Ratha’s Creature (The First Book of The Named)

by Clare Bell

  She forgot the Named, the clan or anything except the magnificent animal. It would take all her skill to bring this one down. This kill would show she was indeed a hunter. She sped after the three-horn stag. She dived in among the pounding legs, dodging, turning, barely escaping flashing hooves and tossing horns. She reached her quarry and cut him out of the herd, leaping up to nip at his flanks and withers. An ecstatic bound carried her right onto his back and she rode him for several wild seconds, her claws digging deep into the coarse fur. He bucked, throwing her off, but she landed running and the chase began again.

  She ran the three-horn as she had never run any of the herdbeasts when she had served the clan. She ran him, reveling in her strength and her skill as a hunter and herder. She turned and twisted, countering every lunge and thrust, dancing around him, leading him in circles until at last, eyes rolling and exhausted, the stag began to slow and Ratha closed in for the kill.

  She did not realize her skill had given her away until an angry cry rose from behind her.

  “She is clan!” the voice bellowed. “A clan herder kills with the raiders! Tear her tail off! Trample her guts into the ground!”

  Ratha looked back to see Srass chasing her, bleeding from the wounds the silver-coat had given him. She was young and still unwounded, but Srass’s rage lent him speed. Suddenly he was beside her flank and then at her shoulder. She heard his heavy panting and felt his breath behind her ears. Frightened now, she tried to pull ahead, but before she could gain any distance, his teeth locked in her ruff and the two rolled over and over in the grass.

  Ratha flailed and kicked, gouging Srass’s belly as he snapped at her throat. She ripped off the rest of one ragged ear. He clawed her chest and gashed the inside of her foreleg. Then, abruptly, the fight ended. Ratha tumbled free. She leaped to her feet, completely bewildered. She shook her head and stared.

  Srass was struggling beneath the two dun-colored raiders and the old gray. The silver-coat seized the old herder’s nape in his jaws. Srass tried to wrench free, but the four together overpowered him and at last he ceased fighting. He lifted his chin and bared his throat in submission. Ratha thought then that they would let him go, for he was thoroughly beaten. The silver-coat loosened his grip only to seize Srass again at the back of his head behind the ears. The old herder stiffened and fear dulled his eyes.

  “Take the herdbeasts,” Ratha said. “Leave him. He isn’t worth the killing.” Her voice died in her throat as she saw that none of the four had moved away from Srass.

  “He bared his throat to you. He will not fight again. Leave him!” Ratha said.

  “I came to taste clan blood,” snarled the silver-coat between his teeth.

  With a malicious glance at Ratha, the old gray seized the flesh of Srass’s flank and tore it open. The duns, both mute, showed their teeth at Ratha. They were going to kill, she thought with growing horror. Srass had bared his throat. All knew that sign, even the Un-Named. It was a law older than any other, and rarely disobeyed.

  Ratha saw the muscles bunch in the silver’s cheeks.

  “At least do him the honor of tearing out his throat!” she shrieked at them.

  The silver-coat gave her one brief glance. His jaws sheared shut. Srass screamed and Ratha heard the hollow crunch of bone. The herder’s body convulsed, the spasming muscles pulling his limbs in ways they were not meant to go. The scream continued from Srass’s open mouth even after his head had been crushed. With a last shudder, the body fell limp and the terror-filled eyes went blank.

  The silver-coat opened his jaws and Srass fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Blood seeped from his ruined head and neck.

  “Is this how you kill?” Ratha faced the silver-coat. “You slay those of the clan as you kill prey. Ptahh!”

  “To us they are prey,” the silver answered, licking his red-stained jaws. He narrowed his eyes at Ratha. “I heard this one cry out that you, female, are also of the clan even though you run with the Un-Named.” He left Srass and took a step toward her. “Your head would be easier to crush. Perhaps your feet had better take it away before my jaws open again.”

  She spat, whirled around and galloped away from them. The night rang with howls and shrieks and the bawling of terrified animals. As she ran, Ratha could see the shapes of raiders dragging slain dapplebacks toward the trees. The moon had risen and the flattened grass showed black stains where the raiders had made their kills.

  The sounds of fighting grew and faded as the battle raged back and forth across the meadow. The herders were losing, their circle shrinking as they bunched together to protect the remaining three-horns and dapplebacks.

  Ratha stopped and licked the wound on her foreleg. It was starting to crust and stiffen, making her limp. She closed her eyes, seeing again Srass’s face as he died. He had been killed like a herdbeast and his eyes had rolled like a herdbeast’s when the silver-coat’s teeth crushed his skull. Ratha shuddered. None of the Named had died such a death until now. It seemed as though all of the laws that governed her kind, Un-Named or clan, were breaking. If one whose throat was bared could be killed like a herdbeast, then there were no laws and nothing made sense any more.

  She knew that whatever was happening to her people, she was a part of it; however much she feared and hated the changes, she was helping to bring them about. Srass had died because he spotted a herder among the raiders. He had not come close enough to see her face or smell her odor, but he saw how she had run the three-horn and cut him out from the herd. Her skill and her recklessness betrayed her. Her mouth felt as bloody as the silver-coat’s, as if it had been her teeth that crushed the old herder’s skull.

  No, she thought, trying to give herself some small comfort. Srass’s skull would have been too thick for my jaws. But she knew as she ran that she shared equally with the Un-Named in his death.

  Again she stopped. The fighting was now distant. All she could see were raiders dragging thrashing animals across the grass, leaving black stains between their pawprints. They were still working in packs, as they had in the initial assault. One group looked familiar, and Ratha recognized the two dun-coats and the gray who had helped to kill Srass. The gray’s jaws were dark with blood. The old one raised her ugly head and stared at Ratha. The pack leader dropped the neck of the dappleback he was dragging. Ratha was suddenly afraid he might be the silver-coat, but she saw the face of the young cub who had been leading the group when the raid started. He stared at her over the body of his prey. He bounded over the animal and, before Ratha could react, clawed her across the face.

  “The council is not pleased with me for failing to keep my pack together. I pass their displeasure on to you.” She fell back, shaking her head. Warm wetness seeped from the new cut on her muzzle and dripped onto her lower lip into her mouth. She was so relieved he wasn’t the silver-coat that the blow only startled her. She got up tasting the metallic tang of her own blood.

  “There are more beasts to drag away,” the pack leader snarled. “The gray lags. Help her to carry her prey. Then you are to return with the others and bring the remaining kills.” He looked hard at Ratha. “If you leave the pack again, you will be killed.”

  She lowered her head and walked toward the watery green eyes glinting in the dark above the indistinct bulk of the herdbeast. The gray’s smell washed over her again, surrounding her and making her feel even more of a prisoner. The old female growled and seized the beast’s neck. Ratha took the hock and followed the pull of her companion.

  The packs dumped the kills in a moonlit clearing and were sent back to retrieve more. The rest of the night Ratha spent hauling the Un-Named kills from the meadow to the clearing deep in the forest. By the time the first sunlight filtered through the trees, Ratha’s teeth were aching, her neck was stiff and her pads sore. She grew to hate the taste of coarse oily fur and the limp weight of the kill in her jaws. She resented having to drag beasts that others had slain.

  It was midmorning when the pack carried the last of the carca
sses into the clearing. Ratha pried her teeth loose from a dappleback’s neck and let the horse’s head drop. She staggered into the shade beneath a gnarled pine and collapsed. To her disgust, the gray female came and sat beside her, but she was too tired to drive the old one away. With her head on her paws, smelling the pungent needles that littered the earth beneath the tree, Ratha watched the raiders gather to feast on their prizes. Some had already come and had begun eating when the first carcasses were dragged in. Now the rest, ravenous and still savage from the battle, swarmed over the kills, spitting and squabbling with each other over who was to get the choicest pieces. She smelled the rich flesh as the carcasses were torn open and the entrails eaten. The odor only disgusted her and destroyed what little appetite she had. After hauling the dead creatures all night, smelling and tasting them, she could hardly bear the idea of eating from them. She thought with longing of the stringy marsh-shrews she had caught on Bonechewer’s land.

  A new group appeared among the gorging raiders and pushed aside a scruffy pack from a dappleback mare. These were the council leaders and the planners, Ratha realized, as she glanced at them, recognizing the black female and the old cripple she had seen in the cavern beneath the gathering rock. Among them, she saw Bonechewer.

  The Un-Named council leaders began to eat. Ratha saw the black place a paw on the mare’s flank and ribs. The black’s shoulders hunched as she dived into the dappleback’s belly. All the others attacked the carcass with equal relish except for Bonechewer. He hung back until the crippled one had finished, then took his place. He ate then, but Ratha could see from his eyes that he had as little appetite as she. She remembered his words to the council in the cavern, and she knew he was disgusted by the reckless slaughter. The Un-Named could ill-afford waste, he had said, even in the midst of plenty.

  She raised her head from her paws, hoping to catch his eye. Her heart beat in her throat, her feelings a violent mix of hope and anger. Once or twice he lifted his muzzle, still chewing, as if he sensed someone was watching. Each time Ratha longed to call out, but caution stilled her. And then he did raise his chin and stared at her over the mare’s flank. She leaped to her feet, panting in her excitement, but he looked away, as if ashamed. For a moment, she stood still. Then slowly she lay down again and rested her chin on her paws, staring at the dried needles tumbled together on the ground. When she looked up again, Bonechewer was gone.

  For many days, the Un-Named stayed in the clearing, lazing in the pale winter sun and gorging themselves on their kills. Ratha, along with others of her pack, were posted as sentries to guard against attacks by the clan herders. None ever came, telling her that the clan was too weakened and dispirited to try for revenge.

  She ate little and tried to stay far from the sounds of feasting. She felt odd sensations in her belly, vague aches, heaviness and strange rippling motions, as if something was moving inside her. She was also enlarged and her teats were tender. At first the feelings were mild and she hardly noticed. As the Un-Named alternately raided and feasted and the days grew colder, her pregnancy became obvious, earning her questioning looks from the others. This was not the season to bear cubs. If the Un-Named females were like the clan, they would mate in early spring and have their young in summer. She had done everything wrong, she thought miserably, as she stood in the rain watching for an attack that never came. She couldn’t even bear cubs at the right time of year. They would be born too soon, before she could get away from the Un-Named. And even if she did, hunting in winter would be poor. She would starve and her cubs would die.

  Ratha took no part in the raids following the first one. She, along with the gray-coat, was held back to drag away beasts that others had killed. She spent many nights wrestling carcasses through the undergrowth, collapsing at dawn to watch the raiders feast until they were bloated. After each raid she saw Bonechewer eating with the council leaders as before. She caught him giving her anxious glances but this time it was she who turned away.

  One rainy morning between raids, she stood guard near the edge of the meadow where the fighting had been. Her partner hissed, taking her mind from her troubles. Ratha tensed, driving her claws into the spongy ground. Had the clan reclaimed enough strength to attack? The gray lurched to her feet, growling as the bushes rustled several tail-lengths away. Her ears went back, making her look uglier than ever.

  “Ho, ancient one,” came a voice from behind the bushes. “Still your noise. You know my smell.” A coppery head poked through, framed by wet leaves. It disappeared for a moment, then Bonechewer pushed his way through the undergrowth, carrying meat in his mouth.

  “Not for you,” he said through his teeth as he pushed the slavering gray-coat aside. She whined and showed her teeth, but under his gaze, she backed off.

  “There you are,” Bonechewer said, and without further words, he laid the meat down in front of Ratha. She stared at it dully, then at him.

  “Eat. You need it. That young fool of a pack leader is letting you starve.”

  She said nothing. She sniffed the aroma of the meat. It was fresh, taken from the latest kill. She still could not eat.

  “Ratha,” he said, growing exasperated. “I bring you something better than the rotten leavings you pick from old bones, yet you eat nothing and stare at me like that witless gray-coat. Have you forgotten how to speak?”

  For a moment, she stared at him, able to answer only with her eyes. She had not spoken for so long that the words came slowly. His words shocked her and her own awkwardness frightened her. She fought down panic; the fear that she, in pretending to be mute and stupid, had actually become so. It lasted only an instant; then the words came.

  “You said I was to be among the lowest of the Un-Named,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.

  “Even the lowest should have enough to eat,” Bonechewer answered. He nudged her. “Every rib shows. If you get any thinner, you’ll lose the cubs.”

  Ratha flattened her ears. “So that is why you watch me and bring me meat. You care nothing for me; only for what I carry in my belly. Ptahh!”

  “Does it matter why I am here?” Bonechewer snarled back. “I could leave you to your pack leader’s mercies; think about that.”

  Ratha kicked mud on the meat and walked away. “Give it to the gray-coat.”

  “I saved your ragged pelt, and believe me, it has cost me to do even that. Few on the council listen to me now, and the foolish killing goes on. I can do nothing about it, just as I can do nothing for you except bring you extra food.” Bonechewer pawed the meat. “Yes, I care about the cubs,” he said, his eyes seeming to glow even in daylight. “But I want you just as much. The others want you killed, and if you do anything that brings you to their attention, you will not live long and I may not either.”

  Ratha lowered her muzzle and nosed the slab of flesh. As she took a first bite, she felt him gently licking her ears. Startled, she jumped back and stared at him in astonishment.

  “All right,” he said. “Eat. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Ratha devoured half of the meat, all her stomach could hold. As she ate, she could hear the gray-coat whining softly.

  “If I eat it all, I’ll be sick,” she said to Bonechewer. “Take some to the gray. She works as hard as I do.”

  “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “I don’t,” Ratha said, gaining back some of her spirit now that she had eaten. “I hate her, especially the look in her eyes. But you said that even the lowest should have enough to eat.”

  Bonechewer grinned at her and, with a toss of his head, threw the rest of the morsel to the old gray. She caught it in midair and began demolishing it in noisy gulps.

  “I will come back,” Bonechewer said, as he turned to go. “I’ll bring you food as often as I can. I wish I had come sooner; I hate to see you so thin.”

  Ratha did not expect him to keep his word, but a day later, he appeared through the bushes with another piece of meat. This too, she shared with the gray, and the old one’
s eyes widened in astonishment. Every few days he came, bringing something he had taken from the freshest kill. Ratha began to anticipate his visits, not only for the food, but for the conversation. To all the others, she remained dumb. They thought her witless and she encouraged them to think so, hoping to dull certain memories of her performance in the meadow during the first raid.

  As the weather grew harsher, the Un-Named began to raid once more. Ratha expected to have no part of the fighting. Again, she and the others of her pack were made to carry the spoils from the meadow. Her job was easier this time, for the slain beasts were few and small. Her only contact with the fighting was through Bonechewer, when he brought her food. She also hungered for news of the clan and that, too, Bonechewer brought, although none of it was cheerful.

  He told her that plans were being made for a final raid in which the Un-Named would drive the clan from their dens, slaughter them and take their land. Ratha listened in silence. There was nothing she could do to change the fate of her people. She could only look out for herself and try to survive along with her cubs. She sought refuge in the old anger. Why should she mourn for those who had made her renegade and outcast because they did not understand the new power she had brought them? Whatever death Meoran died he would have earned. The only ones who tried to defend her, she remembered, had been Thakur and Fessran. And even Thakur had turned betrayer. I will mourn for none of them except Fessran, she thought bitterly.

  That evening, she watched the packs assemble for the last attack on the clan. Her group was among them, since all were needed to fight and none to drag away kills. The only carcasses this time would be those of the enemy. Even so, Ratha was held back from the fighting, along with others too old, too young or otherwise unsuitable. Her pregnancy did not make her awkward, and she suspected the real reason was distrust.

  She lay with her chin on her paws, glancing from time to time at the guards who had been assigned to keep watch on her and her companions. The night was quiet except for a breeze rustling the dry leaves and a last lonely cricket chirping. Once in a while, faraway shrieks and cries broke the stillness, and Ratha lifted her head. She thought of Srass’s death in the first raid and shivered. That scene would be repeated again and again before dawn. The cries died out and she could hear only the wind and the cricket.