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and felt the young body relax; Eshi began to hum contentedly.  They sat that way until a rush of wings shadowed the ground, soaring on the updrafts and diving with the downdrafts:  the tribe was gathering, turning the sky into a canopy of Kigali riding the wind, blotting out the smoldering vault above, fluttering to earth to honor Erra and the Seven at the feast.
    Kur and Eshi went among their own, greeting and blessing the flock.
    When the tribe was all gathered in a circle, wing to wing, before the laden feast-boards, Erra and the Seven came down the slope from Kur’s cavern to join them.  They were robed in splendor and beautiful to the eye, glowing with the sanctification of the heavens.  Up to Kur they came, Erra in the lead, the first of the Seven on his right hand, the others by twos behind.
    “Almighty Kur, we bring greetings from on high to you and yours.  Our merciless vengeance will cleanse this land of evil and satisfy the heavens above.”
    This land?   Among the gathered Kigali, every head turned suddenly, in unison, staring at Erra.  Wings went up high.  Silence dropped over all the tribe like sudden death.
    Again all heads turned as one, looking to Kur.  Kur must say something.  The tribe is waiting.  Eshi is waiting.  Eshi cranes his neck and fixes Kur with wide, luminous eyes.  Beside and behind ancient Erra, the bloodthirsty Seven stare not at Erra, but at Kur.  This breach of protocol is no accident.  Erra challenges Kur and Kur must respond in kind, or more than face will be lost this day.
    Restate the agreement.  Make its limits clear.   “This land on which you stand belongs to neither men nor gods, but to the Kigali.  So it was agreed, long ago, when your betters first traveled here.  This Kigali world of ours was made not by men or by you gods; its fires burned before you came, and will burn when you are gone:  keep this clear in your mind and in the minds of your seven weapons, Erra.  Satisfying elder gods is your task, not mine.  But by the mountain that bears my name behind us, and by the tribe that shares my blood, we shall keep to our agreement and assist the will of heaven as we may, if it is consonant with Kigali ways.”  Kur’s mouth was dry, but these words must be said to the arrogant Erra and his peerless emissaries of destruction.  “We shall feast you and house you, assist you in your work among your believers.  You shall be as guests of the blood in Ki-gal for howsoever long you do remain here, until you withdraw once more to your godly seat in Emeslam.  And you shall behave as good guests should, on Ki-gal’s beloved and honored ground.  And now, pile your plates high and taste of Ki-gal’s bounty, brought fresh here for your pleasure.”
    Eshi slides his young hand into Kur’s.  Kur squeezes it, feeling new quills scrape, but then must let it drop.  Eye to eye, he faces Erra while not a wing rustles and the Seven barely breathe.
    Too long they consider one another.  Too hot is the blood of Erra and the Seven, brought to boiling with their day’s labors.  Too hot is Kur’s own skin, blazing as if it might burst with rage:  Eshi is not the only one stirred by the carnage on the Downward Road.  If there was war between the heavens and Ki-gal, who would win?  The skies would flame and rip with battle, if the Kigali ever went to war against gods who depended upon faithful for their strength….
    Behind him and high above, the mountain that bore Kur’s name growled, and grumbled, and brought forth smoke and flame and shook the ground underfoot:  sometimes Kur slept in the mountain’s bowels; sometimes the mountain slept in his; forever they were linked.  All his Kigali waited, motionless, wings yet unfurled, to see what Erra and the Seven would do.
    Erra drew himself up, aglow with righteousness; his Seven cocked their heads and spread their legs wider.
    Eshi tugged on his hand again.  Never looking away from Erra, Kur put his hand on the