by Clare Bell
She could see him retreat before her hopefulness.
“No, yearling. I am where I must be. If you and I were the only ones left, I would run beside you. If there were more of us to herd dapplebacks and fight off raiders, then too I would come. For our people, for Cherfan’s cubs, I must stay.”
Ratha licked him gently, above the scars on his neck where Meoran had torn him. “I will be here a little longer. Go to the ones who need you. Will you bring Fessran the next time?”
She felt him stiffen and he looked at the ground. Ratha clamped her teeth together, angry at herself for being so stupid.
“She is bitter enough toward Meoran,” Thakur said. “I am afraid for her. If she sees you again it may feed her anger.”
“And you do not want her to take the same path as I did,” Ratha finished for him.
“Yearling, it is bad enough that you must be apart from us.”
“Then hide the way to my den and scuff out my tracks in the mud so she may not find them,” Ratha said wryly. “And tell her when I go.”
“I will.”
Thakur lifted his tail and trotted away along the stream bank.
As summer passed into fall, Ratha stayed by herself, alone except for Thakur’s visits. Each time he would bring something, and she was grateful even for small rancid scraps, for her catches would not always fill her belly. He would bring news of the clan and how they were faring against the Un-Named. At first Ratha grunted and turned away when he spoke of the others, but she began to listen. She was lonely, and her hatred could not keep her as isolated as she wished.
She knew that Thakur was worried. The Un-Named pressed the herdfolk hard. Many days and nights the clan spent fighting. She also knew that winter would make the raiders hungrier and fiercer. Ratha could see in Thakur’s eyes a gnawing fear that his little group, the last of the Named, might not survive.
With fall came winds that lashed the pines and swirled dust and leaves into the air. It ruffled Ratha’s coat as if it wanted to seize her and fling her into the sky with the dust and dried leaves. Its moan in her ear made her wild, and the tug at her fur made her want to run until her paws blistered and her breath tore her throat.
She stayed still, watching the clouds build over the mountains. Everything told her it was time to go, yet she stayed, held by an old memory and a forbidden hope.
Thakur continued his visits, glad that she was staying, although puzzled as to why. The news he brought was sometimes joyful and often sad. Another female in the clan had given birth late in the year and the cubs were healthy. But one of Cherfan’s youngsters had died trying to help his father defend the herd.
Ratha listened and mourned with Thakur over the loss. But his voice turned into a drone in her ear and her gaze strayed up between the swaying branches to the sky. Why did she even dare to hope that the Red Tongue might return?
Ratha’s last hunt had worn her out. She didn’t hear the first few droplets pattering down or the thunder’s faraway rumble. She slept, nestled deep in her den.
She woke to a flash of light so brilliant she saw it through closed eyes. The noise was more a shock than a sound. The earth seemed to shiver beneath her feet and she flung herself to the rear of the den. Another flash from outside turned the brown soil white and left spots dancing in front of her eyes. There came another sound, a loud cracking and splintering, the sound of a great tree falling.
Ratha crept to the den mouth and peered out. She saw orange flame dive to earth, riding the crown of the toppling giant. The burning tree crashed among its neighbors, setting their branches afire. Smoke boiled up, meeting the rain.
She peered down. The stream below her ran black and glistening.
Ratha crouched at the mouth of her den, her heartbeat rocking her. The fire’s fury made her want to run, yet a deeper longing drew her toward it. The line of trees was soon a wall of flame. Ratha could see shadows bounding and leaping; other creatures fleeing the fire.
The Red Tongue, she thought, looking at it. The Red Tongue has come again.
She saw deer running, silhouetted against the flames. Small creatures scampered past her, almost between her legs, their fear of the wildfire so great, they took no notice of her. A small snake slithered by, the firelight jeweling its scales. The rain had stopped, and Ratha could hear the crackle and sputter of the fire.
She heard something else and jerked her head around in fright. Coming toward her along the stream bank was a slender shadow.
“Thakur?” Ratha whispered, but her voice stuck in her throat. The stranger’s gait told her it wasn’t Thakur. Ratha huddled at the entrance, her head low, her ears back. Who else had found her den?
The smoke-blurred form halted. “Ratha?” The voice was Fessran’s.
For a moment Ratha was silent, remembering why Thakur had not brought Fessran to see her.
“Ratha!” The voice came again, husky, and trembling. “I followed Thakur the last time he came. I waited until tonight.”
“Why did you come, herder?” Ratha heard her own voice say. Fessran was suddenly before her, blocking out the shadowed orange light, replacing it with two burning eyes.
She paced before Ratha, lashing her tail. “A cub has died,” she said.
“Thakur told me Cherfan’s son was killed by raiders,” Ratha said, looking up.
“By Meoran’s stupidity! To ask a cub that young to guard the herd, without training! Meoran said there was no time for training. Ptahh! I saw the young one pulled down. Meoran was too late to save him. Now Cherfan’s son lies with maggots crawling across his bones.” Fessran’s voice was low and harsh. “All of us will die, one by one. There is no hope for the Named as long as Meoran leads us.” She turned and stared at the fire.
Ratha waited, knowing and dreading what Fessran would say next.
“Meoran’s power is ended. You and the Red Tongue are all we have against the Un-Named,” Fessran hissed. “Take up your creature, Ratha. I will follow you again.”
“No. That trail is closed to me,” Ratha answered, but she too could not help staring beyond Fessran into the wall of writhing flame. Waves of heat beat in her face.
“No trail is closed to you if you bear the Red Tongue,” Fessran’s voice hissed in her ear.
“Go back to your den, herder,” Ratha said between her teeth. “Leave the Red Tongue to burn and die.”
The other’s eyes widened. “Are you afraid to take up your creature again?”
“It never was my creature. Do you understand? It never was my creature. Fessran!” she cried as the other spat and leaped away.
“I do not fear the Red Tongue!” Fessran’s howl came back.
It is not the Red Tongue I fear. Ratha stared after Fessran.
The bounding figure grew smaller and blacker against the rippling orange flame, curling around the lower branches of the trees, flowing up them like a river into the night sky.
For an instant Ratha could only watch. Then she too was running, stretching her muscles in a half-mad attempt to catch her friend. Fessran plunged toward the fire like a falling stone.
The sound of the fire grew in Ratha’s ears until it was a continuous pounding roar. The wind whipped across her back, feeding the rising flame. A cracking, groaning sound made her look up. Another tree started its majestic fall, fire streaming from its crown. It toppled forward into the meadow, igniting the dried grass. It fell across Fessran’s track and Ratha could no longer see her.
She galloped toward the fallen tree, getting as close as she could before the thick smoke drove her back. She retreated, racing along the burning length of the fallen pine. Smoke rolled over her in searing clouds, choking her. As she skirted the tip of the pine, another tree crashed down in front of her, spitting sparks into the grass.
Ratha reared up on her hind legs, trying to see across the fiery barrier. There, deep in the inferno, was a figure whose image shimmered in the waves of heat rising from the flames.
“Fessran!” Ratha screamed and thought she heard an answer.
The two trees had fallen toward each other so that they lay with their tips together, their trunks still hidden in the fire that engulfed the trees still standing. The two blazing trunks formed a barrier that trapped Fessran inside. The only way in or out between the two crowns, whose interlocked branches formed a menacing lattice, would be to break them away in order to get through.
Ratha leaped into the air, trying to catch a glimpse of Fessran. She saw her friend on the other side of the barrier, crouching in a patch of grass that had not yet caught. Ratha could hear her coughing.
She flung herself at the maze of burning branches, using her rage to drive away her fear. She sank her teeth into bark, feeling hot resin sting her tongue. She bit through small branches and broke away large ones, ignoring the flames leaping around her. Her mouth was soon bleeding, her paws scorched and blistered, but she attacked the blazing mass again and again as if she had gone mad. Then, suddenly, with a final flurry, she broke through.
For a moment she stared in disbelief. Fessran was there, encircled by flames, yet she carried a burning branch in her mouth. She swung her torch at the fire, trying to drive it away.
Fool! thought Ratha. The creature does not fear itself.
“Fessran!” she called and the head bearing the torch came up. Fessran gathered herself and leaped toward Ratha. The fire licked at them from both sides, burning their fur and searing their skin.
“Fool! Mad one!” spat Ratha even before they were out of the flames. “Leave it here with the rest!”
Fessran only curled her lips back, showing Ratha her teeth clamped on the shaft of the branch. Ratha tried to swat it out of her mouth, but Fessran dodged and galloped away. She stood, looking back at Ratha. “Take one for yourself and run with me,” she said between her teeth.
Ratha stared at her. The power of the Red Tongue was rising again. There was nothing Ratha could do now to stop it. The night would only end in death, for Meoran would know by now where Fessran had gone and on what errand.
As if in defeat, Ratha lowered her head. With eyes still on Fessran, she seized a flaming branch and broke it off at the base. Despite herself, her heart beat faster. To have her creature once again was a triumph, even though a bitter one. Fessran trotted away, her torch held high. Ratha followed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The storm moved on, leaving the trees burning. Ratha and Fessran stood together on the far side of the stream, sensing that water would check the wildfire’s advance. Ratha stuck her torch into the soft mudbank. Fessran still held hers between her jaws. The crackle of their two torches echoed the groaning roar of the wildfire. A touch of gray showed beyond the sparks shooting into the sky.
Ratha gathered a pile of branches, for she knew the torches would soon burn low. Fessran snapped her head around as the wet grass seemed to move in the firelight. Ratha nudged her friend, feeling Fessran shiver. She felt curiously calm.
“Meoran will not come,” Fessran hissed. “We will have to seek him out. I grow weary of waiting here and the Red Tongue in the trees burns too close.”
“He will be here, herder,” Ratha answered. “Once he knows you have come seeking me, he will be on your track.”
“I wish him speed,” Fessran snarled, her teeth clenched on the torch shaft.
The grass waved again and Ratha heard footsteps. Fessran lunged with the torch as a shadow streaked out of the grass. A scent, made alien by a blast of acrid fear-smell, washed back over Ratha.
“Thakur!” she cried as Fessran froze where she was standing. Thakur crouched in the shadows, glaring at both of them.
“Put that torch down or I’ll take it away from you,” Ratha snarled at Fessran. “It would have made more sense to give the Red Tongue to a dappleback. Put it down!”
Fessran obeyed, driving the splintered branch end deep into the mud beside Ratha’s. Thakur crept into the circle of torchlight, his head lifted, his belly close to the ground. His ears flattened and his teeth flashed as he spoke.
“I feared you would find your creature again,” he said to Ratha. “Meoran comes and the clan is with him. When he heard the sky-fire strike and found Fessran gone, he knew.” He stopped, panting. “Run, both of you! Throw down your torches and flee! You escaped him once, you can again. Run!”
“No, Thakur. He will not be turned away as easily as he was the last time. He will hunt us until he has our blood,” Ratha said in a low voice.
Thakur almost threw himself at Ratha, his eyes shimmering with rage and agony. “How many will die in this madness? Shall this be the death of my people; the Named killing the Named? Have they earned such a death? If so, tell me how.”
Ratha’s belly twisted as she watched him.
“Enough, Thakur,” Fessran interrupted. “You have no stomach for this. Run away so that at least one will survive as the last of the Named.”
Thakur turned from Fessran to Ratha.
“Do as she bids you. Or pick up a torch and stand with us,” Ratha said softly.
He cast a look back over his shoulder. “He comes; I hear him now,” Thakur moaned. His voice rose to a hiss. “For the sake of your people, throw the cursed thing down and run!”
Ratha’s head turned at the sound of footsteps. Smoke hung beneath the trees, boiling along the ground. There were shadows behind the haze. Amber eyes stared out from a massive shape as gray as the rolling smoke. It became large and solid as Meoran approached.
“Wise words, Thakur Torn-Claw.” Meoran thrust his massive head through the haze. One bite from those jaws could crush the skull of a three-horn stag, Ratha knew. He was not one to provoke lightly.
For an instant the three of them stood still facing Meoran and the clan. Then, with a sudden shriek of rage, Fessran snatched up her torch and flung herself at Meoran. He reared, hauling his gray bulk into the air. He struck out with slashing foreclaws as Cherfan and the other young males rushed from behind to guard his flanks. Fessran tumbled away, bleeding. Her torch fell and guttered out.
“So this is the power of the Red Tongue.” He sneered and kicked the smoldering branch away from her groping forepaws.
“Meoran, wait!” cried Thakur. “You have destroyed Fessran’s creature. There is no need to take her life. Let me talk to her.”
Fessran lay on her side, her neck and chest red and ragged. She lifted her head and glared hate at Meoran.
“Talk will do nothing,” Meoran snarled. “Her eyes are like the eyes of the other, the she-cub.”
Ratha watched Fessran quivering on the ground. She raised her head and met the gray-coat’s stare. “The she-cub speaks,” she said quietly. “Leave Fessran. She is not the one you seek. I told you before; it is between you and me, Meoran.”
The clan leader took one heavy step forward. “Stay back,” Ratha heard him growl to Cherfan and the other young males who flanked him. “This one is my meat.”
He took another step and then jerked his head back in astonishment. Thakur stood in front of him, blocking his way to Ratha.
“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” she heard Thakur say. “Do you forget the old laws?”
“I make the laws for the clan, Thakur Torn-Claw. Move aside!” Meoran spat at Thakur and struck him in the face. He bowed his head and Ratha saw him lick blood from his nose.
“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” he said again, so softly that Ratha could barely hear him.
“I don’t bother with fangs for such as you. Claws do well enough.” Again Meoran lashed out at Thakur, laying the other’s cheek open to the bone. Ratha flinched as if she had been the one struck. Something inside her began beating against the walls of its prison. She wanted to shriek at Thakur to stand aside and let her face Meoran alone. She began to tremble, fighting her rage. She knew if Meoran struck Thakur again, that her rage would win.
The two stood apart, stiff-legged and bristling, Thakur still blocking Meoran’s way. The wild thing beating inside Ratha’s chest was as angry at Thakur as Meoran. What right had he to i
nterfere? Had he not betrayed her the night the Red Tongue died? Meoran’s power would have fallen then. And what did he think he was doing now? Did he think that seeing him bleed would calm her? No! Blood would bring blood.
Meoran raised a paw. Thakur looked at him, his face blank, expressionless. The blow came, with all of Meoran’s weight behind it. Thakur reeled and his head snapped around spraying red onto Ratha’s coat. He sank down in front of the gray coat.
Fessran shrieked and the cry tore through Ratha. She wrenched her torch from the ground. Meoran was approaching Thakur slowly, almost leisurely, his jaws opening for the killing bite. Flame barred his way. Again he reared striking out with his forelegs to knock Ratha’s torch from her jaws as he had Fessran’s but Ratha was too quick. The brand scorched his chest and he skittered back, howling.
“Ratha, no!” cried a hoarse voice and she caught a blurred glimpse of Thakur staggering to his feet, his mouth open in pain as the gleaming blood ran from his eye and cheek, dripping along his jaw.
Ratha walked toward Meoran with the torch in her teeth. All those that had clustered around the clan leader melted away. And Meoran cowered, terrified, mouth gaping, sides heaving.
“Close your jaw or your tongue shall meet the Red Tongue,” Ratha snarled. He gulped and shut his mouth.
“On your side and offer your throat,” Ratha ordered lifting her head with the torch. “Look well, you of the clan. The Law of the Named is now the Law of the Red Tongue.”
They crouched together, their bellies to the ground. Cherfan, his mate, Srass’s young son and the others all stared helplessly at the scene before them.
In her pride, Ratha answered their gaze and took her eyes from Meoran.
He exploded up at her, fangs seeking her throat. With a violent twist of her head, she swung the torch in a vicious arc and drove it down into those gaping jaws. The impact almost jarred her teeth loose from the shaft. Then, with a strange tearing sound, it gave, throwing Ratha off-balance. The shaft was torn out of her mouth and she was knocked aside.
She had lost, she thought dizzily as she fought to keep her footing. She whirled, ready to meet Meoran in a final desperate attack with teeth and claws. For a moment, she stood, stupefied.