"You thought you would have the glory to yourself," Apad finished for him. "But heroes come in threes, remember?" He glanced upslope, at the cave. "Is this the right one?"
Perkar raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. It was the closest."
"You don't know?"
Perkar shook his head.
"Eruka," Apad said to their companion. "Can you find out? Is there a song?"
Eruka pursed his lips, an uneasy expression on his face. "There is a song," he admitted reluctantly. "I think it would help with this."
"Well?"
"What do we want to know exactly?"
Apad looked heavenward in exasperation. "We want to know which of these caves leads to the Forest Lord's armory," Apad said.
"I know a song that might help," Eruka repeated. "But it could be dangerous."
"How so?"
"Any spirit I call here might tell the Forest Lord."
"The Forest Lord is busy," Apad said. "And heroes must take risks."
"Why don't we risk entering the wrong cave, then?" Eruka suggested.
The conversation had given Perkar time to think. He vividly remembered being lost in the forest at night. One could just as easily become lost in a dark cave.
"We need light to find our way in there," he said. "At the very least we need torches."
Apad considered that. "Do whatever it is you can do, Eruka," he said. "Perkar and I will make some torches."
Perkar hesitantly followed Apad back down. The two of them started searching for branches.
"Look for heart pine," Apad said. "That should burn brightly and long."
Perkar had his doubts about that; his father usually made torches from bundles of dried reeds—but he also usually coated them in tar or fat. Behind them, Eruka began singing, but Perkar was already far enough out of earshot that he could not make out the words.
Perkar found a long piece of heart pine in a rotting tree—but he also chanced upon some dry reeds, which he collected into a bundle, binding them together with some greener, less brittle stems. When he got back to the trail, Eruka was no longer singing. He and Apad were sitting in the nearest cave, feet dangling out. Eruka was holding something that looked suspiciously like a flask of woti.
"I thought we had no more of that," Perkar said as he climbed up to join them.
"I thought we might need it," Eruka said. "Some gods only respond to woti or wine."
"You lied to the Kapaka?" ,
Eruka shrugged. "I just didn't mention it." He took a drink of the woti and passed the flask to Apad. The air near the cave seemed drenched with the rich, sweet scent; Eruka had poured a libation into a small bowl, probably while singing.
"Did your song work?"
"I don't know," Eruka admitted.
Apad offered the flask of woti to Perkar. "Woti makes you brave," he said.
Perkar grinned crookedly. "You aren't a Wotiru, are you? You chew your shield?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I am," Apad said, taking another drink. Perkar didn't think Apad was a Wotiru; he had met them, at his father's house. They drank copious amounts of woti to fill them with battle-fever, but even when there was no battle they carried an air of recklessness—even madness—about them that Perkar had never noticed in Apad.
"We should move farther back in the cave," Perkar said. "If Ngangata and Atti come looking for us, I don't want them to see us."
"Pfah!" Apad sneered. "We can deal with them, if they oppose us. You know that."
"I know that if Ngangata chooses to use his bow against us, we are all dead men, armor or no."
"He's right," Eruka said, plucking at Apad's shoulder.
"And where is your spirit? The god you called?" Apad asked Eruka, brushing the hand away.
"I don't know," Eruka said. "Gods are capricious. Or perhaps I phrased the song all wrong."
"No," a voice said from behind them. "No, your song was sufficiently irritating that I came looking for you. Now give me that woti you promised."
The three of them whirled as one, and Perkar scrambled to his feet, as well. The speaker was an Alwa, to all appearances, though a stunted, extraordinarily thick-muscled one. And whereas the Alwat were pale, this creature was white, and devoid of all fur. His eyes were white, too, though the pupils were black.
"Well?" he demanded.
Apad carefully set the bottle of woti down near the bowl. The Alwa ambled over, picked up the bowl, and drank its contents. Then he turned his attention to the bottle.
"This is good," he said at last. "The only decent thing that ever came from Human Beings. Now. Who called me?" He turned his blind-looking eyes to them, seemed to search them out. Perkar was reminded of Ngangata.
"What god are you?" Perkar asked.
The Alwa grinned wide. "Don't know me? I guess your friend does."
Eruka cleared his throat. "He is a… ah, he is one of the Lemeyi."
Perkar gaped. "A Lemeyi," he repeated. The white creature laughed, a loud, raucous sound.
"Why…" Perkar began, but could not finish. Not with the creature standing right there. Why would Eruka call such a creature? When he was a child, his mother had frightened him with promises that the Lemeyi would come to steal him away. At least one child he knew had been devoured by the strange creatures.
"Yes, why me?" the Lemeyi said. "What do you want? Why shouldn't I eat you here and now?"
"We called you in good faith," Eruka protested.
"Answer your friend's question," the Lemeyi growled.