by Clare Bell
Meoran spun in a circle like a cub chasing its tail. He was a blur of gray with a dancing patch of orange. And he was screaming.
When he paused, exhausted and spent, Ratha could see him and her rage froze into horror. The shaft of the torch protruded from his mouth, jamming it open. The blackened end, streaked with red showed beneath his chin and the Red Tongue curled up around his lower jaw on both sides. With a shock, Ratha realized she had driven the jagged end of the firebrand through the bottom of his mouth. Blood and froth bubbled up around the shaft and sizzled in the flame.
Meoran cried again, a half-choked scream. He pawed at the hated thing, now so terribly embedded in his own flesh. The Red Tongue blazed up wrathfully and Meoran flung himself back and forth as it licked at his face, blistering his jowls.
From the corner of her eye, Ratha saw Thakur lurch through the swirling haze toward Meoran.
“The stream!” he cried. “It dies in water! Seek the stream.”
Ratha stood frozen as Meoran staggered toward the creek. She did nothing to help or to hinder him. She no longer wished to be the one to decide how he would die.
Meoran shrieked and reeled back from the bank. Fessran leaped at him from the rushes, blood-spattered, vengeance-hunger hot in her eyes. She struck at the torch shaft penetrating his lower jaw, using the pain to drive him back from the water.
“Eat well, night creature,” she crooned to the flame. “He is a feast worthy of your hunger. Dance on his bones, sear his entrails and make him sing as he dies!”
Each time Meoran tried to gain the stream, Fessran was before him, singing a soft song to the flame and striking at Meoran’s face. The fur was black on his muzzle and ruff. The skin beneath was starting to swell.
Ratha leaped toward Fessran, but Thakur reached Fessran first. He caught her by the hindquarters and rolled away, dragging her with him. Meoran plunged past Ratha, the fire wreathing his head and neck. He did not reach the stream. He fell, writhing, into the grass. The wind whipped the Red Tongue.
Ratha saw Thakur approach, but the spreading fire drove him back. With a last spasm, Meoran’s body became still and started burning.
Thakur stood before the gray-coat’s pyre, Fessran’s limp form at his feet. Ratha could see him shuddering.
He turned and walked to the pile of branches she had gathered. He took one in his mouth and lit the end in the fire engulfing Meoran.
Ratha waited, trembling, as he approached her. She could see only one of his eyes and she feared the light there was the glow of madness. The fire was before her now, speaking with a savage voice. She stared into it. She would burn with Meoran.
“Ratha!” came Thakur’s voice and she looked into the ravaged face. “Are you ready?”
“To die by the Red Tongue? Yes. It is right. I am glad you will do it.” She lifted her chin, baring her throat. She closed her eyes.
“No! Not to die,” Thakur hissed. “To live as you told us. By the Law of the Red Tongue.”
Her eyes flew open. He was extending the torch shaft to her. “Take it, Giver of the New Law,” he said between his teeth.
Ratha bowed her head. “May my teeth rot if I ever take it into my mouth again! Fling it away, Thakur. The way of the Red Tongue is madness.”
“Madness it may be,” said Thakur, “but it is also life. Look to your people, Giver of the New Law.”
Ratha looked past him to the others of the Named who still crouched before her. She saw Cherfan huddling beside his mate, his eyes bright with terror. As Ratha’s gaze met his, he lifted his throat and bared it to her. His mate, crouching beside him, did the same.
“No!” Ratha whispered. “I never wished to rule. Meoran!”
“He lies burning in the grass. He will soon be ash and bones. His law is ended. The New Law must rule.”
“Then you or Fessran....” Ratha faltered.
“They do not bare their throats to me or to Fessran,” Thakur said. “Take the torch and lead your people.”
Again Ratha searched the eyes of those crouching before her. More chins were lifted. More throats bared. There were still those with eyes that waited and doubted.
Slowly she opened her jaws and felt Thakur place the branch between her teeth. His grip loosened and she felt the weight in her mouth and saw the Red Tongue dancing before her face. She watched Thakur back away, half of his face crusted and swollen. He too crouched and lifted his chin. She looked to the clan and saw that all throats were bared. She still had a choice. She could fling down the torch and throw herself into Meoran’s pyre. Or she could seek the trail that ran back to the mountains, abandoning her people to the ravages of the clanless ones.
The Red Tongue is madness. Thakur’s words came back to her again. It is also life. He had left one thing unspoken.
Now it is the only life we have.
She seized the branch, tasting the bitter bark. The wildfire still ate the trees and Meoran’s pyre was spreading through the grass.
“This is my creature,” Ratha said, holding the flame aloft. “It shall be yours as well. I will teach you to keep it and feed it, for it must never be allowed to die. You shall be called the Named no longer. Now you are the People of the Red Tongue.
She swung the torch around. “Follow me to the dens!” she cried. “Tonight we will give the raiders something new to taste. Do you hear me?”
The answer came back in a roar that deafened her. Her heart beating wildly, she sprang ahead, carrying the Red Tongue, and heard the sound of her people following.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ratha stared into the depths of the fire, curling up from its nest of branches into the night sky. It burned loudly, crackling and spitting. The Red Tongue lived both by day and by night, but to Ratha it seemed strongest when it burned against the darkness. It was a creature of the night, yet it obeyed none of the laws of stealth and silence that governed other animals.
Her people gathered around the fire. She could see their green and yellow eyes through the shimmering air and the smoky haze. She took her gaze from the fire’s heart, looking away into cool blackness. The Red Tongue’s image still danced before her eyes in ghostly form and she shut them. She could not delay long. Her people were waiting. So were the Un-Named who hid in the forest beyond the meadow’s edge.
Ratha seized a branch from the pile beside her. It was a good one, she thought, smelling the sharp tang of pitch. She thrust one end into the flame, pulled it out and watched the Red Tongue blossom around the end.
“Fessran,” she said between her teeth. Fessran limped to her and took the torch.
“May the Red Tongue be strong tonight,” she said before her jaws closed on the shaft.
“Guard the animals well, herder,” Ratha answered when her jaws were free. “If my creature holds the Un-Named from our throats tonight, then you shall share the power I hold. I do not forget who fought with me when the Red Tongue’s light first shone in the eyes of the clan.”
Fessran dipped her torch and carried it away.
I would also have called you friend, for you have been to me like a lair-sister, Ratha thought. But I dare not do more than acknowledge your loyalty.
She said another name and lit another torch, watching as the next herder came forward from the circle. He took his brand and followed Fessran.
Again, Ratha plunged a branch into the Red Tongue and passed it to a pair of waiting jaws. One herder after another took their torches and trotted away to take up their station between the herdbeasts and the Un-Named. The orange stars of the firebrands shone up and down the meadow, sending dancing shadows across the grass into the trees. Screams broke from the forest, as if the firelight had reached in and clawed those hiding there. She had heard those screams before. They had risen from her own throat when she hid where the Un-Named were hiding now. But as each herder took his or her place, the cries changed. The screams of hate and triumph faltered as uncertainty crept in. The voices wavered, and Ratha could hear wrath fighting with fear. A new creature s
talked the meadow this night and the Un-Named were afraid.
She thought of her old pack, of the young leader, the witless old gray and the others. They would be crouching together beneath the trees and turning to each other with eyes filled with bewilderment. What was this terrible blazing thing that chased the night away and stole the courage from the strongest among them? Where and why did it come? Only one among the Un-Named would know. Ratha stared beyond the fire, trying not to remember Bonechewer. He might be out there along with the cubs she had birthed with him.
She bared her fangs as if Bonechewer were standing before her, wearing that mocking grin that showed his broken fang. She grabbed a branch, biting so hard that it cracked. She threw it aside, seized another and thrust it into the fire. When she turned, the face before her was Bonechewer’s. She felt her tail flare into a brush and all the hairs along her back stiffened.
The eyes were green, not amber and the muzzle bore a long jagged wound, still swollen and crusted.
“Thakur,” she said and let all her hairs lie flat. “Are you the last?”
He approached, his eyes puzzled and wary.
No wonder, she thought. I must have looked ready to attack him.
“All the others have taken their torches, Giver of the New Law,” he said, but he did not open his mouth for the fire-brand as the others had.
“You may go without one if you wish,” Ratha said. She placed the branch back in the fire. “It must hurt you to open your mouth.”
“It will take much time to heal,” said Thakur. “Meoran did not keep his claws clean.”
“Once you feared my creature,” Ratha said softly.
“I still fear it. I fear it more now than I ever did.”
He looked steadily at Ratha, and there was something in his eyes and his smell that chilled her.
“I mocked you for your fear,” she said. “I will not mock you again.”
“I will take a torch,” Thakur answered. “I will need it when the raiders strike. But first, Giver of the New Law, I will show you your people.”
She wrinkled her brows at him, dismayed and puzzled by his words. Now was the time to prepare for the attack that might break from the forest at any instant. It was not the time to follow Thakur about the meadow to see whatever he might have to show her. She was about to refuse and send him back to the herd when the thought came almost unbidden into her mind.
He is the wisest among us. I turned his wisdom away when I should have listened. Now, perhaps, it is too late, but I will listen this time.
She let the fire burn by itself and followed Thakur. He did not lead her directly to the nearest torchbearer. Instead he walked toward a flame flickering at the far end of the meadow. He approached from behind and downwind so that the torchbearer could neither see nor smell him. He was almost within reach of the herder’s tail when the other leaped up and whirled around, swinging the firebrand. The flame roared and Thakur flattened in the grass. He rolled away, leaving Ratha facing the torchbearer. A paralyzing fear shot through her as she saw her own creature in the jaws of another. She who had tamed the Red Tongue could only cower before it in the instant before the torchbearer stopped his assault.
Beneath the fear was anger. Thakur had deliberately startled the young herder and then scuttled aside, letting her be the one to face the attack. He knew there would be no real danger once the torchbearer recognized her.
The young face was one she knew well; even too well. The torchbearer was the son of Srass, the old herder she had seen killed in the meadow. She remembered the old herder’s face at the last moment of his life; as the gray-coat ripped flesh from his quivering flank and the silver’s teeth crushed his skull. Pain and rage distorted the ugly muzzle but it was still Srass’s face until he died. Now she looked at the herder who was Srass’s son and saw nothing she knew. The red light that shone from the torchbearer’s eyes came from a fire that burned within as well as without. It was a new kind of wildness and a new kind of savagery she had never seen in those who used only teeth and claws.
She would have whimpered and backed away, but pride and anger held her where she stood. The torchbearer lowered his brand and his face became again the face of Srass’s son with all its lop-eared homeliness. But Ratha knew she would never be able to look at him again without remembering the change the fire had cast over him.
Is this how I looked when I stood before the clan with the Red Tongue in my jaws?
“Keep your guard, herder,” she said at last. “We should not have startled you.”
At the corner of her eye, she saw Thakur rise from his crouch and shake dry grass from his fur. Howls echoed across the meadow from the forest, and she saw the young herder turn to challenge the hidden enemy, the fire’s glow leaping in his eyes.
“Come, Giver of the New Law,” said a voice very near her. “I am still without a torch.”
Ratha’s fury rose and spilled over. “Thakur, I could feed you the Red Tongue as I did Meoran or have you gutted like a herdbeast!”
He looked back at her and the green of his eyes seemed to swallow her. “You could, Giver of the New Law. You may.”
The reply enraged her further, but she could do nothing except fume and bristle. She knew she could not strike him. “Why do you show me this?” she burst out at last. “You know as well as I that we must keep the Red Tongue if we are to live.”
“Look inside yourself for the answer,” he said. He paused. “I see you are angry, so I know you have found it.” He trotted back toward the fire she had left burning at the center of the meadow.
She ground her teeth together as if she were slicing meat. He knew as well as she that they could not turn aside from this new trail. What was he trying to do then?
One must know the path one runs even if the ground underfoot is not as one chooses, she thought and the answer almost came in Thakur’s voice. Her ears flattened. She was not grateful. Sometimes it was easier to take a path not knowing what lay underfoot or ahead.
The cries from the forest rose in pitch and intensity. Soon the Un-Named would begin their attack. The hair rose on Ratha’s neck, letting the cold of the night onto her skin. Would the Red Tongue save her people? They were still few and the Un-Named many. Only when morning came would she know, if she herself were still alive.
Another thought rose from beneath her anger and it too seemed to speak in Thakur’s voice. Even if the Red Tongue saved her people, they would never be the same. Once they were the Named, under Baire and then Meoran. Now they would be what she called them, a new name given without realizing what it truly meant. The People of the Red Tongue. And now she had seen the first of her new breed and now she knew.
As she returned to her fire, she passed other herdfolk. She approached them openly, letting herself be seen and smelled. Perhaps what she had seen in the young herder’s eyes was only anger at being startled. Perhaps it was only the brief intensity of fear that changed him and not the stamp of the Red Tongue. It was a new hope, but it did not live long enough to grow. Each of the torchbearers, even though unprovoked, held traces of the same look she had seen in the face of Srass’s son. Violent and gentle alike were all transformed by the blazing power they held between their jaws.
This is what we are, Ratha thought as she went from one to the other. This is what we are now.
Thakur was standing beside the fire when she returned. She lit a branch for him and gave it to him without words, feeling as though she were kicking mud into a clear pool even though she must drink from it later. He lowered his brand and trotted away, becoming one more of the flickering orange dots scattered about the meadow.
Again the raider’s cries swelled from the meadow. Ratha lifted her muzzle, her ears quivering. She saw the circle of herders about her tighten, bunching their beasts in the center. The torches swung outward.
She seized a branch of her own, lit it and left the fire to burn in its dirt clearing. As she reached the outer edge of the circle, the attack began.
; She had hoped that the Red Tongue in the forest would have frightened the raiders away, but she knew that hate and hunger were as strong as fear. Her worries were confirmed when a scout reported that the Un-Named were circling around the areas that were still burning. He had spotted one group of the raiders making their way along a stream bank, making her suspect that there was at least one among the Un-Named who had some knowledge of the Red Tongue. She did not admit to herself that she knew who that one might be.
Shadows that had been as still as rocks or bushes against the trees crept swiftly into the meadow. They streamed from the forest, eyes and teeth glinting as they emerged into the open.
Ratha planted her torch and looked about her in all directions. There are too many, she thought, feeling her heartbeat shake her. Even with the Red Tongue, we are too few. The herders about her seemed to share her dismay, for she heard whimpers and saw bodies huddling together. And the raiders seemed to sense it too. They came faster, their hissing grew more vicious. And then they were no longer creeping but charging; black forms bore down on the herders from all sides. Ratha seized her torch again and thrust it outward with the rest. The attack gathered speed. The torchbearers waited.
Trembling, Ratha tried to peer beyond the circle of orange light. The raiders were still coming but the attack was faltering, its edges growing ragged as many of the Un-Named hesitated before the firelight. Ratha could hear individual voices rise above the yowling as the Un-Named leaders tried to drive their packs to fight. There was fear in those cries as well as rage. Fights began in the Un-Named ranks. Those who sought to flee the new power battled with those who forced them to attack. The mass of the enemy became a churning moonlit sea, turning in on itself.
It quieted. The howls of those who had fled faded into the forest. The torchbearer’s brands shone into fewer eyes, but in those faces hate ruled over fear. The first attack had failed. The second was about to begin.