Now dirt’s my mustache,

And worms muddy my eyes

Legs paused then came back full of gusto.

But, oh, honeyed heaven

There’s nothing so fine

As Hogwife and I

Rooting side by side.

The men joined in again, some swinging their mugs of ale.

Oh, I’ve got me two wives

All mixed up in one.

She bore me a litter-

Five smart piglet sons.

The men clapped, whistled, hooted. Someone called out for another, but Legs waved them off, took a bow, and sat down. The men around him clapped him on the back. The ale had loosened them. But tomorrow when they were sober, they would begin thinking. Argoth knew this because one or two were thinking right now, watching their brethren clap and holler.

Argoth looked at Shim who, it appeared, had been watching him. Shim pointed at the door with his chin, indicating he wanted to talk with Argoth outside. Argoth walked out of the room into the night. Behind him a group of men began another song.

The stars hung bright in the heavens. Below those stars, in the middle of the fortress inner court, lay the bodies of the monster’s brethren found in the cave. There was so much the Order didn’t know.

A few moments later, Shim exited the building. “That blind one’s full of surprises,” he said.

“I’m sure we don’t know the half,” said Argoth.

Shim nodded. “Come with me.” He led Argoth to his command room across the bailey. Shim lit a lamp. The shutters were closed, but Shim pulled a small, thick blanket across each. In the winter such would keep the cold out. But they also muffled sound.

They sat in chairs, the lamp burning on the table to the side of them. “My friend,” said Shim. “I have shown you my love. I have shown you my trust. You need to honor that now and tell me your tale.”

Argoth hesitated. Such secrets were so dangerous. But he had hidden all his life. And it had led to nothing but loss. How could bringing the truth into the light of the sun be any worse? “Give me your hand, Lord.”

Shim stretched out his rough and callused hand. Upon the wrist was the tattoo of the Shoka clan. Surrounding that and running up Shim’s arm were the tattoos of Shoka manhood and his military orders.

Each clan had their own designs for manhood, military orders, and other markings, but each was built around the same simple clan pattern. Each child was required to have that pattern dyed into their flesh by a Divine. The pattern of Mokad.

By all that was holy. He looked at Shim’s clan tattoo again, and the true nature of the marking shot through him.

Those who followed other Glories had a different base pattern. And if they should be conquered, the tattoo of the conquerer was added. He thought of Hogan with the simple Koramite tattoo and the Mokaddian added to it. He thought of all those he’d seen-the men of other nations, Bone Faces, Cathay. All wore tattoos. All of them inked by Divines…

How could he have not seen it before? So simple. Despite all the flourishes added by the clans, the heart of the tattoo, the clan marking, was nothing more than an elaborate livestock brand. The woman was right: they were indeed cattle, marked by their various masters.

Argoth shook his head and took Shim’s hand. Nettle’s sacrifice had not all been a waste. He still had great portions of his son’s Fire in him. Shim’s hand was rough, strong, full of experience. Argoth looked Shim in the eyes, then poured a small amount of Fire into him.

Shim took in a breath, his eyes widened, but he did not let go.

Argoth spoke into Shim’s mind, In the beginning, all men were gods.

____________________

Argoth told Shim the fragments of the history of the humankind as he knew it. He told of the wars between the Divines and the old gods, knowing now it was not a war between men, but one between men and the race of the creature in the cave. He told of Hismayas, one of the last remaining gods, who sent his followers into the wilderness to hide, to preserve the truth until the time would come that they might throw off their masters. Then he told Shim about his tale, of his days of darkness, and stepping into the light. He told everything important up to and including the recent events with the Skir Master and the battle in the cave.

Shim said nothing for a long time. Then he pointed at small chest on the table next to Shim. “Open that,” he said.

Argoth did. In it lay folded a cloth. Argoth picked it up by two corners and let it unfurl. It was a device in the shape of a shield that Argoth had never seen before: a field half blue, half white, and upon that field lay a sun, the thread of which was made of brass. The sun glistened in the lamplight.

“What is this?”

“White for purity,” said Shim, “blue for courage and loyalty. The sun for knowledge and power.”

“Where did you get it?”

“It’s old, my friend. Very old, passed down for generations. This is going to be our standard.”

“Ours?” asked Argoth.

“All those,” Shim said, “who fight those that would be our masters.”

“I’ve watched the faces of the men,” said Argoth. “They are going to have a difficult time accepting this. We cannot simply dump the whole truth upon them.”

“No,” said Shim. “First we will demonstrate our power. And when we have the confidence of those who matter, we shall tell them by what means we work.”

“We will not have long. A few days at the most before they begin to question the fine points of our story.”

“What I need from you is living weaves,” said Shim. “A hundred in three days.”

“Three days?” It was impossible.

Shim nodded. “We have some dry weaves. Two dozen maybe. You can fill those.”

That would leave about seventy-five weaves to create. Nobody in this Grove knew how to make anything but crude weaves in metal. River could weave them of other things. But the amount Shim asked for was out of the question. Besides, they didn’t have the Fire. Only the current members of the Grove could give Fire. And Argoth would never take it again. “I can deliver another ten.”

“Twenty,” said Argoth. “We must come to them in power.”

“You can’t train up a dreadman in a few hours.”

“We don’t need full dreadmen. We just need to show them the power available. Can you train the men and women you give the weaves to perform some feat?”

“Yes,” said Argoth. “But even if we’re able to convince the lords of the Shoka, the Fir-Noy will not go along. And if they turn against us, three of the other clans will follow.”

“In the beginning,” said Shim, “they will resist us. But it will not last. The Prime is with us. Bosser as well. Furthermore, I have reports. The death of the Skir Master will shake Mokad. The lords of Nilliam will press this advantage. Mokad, more than ever, has no resources to spare. The Fir-Noy will receive no help.”

“The Skir Master gave them weaves,” said Argoth.

“How many? A dozen? And every day we will add to our numbers. In a few weeks we shall have hundreds. And then we shall raise dreadmen who need no weaves. Men like yourself. When the Bone Faces come and these Mokaddian loyalists have to contend with them on their own, they will find their objections are small things.”

“Yes,” said Argoth, “but we do not fight against the men of Mokad or Cathay or even the Bone Face ships. We fight against their masters. We have attacked, maybe killed, one of their kind.”

“You think the glorydoms will join forces against us?”

“Look at how Seekers work. They hunt soul-eaters across the glorydoms of the earth, and none bar their way. Why? Because they hunt a mutual threat.”