After the Enchanting

By SJ Enslow

Dragons slumber for years, often for centuries, and a deeper sleep overtook them when the world began to lose its magic. However, upon their awakening, magic in the world awoke with them.

Clawing the tapestry of time itself, the threads of so many potent lives were rewoven forever:
•From a young man skirting lycanthropy into Knighthood to a Two-Heart who walks a path of discovering the past while saving the future.
•A dragon and a priestly mage find themselves in a love that reshapes the world and themselves.
• A Piquat warrior who discovers the inner strength to lead his people finds himself aligned with a King who has magic beyond compare and a direct line to the Enchanting of the world.
• Goblins, cursed beyond measure, find themselves saved and saviors but no less cursed.
•Two doctors in the King’s service unwittingly change the course of the future when they encounter a mysterious woman on the road.
•A mechanic with a magical bloodline learns that a Golem is much more than the sum of its parts.

Magic, treason, curses, prophecies, love, and the quest for power lead the reader through this enchanted, steampunk alt-history look at 1600-1900 North America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pixie Wolf Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215550700

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

ANTE INCANTAMENTUM…

She awoke first. She had planned for this, this event.

Dragons love to sleep. Normally, upon awakening from her hibernation, Nidhama would luxuriate in her sleepiness. She would coil and uncoil, roll lazily, enjoying the sensuous feel of gold against her scales as she gradually let her hunger and curiosity rise until she would be propelled into the wide world to feed and explore….

Not this time.

She lingered just long enough to be sure her senses were not lying to her. She could smell, on the gentle draft that leaked in from above, that no other dragons had awoken yet. Not within a thousand or more miles. Without any more hesitation, she burst through the earth that had covered over her long-ago open cavern mouth to a mere slit. Her wings cast shadows in the fading light of a mountain sunset as she rose like a bruise against the reddening sky.

Creatures scattered in fear below her. She ignored them, having far grander plans in mind.

Dragons slumber for years, often for centuries. But there is a deeper sleep that takes them when the world begins to lose its magic. They delve deeply into the cool earth, taking their treasures with them, to rest until the world is ripe again. That is how the world feels to dragons: ripe. When it becomes less ripe, they rest to await the next ripening. The world was, to Nidhama’s finely tuned senses, almost ripe. The blush of deeper red on a pomegranate as it turns from glossy rose, or the fullness of a bud that has just begun to tease the spring with the delicate tips of its petals. And she was the first to rise (not the first of all the vast number of creatures of this Enchanted world, but the first of her kind, which is all that mattered to her).

She had planned for this, never anticipating that it would happen, but planned nonetheless. Planned as she had for every contingency she could imagine. Nidhama was paranoid, even by dragon standards. As she learned about the world as it was now, different of course than it had been when she had lain to slumber, then those plans might change. That was for later, though.

Before this ripening, she had put off sleeping as long as she could, as she did every time the world began to rot (the opposite of ripening, when the sweetness of the Enchanted World began to decay into… something else). Ever since she had conceived of this plan, she had waited to sleep, scouting out the locations of her kin, as many as she could find. Then she would sleep, hoping to wake before the others. So, when she burst from the earth to scout the landscape of this new world, she had a purpose:

She flew off to kill.

She flew to kill dragons.

Dragons always nest with their treasure. It had occurred to her ages ago that dragons are almost never so vulnerable as when they are relaxed and drowsy, thinking themselves secure in their hibernation nest. It would be the perfect time to steal their treasure.

Of course, she would have to kill them.

Otherwise they would hunt for her, seeking revenge. With the patience of eternity and the hunting prowess of the most fearsome predator they would hunt her. If she had stolen more than one hoard, they may even team up to hunt her (an otherwise almost unknown occurrence). And they would never stop, until she was found. And destroyed.

After all, dragons love vengeance too. Almost as much as gold.

Her plan was thus murder. Not that she cared enough about these other dragons to want to kill them. But, they were in possession of treasure that she wanted. They were in her way.

Iridescent eyes slitted in concentration, she flew in widening circles, rising higher as the sun sank below. The land was very different from before. The deserts had spread in this region, almost to the very edges of the hills she had nested in. Hills that had once been mountains. Interesting. Also, the cities that had once populated the now-desert flatlands were gone. She could see the fires of small encampments, nomads probably. She swooped down in the darkness to feed upon the camels and goats. Wisely, the people fled, abandoning their charges to hide in the scrublands of the desert. Sated, she rose to continue her explorations. Northward, a sea had filled in what was once a long valley. As she flew further, mapping the world against her memories, she saw the ocean to the west—she would learn later that it was called the Atlantic, by people who don’t even remember Atlantis now.

The air was tinged with the smells of distant fires, and, as she flew, she picked up the scent of other things burning too. There were vast stretches of land broken occasionally by settlements, villages, cities even. These belonged to humans, almost entirely. She rose higher and turned to the west.

The moon was white, bleached as bone. It was dead then. Ages ago, beings had lived there among towering jungle foliage. Maybe they would again, but for now it looked dry and uninteresting. She had been flying generally westward, moving the center of her sweeping circles as she hunted for landmarks and familiarity. Now, though, she set off across the ocean. Fires dotted the jungle and grasslands behind her as she sped southwest to her first planned encounter. The ocean was wide, but the air currents helped keep her aloft. Still, it took a while. Nidhama was not tired, though. She had just woken and fed, after all. South then, was a string of islands, relatively near to a continent that had once been larger. Near a great gulf that betrayed the presence of an impact crater—not visible from the ground but undeniable from her vantage point high in the sky between the atmosphere and space.

She sank lower, caressed by the rough hands of the wind as she fell through thick, dark clouds. Others would be waking soon, and she had traveled far. Islands stretched east from the tip of the larger northern continent, almost seeming to point her to the island she sought. The few people awake that night saw a deeper shadow fall through the rainstorm and muttered charms against evil as they pulled the shutters and doors of their shelters tight.

Certain now, able to smell her quarry and his gold even through the shallow water, she plunged down. Corals had grown over the passage to the dragon’s lair—the one she already thought of as her foe—she did not know his name, although she could smell his familiar musky maleness even as he slept. She ripped the corals and sandy rock, stirring the surface of the water to a violent boil.

She heard her roaring, amplified and altered by the thick atmosphere of the sea. The ground gave way, suddenly, releasing a great gout of air as she allowed herself to be sucked into her foe’s lair. Claws extended, she saw the blue-green orbs of her enemy open, and plunged her talons into them as he lifted his head. He was serpentine, with rows of sharp horns descending from a halo around his head and down his back. Green wisps of algae obscured his bright yellow and red scales. Her bloodlust was upon her, and her victim was dazed still. The waters, already cloudy with sand and debris, became a murky cloud of blood. In her frenzy, she ripped into his head, tearing chunks from his neck and scalp, swallowing them whole in a mad, bestial orgy of greed and hunger. He died before he was even able to fully awaken.

Hazy, impulsive, she exploded from the water in her greed. She heard and felt the shelf of sandy rocks and coral collapse upon the treasure she had left behind. The next dragon she had scouted was north, not far from where she was now, not more than a thousand miles. Not far. Not as the dragon flies. The gulf she had seen was fed by a mighty river from the north. The river mouth was a wide delta of swamp and silt, feeding fresh water into the salty gulf. She descended past fragile houses on stilts and wooden boats at dock. That fresh water tasted of gold and dragon. Another male. His scent was fresh enough, so he was probably awake. She was in her bloodlust, though, and did not care. She would tear him and take his gold. She would kill them all.

He must have smelled her, or had some warning of her coming, for when she had passed over the looping dark body of the river where he lurked, he pounced upwards. He also must have sensed her frenzy, for there was no parley. No pause for conversation or to ascertain motive.

He was large, almost as big as she (female dragons tend to be slightly larger) and covered in scintillating gold and green scales. The horns on his head pointed forward over his large yellow eyes. He had short, powerful limbs and wide green wings that cupped the air as he lurched from the water towards her. Nidhama was ready, though: she was in a blind fury of hunger and delicious rage, exulting in the pure unrestrained power and fury that coursed through her. She bellowed as he rose beneath her, releasing a white-hot stream of energy from her mouth full into his face. He fell, momentarily taken aback, and she fell atop him. They rolled through the waters, the swampy tree line, shattering mangroves, oaks, cottonwood, and willows. Their conflict gouged furrows in the soft mud with each other’s bodies and talons and marked the trees and earth with their blood.

When her mind cleared, Nidhama was victorious but injured. Her temper had cooled. Now she reasoned that the other dragons were probably awake enough to give her a more of a fight if she continued her treasure hunt. Injured as she was, she would have to be cautious, for now another dragon could possibly take her down and rob her of the treasures she rightfully had won.

Carefully, she searched through the mud and waterlogged trees of the river. She found his lair without much effort and decided that it would be hers. The new lair held much loose gold and many gemstones, artwork from various strange new traditions (new to her). It was hidden beneath the river in a large cavern and was well-sheltered from the sky. She took stock of her injuries as she surveyed the surprising amount of treasure she had won—he must have been in this lair for a long time, even by dragon standards. She had lost many scales from her chest and neck, and her right forelimb was severely bitten. Scrapes on her flanks. But, her wings were okay. That was what she needed for now. Many humans lived upstream, she could smell them. Later, after she returned, she would use them to divert the river where it ran through and into her new lair, to hide the scent of dragon (her scent, now) and gold that had led her here. First, however, she flew off to gather her hard-won treasures from the south. Later, but not too much later, she would cross the ocean and retrieve her former nest’s gold and jewels, the intricate golden lamps and other furnishings that would make the journey. The remaining, more perishable treasures would be left behind, perhaps to the fortune of another beast, or even a young dragon seeking its first home.

Dragons transport their treasure by swallowing it, and then disgorging it wherever the new lair is to be. Consequently, only riches that are resistant to the caustic acid in their gullet would survive. This is usually rare metals and other hard materials such as gems, enchanted woods, and the like. One way to tell if a dragon hoard is new, or long established, is to find fragile artworks among their treasures. These would never survive the journey to a new lair in the belly of the dragon.

Nidhama leaving riches behind was in no way charity. If she could take it, she would have. However, it was what could be considered a secondary wealth. Less resilient, so thus less important and, therefore, not valued as highly. She knew she would soon forget the details of those rugs, garments, paintings and portraits. They were not gold. Or gemstones. Those were the things that mattered. Especially the gold.

She began her flight south, slowed only slightly by her wounds. She would gather her new-found riches and add them to the hoard she had taken along the great Mississippi. Meanwhile she would make a plan for the humans, and they would serve her, as humans had served dragons in ancient times past. If these ones wouldn’t, then they would die and be replaced by others, if there were any left nearby. It was the ancient way of things. Then she would be able to rest a while, to heal and to plan for the future in this new world.

CHAPTER 2

P.I. 147, SPRING

An outsider would see a woman sitting tall, astride a stallion of russet and white. Her dusky golden hair streamed in the warm spring wind. The wind itself was scented with early flowers, grasses, and… something else: change, perhaps. The woman was a warrior of the Darling clan of the Piquat Nation. Like most Piquat, she bore the marks of mixed ancestry: straw-yellow hair and sharp blue eyes from her mother’s mother’s mother—a prairie woman caught as a widow on the plains during the winter of the first Ghost Dog War. Her great-grandfather was a proud warrior of the then-called Sioux Native peoples, a war-party leader of great renown. From him and his people she had inherited a slender, smooth-muscled frame, athletic with long arms, and legs, and a strong-boned face with high flat cheekbones. From the combined heritage that was the Piquat tribes, she inherited a traditional lifestyle that emphasized personal achievement and the gathering of wealth, wives, and war-trophies. She was a child of pioneer Europeans and High Plains Natives, living a semi-nomadic life of bison hunts, horse raids, circle dances, and strong community bonds.

She was Winsome. Perhaps, in a way, but certainly not in the sense of delicate female beauty. Hers was a fierce, rugged beauty, not winsome. That is what an outsider, unfamiliar with the people of the Piquat Nation, perhaps would see. But that is not what was truly there to be seen.

She was a famous man. A renowned warrior of the Piquat Nation.

Winsome. That unfortunate moniker was his name: Winsome Prairie-Fire Darling. In the first generation after the Piquat Nation was formed, the families had taken the pink-skins’ tradition of patriarchal last names, along with given first names and the descriptive face-name of the Native peoples; the reigning male at the time was a wiry, tough man with the unlikely last name of Darling. It had stuck, and since then the Darling lineage had produced a rather powerful line of men: warriors, war-leaders and, of course, respected elders.

No-one called him Darling. Not more than once. He was usually called Winnie, or, often while on a raid or among his peers, Prairie-Fire.

He smirked, wide thin lips pulled into an unconscious cruel sneer. Prairie-Fire, he had been named on his first raid—the rising sun had cast an unusual red into his hair—but the name had stuck due to his fierce speed and his merciless fury on the war-field. Other warriors had learned to respect his quick temper and deadly skill with the long knife of the plains. He remembered the last warrior to call him darling—he still had that one’s sun-tanned nipple in his saddlebag. That warrior had thought his larger frame and greater strength made him more man than Prairie-Fire, made it okay for him to disrespect a fellow warrior like that. He knew better, now. Riding out to his next raid shirtless, all would know he had crossed Prairie-Fire and, like most, had come out the lesser man.

He was successful, he had been successful for a long time, and that worried him. He had come out here, to the wide windswept plains to think, to plan, and to clear his head. He knew that his people, the society of the Piquat nation, was only able to survive the inflated egos, violent aggression, and individuality for which they were known and feared because those same violently successful warriors and war-leaders became the soft-spoken, reasonable clan leaders of tomorrow. Only the most successful, though, would be chosen by the clan—those that showed not only bravery and weapons skill, but leadership and intelligence too.

Winnie was successful: he had four wives now and had been considering a fifth: a sloe-eyed woman of quiet beauty whose solid body bespoke of a steady strength and the potential of secure comfort too. Wives were necessary for any warrior. They were needed to process the bison hides and meat, to take down and set up camp, to manage the vast collection of trophies and beads, to make clothes, to cook for fellow warriors, and to raise the children. Winnie had seven children: two, along with one of his wives, were the charges he adopted from a warrior-brother who died on one of his raids. The others were his, probably born from his wives through the custom of hospitality to visiting warriors, war-leaders, friends, and elders.

He was too successful, he thought to himself. Already, before the circle dance even, the elders were pressuring him with not-too-subtle hints that they would like to see him on the council of elders. He was only 37 years old. Not really an elder, he thought. Not really. Once he agreed, he would be expected to advise, but not participate, while younger warriors made raids. Any war-party he endorsed, he would not be allowed to share in the wealth gained—to prevent unfair war-mongering and control from the supposedly altruistic and now retired elders. His own wealth, vast as it was, would be dispersed among the tribes as he would be expected to give many gifts, to woo allies and to cultivate diplomatic ties through social, rather than individualist, means. He would become reserved and—he grimaced—be encouraged to cultivate patience and calm. It was the Piquat way, to keep the best of the tribe in the tribes, and to keep the strong and egoistical, charismatic warrior-leaders of today from tearing apart the tribes with their rampant egocentrism, and the aggressive hoarding & acquisition that marked their careers. A young warrior’s energy, tempered with experience and a reputation gained through being honored through their successes, would turn to wisdom learned through winning and losing duels, war-raids, and other adventures. Then, when they survived to become older (as only some would), some of these older, wealthy, and wiser warriors would become the voice of reason, wisdom, and restraint. They would guide the next generation of tribes. They would be turned from their selfish pursuits to selflessly work for the good of the whole tribe, for the security and future of the nation. It was the one system that worked for these fierce independent peoples—even before the Enchanting, when they had borne different tribal names, even before the pink-skins came, and before the Ghost Dogs had invaded from the North: a cycle of selfishness followed by service. Also, by removing the best of the current warriors from the pool of young adventurers, the younger warriors would have the same opportunities their predecessors did for growth and independence and fame, and, eventually, the same responsibilities. It was a good system, perfectly suited to life on the high plains, and to the Piquat temperament.

It stinks, he thought to himself.

He had fought hard, harder than most, to become accepted, and then to excel as a warrior. He cast his mind back, remembering his initiation, some twenty-three summers ago, on these very plains. Before he became a warrior:

She was one of only three warriors that year from the Darling clan to be initiated. The Darling clan (the men were never, ever, called Darlings although some of the wives seemed to like it) was presenting its warriors in the later half of that day’s ceremonies. The clans were together, all of them from across the nation, for the annual summer gathering. She—Winnie was a she then—was the last of the three to be announced, and so her father—a great warrior with a renowned sense of humor and intelligence to go with his battle-skill and bravery—was speaking, introducing her to the Piquat nation.

They had always had a difficult relationship, built up of respect, struggle, and the invariable clash of egos and intelligence.

When my son was born… he had begun. The evening sun was just beginning to cast colors across the prairie, still more than an hour from setting. Her father was the last speaker; when he was done the remainder of the initiates would be settled in for tomorrow morning and for the beginning of the Great Dance. The tall grasses had been cut and trampled to make the wide space needed for the festivities and the many visiting people. It should have been a proud day for her, and for him, so, she had wondered, why was he talking about her older (and only) brother?

When my son was born… he had repeated. He hadn’t even looked at her since she, along with the other warriors from across the plains, had been marched silently in from their various quests and trials. She was 15 summers old, had borne every last challenge, excelled at every skill, and thrived during even this last powerful vision quest: the Tree. But her father hadn’t even looked at or acknowledged her. And now, on her day, he was talking about her brother!

Maybe he was drunk. It didn’t matter. It was his turn to speak, and as an elder and the father of a presented warrior, he could have stood there and farted for 20 minutes; people would just have to deal with it.

When he was born, I thought to myself: this one’s going to be trouble! Muted chuckles broke out around the gathered tribes-folk. Once the fathers had spoken (again, she reminded herself, he was one of the highest ranked, and therefore the last), they would feast, then head out to tomorrow’s dancing. Tonight there would be celebration as the initiates, accepted into the tribe as men and warriors, celebrated their new status with revelry and some rough-housing too. Her older brother, she had seen, looked as confused as she felt, and even a little embarrassed. He had taught her much. First, to try to discourage her, then a girl, from the warrior’s path, to keep her in a woman’s place but then, after she almost broke his arm and bloodied his face, then he taught her as a younger brother. He taught her as a brother should: in fighting, riding, gambling, hunting, and even, as she got older, in womanizing. She knew he had also been brutal in making sure his peers respected his younger sister’s efforts.

Yes, her father had continued, trouble. Already, at birth he had these huge balls, a man’s balls, I tell you! I could foresee a day when my son could even, in my old age perhaps, even give me my due! More chuckles, but also a hesitant silence. People were beginning to really wonder where he was going with this speech. He had just given a great compliment, an acknowledgement that a warrior’s progeny could someday equal the great warrior himself. Still, she thought, it’s my day! Her brother had had his day years before. At least he looked uncomfortable, where before he had been filled with pride for his younger brother.

She had fought and fought hard. She couldn’t match the strength of the biggest, even though she had grown to be stronger than some. She was a quick wrestler; few could pin her, and fewer still could keep her pinned. She was already feared with the long knife of the plains, and she could shoot bow and rifle with a deadly, consistent precision. She was tough: once, when out riding a barely-broken stallion at age eleven, her horse had stumbled and fallen on her, pinning her left leg under the injured horse. She had been certain, then, that she was going to lose the leg, but she didn’t cry. Like a warrior she had lain there stone-faced until they had found her, her leg and hip wracked with pain and the weight of the injured horse. Even then, she didn’t show any relief or pain, and had merely said in a calm voice, I will be needing a new horse, this one is inadequate. Winnie had joked and talked the whole way back, as the travois they had strapped her to bounced and jostled back to camp. Even then, as she healed, she refused to show any sign of weakness, displaying an almost supernatural drive to be strong and whole: she even taught herself to walk, right after her splints came off, without a limp. Without any sign of weakness. Ever. Since then she’d excelled at all the quests, tasks, and training. Trials without food or water in the summer, the harsh prairie winter without weapons, fire, shelter. She’d thrived, even. Her back still stung from the hooks where she’d been suspended without food or water for days, and even now, as her father rambled on about her brother—and his balls of all things!—she’d not eaten or drank since the Tree. But she’d stood, clear-eyed, calm, reserved, and powerful, untroubled by pain.

Her father had continued, his strong-boned face (like hers, even with that powerful nose and jaw) shimmering in the descending sunlight. So, I admit, I was confounded by the birth of this young man, this son of mine. Trouble-maker to be. So, like any warrior, I did something about it… Now, he looked right at her, eyes glinting mischievously with humor and pride, I cut off those huge balls; I stuck them on his chest and told everyone I had had a daughter!

He paused and let the chuckles begin. Now you all know the truth: I didn’t have a woman child; I had a son, a warrior! Following in the footsteps of his brother and his father! Winnie Prairie-Fire Darling is a warrior of the Darling clan of the Piquat Tribes!

Fatigue worked in her favor that night. She was so fatigued, and astonished, uncomprehending the sudden, sneaky turn in her father’s speech that she had simply met his gaze with one haughty and calm, and nodded. Her father had, as he often did, stolen the show, but she had responded perfectly in kind: as a warrior untroubled by the world.

It was much later, after she had eaten, drank, and then set loose in a flurry of feasting, celebrations, fucking, and a couple brief, not very serious fights, that she put together her father’s speech entirely. She had just left Jemmy Red-Grains satisfied and worn, with a sore crotch and a few love-bruises on her arms, breasts, and neck, and swaggered out under the stars when it hit her. She had achieved more than she had realized she wanted. She thought her whole life that she had wanted to be a warrior, but now, she realized, what she really had wanted. Her true, secret dream had come true: finally, Winnie Prairie-Fire was to her tribes, her family, and her nation, not only a warrior, but a man. From this moment on, she had earned that status so desperately strived for: HIM.

That was also the time, he recalled, when he had collected what was to become the first of his collection of rather unique battle-trophies.

Great Gatherings are held twice a year: in early spring and at the end of summer. The circle dance that accompanies the gatherings lasts for days, usually five—to honor each of the sacred directions. During these dances, people come and go as they need to, but many dance almost continuously, stopping only to eat, or sleep a few hours. Others join and leave the dance more casually, to arrange meetings, begin negotiations, to secure trade, or other dealings. Some, especially the younger warriors, vacillate between dancing excessively to celebrating excessively. Winnie, this gathering, was focused on the latter.

Winnie had, like all single men, been sleeping in one of the many warriors’ tents: large communal tents with blankets strewn on the floor of the lodge-shaped structure. He’d just slept a few hours and was making his way back towards the dance—now in the early morning of its third day—when he realized he was being followed. In the shadows between a wagon and a large tent he’d stopped and turned, his hand reflexively going to his knife (weapons are not allowed to be worn, but the knife is a tool, as well, and thus accepted at the dance).

As he’d suspected, it was another just-initiated young brave from a nearby tribe. Winnie had noted him watching and had also noted that the brave turned quickly away whenever Winnie turned towards him. Winnie expected he would be warned away by his friends, or that he’d be foolish enough to confront the Two Heart warrior eventually. Some males, he knew, had a hard time accepting born-female men. He knew his history and the history of other warrior Two Hearts. All had to do as he would: fight harder and prove himself more often, simply because he’d been born female. Warrior Two Hearts were not as common as wife two-hearts—those born male but feeling called to live as women—and so they were just not as well-accepted. Winnie had become a warrior by being strong, skilled, and also more brutal than his peers, and he had gained their respect. This one, however….

Realizing he had been seen, the young man walked up to Winnie, not quite in reach, and put his hand on his crotch. Hey, he said, your tits are hanging out.

They were dressed similarly: wearing moccasins, skin leggings, an open vest, and some beaded jewelry. Winnie hadn’t worn much else, and frequently less, in a long time. Except in the dead of winter, of course. Now, though, they both had the open leather vest of the summer on. So Winnie replied, So’re yours.

No, he’d said, your girl-tits are hanging out.

Winnie’s eyes had narrowed and without a word he nodded out to the prairie. Weapons were not allowed to be worn or used in the gathering camp, but with several different tribes of warriors (and the occasional independent visitors that were sometimes hot-headed) it was inevitable that the peace of camp would be broken occasionally. As long as the fight was quick and didn’t result in death, no one would complain, and most wouldn’t notice. If he lost, he knew he would probably be raped (unless one of his peers interfered—he would rather they didn’t, though); that was obvious. What was less obvious was what would happen to the young brave if Winnie won. He didn’t really think he wanted to rape him, if he even could. (Some men couldn’t perform under that kind of pressure. Winnie would learn later that some preferred it.) Young braves had begun to follow them out to the prairie, placing bets. All of them loved to gamble, as befit their reckless nature. Winnie caught the eye of a friend and gestured for him to put a handful of hides and beads on him to win. The friend nodded, smiling. He had seen Winnie fight before.

They gathered immediately and began to fight. It was over quickly—that’s the trouble with One Heart males, he would tell his mates later. They just don’t last long enough. The new brave foolishly hadn’t expected Winnie to be a real threat, perhaps. That was stupid: he had to have seen or heard about the initiation earlier. Winnie had noted his cocky step, his posturing, and his (to Winnie’s eye) poor stance with the knife. As they had crouched and began to dance about each other, Winnie had hefted his knife and thrown it into his opponent’s right foot while his weight was on it. As he struggled to stay up, he’d swept out with his blade, but Winnie had locked the wounded man’s arm, kneed him once in the groin, then again as Winnie fell on top of him. By the time he could gasp, Winnie had taken his knife. He’d tried to bite Winnie’s shoulder, but Winnie tucked it under the man’s chin and pinned him easily.

The assembled braves (some older ones had come along too, he saw) were quietly either cheering or scowling, but they all fell silent and paid attention when Winnie winked up at his friend with a sadistic, feral grin before turning his attention back to his captive.

Hey, Winnie breathed heavily to the squirming young man beneath, your tits are hanging out….

With a quick flick of his forearm the knife flashed, and then Winnie was holding up a roughly circular patch of skin with a dark nipple in its center. The young brave’s eyes were moist, but he didn’t cry out—he was a warrior after all. He had lost, but at least he hadn’t lost his life. He now had a (for the present) unique scar, a limp, and had learned a lesson many other male-born were to learn through the years: Prairie-Fire did not fool around. He was not a man to mess with lightly.

CHAPTER 3

A.I. UNKNOWN

Tiago was one of those people who did not use a last name or a family name. If he had stayed with his tribe, and if they had survived, he would have gained and lost names throughout his life. While he was still young, his people—now extinct and forgotten—had been pushed aside by other, more aggressive tribesmen. Those peoples, known through reputation as headhunters, were less vicious than they were rumored to be. As long as you didn’t fight back. Tiago saw his mother taken as a wife to one of the new men’s warriors. His sister, well, she was just taken. As a young man, not yet of the age of a warrior, but having begun his training as a shabori, a shaman, he was more capable than his young years showed. Using his talents, and using the arrogance that comes with children who are used to being underestimated by adults, he fled and therefore escaped.

He fled ahead of the expanding tribe of headhunters as they fled north, away from the south, from the Awakened Serpent. The Amazon River had indeed awoken; Tiago could hear it calling him. He left his tribe, subdued and conquered as it was, and traveled south through the thick jungle. No one would expect that, and besides, She really was calling him. Gradually, he encountered new flowers, insects, beasts, and trees. His knowledge should have failed him,