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In the heart of the Tokoloshe embassy, a woman was the center of all attention, even though most of the Tokoloshe and their Dwarven kin were elsewhere. The woman was on her back, on a bed. Her stomach was distended, and her breath came in short, choking gasps. She was in labor. And she was the first Tokoloshe woman to be in that state for a long time, even by that long-lived people’s reckoning.
Several other Tokoloshe women surrounded the one who was about to give birth. They were far from certain about what they needed to do; they could only rely on memories of ancient folklore, as well as their intuitive understanding of the birthing process, and the magic all Tokoloshe carried at their core. Yet for all their capabilities in a score of arcane arts, birthing was far more difficult for the Tokoloshe than it was for either humans or Zimwe. Tokoloshe pregnancies lasted longer, and their babies were larger in proportion to their mothers’ bodies, and thus much more difficult to deliver.
The woman in labor, whose name was Izindikwa, struggled to fend off the pain that lanced through her in unrelenting cycles. The others around her chanted birthing-spells that were, at best, only half-remembered. Izindikwa tried to concentrate on the ball of light that hovered over her, spilling pale illumination onto her heaving abdomen.
But her concentration slipped away from her. And she uttered a low moan that quickly rose to a long, lingering cry of pain. The sound echoed throughout the embassy, and the women surrounding Izindikwa cringed as it continued despite their best efforts to soothe her. The oldest woman, whose name was Chiminuka, grimaced as though she was herself experiencing Izindikwa’s agony.
Izindikwa’s cries also affected the men, who were gathered in the great hall that had been the scene of joyous feasting, drinking and other merriment not long before. When Izindikwa’s pregnancy had been confirmed months earlier, the celebration of the happy occasion had lasted more than a week. And when the women had indicated she was due to deliver, more festivities had followed. But now, with the birthing imminent, the Tokoloshes’ gaiety was gone. They feared for Izindikwa’s life – and that of her child.
“Is she going to die?” Hulm Stonehand asked.
He was sitting in a stone chair. On his lap, his hands were knotted into tight, rock-like fists. Sweat covered his broad brow and trickled into his thick beard. Like most fathers at birthing-time, he felt as though he were useless ... powerless. As harrowing and distressing as the combat against the Uloan invaders had been, to Hulm’s mind this waiting was far, far worse, primarily because waiting was all he could do.
Hulm looked into the eyes of his friend, Rumundulu. Rumundulu could not answer him. Neither could any of the other dwarves and Tokoloshe gathered in the huge underground chamber. They sat at unadorned tables and stared at empty plates and mugs, or at their equally empty hands.
Izindikwa had been the only Tokoloshe woman to conceive after the copulatory tempest that had followed the dwarves’ arrival from Beyond the Storm. Hulm was the acknowledged father of the child-to-be, and had received many accolades from the Tokoloshe. In that one child of hope, the future of the Tokoloshe people would be assured ... if the child survived.
Another scream from Izindikwa tore into the chamber. Hulm rose from his seat. Rumundulu laid a restraining hand on his arm. Hulm shook it off violently and took a step away from the table.
“Let me go!” Hulm bellowed. “I have to help her!”
Rumundulu reached out again to hold Hulm back.
“Help her how?” the Tokoloshe asked. “What can you do?”
Hulm looked as though he were about to strike Rumundulu. Other Tokoloshe and dwarves around them tensed in anticipation of a need to intervene in case Hulm followed through on that impulse.
Then the blaze in Hulm’s eyes dimmed. His breath escaped in a sorrowful sigh, and he slumped back into his seat. Relieved, the others also relaxed – until Izindikwa’s next outcry assaulted their ears.
Hulm’s hands knotted into massive lumps of bone and muscle. Rumundulu laid his own hand on Hulm’s shoulders.
“We can only wait, my friend,” he said as softly as his rumbling voice would allow. “We can only wait.”
Hulm remained silent. Still, his huge fists slowly relaxed.
In the birthing chamber, Izindikwa continued to battle the pain. Struggling to implement knowledge that had been learned but never before put into practice, the Tokoloshe women laid their hands on Izindikwa’s abdomen. They could feel the movement of the infant inside her. Before, the movement had started, then stopped again. This time, it continued in a rapidly increasing rhythm.
“Now,” said Chiminuka.
The Tokoloshe women unleashed a stream of benign, undifferentiated force from the centre of magic within each of them. There was no specific chant or spell involved; no spectacular flashes of eldritch energy; no rambling chants or incantations. It was the simple manifestation of the women’s desire to end Izindikwa’s suffering and ease the long-awaited passage of the new Tokoloshe into the world.
Izindikwa moaned. Then she convulsed. And then the head of her child began to appear. Chiminuka’s hands helped the infant along as the muscles of Izindikwa’s body slowly pushed it out of her womb. Each push was accompanied by another outcry. When the child fully emerged at last, Izindikwa fell limp and silent.
The child was a boy. He had the fair complexion and straight hair of his father, and the broad features of a Tokoloshe. The infant drew his first breath, then began to wail. His crying echoed through the embassy building like a summons to celebrate. And the men in the other chamber did exactly that, bellowing and laughing with joy and deal the now-grinning Hulm buffets that would have disabled all but the sturdiest of humans, blows that Hulm happily returned.
But when Chiminuka came into the room only moments later, the tumult died down. The expression on the Tokoloshe woman’s face was far from celebratory. The infant’s cries continued; otherwise, silence suffused the chamber.
“What is wrong, Chiminuka?” Rumundulu asked.
“The child lives,” Chiminuka replied. “But Izindikwa is dead.”
Hulm could only shake his head in disbelief as the others looked at him with expressions ranging from sorrow to anger. What was on their faces was only an echo of the maelstrom of emotions that suddenly roiled inside him.
And the newest Tokoloshe continued to wail, as though he were acknowledging the price Izindikwa had paid to allow him to be born.