Kivinaisia Chapter 1

	The courier was dead to the world.  Asleep almost as soon as he'd finished hearing his tale after a hard fifteen hours afoot on the road from Torgreen.  The rust-red road dust on his green boots gave testament to his travels.  Fifteen hours at a steady lope, one hand on his sword and the other on the oiled crimson leather satchel.  The Ducal seal embossed on the flap and the elaborate waxed knot that held it closed against illicit eyes were evidence of the importance with which the messages inside were held.
	War.  That was the word on the exhausted courier's lips; war most foul and terrifying.  The Highest of Olphallan had marched on Kradoon and broken the Duke's field force after only two engagements  and then had left sufficient armsmen, supplies and siege train to take the city under fire forcing the Duke to defend his home.  Fortunately he'd had the presence of mind to send runners out with intelligence gleaned from contact with the Highest's forces.  Along their line of flight the couriers spread the word of what had transpired at the Kingdom's northernmost outpost.
	The bulk of the Highest's forces were in the wind, having pulled up stakes in the night, after first arraying the siege train and constructing several hasty, if effective, fortifications.  The Ducal army had been badly mauled by the Highest's troops, but what broke them was the magic.  Not a lot to be done about that without a Magi of his own, the best he could have done was to retreat.  Too bad he pressed his luck and lost two thousand men to vile gas, fire, ice and a madness that caused his men to turn on their mates and then claw their own eyes out.
	The second best thing he could do was to retreat into the keep along with all the food and livestock, but without the peasant folk.  The extra mouths to feed would reduce the time he could withstand the siege without increasing the size of his effective fighting force.  The peasantry fled into the hills to the east and the fens to the west, there to turn to hunting, fishing, gathering of plants, nuts and berries and of course, banditry.  It was unlikely that any of them would willingly return to a life of enforced toil and taxation after the war passed, whoever won.
	My attention was brought back to the present by the shrill tones of Thoma Magor, “We can't fight a force that large.  We certainly can't fight sorcery!  We must prepare to surrender.  Surrendering without conflict will allow us to bargain for the best terms possible.”  His thick midlands accent twisted the sound of his words in my ear with drawn out vowels and clipped “T's”.
	“Ye puling yellerbelly!” came a thunderous reply from Arne Freeman “If ye will not fight for your homes, then what good are you to yer family?  To your civika?  Ye should be tarred and -” His no doubt inventive threat that would end in something ludicrously pornographic and unlikely to result in Thoma's survival, was drowned out by a rising tide of voices.
	“Indeed.”  The word rang out sharply, a stentorian whip crack of verbal prowess.  “We must resist, but at the cost of our existence?  No. I think we must find another way than base servility or suicidal optimism.”  Geoffrey Butler intoned, his shriviled frame belying the depth and timber of his voice.  Once upon a time he'd been the majordomo to the count of Far Ridge (may the gods keep his soul in paradise), until the laughing beast-men overran his keep.
	The count had sent his  family and the house servants south when it became apparent that the gathering tide of yellow-furred savagery was more than the annual spring raiding parties.  The countess was left too poor to keep a household, but Geoffrey stayed on for a few more years for room and board, until the young count was old enough to win his spurs and assume his father's mantle and the contessa was betrothed to a merchant's son.  A step down socially, but the  fiscal rewards could not be denied and the Far Ridge fortunes changed for the better.  Besides, I suspect that Butler would not have allowed the match to culminate if the girl were not inclined towards the lad.
	“Why should the god-botherer's army come here?” I asked.  “It's not as though we were important to the war effort.  We've little gold, no ores in any quantity to speak of, our foodstuffs are meager and do not travel well and we're not so large as to be able to press more than a company of levies if you wanted to leave all the work to the women and the aged.”
	“A point well made Geremiah Stonebender.” was Butler's response.  “But can we afford to assume that then Highest WON'T send a force to subdue us, even if he marches southeast toward Torquay?  That is the logical movement for his army to make.  But all intelligence from Olphallan agrees that the Highest is not a man given to leaving loose ends about.  If we can scrape up two hundred levy troops, it's sure he'll be sending three companies of heavy foot to pacify the township.  Probably leave a cohort behind afterwards to ensure their taxation goes through.  And you know for good and certain they'll have one of their vestry here to enforce the ecclesiastical law as well.”
	That brought a deep rumbling to the room.  No man liked the idea of interference in his relationship with the gods.  And we'd all heard the stories about fire and torture and seizure used to enforce church-law.  How sometimes the church and the state were at cross-purposes and thus a man was damned if he did and damned if he didn't.  It certainly didn't sit well with me.
	I was of the one of the old families.  There'd been a Stonebender in residency in  Barrentor for 800 years.  Before the Kingdom annexed the town and we'd just been the village of Baldspire.  I was one of the few in town who kept up the old ways.  If the Highest's vestry gained power, there'd be no more dancing in the wood on midsummer or Mortisfest festival in the late fall when we propitiated the spirits and honored our dead.  The sacred grove would be felled and fired and the priests and priestesses would be racked, raped, bankrupted and burnt at the stake.  I could not let that happen.
	“There is...another option.  One that has not been used in centuries.”  I said, my voice hesitant.  It was not meet that outsiders know our secrets, but I did not see another option.
	Silence filled the room, as all eyes turned towards me.  “Of what do you speak?” Geoffery Butler's deep tone inquired.
	“There has..ahem...There has been in place, a compact-”  I got no further before the general rumble of mixed curiosity and alarm drowned me out.
	“A compact with some heathen mountain devil, no doubt!” Thoma Magor's strident voice cut through the hub-bub.  “We've no desire to secure our freedom only to lose our souls!”  Thoma was one of the newer immigrants to Barren Tor.  A miller from Suddenfield who took the king's shilling and a grant of land in the far north to move his family and himself here, and now 10 years after, felt he'd made the wrong decision by the sound of it.  Apparently there was an overabundance of millers in the Midlands and possibly his personality was so abrasive that no one with a waterwheel felt like partnering with the man.
	“Fuck ye for a poxy coward Thoma Magor!” Boomed Arne's response.  Arne was a woodsman from the highlands around Glenfirth on the east coast.  After Good King Gidion conqured the Mongun city-states 50 years before and forbade the practice of slavery, every freed slave in the reach took the name “Freeman” and were at a proud and argumentative lot, at best.
	Like Thoma, he'd taken the King's shilling and moved to Barren Tor ten years back.  Unlike Thoma, Arne slipped in to the fabric of live here so smoothly that the only thing that separated him from the townsfolk was his rich brogue and astounding use of invective and incredible capacity for drink.  Nobody cursed, swore or feasted like Arne Freeman and for a few years he'd cut a swath through the maidens and womenfolk of the town like a scythe through winter wheat.  Apparently they found his rude ribaldry and burred tongue “enchanting”.
	The meeting collapsed into chaos and backbiting until finally Butler called for the watch to clear the room save for himself, Arne Freeman, myself and Captain DunLeavy, the captain of the territorial ranger company.  The captain was not usually invited to such meetings, but he was in town on other business and Geoffery thought it might be good to have the opinion of a professional military man.  As we all sat at the scarred oaken table, I considered the men around it.
	Butler was a font of wisdom and a fair hand at managing the disparate factions and fractious individuals that populated the town and the outlying settlements.  Freeman was a loud voice for the youth of the area.  Not many men or women under thirty were not fond of the man and his rash opinions of politics and morality.  The Captain had been a fixture of the reach since I was a lad.  His troops patrolled the entire area from Blauwald in the south to the spire itself in the north and more than a few farmers, woodsmen, hunters and trappers were rescued from bad, even deadly situations by the five-ranger maniples that wandered hither and yon.
	“So.” began Geoffery, then he paused.  “Good captain, what can you tell us pf the probable  future of out little setttlment?  Will the Highest send troops here?”
	“I'm afraid so Master Butler.  It's how his army operates.  They besiege the largest military center, pinning the troops in place, then quickly pacify the outlying civika so as to be able to draw on levys, foodstuffs, gold and replacement military equipment.  If they've laid seige to Kradoon keep as the Courier said, then they will immediately march of Torgreen and then Torquay and send a small detachment here and to the other villages and towns in the territory.”
	“Can yer lads do nothing then?” Asked Arne with an edge of fury in his voice.
	“I'm afraid not Master Freeman.  The rangers are irregular light infantry.  We could ambush an incoming force, but any decisive engagement with heavy regulars or cavalry would break us.  You know how well your people fared holding off the Mongun hunter companies.  It's the same situation.  If we could break them up, rout them, hunt them down like the dogs they are, but without a significantly larger force or a company of heavies to break their formation...” He trailed off helplessly.
	“What is this compact you spoke of Gerimiah?” Buttler's soft bass rumbled.
	“In the first days, when men came to the land around the Spire, we were alone.  There was no kingdom, little law and many dangers.  Over the course of years, the first of us learned the secrets of the Spire and made friends and defeated our enemies with their help.  Eventually a compact was struck.  In direst of need, the men of Baldspire could call upon the Kivinaisia.”  I swallowed thickly.  “At a cost.”
	Silence hung heavy in the council room for a few moments.
	“What in the name of Durandahl is a Kivinaisia?” asked Arne, invoking the name of the hunter god.  I stared at him.  Who didn't know the stories about the original people that fought with men as they settled the world.
	“I think much of the Highander's knowledge of the early history was lost during the
a'brosnachadh.” Buttler said gently, pronouncing the unfamiliar highlander word carefully.
	“Aye.” Said Arne, with a shamed look that he quickly suppressed and replaced with a half-hearted snarl.  “So what in the seven hells is a Kiviwhatsit?”
	“The word means “people of the mountain”, or  mayhap “Stone Men”.  The language was vague to begin with and eight hundred years of oral history is hard of exact translations.” I said.
	“I see.” Said Dunleavy, obviously not seeing.
	“But what exactly are they?” asked Arne with a hint of exasperation in his voice.  “Are they wee fairies to magic our foes?  Or are they like the selkies of the Firth, able to change their form upon land and sea?”
	“Neither.” said Buttler. “There's not a lot of actual descriptions about them, just that they were doughty warriors and that their warbands were undefeated in battle.”
	“Then how did they lose the fight against us?”  Asked the highlander, perplexed.
	“Logistics.” Said the Captain with some finality.  Arne's confused expression did not falter.
	“What?”
	“Logistics.  Men can't fight if they can't eat and the Kivinaisia can only eat meat.”  Said the Ranger.  “It was just a matter of driving off anything of ours they could eat and then slaughtering every last living thing in the mountains we could manage to get a bow shot or a spearthrust at.  Eventually they had to surrender or starve to death.”
	“Is that all we know?  Tough fighters that only eat meat?  What are they, wolverines?” Arne said wryly.
	“Well, we know that they're taller then men.  One of the old tales mentions one being “six cubits and one, taller than Corlus the Giant” and we know that he was eighteen hands tall. A cubit is an old measurement that was equal to roughly four hands, so that means at least one of them was a good fourty-nine hands tall.”  Said Butler.
	“Fooking hell...” muttered Arne as he blinked trying to imagine something that large that was at least as intelligent as a human.
	“My thought precisely.”  intoned Geoffery.  To me he said “You also said there was a...cost?”
	“Indeed.  The  Kivinaisia are owed food; oxen, beef-cattle, goats, pigs, large meat animals of some sort, some sort of service by the town and...” I trailed off, my throat closing on the words.
	“...And?” prompted Dunleavy.
	“...A human sacrifice.” My voice was harsh in my own ears as though whispered by a desert wind.
	Again silence filled the chamber as each of us examined that particular thought.  Could we sacrifice one of our own to save the rest?  Could I condemn an honest man who'd done me no harm to the afterlife to save myself?  I didn't think I could.  I really hoped Not at least.
	“When...How is the sacrifice to be made?”  Asked Butler, ever the soul of practicality.
	“The compact doesn't specify.  It just says “Yea, from among your number will you select one of your number capable of fathering children and you shall make him a sacrifice to us.””
	“Has the compact been invoked before?” asked Dunleavy.
	“Yes, twice.” I said.  “Once in 3150 when the beast-men threatened Baldspire town and again in 3600 when the Halflings came over the Spine-Of-The-World and threatened to overrun everything north of  the Keppler's Crossing in the Blauwald.”
	Dunleavy spat into the hearth.  “Poxy cannibals!”  The rest of us refrained from comment.
	“And both times the town just, did what?  Chose one of it's own to die?” Asked Butler, horrified.
	“The stories say that the first time one of the founders volunteered.  The other time, the town drew lots to see who it would be.” I said. “In both cases the town honored the last requests of both men.  Whatever they wanted in exchange for their willing sacrifice.”
	“Anything?” asked Arne Freeman with a calculating look in his eye.
	“The, ahh...the stories are quite clear.  Lurid... and perhaps purient, might be the best description of the details of the founder's request.” I stammered.
	“And it was honored?” asked Butler with a skeptical look.
	“There's a number of otherwise unrelated families in town with the name of Founder” I said.  “No other family, even those that are of the one of the founder's lines, use than name.”
	“An' t'other one?” asked Arne, softly.
	“There's a reason the Barclays live in that giant place on the hill even though most of them haven't the sense to pour piss out of a boot with the instructions printed on the heel.” I chuckled “That was his last request, that his children be granted title in perpetuity to that house and the land attached to it, and that they could NOT sell it.  Apparently he despaired for the sensibilities of his children.”
	Geoffery and Dunleavy said nothing, staring contemplatively at the tabletop.
	“I'm in.” Said Arne Freeman quietly.  All eyes turned to him.
	“What?”  asked Butler.  I found I couldn't speak.
	“I'll do it.  I volunteer t'be t'sacrifice.”  He said, sounding somewhat more sure of himself.

***

	It took the better part of two days to gather the materials required for the summoning ritual.  A “tonne of fell timber, either Oake or Birche and well seasoned”,  five weights refined carnallite, three weights of crushed arcanite, one weight of rocked saltpetre and a quarter weight of refined magnesite were sought and ruinously paid for at an alchemist's shop.  I spent the time researching the ritual and making sure it would not fail.  Two days after the meeting, Geofferey Butler, Regis Dunleavy, Arne Freeman and myself as well as a number of other men set out for the location dictated by the ritual; Bal'rok'tal, in the old tongue. Bowl of Bloody Rocks
	We'd left the city walls before the third hour after midday, with the sun beating down and at least providing a pretext for why some of us were sweating.  I drove the freight wagon full of heavy birch logs, each at least three hands across and as long as a man was tall.  We used birch because the nearest oak was located several days ride to the south, all the local stock having been logged off centuries ago.  Arne road beside me on the bench, neither of us feeling much like talking.  The rest of the men road horses, camels and in Thoma Magor's case, a llama.
	The trail was narrow and winding and twice we had to stop so that men could fell trees that barred the passage of the freight wagon, then limb and roll the denuded trunks off to the side.  With a dozen men working together, it was the work of minutes rather than hours.  After the first tree had been felled, Arne began to speak in hushed tones.
	“Geremiah, ye ken I was a fell rake when I arrived here from the far coast, yeah?”  He asked.
	I grunted and said “I know.”
	“I guess I figgered thet I should establish meself as something other than just “that new fellah”.
	I grunted again.
	I did'na see any harm to it, the lasses and I were careful to avoid , well, y'know...”
	I nodded.
	“...and the ladies even moreso.  Ne'er ha' any close calls, no' even with their menfolk.”
	I said nothing.  I wasn't sure where Arne was going with this, or why.
	“Then there was Elyssia.”
	That made me look at him sharply.  Elyssia was Thoma Magor's wife.
	Arne saw my expression and grinned ruefully.  “Aye, and now you know.  Though how a fella like you with all your learning an' wisdom didn't notice the cast of wee Alyssanda, I dunno know.”
	Now I blinked.  Elyssia's daughter had been born eight summers ago and looked much as her mother did; delicate features, green eyes, a long straight nose.  But where her  mother was honey-blonde, Alyssanda had bright, coppery red hair.  Arne's hair.  Thoma was a grey-shot brown where he still had hair.  There was no way he could have fathered the girl.
	“Does Thoma know?” I whispered softly.
	“O' course he knows.  It took him years to figger it out, the stupid bugger, but he knows.”
	“How?  WHY?”  I suddenly realized my voice was too loud and dropped back into a whisper. “I thought you were careful?”
	“Aye, I was.  But she wanted a child and after three years of marriage, Thoma hadn't given her one.  O' course, she did'na ask MY opinion on the matter.” He said with a bit of consternation.
	“You'd have objected?” I asked, incredulous.
	“Yer damned right I'd ha' objected!  What man wants his child raised by the likes of Thoma Magor?  The man sleeps, works, drinks and ignores his family unless it's to be a gobshite or to...force himself upon her when the mood strikes him.” he said bitterly, face twisting with disgust.  “And ye know that marriage vows are inviolable under the king's law.”
	I grunted, nodding.
	“So I figgered there was nothing for it, save his death.”
	“WHAT?” I yelped, eyes going wide.  “You mean you'd planned-”
	“NO.  An' keep yer voice down man!  I'm no murderer.  But I ha' read the law a bit.  The laws regarding holmgang are clear and still applicable throughout the kingdom.”
	I was stunned.  Holmgang was the old method of redress for wrongs.  If one man harmed another, he could choose to face his opponent in armed combat rather than to press charges with the reeve or one of the king's magistrates.  While in theory the holmgang was only to first blood, a man skilled with arms could make that first blood his opponent's last blood.   And all Highland freemen trained with sword, dirk, axe, and with the bow if he could not afford a pistol or musket.
	“Well that certainly explains your taunting and insults.”  I chuckled.
	Arne chuckled darkly.  “Yeah, well, it has'nae worked in six years of trying.  I keep hoping to catch him when he's drunk, but no luck so far.”
	“Have I ever told you Arne Freeman that you have a singular command of invective?” I said.
	“No, ye have not.” he said.
	“You do.  It's refreshing and entertaining to say the least.”
	Arne grinned for the first time since he volunteered to sacrifice himself.  I wondered, was that what his last request would be?  To free Elyssia from her marriage vows to Thoma?  I could see why he'd want to.  If he was forcing himself on his wife now and knew the child was not his, it was only a matter of time before he'd get drunk or angry and force himself on the girl.  The king's law was quite clear on the rights of Pater Familias.  No man, noble or common, could interfere with what went on in another man's home amongst his family.  I realized that Arne too had lapsed into a contemplative silence.  Perhaps he was having the same thoughts I was.

***

	It was closing in on dusk when we reached Bal'rok'tal;  a circ located about a third of the way up the mountain.  It was close on to a three furlongs across and was barren of grass, flowers, brush and trees.  Just rust red dust, blood red rocks the size of a man's fist or smaller, and a ring gray menhir shot through with thick seams and outcroppings of quartz crystal and an obelisk made entirely of rose quartz.  The slackening sun lent a bloody hue to the landscape that obviously inspired the name.  After passing around some skins of water cut with wine, and every man having a a pair of drafts we set to assembling the ritual.
	I chose a log and Arne and I sawed it into thirds as the men built a firebox, three logs deep, around the area I had chosen for the fire-bed in the center of the dozen menhir, just downslope from the polished rose pillar.  We then used saws to turn the short lengths into Highland Torches and placed them in the center of the box, placing bark and tinder atop them and then using our flint rods and knives to strike sparks into the duff until it caught.  Adding a handful of small sticks, we climbed out and the rest of the logs were layered over the blazing piles.  In a few minutes, just before the sun dropped behind the shoulder of the spire, the wood blazed in full and the transition from day into night went almost unnoticed in the light of the pyre.
	The ritual began with the beating of drums.  Every man save myself and Arne brought along a drum of some sort.  Men knelt over djembes as they faced the fire while others beat deep-throated davul with short mallets.  Young master Oldham played tripping fills on the snare he'd played in the king's army as a boy while old master Oldham beat the kettledrum he'd played in the king's navy when he was a boy.  Several men, transplantees from the highlands like Arne played bohdrans with tiny mallets shaped like turkey bones.  But big or small, deep or high, slow or fast, the rhythm remained the same; a rolling rhythm, like running across the steppes or riding to hounds in search of stag , something primal and fierce.  The beat got into your blood, into your soul and stayed there, made a man feel like fighting.  Like killing.  Like fucking.  Like embracing Durandahl and dropping to all fours and running with the wild hunt until your thirst was slaked with the blood of prey.
	The first handful of powder I tossed on the fire flared brilliantly.  An unnatural purple light that overshadowed the orange of the burning timber, it was bright enough to elicit a startled cry from the drummers, who despite their surprise maintained the maddening rhythm.  The flare died down, but the fire stayed the  eldritch hue for a quarter of an hour, slowly fading into the more familiar oranges and yellows.  Once again I scattered the lumpy pulverance upon the flames and another flash of unbearably bright light in that strange tone.  This time the drummers knew enough to close their eyes when I approached the inferno.
	For hours we repeated the pattern.  Drummers drumming, the violet fading from the flames, then I scattering more of the grit to incite furious flames that crackled in that unnerving shade.  The obelisk and the quartz veins on the menhirs began to glow with a pulsing red light that seemed to emanate from within.
	Eventually the drummers entered into a dream-like state, not even bothering to open their eyes as they became one with the beat.  Eventually though, my fingers scraped the last of the gravel and dust from the sack and flung it upon the fire, following it with the inverted sack itself.  The fire, by this time was dying out.  The purple flamed danced only from the handful of gravel and dust that burned in the coals of the once mighty pyre.
	As the last of the flames died out, so did the drumming, the drummers near collapsing over their instruments or dropping to their backsides in exhaustion.  I too felt the weariness.  Only Arne looked alert, out of the dozen men and six that had come up the mountain.  The quiet sizzling of the embers melded with the labored panting of the drummers as the silence of night crept in among us.
	Silence.  It was too quiet.  It's never silent in the wilderness.  Birds, insects, Wolf or coyote cal, the howling of dogs, bat squeal, there's always noise of some sort.  This was...eerie.	Suddenly something large fell into the fire.  It was round and scraggly and nearly invisible for the first few seconds, until it caught.
	A dry bramble bush blazed in the bed of coals, bringing light to the circle of menhirs.  How had it come to be here?  Bramble bushes didn't grow on the mountain and nothing upslope of us could have found its way through the circle of drummers anyhow.  Someone, or something was out there.  From the sudden rambling of the men, I knew they had reached the same conclusion.
	“We seek the  aid of the Kivinaisia, as the compact dictates!  Show yourself that we may bargain!” I called out in my most somber voice.
	“I am of the  Kivinaisia, and I have answered the summons dictated by the compact.  Add more logs to the fire than we may bargain within sight of one another.” came a booming voice from the darkness.  Exhausted men, motivated by fear, scrambled to add another four of the giant logs to the fire and stoked it by piling the coals around the logs.
	When the fire rose up again, it limed a figure between to of the menhir.  At first I saw only legs, stout and harnessed with patterned greaves strapped over tall black boots that folded over above the knee, falling across the face of the cop that covered the joint.  The thighs were massive, as big around as  man's torso and disappearing into a tunic the color of weathered granite and held with a swordbelt of indeterminate color that reflected the firelight clearly.  The abdomen and chest were barely visible in the building light, but they were odd, in a way I could not quite put my finger on, but the torso was covered in a dark blue coat-of-plate with rivets as big as a woman's fist made of steel with brass washers.  Of the head and shoulders I could see nothing, shrouded in the dark as it was.
	“That's better.” came the voice, less stentorian than before and somehow higher in pitch.  “Who among you speaks for the men of Baldspire Gap?”
	“I speak....” My faltering voice sounded like a rasp on stone to me.  I took a breath and then another. “I speak for the men of the gap, as it says in the compact.  I am called Geremiah.”
	“And I am called Monaruru by my sept.  May I sit at your fire?”  Came the voice.  I had the distinct impression that it's owner was somehow amused by all of this.
	“Indeed.  We have drink and salt to share.”  I offered, slapping at Arne standing behind me without looking.  Arne jumped in his boots at the touch and then leapt to fetch one of the skins of watered wine and the small bag of salt that lay on the wagon seat.  The oxen were shifting nervously in their traces, unsure of what was going on now that the drumming was no longer lulling them into a primal sleep.
	Cautiously he approached the gargantuan legs and offered up the skin by holding the strap out as so that it formed a loop and he tried not to flinch as a finger as large as his harm came down from the darkness and hooked it from his grasp.  With a popping sound followed by a faint gurgling, the Kivinaisia drank, then took a step forward, eliciting a leap backwards from Arne and a quick sprint by eveyone not already on my side of the fire, which by now was burning brightly.
	With an explosive grunt the enormous figure settled onto it's rump, the head and shoulders finally coming into view.  The shoulders were broad, though not so broad as I would have expected of a man of the same proportions, and the massive head was ensconced in a helm strange to me.  The face of it was two long slabs of steel set a full span apart, between which a mouth and nose were hinted at and the faint glimmer of sparkling eyes would be seen through the slit at the top of the face.  The rest of the helm was domed and patterned with whorls and waves and blocky borders that reminded me of the ziggurats found in the deep jungle south of Kvelm.  Atop it sprang an long plume of some sort of black fiberous material, something like hair, but the horse that bore that tail would be as tall as a mountain.  From underneath the back and sides of the helm flowed a torrent of red-gold hair in gentle waves, like that of a woman's.
	A woman's hair.  Narrow shoulders.  The oddness about the torso.  Oh no...
	The figure reached up and unstrapped the helm and pulled it off, setting it on the ground beside her as she slouched to the side, reclining upon her forearm.  Her, for there was no doubting the sex of the being before us , face was kite-shaped and well-formed with soft, prominent cheekbones and wide, full lips that were quirked sardonically. Her nose was strong with an impertinent tip, marred by a bright scar that crossed it just short of her bright blue eyes.  The eyes held a twinkle and I was now certain she was amused by the proceedings.
	Arne again approached her offering the open poke of salt in both hands.  The Kivinaisia wet the tip of her finger and touched it gently to the pile of salt, then brought it to her lips, a tongue as broad as a cow's licked out and licked the salt from her finger.  Arne backed away with an expression of awe, lowering the poke and nearly stumbling when he continued to stare.
	“Well then, now that that's being over with,” she intoned, her husky contralto make less hollow by the absence of the sound-baffling helmet “Perchance can you tell me what it is you seek of the  Kivinaisia?”
	“We-” I stumbled again and arne thrust another skin at me.  I paused and took a deep draught before passing it on to Dunleavy who stood to me left. “We seek protection  and aid in driving off an enemy that approaches Baldspire Gap.”
	“This is within the bounds of the compact, what is the nature of this enemy?”
	“An approaching army, we expect three hundred men, heavily armed and armored and with much training and experience in war.”
	“This is not too great a number, how armed?” She inquired, tilting her head back, then drinking some more wine through the expedient of lifting the skin above her face and pinching it, producing a stream of pale wine that arched into her open mouth.
	“Pikes, shields, swords, and heavy jezzail.” I swallowed “There may also be cannon.”
	“What are “jezzail” and “cannon”?”  She asked.
	I said, “Umm...A jezzail is like a sling that uses fire to propel a lead stone very very fast.  Hunters can use them to kill large game, like elk or buffalo.  And a cannon is like a jezzail that fires a steel stone as large as your fingertip, or a number of smaller stones that weigh the same as the large one.”
	Frowning, she examined her fingertip speculatively.  “And how quickly can these jezzal and cannon be fired?”
	“Jeszzail?  Per-Perhaps once or twice in 100 heartbeats.  Cannon are slower, usually... no more than once every 200 heartbeats.”  I could see all traces of joviality escape from her face.
	“When can we expect this warband to reach Baldspire Gap?”  She asked expressionlessly.
	“Ahh..we do not know exactly. “ I did some quick calculations in my head. “It will certainly be no less than a week.  The messenger who brought word traveled two score and five from the nearest settlement and another three score and fifteen from the one before that.  The...warband...is no more than six score and five miles away, for certain.  A tenday, of marching if they hurry?  Perhaps a little more.”
	Now that huge face frowned slightly.  “And you are willing to fulfill the terms of the compact?”
	“We are.  How many beeves do you need?”  I asked.
	She paused a moment, doing calculations in her head. “Five grown beeves a day for as long as the enemy is a threat.” she said slowly.  “Afterwards, you will repair or replace our harness and weapons as required.”
	There was a soft grumbling from the assembled men as the considered the undertaking that would require.  To replace a full suit of brigandine was no cheap feat even if sized for a normal man.  Replacing one on a colossal being like the Kivinaisia would be an undertaking that could break even a wealthy man.  Doing so for a dozen of them including weapons, may well bankrupt  the town.
	I glanced at the grumblers sharply, and saw Geoffrey Butler nod purposefully.   “Done.”
	“And which among you will be the bal'mah'cour? She said, with deadly seriousness.  Her eyes looked at me intensely, ignoring the sudden silence than came over the group.
	I heard Arne take a breath to respond, but then I heard another voice, not Arne's speak.  “I will stand as bal'mah'cour.  My life in exchange for the compact.”  It was MY voice.
Arne squawked and then his breath left him in a rush.  There was a collective gasp to the left of me and I could feel their eyes boring into me.
	I was silent for a moment, then turned to Arne.  “You've what, thirty summers behind you Arne Freeman?”
	He nodded mutely.
	“I have near on to fifty behind me and no wife nor child to show for it.  My kin are all dead or far from here and I have no one to leave my craft or my shop to.  You've too much ahead of you and I too little behind me for me to let you make this sacrifice.”
	I swung around and addressed Butler and the rest of the townsmen.  “By tradition, the last requests of the bal'mah'cour are inviolate among our-YOUR people.”  There was a ragged chorus of “Ayes” and collective nodding throughout,  “Thoma Magor you are a drunken gelding at the best of times and a gob-shite coward the rest.  I require that Thoma Magor be stripped of his wife and her child, their marriage annuled.  She shall have my home and shop to use and dispose of as she wills. She will take the name Stonbender until such time as she marries again.”  I could see Thoma's face flush with anger and his fists knotted in frustraton for he knew that there was no appeal for him to make.
	Butler nodded solemnly and his sonorous voice cut through the night, plowing through the quiet chatter and rising above the crackling of the fire.  “It shall be done.  We thank you Geremiah Stonebender, for your sacrifice, your name will not die out among the people of Barrentor.”
	I flushed in embarrassment as he embraced me as a brother would.  Speaking in a whisper I muttered into his ear, “See that Freeman and Elyssia are married before midsummer.  Despite the decree, she's going to have a rough time of things without a husband.  The matrons will be pecking at her like a flock of chickens if you're not careful, and the young rakes will be circling like hawks.”
	He nodded, smiling.  “I'll see to it man.”
	I turned to Arne again and leaned in to speak quietly with him, “Marry the girl and soon.  And keep a watchful eye on Thoma, he's a coward, but he's also a villain.  It would not do for him to harm the girls after the trouble I've gone through to put them fully in your orbit.”
	“Ach, aye, Geremiah, I will.” he practically sobbed, “And I will keep your name sacred among my people, a place at my table will be set in your honor for as long as my line shall last.”
	I could feel myself blush again and struggled to collect myself before facing my doom.  Striding around the fire to confront the massive face, I steeled myself and spoke in hushed tones “How shall it be then Monaruru of the Kivinaisia?  Am I to be killed here, or is there a place sacred to your people that demands my death?”
	She stared at me for a long moment, then threw her head back and peals of deep-throated laughter roared across the mountains.  “Death?  What death do you think comes for you little man?  Death will find you when he finds you, for the faceless one finds us all at our appointed time.  But now is not your time, not is it to be at my hand, nor any other  Kivinaisia's.”
	I felt numb.  Not death?  I would live?  But the sacrifice?  The bal-mah-cour?
	“What do you mean?  The compact says there must be a sacrifice to seal the bargain.”
	“Oh yes, a sacrifice.  You belong to the Czerhun'bal sept of the Kivinaisia now.  You will be the bal'mah'cour, “Blood-sib-who-makes-the-way”.  Did you not know what it meant? You will live among us, and be our kin-bondsman until you die or the sept is no more.”
	I stood in shock.  I was not to die this night.  I could not seem to catch my breath.  Hands guided me to a seat near the fire and a skin was thrust into my mine.  I almost choked on the contents, expecting watered wine and instead getting mead laced with peary.  I began to calm myself and noticed the look of concern on Monaruru's face.
	“When do we depart blood-sib?”  the unfamiliar word awkward on y tongue.
	“It will take better than a day to gather my file.  Go to Baldspire Gap and gather your personal belongings and any supplies you might need.  Including a mount.  Meet me at the bench on the low shoulder of the mountain west of here on the north side of the valley in two days time.  Bring a tenday's worth of beeves with you.”
	I nodded.  “It will be done.”
	She rose and seated the helm on her head, waved once, turned and faded into the night.  On the trip back I left the driving to Arne.  Somewhere along the way I crawled into the bed of the freight wagon and fell into a deep slumber, exhaustion overcoming the bumps and jostling of the poorly built road.