fought like devils, it was their trade, unmindful of themselves as long as they could hew down the opponent in as short a time as it could all be over. But many of the Southerners were mounted, and though ever ready with their arms the bandits had not had time to unhobble their ponies.

I spurred Urns back to the scene.

I had only a knife, given me at the priest’s inn, but this I brought slicing down on any Southern anatomy I could see. All my usual hesitancy and squeamishness was submerged by my long hate for the uncleanness of the Southern civilization. I sliced for the child-wives buried alive, for the artificial vegetables, for the gentle priests murdered. I had no time to be appalled by the butchery I was causing—I was dodging the next stroke and causing more. Urns needed no second bidding. He was the reason I could venture thus and stay protected by his height and ferocity. He reared and clawed and butted with that horrible hook on the end of his beak. He clawed down only those whom I chose. The bandits redoubled their battle-exultant yells. I had never been in any battle. The lid of the pitcher at my side broke open and swung clattering on its hinge while the rum gushed out over the Southerners on foot. Urns pulled down a horse, a stallion whose eyes and nostrils flared vermilion as he side-feinted to get Urns’ throat with his noble big yellow teeth, but the beak was too quick, it ripped into his lung and he rolled over on his rider.

My first battle was over. Remaining Southerners skulked their awkwardly large camp. Bandits jeered after them.

Over, the slashing maiming, the orgasmic slaying, the throbbing, reasonless, dark life in the womb of an earth-goddess. I looked at my hands and wrists and they were bloody, the hilt of my knife slimy and its blade disgusting.

Between my legs the bird quivered and barked. This it had helped me to. Could I be cleansed?

Ael walked to my side. He stood there, his head not much below the level of mine. He took a knife, of which nervelessly my fingers let him relieve me, wiped it methodically with the tall grass near, handed it back to me. His deep blue eyes did not move from mine.

“Never leave a blade to rust,” he said in his light high voice.

“You think I deserve killer’s lessons?”

“You are new to me,” he said. “I’ve not known a woman slay so well, and yet you’re a woman.”

I looked the few inches through the muzzy dusk to the depths of his eyes.

“You are kind to notice me at last,” I said. I felt a triple uncleanness, gentle and languid and welcoming. Unis’ and my own and his, yet everything was really the same.