Three years passed.
The boy was almost grown. Learned of his self: The range and power of his limbs, which wound would heal in a day, which in a week. Where to cup with his foot or his hand to catch a man's leg, and how to calm his thoughts for many days of travel on foot.
He knew how to make a poultice of mud or mashed gourd, and to marshal hunger when rations were few. To save a little of his water for cleansing of fresh cuts. How to spar with Alin, who would lead with his left leg, and Mabon, who was fierce but tired quickly. Eric, and Radu, and Pavl, and all the rest.
How to serve as the slave of warriors, but be treated almost as one of them.
They called him by their word
korus, so he called himself the same. He did not think of his old name, or of Dwlf and Amidash. He learned Iylum's language and the customs of Iylum's men, but spoke to them little. To walk and to carry, and fight for their sport, were his purpose.
Three years they hunted the gods of Arcadia, led by Iylum's own picked apostol Drustan. Five gods they killed, and many of their scattered people too. But the sixth and last was Aun, who had the form of a monstrous wolf, ancient and thrawn. Aun did not hide as the others had done, but came upon their camp as they slept. His coat was the black of forest-night, and his eyes two burning beryls. Drustan's tent he set upon first, and crushed the apostol in his crooked jaws.
Some rose in time to fight, but in the morning all of Iylum's men lay in beds of gore.
Korus hid, and he watched the slaughter. He bristled and trembled; not in dread, but awe! To see such power, to consider such a foe. Then he knew what Drustan must have felt, to battle a god.
So he went south, to go before the seat of Iylum and offer his fealty.
As a boy he was given nothing, and loved nothing, and aspired to nothing. Now he was a man. He had made himself from nothing. He had made the sword his lover. He aspired to serve the god of conquest.
