The Blood-Rage (15) "Additionally, when our planet swings between Friosan and Ardent, there will no longer be nights to dissipate the heat of the days. For as Agon turns to set Friosan in the anti-spinward horizon, Ardent will rise from the other direction. With one or the other of the suns always poring its energy upon any given spot on Agon during the entire twenty four hours of its turn, the temperature will rise to the point where all plant life will die, all animals will burrow into the ground to hide from the heat-- hibernate, in other words--and our world will turn into a vast desert. The only living things active during that time will be the glide-birds, humans, and the desert-spiders, those great, fierce creatures that feed on the buried seeds of dead plants, hibernating animals, and, of course, foolish humans who aren't careful." Darkcian stated, "Then the name of that season, The-Long- Day-Before-Summer, comes from the fact that there will no longer be any nights; it will always be daylight." "Correct," Gravestone acknowledged. I will miss the nights, he thought. To lose the darkness will be awful. It's the only peaceful time during the turn of the planet. He pondered this for some time before saying, "The season we're in now is called Fleeing-Winter, next comes The-Long-Day-Before-Summer. After we pass beyond the point where the two suns are opposed, what will that season be called?" "Approaching-Summer," Gravestone replied. "It will become less and less hot then as we swing nearer to Ardent and farther away from Friosan. "When we're on the far side of Ardent, we won't be able to see Friosan any longer--Ardent will block our view of it. That's when there'll be long nights again. Ardent's-Time is that season's name." "And the season after that?" he asked. "Swinging around Ardent and heading back toward Friosan, you mean? That's the season called Fleeing-Summer. It's similar to Approaching-Summer in climate except, as time goes on, the temperature will rise again as we approach The-Long-Day-Before- Winter." "Then we must suffer The-Long-Day twice, once each orbit or twice each cycle?" "Yes. Most of us die then or during Friosan's-Time." "Friosan's-Time is when we are on the far side of Friosan." "Correct again." "Why is Friosan so white and small as compared to Ardent? Why is Friosan's-Time so dangerous?" "Enough!" Rasp interjected angrily. Darkcian turned quickly to see that the older warrior had dropped back to again ride with the group. "This one's questions will never cease," the old one continued. "His lessons should be about now and the coming of The-Long-Day. If he lives through that season, then we can prepare him for Ardent's-Time." Looking slightly amused, Gravestone queried, "What lesson would you teach him now?" The old warrior replied, "About how to die in any season." Gravestone waved his left hand and said, "Then by all means, teach." "Useless," Erendria mumbled. "What did you say, dagger?" Rasp inquired, looking at her suddenly, piercingly. "Speak up." Gazing straight ahead, she said through clenched teeth, "Nothing. Go ahead and teach to your idiot. But soon you should tell him how to hold his head when it comes time for my dagger to pierce his neck. Tell him how his forehead must touch the earth beforehand. Tell him of the words he must say to me before dying." She then tried to keep her mu-lynx in check as it sensed her anger. Darkcian watched her win the struggle. Quickly, his attention switched to Rasp. The older man was frowning; but, as Darkcian watched, the other man obviously decided not to act as his anger wished. Gods! The man had control. Darkcian sighed in relief and looked back at Erendria. She was trying to calm herself. Slowly her eyes looked outward again, through the anger, to see the land. He, too, studied the scene. There was a small breeze, barely enough to make a blade of grass move; and the air was unusually clear all the way to the horizon. On that distant line, he could barely make out the almost ghostly image of what he guessed were mountains. Closer in, at a distance of about fifty miles, he could see flights of day-bats. They were moving slowly and looked like small pink clouds as they clustered by the thousands. He suddenly pitied any creature they decided to attack. In those numbers, surely they could pick clean the bones of a boar or a man in half a minute. Rasp broke the heavy silence, speaking to him, "What do you hear, Darkcian?" "Your voice." "What else?" "The distant scream of a day-bat, spinward; the sigh of the air as it rushes by my ears; the pant of our mu-lynxes; the squeak of a plain's mouse as it scurried out of our path--" "Enough," Rasp interrupted. "I see that your senses are open. That's good." "It feels wonderful to hear, see, touch, taste, and smell the world around me. Do you imply that others shut their senses to such marvels?" Darkcian saw that Rasp's smile was more of a grimace. "Ah!" the old man said. "It's the habit of many. They seek inward too much, listening to their own praise of themselves and not the voice of Agon. There should be a balance between the voices within and without. Listen too much to either and your life will be short. Agon seldom warns twice." Darkcian looked quickly at Gravestone's face but saw that it revealed nothing. Except for infrequent words, not much information escaped that man. He returned his attention to Rasp. "Did you see the glide-bird fall to the ground?" the old one queried, still looking at him. "What's a glide-bird?" Darkcian detected disgust in Rasp's voice as the other snapped, "Another question, always another question. You'll see when we reach the bird. It's ahead of us, not far." They soon came upon the creature. Lying on the ground, the glide-bird turned its gray-feathered head and looked up at them. Darkcian probed its mind and found that it expected to die. Somehow that saddened him. Yet, the realization of what he had just done with his mind brought even stronger emotions. Surprise? Amazement? "Look well, student," Rasp said. "It's not often one sees a glide-bird. Even while flying, it's difficult. They depend upon the wind and air-thermos in order to stay aloft, for they cannot flap their wings as do the day-bats. A glide-bird's wings are rigid. They spend, therefore, their entire life flying through the upper air currents, never grounding to rest. They even sleep in flight, their subconscious directing their movements so that they can stay aloft. They also mate and give birth in the air. Glide-birds are mammals, you see. No one really knows how they originally became airborne; that information is lost in antiquity. "So, student, once grounded they are doomed. They have no way to get airborne again. This one will, like all others who are forced to the earth because they weren't clever enough to find the thermos and air currents, die by the predators of the surface." He made naked his sword. "I'll make its end quick." And he rode up beside it. "Wait," Darkcian requested. And he, too, rode up beside the fallen bird, thinking: This may be dangerous, but I cannot continue in this passive role any longer. I need to know how fragile they consider life to be. He dismounted and quickly picked the glide-bird up in his arms. It was a big but light creature, and he was careful to hold it so that its sharp teeth could not bite him. With some dread, he thought: Why am I afraid? They said they would not kill me until I became rational. When is that, I wonder? Then, with all his strength, he flung the glide-bird into the air. It was like throwing terror. It gave him a strange sense of freedom. There was a breeze, gentle but enough to feel against his cheek. The glide-bird's tremendous wings gripped at it; and the bird slowly rose, its horizontal position stationary relative to the ground. But it was flying relative to the wind. Rasp swore and kneed his mu-lynx under the glide-bird and tried to cut it down. But the creature was just out of the old man's reach, and the blade whistled through empty air. Darkcian was both elated and suddenly filled with dread. Rasp then turned to him, and the fury in the old one's voice made Darkcian wince. "Idiot!" Rasp barked. "The bird should have died. It wouldn't have been on the ground if it hadn't been inferior to its fellow species. The weak must die." Darkcian tried to say calmly, "You made an assumption that may not be true. Did you consider that the bird may have had no choice but to land because there was no wind or thermos for so long that, eventually, it had grounded through no fault of its own?" Rasp shouted back, "Then that was the bird's karma. A glide-bird flies all its life; when it lands, for whatever reason, it must die." Illogical dogma, Darkcian thought and watched the bird rise higher, obviously finding stronger winds aloft. "I don't understand why a thing must die just because you say it must. With logic just as strong as yours, I could say that its fate was to continue to live through me. For, as you can see, it does live; and I'm the reason." "And if you are wrong and the bird had landed because of weakness, you have helped diminish Agon by preserving one of its inferior ones," the old warrior retorted with icy tones. Darkcian shrugged. He had looked into the bird's mind and knew why it had come to ground. There had not been enough wind or thermos. He then felt a hopelessness, thinking: There's an extreme parallel between Rasp's description of the bird's fate and my own. With that came a new feeling; he believed it was called despair. "Student," Patra called. Darkcian turned to her and guessed what she would say. "In the future, you will listen to the wisdom of your teachers." Wisdom? What is wisdom? he thought. Whatever, in this at least, I don't think Rasp spoke to it. But to her he said, "I'm sorry if I have offended. It seemed right at the time to consider another alternative and let the bird live. I'll not interfere if we find another so grounded." "Ha," Rasp snorted. "Some Agonians have gone a lifetime without seeing a grounded glide-bird. It's a rare happening. You won't likely repeat your mistake even if you wished to." I didn't make a mistake, old one, Darkcian said to himself. The bird had great courage and strength and will enhance the power of Agon. But out loud, he said to Rasp, "I was foolish to question the wisdom of a sword of your age and experience. I'm young and, as you said, an idiot." I'm starting to say things I don't believe in order to modify his behavior. Is that wise, I wonder? Rasp sheathed his sword and said, "If you recognize that, you're on your way to a true wisdom of your own at an earlier age than most." Then the old warrior, with a smirk on his face, looked sideways at Erendria. "Conceited snake," she growled back. "Will you smile when my dagger honors you with eternal peace?" She then looked as though she suddenly realized that he probably would, for her anger toward him seemed to vanish as quickly as it appeared. Darkcian shrugged and walked to his mu-lynx. But before he could mount, something hard struck him in the head. The blow drove him against his cat, and he grasped the animal's fur, holding himself up as his legs buckled from a weakness that left him dazed and disoriented. Instinctively, some part of his mind ordered his mu-lynx to whirl around, dragging him with it, putting the beast between himself and Rasp. His mind cleared quickly. He released his grip on the animal, stepped around it, and confronted the old warrior with his sword drawn and ready, thinking: So . . . I went too far. Will one of us have to die now? Strangely, he felt a form of relief. "Sheath your blade," Rasp ordered. "We fight now with empty hands. Once again your teacher will be pain." Sheathing his weapon, Darkcian asked, "Why do we fight? The glide-bird?" "Yes." "But I've acknowledged the lesson. Why is this necessary?" "Hasn't it dawned on you yet that all important lessons are taught by pain?" "It's difficult for me to recognize an important lesson from an unimportant one." The old warrior said, as he slid off the side of his mu- lynx, "It's not required that you recognize. The pain or lack of it will tell you afterwards." A momentary flash of a new emotion crossed Darkcian's mind. That's irrational. I'm not an animal, unthinking and stupid. He said aloud, "This is still unnecessary. I don't need pain in order to learn." "I'll determine what you need!" Rasp shouted. "You will be taught by the ways of Agon! Damn you and your sudden show of independence. I'll teach you to question our wisdom." With that utterance, Rasp leaped forward, a high jump in which both his feet left the ground. In midair, he spun around and kicked out at Darkcian's head. To Darkcian, the attack seemed to take place in slow motion. The movements of the ver flashed through his mind, and he arced his right arm up and then quickly across his head in an inside block, taking a step backwards and turning his body sideways at the same time. The block deflected rasp’s powerful leg; and, before the old warrior's other leg touched the ground, Darkcian kicked his own right leg backwards and caught his attacker in the stomach with a force that had all his own weight and strength behind it. Rasp grunted from the blow's impact, the shock making the old warrior bend slightly at the waist. But Rasp appeared not to be seriously hurt. The old man's body muscles were thick and hard. Almost too quick to be seen, Rasp then jabbed the fingers of his left hand at Darkcian's throat. This blow, too, was parried, and Darkcian returned the blocking hand to make a strike of his own aimed at Rasp's head. This, in turn, was counter-blocked by a now more cautious Rasp. The old warrior then backed away and began to circle him. Darkcian's inner thought said: DEFENSE IS THE MORE SOPHISTICATED PART OF BATTLE. YIELD TO HIS ATTACKS AND WATCH FOR MISTAKES. He stepped backward and lowered his defense. Rasp quickly stepped in and attempted a hand strike. Darkcian blocked it, took a half-step further backwards, and then shot off a hand strike of his own into the old one's throat. It connected, staggering the man. The apparent success of that gave Darkcian a strange feeling. Courage? he wondered. He had just started to smile at the effect of that good feeling when Rasp's fist caught him full in the face. Momentarily the world seemed to fade into a gray mist. As he shook his head to clear it, another fist connected . . . then another; and he felt something tear in his face and then something wet flow down his chin. As he sank to his knees, he forced his mind to clear with a sudden, savage act of will. Rasp's shape materialized out of the grayness; he was standing above him, the old man's fist cocked back for another blow. Darkcian struck upward into the other's groin. With a grunt of pain, Rasp staggered backwards. Darkcian regained his feet and stood waiting for the old man to recover. A voice within his mind whispered: ATTACK FOOL. TAKE ADVANTAGE. But he had waited too long. Rasp came limping toward him again. However the fight then became a standoff. Although Darkcian doubted that his integration of the ver's movements into his own mind and body were any more complete than Rasp's, it was now apparent to him that the old warrior's knowledge of fighting was countered by his, Darkcian's, own faster reflexes. Thirty minutes and many bruises later, Darkcian detected a slight slowing of the old man's attacks. Was Rasp getting tired? he hoped silently. This mode of combat, he realized, was not as deadly as the sword but still dangerous. Bones could be broken. Suddenly he heard Gravestone order, "Enough!" He immediately pulled a punch and moved back. His opponent looked at Gravestone slowly. The weariness in Rasp's face contrasted with the blood-rage in his old eyes. "Agon has not received the blood of my anger yet," the old warrior growled. Gravestone looked at his student and asked, "Are you angry?" "No," he answered. "I'm only obeying your order of eight turns ago, the one that said I should never let anyone inflict pain upon me without resisting." Gravestone switched his gaze back to his old friend and said, "His blood has no anger in it. And only the food of rage will satisfy Agon." Thus, as if knowing he would never be fast enough, he barked a single word, "DAUGHTER!" Erendria, faster than Darkcian's eyes could follow, drew her dagger and flipped it at Rasp. The blade's tip flicked across the old man's left wrist and then sprang back into her hand. Rasp lifted his hand and looked at the three-inch cut that ran from middle knuckle to wrist. Bright-red blood was flowing down his fingers and dripping onto the ground. "It's the way," the old warrior whispered. "I give up my anger to Agon." He looked at Darkcian. "This fight is over. The next one between us won't be in anger but for practice. You have my respect." Darkcian was amazed. So . . . it is true, he thought. He only admires strength. It's weakness that really brings his wrath. His young eyes swept the others. Their faces were without expression. And so, too, the others. That and tradition and . . . and rituals that aren't even understood anymore. It's illogical yet . . . beautiful, somehow. Why is it that so many things are composed of both positive and negative characteristics? This makes so many judgments difficult and fuzzy. Instead, I want the world to be more precise and predictable. I wonder if this is a normal desire of rationals? He stopped his musing, knowing he must acknowledge Rasp. "You are my teacher," he said. "I'll always listen to you, be it in words or pain." He then bowed to the old warrior. Was Rasp changing from being a teacher into being an enemy? Gravestone smiled, thinking: Clever young devil. Pushed Rasp far but not too far. The small man sat near the top of the hill. He was positioned so that only his head looked over the top. He said to the white object in his hand, "Did you see them fight, my brother? Like animals snarling over a bone. Soon they'll snarl out their pain to you and I. We'll kill the young male first, then the others, saving the red-haired bitch until last. I want to see horror in her eyes when we meet for the final accounting. Yes-s-s-s. Fear is the ultimate revenge. And when I finish with her, her dread will be that I will let her live another second beyond the incredible pain she'll be suffering." Another mile anti-poleward from the small man sat a figure covered by a shimmering cloth that reflected the suns-light. Six feet away from her lay a huge mu-lynx, its head resting on its out-stretched paws. Both were watching the distant figure of the healer, the cat with its soft pink eyes, she with her glacial blue ones as she fingered the blade of her dagger.
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