They were better supplied on the return trip. While a full belly was a nice change, Kepilemimeki now carries heavy loads in supplies and arrows. And rather than spending time off hunting with Tōjukonu, he's stuck with the other kabāhä while Tōjukonu sits in the war councils.

The few moments they get to spend together now are terse, short.

He does not wish to return to Konuthomu. What’s there for me now? Mother is old, and quite possibly did not survive the fighting, whichever side she was on; Tōjukonu is here now, why bother going back. Going back means he labours, while he gets married off. They could simply abscond. Take on a herd of bison, take to the hills, return to the lake only to winter and ply their stock. It’s not unheard of. Pastoral climes are well suited for fraternity. If only he’d go with me.

But Tōjukonu is prepared for what will come. From birth, he’s been instilled with an idea of his duties. First amongst them, to protect his clan—be it the one of his birth, or of his marriage. He failed them, when they fled the feast.

He was too distracted, too complacent. He believed things would be safe on a holy day.

And now an unknowable number of his cousins, his friends, and more have all paid the price of his folly.

The rains still have not arrived.

Sanärholu presides over the affair. “Tell me, where did the false mothers hide their wealth?”

This kabāhä is so in love with her submission that she refuses to aid those who seek to save her.

Sanärholu knows it's impossible that the shrunken granaries and meagre tapestries and pots are all the mothers had. There must be more.

Driving the parasitic mothers out of the city was not enough. Nasäbacotsun demands more. She’d received a vision, the day after their triumph. False mothers are supported by false gods. So I’ll purify Konuthomu of gods and mothers both. There is only one mother, one mother for all the kabāhä, one mother for all the honest, pious folk. And that mother is Nasäbacotsun. And she must be appeased.

Still no answer, she nods to the men holding the woman chained by her own submission. A hit and yet more blood and teeth spill from her mouth.

“Where did the false mothers hide their wealth?”

Of course she sobs. Typical, the weakness is disgusting.

The past few days have been scenes of this. They hold the Themilanan and gather all the treasures of the wicked mothers at the Temple to Dosunolomu. Contact with the broader city and its environs has been minimal. A hush, a silence has blanketed the land.

But that will all end soon enough. Soon enough we shall have our triumph. Soon enough Nasäbacotsun shall bless us with rain, and come to earth to rule over us in the flesh.

She will be speaking tonight, and must prepare her words.

As they near the city, more and more farmers—simple clansmen who labour for a living, not the great and elite—join their columns. Yes, their harvests were meagre but the madmen who’ve seized the granaries can not be trusted—and no food has left the Themilanan since the harvest festival. Screams and fires seem to be all that’s produced there.

Thankfully, the potters’ city seems relatively untouched by the madness. Its warrens and streets quiet and empty both of inhabitants and the occupiers.

Apparently the revolt was led by Nasäbacotsukabätsārhä, an elderly witch who’s received visions from a rain god of the south to purge Konuthomu of its false gods and false mothers.

A reign of terror has been implemented. With nobles and kabāhä alike tortured for information.

Every night the rebels apparently feast and dance and drink the blood of those they killed that day.

Madness in the extreme.

I just hope mother is safe through all this.

The pyre is ready.

So this shall be the moment, this shall be my moment.

As the moon rises, the first crescent of the new month, I shall put an end to their false gods. From the flames Konuthomu shall rise, a new, better, stronger city. A pure city.

“Nasäbacotsukabätsārhä, we’ve seen…” a panting messenger armed with a spear begins.

“Silence, child. We near the purification of the city. Rains shall soon fall.”

“But true mother,”

“If you interrupt me again, you will be added to the pyre as well.” She snaps. Yes, soon I shall have made the city anew. It is Konuthomu no longer.

She paces, soon it’ll be time to speak. Soon it’ll be time to usher in the rule of Nasäbacotsun.

The sun is setting, the time is here.

She stands before the temple, a small crowd before her—they will grow in number as they hear my words. “By the morning light, we shall no longer reside in Konuthomu. Konuthomu was a sinful city full of misguided and arrogant fools. No, we shall live in Nasäbacotsusolu—a holy city, a city of plenty. Those of you may have awaited rewards for following your path; expected to feast upon your kacätsan in Tsukōdju’s watery halls.”

A murmur from the crowd.

“These are all lies: fed to you by the thieving mothers of old. No, we do not need to wait till death for us to be delivered full bellies, and comfort. We can bring about a heaven on earth. A kingdom of abundance in the now.”

Her voice is raised in volume now, the crowd has grown, her triumph nears.

“Turn away from the false gods, turn away from the false mothers, turn to the truth of Nasäbacotsun and you shall be rewarded.” She raises her hands and her men put the pyre, put the temple, to torch, “Sweet water and abundance shall come to you. Embrace the truth!”

Yes, my moment is here, my purpose is complete. Konuthomu is being cleansed—soon enough the rains will come.

Wait, is that an arrow?

The ravings are barely audible through the dense houses of the Potters’ Town.

Kepilemimeki carries the large, wicker shield before them, a spear in his right hand. Tōjukonu stalks behind him, an arrow knocked. Many hundreds are participating in the assault, climbing up the steep streets of the Potters’ Town. The words float in the air, coming in and out of focus as they climb. The ravings of a madwoman, he thinks, hoping his mother is safe at home.

A bright light, almost like a sunrise in the north, joins the sun setting in the west: what on earth are they doing?

The Potters’ Town is silent, still. He’s never seen it so devoid of life.

As they prepare to enter the Themilanan proper, the first screams begin to echo.

That voice from the top of the hill, so strangely familiar, shouts out, “Kill them, kill them. Purge the impure.”

It is difficult to keep track of just what happens in a battle.

Sensations are overwhelming as sounds and smell all come through. Terrible and terrifying.

It is all he can do to keep his shield up. For keeping his shield up is what he must do, it is his path.

It is exhausting. True, for every one of the liberators who falls, three, five more of the rebels die. But the fear remains.

And the stench of blood and shit, the smells of death fill the air.

All the while, the great, central temple burns in a vast pyre.

Oh spirits, deliver us all safely from this nightmare.

A groan from behind him, he turns around the best he can with his shield raised.

He can hardly believe his eyes.

Blood spurts out around the arrow lodged in Tōjukonu’s neck— no, this can’t be. How could this happen. He rushes to him, but it’s already too late. The life drains from his eyes—he has failed.

The pyre burns bright and strong. The sins of this wicked city melt away, and so too shall those who reject the truth, those who embrace sin.

The sounds of the battle do not bother her, her god shall protect her.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Kepilemimeki carries on the best he can. It’s all he can do.

He finds a noble, he didn’t get his name, who’d lost his shieldman. So he puts himself to service of the fine leader of Kamābarha—one of their leaders, though he never got his name, a fine man well suited for command, yelling directions in that strange voice of his. Though his bowmanship leaves some to be desired. But who could match Tōjukonu’s skill and glory?

Those demons consumed by lust and greed come closer.

But they surely can’t prevail over her god?

Even as most of the opposition drifts away, a core contingent clusters around the burning temple. Why won’t they surrender? The fighting is exhausting, the fine noble he served took an arrow in the calf, but remains in health—thank the spirits for that.

He’s not in the first row, but closes in on the burning temple all the same.

Soon enough this madness will be over.

And soon enough the line is broken, leaving nothing but the pyre and a lone woman standing before it.

Mother?

The thirst is the worst part.

The arrow in her thigh did not kill her. No, she survived the fight.

How they lost is lost on her. I did what you commanded, what more could you have wanted from me?

The Themilanan remains in ruins, ashes made of many of the buildings, but there, in the centre of it all, she hangs from a post, feet barely touching the ground.

No water, no food, no aid. She can not even sleep while hanging so.

Perhaps it was her fault, her son was amongst them.

The foolish boy, he brought all my plans to ruin. But for him, her god would have triumphed. But for him, Konuthomu would be hers.

The pain in her sides and chest makes thinking difficult. Please, just some water.

Kepilemimeki alternates between grief and rage.

I did what I was supposed to do! I served my master.

Mother, how could you do such a thing? How could you put to ruin our great city. How could you kill him?

He was kept in a locked room, not the worst of prisons, but a prison all the same.

Before too long, he was summoned to the war council. His fate to be decided.

“Traitors' blood can not be allowed to go free. Blood and a harvest: remove the rot or it spoils the lot.”

“He served us well, he fought bravely. Honour and hunting: it is how one stalks the path that matters.”

The leaders bicker, trading proverbs back and forth.

How can it be the mothers of my clan call for my death, while strangers I met only in battle call for mercy?

Still, he can not focus even on decisions as momentous as his fate. How much can he care when his life has been made rootless? Live or die, what is left for him?

The debate was settled before it began, however. The voices of Kamābarha are those which direct.

“He served me well in battle. If you fear his blood so much, put an end to it going forward. But he earned his life with his labour. He has followed his path well.”

And so it was settled.

The blade cut deep, but the exile hurt worse. Where will I go now? Where shall I go? What is left for me?

Her eyes blink open. Was she asleep for ten seconds or ten hours? The sun in her eyes is painful.

When will my suffering end?

She drifts back off to semi-lucidity.

She is awoken by the drops of water upon he brow.

Rain, at last. So my city has been saved. Thank you, my god.

Her last thought is I have served my purpose.