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to argue. “How many woollies can I take?”
    “None. Go!”
    Indarth’s face seemed to crumple. “That’s not fair!” he shouted.
    The giant skeletal youth thrust the point of his sword into the ground, so that it stood close to hand. He pulled the bow from his shoulder. He took an arrow from the quiver. Indarth fled, and the rest of us watched in silence. Anubyl notched the arrow, drew the bow, and waited.
    Some way beyond the camp, Indarth stopped and turned. At once Anubyl lobbed the arrow at him. Had my brother not been running again before it reached him, he would have been squarely hit. But Anubyl could have killed him easily, had he wanted. As I said, our new owner was a good archer.
    I was small. He did not pay me much heed. He frowned at Arrint but let him stay, probably because two loners in the neighborhood might combine against him. I could guess that Arrint would follow as soon as Indarth had vanished into the wilderness or was known to be dead. Arrint’s face showed that he believed this also.
    The rest of the changeover went smoothly. Anubyl inspected all of his people and his two remaining horses—the mare my father had been riding had bolted and never returned. He sent herders back out to tend the woollies, then settled down in the eating place without a word. The women rushed to bring food, which he crammed into his mouth as if he were famished. He ate everything they had ready. They prepared more, and he ate that also. I had never seen a man so gorge himself, and I don’t think I ever have since. We others huddled where we were, shocked and silent.
    Finally our new master rose and stretched and belched loudly. He glanced over at the women and selected Jalinan with a nod. She headed for her tent.
    Amby fell to her knees again before this lanky, terrible boy. “Sir…may we hold the rites?”
    Anubyl reluctantly agreed—carrion in the neighborhood would attract predators. He pointed. “That way.” Then he followed Jalinan.
    Some of us older herders accompanied Amby and Ulith when they went in search of my father’s body. It lay surprisingly close to camp, so Anubyl was a good stalker as well as a good archer. The evidence was clear. He had lain in wait behind a boulder. My father had not had time to string his bow. He had charged on horseback, drawing his sword, and there were marks to show where he had been dragged until his boot came off in a stirrup. One arrow had sufficed, and it still protruded from his chest. We lifted the huge headless corpse onto a rug. We dragged it back to the tents, wailing as herdfolk do at funerals.
    But the horrors were not over yet.
    Anubyl stormed out of Jalinan’s tent, still fastening his belt. “Quiet!” he bellowed. “Bury him quietly, with no— You! Woman! Come here!”
    He was glaring at my mother, who was some distance from the tents, heading the way Indarth had gone and carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket. She jumped nervously, then came scurrying back.
    Once—as in my ancient memory of her with the angel—she had seemed tall and slender, smooth of skin and merry of spirit. Now she was plump and shorter even than I, a squat figure in a patterned wool dress, her youth and beauty eroded away by the bearing of eleven children. A lifetime of constant sun had crumbled her face, and the hair below her kerchief was silvered.
    Anubyl strode forward and waited for her by the dying fire, folding his arms. She stopped in front of him with her eyes downcast.
    “Tip it out and let’s see!”
    She shook the blanket. A cascade of smoked meat and a few roots fell at her master’s feet; a knife, also, a water bag, and tinder. He reached out with both hands and ripped the gown from her. He threw her to the ground. Then he took a long stick from the firewood pile and laid it across her back. Before the blood had even started to ooze from the first welt, he struck her again.
    I took one step forward.
    Anubyl paused and looked at me inquiringly.
    I stopped.
    I