied me for a few second. "I really cannot ask you to promise anything, can I." Again I shook my head. "You are the only real friend I have here." In response to her look of surprise I explained: "I do not get out much - for some reason people seem to avoid me." The feeble joke did little to ease the tension. "Your weapons. . . " I started to say. Now she shook her head in a mimic of my gesture. "We must use the weapons of tradition: Swords, our claws, our teeth; no more. To use your weapon is out of the question." "Oh," I said, my hopes deflated, then almost angrily demanded, "Why did you not tell me earlier?" She hunched forward. "I did not want you to worry," she said. "You did not want me to. . . Oh God ," I knelt down beside the chair and leaned my head against her furry shoulder. "You should have told me, Tahr. You should have told me." ****** Midnight. The moon had reached its apex. In the Circle - the very heart of the Citadel - a procession of nearly fifty Sathe and one human made its way across frozen snow toward the ring of ancient monoliths. The sky was clear, the moon casting a cold light on the snow covered ground, giving everything a distinct shadow against the white background. The warm circles of light cast by torches the Sathe bore were lost in the vastness of the court. I followed close behind Tahr as she padded through the whiteness. A path had been cleared through the deeper drifts, but still a crust of ice covered the ground. I pulled my cloak a bit tighter as a gust of wind whipped powder snow from a nearby drift and swirled it around us in a chill flurry. Not that it bothered Sathe. Pelts fluffed out like fur coats while flakes speckled them with white. Cloaks were dark colors - blood red, night-sky blue, earth brown, kelly green - that the strange mixture of moon and torchlight turned into shades of black. The four Candidates wore only a pleated leather kilt, a cloak, and carried their swords. Tahr was bearing the sword that she had worn when meeting the other Candidates for the first time; the one with the dark stone inlaid in silver set into the pommel. A heirloom of the Shirai Clan I had learned. Handed down from generation to generation. Tahr didn't know how old it was. They were all there, stalking across the windlown drifts: Tahr, R'rrhaesh, Schai, and Eaher. Ready - although perhaps not willing - to kill each other. The circle was eerie in the moonlight. Towering above the procession, the great, black monoliths cast short, black shadows as dark and chill as the ocean depths. In the very centre of the Circle an oval area had been cleared of snow. The generations-old remains of collapsed dwellings lying silent and shrouded in cold whiteness made a labyrinth of blue- white windswept mounds and icy gullies. The column had split up and Sathe were moving around the edges of the cleared area, pushing the bases of their torches into the frost-tempered ground around the perimeter of the arena, then left to take their places on the earth ramparts inside the standing stones, brushing the snow away before sitting down: like spectators taking their places at a football game. And like those spectators there were polarized groups, followers and hangers-on to the Candidates. "Tahr?" She didn't look at me. Her voice strange, undertones of something not human. "Go. Sit down." "But. . . " "Go." Nothing more to say. I opened and closed my mouth, then left her. Alone, I found my own seat. The figures in the centre were quite visible in the moon and torchlight against the white ground. I could now see that the unknown individual in the centre was wearing red armour beneath his dark robes: Rehr. He lectured the four Candidates at length, then departed the arena. The Candidates paired off: Tahr with Eaher, Schai with R'rrhaesh. I guess it was just luck of the draw, who got who. There were no speeches or announcements, they just moved to opposite ends of the oval arena and drew their swords. For a few seconds each pair just faced each other. I could see their breath condensing and drifting away in small clouds. The torchlight sent rippling highlights of orange running up and down the naked steel of the swords. R'rrhaesh was the first to move, blurring his sword around in a two-handed arc that ending in a ringing clang on Schai's blade as he parried, then thrust in return. As soon as R'rrhaesh's sword met Schai's, Tahr moved. She swung her scimitar in a slash to Eaher's side. Eaher blocked - with a blindingly swift move - twisting Tahr's blade vertical and sending it flicking harmlessly away. There in that cold, snowswept arena, four intelligent beings fought each other for control of their land. I felt so out of place there; isolated, sitting there at on thhat white-shrouded embankment watching them fight while all around me Sathe sat silently huddling in their dark cloaks, watching the spectacle taking place before them. The two battles being fought down in the arena among the remains of the first Sathe settlement seemed to drag on forever; thrust, parry, riposte. However it was only about fifteen seconds before first blood was drawn. Schai was pressing his attack on R'rrhaesh who was defending well, but not quite well enough. A sword thrust darted through R'rrhaesh's defence and was in and out of his arm before he could respond. He backed off a short distance and glanced at the blood welling from the gash and soaking into his fur, then was instantly on the defensive again. However, he was not reacting with the same speed and strength he had been, and continually retreated before Schai's onslaught. The contest became a foregone conclusion. R'rrhaesh did his best, but as he moved backward, he lost his footing on something buried beneath the snow; a stone or something. It didn't really matter what it was, for as he stumbled, Schai took advantage of the moment and caught R'rrhaesh with a solid slash across the thigh that his leather kilt couldn't turn. R'rrhaesh collapsed backwards into the snow as his leg gave way beneath him, his sword spinning out of reach. R'rrhaesh lay there spread-eagle, totally helpless, with blood oozing from his arm and through the hole that had been slashed in his kilt. I could see him lay his head back and close his eyes, knowing he'd lost. I don't know what I was expecting. Tahr had said it could be a fight to the death, but since Schai had obviously won, I thought he would let R'rrhaesh surrender. I don't think anybody expected what came next. R'rrhaesh opened his eyes in time to see the final stroke coming, in time to start a scream, not in time to avoid it. Schai's scimitar took him through the exposed throat, pinning him to the ground like a butterfly on a board. Even from fifty metres away I could hear R'rrhaesh's cry cut off abruptly and see the snow start to turn pink beneath him as he briefly thrashed about. "Jesus Christ." My face twisted in shock. Down in the arena Tahr and Eaher still battled. Schai pulled his sword from the now-still form of R'rrhaesh lying like a discarded marionette on the frozen ground. Calmly, methodically, he proceeded to wipe the blade clean on the corpse's fur. There was a disturbed stirring among the spectators, but besides that: nothing. Tahr and Eaher seemed to be evenly matched and after their initial flurry of blows, were concentrating on strategy: a war of attrition. They circled each other warily, probing for weak spots, defending themselves. Eaher abruptly turned to the offensive, stepping in with a lunge at Tahr's shoulder, sword at arm's length. That was the opening that Tahr needed. She avoided the swing, stepped inside a return cut, and grabbed Eaher's arm and pushed it. A foot behind Eaher's leg was all that was needed to make her sit down heavily. Before Eaher could move to get up, she found herself staring at the blade of a scimitar poised just centimetres from her neck. She dropped her sword and tilted her head back in a gesture of submission. That tableau held for a few seconds: Eaher sitting on the ground staring up at Tahr. Tahr standing with her ears laid back against her skull and her sword at Eaher's throat. Then Tahr said something, lowered her sword, and arrogantly stalked from the arena with scarcely a drop of blood being shed.. Eaher shakily got to her feet and looked around. Besides her, the only other occupant of the arena was the cold corpse of R'rrhaesh staring at the sky. She picked her sword up from the snow, shook it and wiped it clean. Then she slipped it back into the sheath and without looking about walked from the oval of light cast by the torches. R'rrhaesh's body lay there until four Sathe came out to carry it away. There was no coffin or stretcher, they just lifted it between them and carted it off into the darkness. A single small figure trailed after them. His bodyguard. I was cold all the way through, both from the snow that had melted from my body heat and from what I had seen. I hugged my knees to my chest and buried my head in my arms. I thought I had become immunized to death to a certain extent, but what I had seen here. . . killing an opponent who had surrendered, in cold blood. . . in front of an AUDIENCE for Christ's sake! I almost missed the beginning of the final round. I lifted my head when the muttering from the crowd died down in time to see the two finalists walk into the arena; Tahr from the right and Schai from the left. Again they started without preliminaries. They both fought ferociously: twisting and turning, thrusting and parrying, using all the tricks that they could think of or had been taught: Kicking ice at the other's face, tripping, slashing with claws, yowling abruptly to distract the opponent. Not a model display of sportsmanship. Despite my reactions at seeing what had happened to R'rrhaesh, I found myself mesmerised by the two Sathe combatants, by their blurring swords. Reflected firelight flashed as they fought and an occasional spark jumped as the scimitars clashed. However they were both tiring rapidly, starting to make mistakes, slowing down. Tahr had blocked Schai's blade so that it glanced off her scimitar, but she misjudged what he would do next. A quick reversal by Schai sent his sword blade slamming into Tahr's. Not her blade, her fingers. I could hear her scream and see the trampled snow become stippled with dark spots. Tahr lurched back until she was almost at the edge of the arena, her left hand clenched into a fist and tucked under her right arm. She still held her sword, but limply clutched in her right hand. Schai came on remorselessly, and from the way he renewed his attack on her I could see that he wouldn't be satisfied until Tahr ended up like R'rrhaesh, and there was fuck all I could do about it. Tahr continued retreating before Schai, leaving a trail of blood in the snow behind her and starting to stagger. She almost lost her sword as she desperately tried to block another blow, but instead of stepping back, she surprised Schai by jumping straight at him. Schai was still in his follow through and wide open when Tahr came at him, abandoning her sword and attacking him with her bare hands. With her wound forgotten, she cannoned into him, knocking him over backwards with her on top. They struggled frantically in the snow as they fought for their lives. I could hear their snarls and yowls; it sounded like a catfight. Suddenly Schai exerted himself and rolled over on top of Tahr, pinning her arms with his body and struggling to reach for her throat with claws extruded. He would have killed her but for the fact that he had his face too close to her's. ". . . , our teeth and our claws," I watched, wide-eyed, as Schai thrashed about in the snow, reflexes from limbs that did not yet know they were dead. Blood pumped from the gaping wound in his neck where Tahr had torn his throat out with her teeth. She dragged herself out from under his still-twitching body and stood. For a few seconds she wavered back and forth, then collapsed face first over the not-quite-dead Sathe beneath her. The snow slowed me down, made me stumble and fall face-first, filling my shirt with ice before I reached the two bodies in the arena split seconds ahead of the Sathe. I rolled Tahr over. "OH, Christ!" The blood that drenched her was a gory conglomerate of her own and Schai's. She was still breathing, but faintly, her body wracked by tremors. The last two fingers on her left hand were hanging from the palm by flaps of skin while blood pulsed from the stumps, staining the snow with crimson blotches. My belt made a satisfactory tourniquet around her arm, but I felt queasy as I tightened it. I needed a pressure bandage. . . "Dammit Tahr. Come on, don't you dare die on me. . " I wasn't aware I was muttering in English until Rehr put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me aside to let a Sathe physician crouch beside her. "You," the physician pointed out two of the surrounding Sathe, "take her to her quarters." The two he had told to carry her moved to pick her up; one grabbing her feet and the other her shoulders. "Fuck it!" I screamed. "Get away from her!" They were so startled, they almost dropped her. I scooped her up in my arms and pushed my way through they crowd toward the gateway. I could feel the blood seeping through my shirt: cold and sticky. End Human Memoirs Part 2 Section B