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holding the rest of me, I knew them all too well, and I knew struggling was of no use, and yet I struggled. I kicked, I strained against the weight of the boneless flesh that pinned me to the ground, my chest tightened, I could not breathe … I had to calm myself. My fear, my despair only let the creature’s spearhead teeth bite deeper into my gut.
    The very fitting emblems of Mahela’s mindless greed, the devourers were. They had no heads, their maws were in their bellies, and like hers their whole will was to take, grasp, possess. The creatures of small self-will, the doves, the deer, the children, they took at a single gulp. Kings and warriors they found harder to bear away to Mahela, but they had the persistence of madwomen. Even the most valiant of warriors they could overpower in the course of a single long night. Seldom they found a king, such as Korridun, with the strength to defy them. Then they turned to an abomination worse than rape. The brutes could change shape by shooting out cold seawater, flattening their dugs, furling themselves into a sort of huge phallus. With serpent tail thrashing in air they could pin a strong victim to the ground and bore like a leech until they found their way within, where they took hold of heart and soul. Ytan was such a victim, unsouled because of his own strength, with only his body left to him, his own body and a keen mind to do evil.
    I could not let that happen to me. I had vowed to Kor once that I would kill myself first—but then who would quest for the god?
    By an effort of will I steadied myself, made my frantic body lie still. The cold, slimy breasts, large and hard as the melons the Herders grew, pressed against my face—no matter. If I stopped struggling and breathed shallowly and slowly, I could yet breathe. The capelike wings of the thing pinning my arms to my sides so that I could not reach my sword. No matter. When I centered myself there would be no need of the sword. The eely tail tightening around my legs, the maw sucking at my belly, strong as sea tide, working to take me in—none of it mattered, for the monster could not have me. I was bullheaded, my tribefellows had always said. I would be stubborn in defiance, more stubborn than any minion of Mahela, once well centered in self.
    I was—a Red Hart? But no, not entirely, not since I had gone away. I did not braid my hair, I had eaten fish with the Seal Kindred, I had changed shape into a seal and traveled the greendeep to Mahela’s realm. I wore woolens like the Herders, or furs, or whatever came to hand. Sometimes I even slept in a shirt. I was no longer at one with my tribe, and my thoughts were no longer their thoughts.
    I was—a hunter? But hunters killed the creatures of Sakeema. Did I wish to kill the creatures of Sakeema any longer? Unsure, I let my thoughts speed on. I was—a warrior? But I had left my bond brother to face war alone. No proper warrior, I. A storyteller, yes—but I could sense no ending but doom to my tale. I was—was—
    I could not remember my name. Chill of fear crept up my backbone.
    Distantly I sensed the flow of my own warm blood. The teeth had pierced, perhaps to my innards. Sakeema, I silently begged, help me. Help the dolt who cannot remember his own name. Sakeema, please! Confound the god, no face to him, no place, no tribe, where was he?
    Sakeema.
    I was—one who yearned for the god. I was—seeker. I was—Darran?
    The name felt strange. I thought it uncertainly. But as I held it in my mind, not sure whether to keep it or send it away, I felt the devourer falter in its worrying at me, I felt the grip of its wings weaken. My right hand shot out, reaching for Alar, the sword lying beside me in the grass.
    The devourer knew what swords were for. It lifted off me in haste, and though a moment before I had been desperate, I was now full of gleeful daring, and my left hand darted upward, grasping the flange of one strong,