“Should you eventually decide to do so, you may go with my blessing,” Bryahn agreed smoothly, then pulled her tight against his body. “Where you would find a company who would take a woman who has borne two hundred children, however, is something I cannot imagine. That is the number of heirs you agreed to bear for me, is it not?”

“Bryahn!” she exclaimed, trying not to laugh at what he had said, feeling the heat rise in her as he touched soft, warm lips to her throat. She squirmed in his embrace, noticing at last that his plate was no longer a barrier between them, then gave in to the delight of feeling wanted again. “No more than fifty,” she murmured, circling him with her arms so that she might press up against him. “Not a child more than fifty—”

His lips against hers ended their conversation, at least the words spoken aloud. Their minds had grown used to merging long before their bodies did, and now they each spoke unceasingly of the pleasure they meant to share.

Wind Whisper looked about the woods with a sigh, despairing of her brother and sister ever learning proper behavior while still in such close proximity to enemies. But she would stand guard willingly. The brief battle they three had shared had been rather pleasant, and the prairiecat knew it was her duty to guard the unseeing backs of the others so that they three might share battle again.

As she knew they would share battle again.

Killsister

by Steven Barnes

STEVEN BARNES is one of those writers who can write either by themselves or in collaboration. Being the author of two novels, and coauthor of three more, the most recent being The Legacy of Heorot, with Larry Niven and Jerry Poumelle, isn’t enough for him; he also has written several television screenplays.

“We’ll make them pay,” Steel Tooth muttered for the thousandth time. His battered face, swathed in makeshift bandages, was slack with fatigue. Weariness had drained his eyes of their customary fire. His body, the strongest and most supple among the Crow, was numb with the day’s dreadful labors. “The night is cold, Boone.”

“For those of us who can feel it,” his companion replied. Boone was a slender, wiry man, his face all angles and lines. He poked the fire beneath the cookpot. “We lost too many this time.” He sniffed at a rising tendril of steam, pungent with the aroma of spices, vegetables and moor boar.

“We’ll make them pay. We’ll make them pay.” Steel Tooth chanted it as a litany, as if mere words could keep the grief at bay, or change the day’s events.

Steel Tooth flinched, the dagger wound in his side suddenly alive with pain. It was only an inch below the lung. If he’d been a moment slower to the guard . . .

Even considering the pain, he was luckier than many. The Crow camp was filled with wounded men, and his only satisfaction was that as many, or more, lay wounded in the enemy camp. The Horseclans had tasted Crow steel today! Even their leader, the gigantic Hezros, had been toppled from his terrible black horse.

Steel Tooth’s wan smile dimmed as he remembered the inhuman fury with which the other clansmen had cut their way to their leader’s side, before the Crow could press their advantage.

Damn!

Distantly, a wavering animal scream broke from the southern woods.

With an oath, Boone sprang to his feet, slapping one hand to the dagger at his belt. “What was that?” They stood, looking south, downriver. Toward Killsister, the river flowing past the mountain which gave her her name. At the base of Killsister Mountain, the river created a vast network of marshes. Farther south it floated to the plains roamed by their sworn enemies, the Horseclans.

They listened, but heard nothing more.

Boonei reluctantly sheathed his weapon. “Just a jackal, I suppose.”

“Plenty of meat for them today,” Steel Tooth said morosely. He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I do.” Boone stared into the flame, blinking slowly. “Erin.”

Steel Tooth grunted. He seemed to be feeling his way, clumsily finding words to map out unfamiliar emotional territory. “It’s just that ... it hurts to think Little Brother is gone now. First Tal, now Erin.” He wagged his massive head. “I’ve lost half my family to the damned Horseclans. . . .’’He smashed his fist into the ground and lifted his face to the sky. “Damn you, Erin! It should have been me!” He sank his head between his knees and locked his eyes tight. “He wanted this battle. He wanted to blood himself. Erin the Warrior!” His voice was heavy with remorse. “It should have been me.”

Boone lifted the ladle from the pot, let the aroma waft temptingly beneath Steel Tooth’s nose. “You have to stay strong. There are a world of clansmen to kill.” Steel Tooth grunted approval. “It’s true. Well, be

damned. The next Horseclans throat is yours, Little Brother! Yours.” He sighed heavily, turning back to the fire. “Let’s have a bowl for Erin.”

The world seethed with pain and dull color, jelling sluggishly as Erin came to his senses. The first thing he sensed was massive pressure from above, pressure that crushed him down into the ground, stifled breathing. Stones and broken sticks cut into his cheek. Everything ached.

Memories began to flow, like water from a crumbling dam. He remembered the moment of his death: Hezros, chief of the clansmen, astride his terrifying black steed, had fallen atop him. He remembered the heat of its breath, the sudden shock of the impact. What a glorious moment that had been! Standing full in the open, pulling and firing, pulling and firing again and again, as that nightmarish centaur bore down on him, man and horse armored in leather, indistinguishable one from the other in the dusk.

And Erin stood, firing, and brought them down! The animal plowed into the ground, screaming, a Crow arrow feathering its eye, Hezros sorely wounded but lashed into the saddle, battleaxe gleaming in his hand as the horse churned in its death agonies.

Not five yards from Erin the horse’s front legs finally collapsed. Beast and master struck the marshy ground, tumbling, churning and furrowing the moist, rich earth until both collided with Erin, hammering him into the ground.

He ached all over, but especially in his leg. His feet were cold. Is that what he would feel in hell? Is that the way it began?

If this was the road to hell, at least he’d sent a hundred souls howling before him. He smiled. If the furnaces of hell needed stoking, it wouldn’t be Erin’s raw, blistered hands that carried the coals from one flaming heap to another. He had acquitted himself with honor. This day he had become Erin the Warrior, a slayer, a reaper of souls. He would have slaves aplenty in the next world.

The next thought that came to him was awareness of the wind ruffling his hair. Wind, cool wind in the pits of hell? Who would have thought . . .

Of course, it was probably just more torment. Probably just the icy breath of a hideous demon hovering over him now, waiting for him to regain consciousness so that it could begin to devour his genitals and excretory organs.

Over and over again, throughout all of eternity.

If that was his fate, he would meet it as a warrior of the Crow. He opened his eyes, and was surprised that the sky of hell was identical to that of earth. The same stars, the same clouds drifting endlessly . . . but something was blocking the sky. He fought to focus his vision and couldn’t. There was something lying atop him, pinning him to the ground. Ah . . . the torments of hell had begun! A demon had rolled a giant stone atop his chest. . . .

Wait. He found the strength to twist his head to the right. At first he could see nothing, then focused his eyes on'his bloody jerkin. So. You wore clothes in hell—presumably only the clothes you died in.