The boy knocked on the old man's door, which was hanging open in the summer heat that was reaching up even into the heights of the mountains.

"Father Hrothgar?"

The old man looked up from the model of The Motherland and the Saradon that dominated the greatroom of his house. It was his thirdson Lars, and the look on his face told Hrothgar that he didn't bring good news.

"Yes, thirdson?"

"It's Sven, father. He, uh..."

"Yes, yes, spit it out, boy, what's he done now?"

"He hit Sigred at the mating rite."

"He hit a woman?"

"Yes, Father."

The old man looked down at his model and shook his head.

"Damn that hotheaded young fool! Sweet Mother, that boy will be the death of me yet! Has he met the Matriarch yet?"

"No, Father. He's been put into the root cellar until the Matriarch decides what to do with him."

"Well, get me my stick, there by the door, and I'll go talk to him. No, on second thought, don't. Let him stew in his own juice down there until the Matriarch decides what to do with him. Stupid fool! If the Matriarch decides to kill him over this then I'll bash his stupid head in myself!" He shook his head again. "Go on back to the village, and if the Matriarch doesn't kill him then bring his stupid carcas to me."

"Yes, Father."

Hrothgar shook his head as he watched the boy go. How was he supposed to take back the Motherland from the small ones when his best men couldn't control their tempers around their womenfolk! Hitting a woman. Sweet Mother! Hadn't the combat of The Contest been enough for him? He'd lost his temper during the Mating as well? Fool! Depending on the severity of the crime that meant two things, depending on what kind of mood the Matriarch was in: Death or banishment.

He sat down at his table and poured himself a measured portion of strongwater.

Well, Sigred was a fiery woman, and difficult to dominate even when she was in estrus. For men like Sven the battle of The Contest only served to get their blood up. That's part of what made him such a valuable warrior, that thirst for battle. A woman will not accept a man unless he is capable of dominating her, and Sigred was as much a fighter as Sven. If she were a man then she would be as valuable a warrior as Sven, if not more.

As Patriarch he claimed rights to the Matriarch herself, and even he couldn't hit a young woman such as Sigred and get away with it. As a young man he had always won the Contest for her. Much of the time it seemed she only put of token resistance to his domination, and he had sired many children by her. Sven himself was a secondson from one of those children.

Fool! The boy had all of his secondfather's fight but none of his brains. Sven should have known better. She's too young for him anyway. She's young enough to be his daughter. But she's pretty, and strong, and tough as a woman of The People should be. She would not accept any man easily.

He could hear another Contest getting under way. Yes, it was that time of year, and the women were all coming into estrus. The men were all in rut. He could feel it himself even at his age. This would continue on until even the oldest and the ugliest had been mated. He was fit for a man of his age, and he could probably hold his own in the Contest, but he was too old for such silliness, and besides which, as the Patriarch he had rights to the Matriarch until such time as she should choose another. Midsummer was coming up, and he would mate her as part of the Great Rite. In any event, both he and the Matriarch were too old for such silliness as the Contest and the Mating.

He spent a pleasant few minutes thinking nostalgically of the first time he had won the Contest for the woman who would become the Matriarch. He beat 4 others for the right to her, and left two of them with scars they carried for the rest of their lives. She wrestled as hard as a woman of The People should, and when she finally accepted him she did so with a gusto that was as intense as her resistance had been, and they didn't leave her house for nearly a week. The next year, during the birth moon she gave birth to a strapping young daughter who bore a strong resemblance to her sire. She was beautiful! He was handsome, or at least he thought so.

But the work of the day must go on. With most of the adult men gone to Contests all over the place it was up to him, some thirdfatherly men like him, and some young boys to keep the chores done. Herds had to be minded, goats had to be milked. He swallowed his cup of strongwater, gathered up a couple of his thirdsons and headed out toward the paddock. It would probably be some time before the Matriarch made up her mind what to do with Sven anyway, and best to keep busy and keep his mind off of it.

He looked at his thirdsons bringing the herd back from the high steppe where they had spent the morning grazing. You know you're getting old when your thirdsons are reaching the age of ascension and leaving their mothers' houses. You know you're really getting old when some of those thirdsons are feeling the rut and walking around with erections between their legs and blood in their eyes. If he trained them right he'd have fourthsons before he knew it. Fourthsons! Few of The People lived long enough to have fourthsons since the small ones who call themselves "Tamarians" drove The People from the Motherland.

And that rolled his thoughts back around to Sven. Plans were in motion to take back the Motherland, he needed all the good men he had, and Sven was one of his best. Now the damned fool had gone and hit a woman. Well, with Sven or without him, one day before he died he would pasture his goats on the green fields of the Motherland, as his fifthfather had done two hundred years ago, instead of the near worthless high meadows up on the steppe. Someday. Someday soon. He refused to die until that day came.

But what to do with Sven. Then an idea came to him. An idea that had been cooking in the back of his head for some time. An idea he'd been thinking about occasionally since he'd received a message from a small one some months back. Perhaps he could use Sven for this idea, and at the same time give Sven a chance to redeem himself. Yes, that would be good. At least it would be good if the Matriarch didn't let the women have their way with him. If that happened then Sven wouldn't be much good to anyone except as fertilizer for the pastures.

Later on, after the chores were done, it was near sunset, and the thirdsons were getting the evening meal on the table in the longhouse. Two thirdsons came in accompanying a very dejected looking Sven, and they brought him before Hrothgar. He had a black eye, a swollen lip and there was blood crusted in his hair and beard. There was a small cut on his neck where the Matriarch Of The Rite, probably Uli, Sigred's mother, had held her knife. It had obviously been some fight at the contest, and nearly as much a fight with the women. He stank of women's urine, and from the smell of it several women had urinated on him. It must have been an ugly and thoroughly humiliating scene.

Hrothgar stood as the thirdsons brought Sven up to him.

"What is the Matriarch's decision?"

"Banishment for a year. I have three days to leave the lands of the People, and I must stay away from any lands belonging to our Clans for at least a year. A year!"

"A year? Hmm... I would almost expect more than that. How did this happen?"

"I whipped five of them in a Contest that people will be telling their thirdsons about. It was glorious! Sigred was so excited by the fighting that men could smell her heat a league away. I expected her to fight the mating well, after all, a woman as worthy as Sigred wouldn't let herself be dominated easily! What I didn't expect was that she slapped me. By then my blood was up so high that it was totally a reflex reaction, and I slapped her back. I knocked her down. I realized what I'd done, and the next thing I knew I had about a dozen women on me holding me down, and a there was knife at my throat. That's all there is, really. I don't see how that's worth banishment for a whole year."

"What did you expect? You struck a woman, and that's one of the worst crimes we have. The Great Mother made us big and strong so we could dominate the Motherland and protect our women, not hit them. We're supposed to only dominate our women, not beat them up. Sweet merciful Mother, they're the reason we men are in the world! If not for women there would be no men! By rights the Matriarch could have had you killed. Count yourself lucky!"

"She shouldn't have slapped me."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. You damned sure shouldn't have slapped her back!"

"But how in the Mother's name am I supposed to survive outside the Clans' lands for an entire year? We have no kinsmen outside the Clans' lands anymore. You know that! Banishing me for a year might as well be a death sentence, especially when winter sets in!"

"You are of The People. The Mother made us to survive the winter. But winter will be the least of your worries. You need to redeem yourself for your stupidity, and I have a way you can do it. If you think you can use your brains for something besides filling up your head. If you think you can do something useful instead of going and sulking in Kameron for a year."

Sven sighed and looked at his feet.

"What would you have me do, Secondfather?"

"Far to the south, beyond the Motherland there is a country of small ones called the Azgaril. You've heard of them?"

Sven looked at him with suspicion.

"Yes, I remember them. They gave us weapons that turned out to be useless against the Tamarians. What of them?"

"They will give us more weapons. Many more weapons, not just a few old cannon. They will help us take back the Motherland, and all they want in return is the right to mine some of our minerals. I want you to go south and make contact with them. I want you to see what they have to offer, and bring that news back here."

"You would deal with small ones?" Suspicion and contempt laced his voice.

"Seconson, I would deal with the Evil One himself if that's what it took to win back the Motherland."

"What do they have to offer us? Cowardly weapons that let you kill an enemy without ever seeing his eyes? Perhaps my secondfather has grown soft in his old age?"

Hrothgar punched Sven in the jaw and knocked him down.

"Secondson, I may be too old to bend you across my knee, but don't think I can't still whip your ass in a fair fight!"

Sven got up and rushed the old man, who simply stepped out of the way with a foot extended and gave him a push on the back as he passed. The trip and the push knocked Sven off balance, and he ran headlong into the stone wall of the longhouse, and then fell to the floor stunned. As he recovered his senses Hrothgar stood over him.

"Secondson, I am not calling you a coward, because I know you are not one. Many a time I've fought with you at my side, and you are as brave a warrior as I've seen, and better than most. But I am willing to do whatever it takes to win back the Motherland, even if that means dealing with small ones. Even if it means using unmanly weapons that kill from a distance. I don't like it any more than you do, but if that's what it takes then that's what I'll do. I don't like the Azgaril. I don't trust the Azgaril, and I know you don't either, and that's why I'm sending you.

"Now, you've proven time and time again that you are a warrior. It's time to prove you're a man. Take this task I've given you, and go to the Azgaril, and help win back the Motherland. Or slink away and go to Kameron, or go to hell for all I care, but you won't be welcome back here!"

Sven looked up at him, and took a deep breath. At first he looked like he was going to argue further, but then he seemed to deflate.

"I will go to the Azgaril, Secondfather. I will make sure they don't cheat us. I will be as shrewd as the old fishmonger on the riverfront."

"Good. Now get up and go clean yourself up for supper. You smell like a women's latrine."

The clansmen fed Sven a hearty supper of rabbit stewed with herbs, outfitted him with full traveling kit, and the next morning they fed him a hearty breakfast of barley meal with butter and honey, cheese, and goat's milk, and sent him on his way. Hrothgar gave him a purse full of gold coins for the journey.

As Sven left Hrothgar wondered if he would ever see him again. Would his mission to the Azgaril be successful? Would the Azgaril simply kill him and dispose of him as one would do with a broken tool? Would this be the alliance that won back the Motherland?

Ah, the Motherland! He grew up listening to first his mother then his fathers telling tales of the Motherland. Then he had seen it himself and he knew that the tales were true. Would he indeed again walk the green fields of the Motherland? He had not seen it since he was a little boy, fresh out of his mother's house. He had run reconnaissance missions for his own thirdfather, and he had seen the beautiful green fields thick with crops, and rich pastures full of livestock. Since those days he had longed to walk those fields in broad daylight with his head held high like a man should, instead of having to slink around like an animal. He had longed for it all his long life. Now maybe, just maybe, he would be able to walk those green fields again before The Death Crone came for him.

But with his sons and secondsons off chasing women and fighting in Contests for them it was time for him to round up the thirdsons and get started on the morning chores.

 Return to the Welcome Page