“Is it that plain?” Sartas sighed heavily, shaking his head and peering behind her to look at the camp. “We cannot become too comfortable here. If we do, we may never get moving again.”
Reshia turned her head to the side, watching him as she talked. “But you have doubts.”
He nodded. “Sometimes I feel as if you know me better than I know myself.” A group of kits ran past them, chasing one another, laughing and shouting. “I set us out on this journey, and when I decided to do so, I knew it would be hard and unforgiving. I fear I may have blinded myself to our people, though. We’ve all suffered since the New Water came, and I forgot that not all of us are warriors; we may need time to heal.” He pointed a claw at the group of kits that had passed by moments ago. “I see sights like that, with the kits laughing and looking healthy, and I wonder if perhaps Miarrius is right; we end the march, settle somewhere on the ridge, or even find high ground that will be an island, where the waters can’t find us. I wonder how much more of this trekking what is left of the clan can take.” Sartas looked to the ground, shaking his head again. For that moment, his guard fell, and Reshia could see how much this was paining him. She waited the space of many breaths before she spoke.
“We can do as you say and as Miarrius and those that will listen to him want; we can stay here, end the trek. But we will not.” She placed a hand upon his arm. “You know the danger we’re in, how real it is. We have no Dancers; the messenger that brought us news of the Clan of the Claw was weeks ago, looking for other clans to inform. None of the stragglers is a Dancer, and not one of the females that are left to us has had the gods speak to her and tell her she should take up the heritage. And if that was to happen? Who would teach her?”
He hesitated. “That is true.”
But she was by no means finished. “Even if the Liskash were to leave us in peace—if, say, we managed to settle on land that became an island and successfully hid ourselves . . .” She shook her head. “I cannot see that happening. We are not adept with water. Only a few of us swim, and we do not know how to make boats, only rafts. We have never fished; well, except by accident. Do you see us being able to hunt, to forage, under such a circumstance? We have no trade, no contact with any other clans. We are cut off, and we are the only ones that can change that; sitting around and waiting will not do it.” She patted his forearm. “Let us rest another day, and finish drying and preparing what we found. Then call a council. Let everyone speak. I . . . will have a few words with some of the others.”
“Words? Try not to beat Miarrius too badly; we’ll need his spear arm in the future.”
She purr-chuckled. “No, no, I mean to speak with . . . shall we say, those who worry a great deal. It does no harm to plant doubts. You know of whom I speak . . . Ssenna for one. She is the sort to look at a cloudless day and assume in the night there will be a storm.”
“Yes, but then she prepares for it, and if there is a storm, is near-unbearably smug, and if there is not, says ‘Well, the thing you take care against never comes. Perhaps I prevented it.’” He laughed, then embraced Reshia. “You are my rock in this storm, love. Thank you for helping me remember that.” Turning back to face the camp, he left his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “The hard part is still to come. Convincing the rest.”
* * *
It was at the campfire the next night when everything unraveled. Sartas had heeded Reshia’s words, and waited for another day for preparations to finish; he was clear to everyone that they were to begin tearing down what they could in preparation for the next day, when the march would begin again. In retrospect it was a mistake, and one that would cost him; he was simply doing what felt right, however, and was at the time ignorant of the consequences. Shortly before the campfire, he sent word through the camp that there was to be a council held at that night’s fire, and all were to be there and be heard.
Everyone had already been fed when it was time for the council; Sartas thought that was good. Being fed before the discussion might’ve quieted some who would otherwise have been loud in their opposition. He only hoped that Reshia’s words had quieted the others, or helped them to see reason. Once it looked to him that everyone was assembled, he raised a hand for silence.
“We will be leaving again, soon. On the morrow or the next day.” Sartas waited while the expected murmuring quieted. Finally, he began to speak again. “Perhaps none of you have gone to the New Water to see how far it has risen since we camped here,” he said. “I can understand that. But I tell you we cannot stay. In three suns, the water will be here. In four, this camp will be ankle-deep. Before the water is here, other things will be; serpents, poisonous insects, perhaps disease. They, too, flee the water. It is time to move on. We have all rested, recovered our strength, and now it is time to seek the Clan of the Claw again, where we can unite with them and find safety.”
One of the elders stepped forward feebly. “What of the oldest of us? This journey has been hard on everyone, but we cannot recuperate so quickly in so few days. Many of us have died, and more will die if we continue on much further.” There were some nodding their heads in agreement at this. “It places strain on the rest of the clan in helping us, as well, along with the injured and sickly. How is it fair for us, at the end of our lives, to steal the energy needed for the kits, who are at the beginning? We cannot go on like this. Our wisdom has value, but is it more valuable than the future of the clan? Better to stop for a while so we can have both.”
One of the females spoke up now. “I had five kits before the New Water. Now I only have one.” It pained everyone the most when one of the young ones was lost; Sartas could scarcely imagine what she must have been going through. “It was not your fault, Sartas Rewl, but that doesn’t bring my kits back to me. I cannot lose my last; my husband was gone in the floods, and all I owned; my child is all I have left.”
More stepped forward. “Those of us with kits still need to care for them. They forage on the march and grow weaker with every day out there. They need rest. Those poisonous creatures you say are coming, well, we can at least see them coming when we are in a camp—but my kit was bitten by a serpent on the march. How can we defend against things we cannot see, that we blunder into? We are not, and our kits are not, trained hunters. We do not know these things are there until we step on them and they turn on us. You drive us before you, and we are defenseless against these dangers. It is time to stop, Talonmaster.”
One of the smiths called to speak. “We cannot make a living at our trade on the march; we’re no better off than the women, and unable to help the clan, unless we have a place to do our work. A forge doesn’t work so well on a wagon bed. We need weapons, we need hunting implements. We need to be able to repair and refurbish the ones we have. We can’t do any of that on the march.” A potter joined him in his complaint. “How can we replace all the storage jars that are broken without a kiln? We have tried firing pots overnight in the ashes, as our ancestors were said to do, but it just doesn’t work! Are we to turn basket-weavers now?”
“We’ll turn into corpses if we continue this.” This was a voice that Sartas was not familiar with. It belonged to a young male, one of the ones who had joined them shortly after the flood. He wasn’t as tall as Sartas, but he was very fit; stocky, functional strength. He was not of the same body type as the Long Fangers. Unlike them, he had no ear-tufts, and he had a long and very mobile tail. He was tan with subtle reddish and cream markings rather than tan with a heavy frosting of gray. He had heavier jaws and a longer face, too, which had the effect of making his eyes look smaller. Scars on his face and shoulders said that he was used to fighting. But he had not become one of Sartas’s warriors. He didn’t seem to do much of anything around camp, either; just enough to keep anyone from bothering him. “Continuing is foolish. If it weren’t for your obsession with tucking tail and bowing down before the Clan of the Claw, we would have found a new home already.”
Sartas sized the young male up instantly. A b
ully, and used to getting his way. “Who is this that is speaking? I don’t know you.” Sartas had to tread carefully here, but already had an idea of what this would ultimately come to. There was only one thing that this young Mrem had on his mind right now: a challenge. For him, it was a no-lose proposition. Long Fang did not have so many young warriors that they could afford to cast him out even if he lost the challenge. And if he won? He would be the new clan leader—though probably not for very long—a jump in status that under ordinary circumstances he could not have dreamed of achieving.
“I am Shar Enthiss.” The young hothead puffed his chest out and stood tall, putting his fists on his hips.
“Strange, I’ve never heard of the exploits of Shar Enthiss. I haven’t heard how many war bands he has led, or how many Liskash he’s killed.” Sartas Rewl paced around the fire as he talked, keeping a wary eye on the bully. “I haven’t heard of his skill with javelin or sword, either. Yet here he is, it would seem.” He stopped, turning to face the male. “My only concern is the survival of the people of this clan. If that is what I’m obsessed with, as you put it, Shar Enthiss, then it’s not something I’m ashamed of.”
“Your words are strong, but your actions show the opposite,” the youngster huffed. “Here you have mothers with kits, the elders, and the injured and ill begging with you to leave off this pursuit of yours, and still, in the face of harm to your own clan, you insist on trying to find another clan. And you don’t even know where it is! How long do you propose to drive us? Until everyone is dead?” There were more voices joining his in agreement, now. “You started us on this path, and now you need to end it. If you won’t, then—”
Miarrius Srell stepped through the crowd and snarled for quiet. Shar Enthiss, confused, went quiet. Miarrius looked around at the gathered Mrem, taking his time before speaking. Sartas held his breath. This was the last thing he needed . . . when Marius supported this youngster, there would be an avalanche of support piling up behind him.
“If we continue on, more will die. I assure you all of this.” The old bastard has sunk me. Sartas Rewl felt as if there were a block of slick ice in his belly, dragging him down. Miarrius fixed him with a stare, his face revealing nothing. “I can also tell you that if we stay here, all of us will die. In the lowlands, we were protected. Now, we are not; there are no more lowlands, only the New Water and the Liskash holdings that surround most of it. If we stay, we will either drown or eventually be found. Either way, we die.” Miarrius turned back to the bully, pointing at him and glaring now. “We are too committed, but more than that, the New Water will drive us no matter what our wishes are; we continue on if we want to save anyone.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I do not want to join Long Fang to Claw. But I also do not want to watch as our elders and kits starve or are slaughtered by Liskash. As the saying is, ‘when the avalanche has begun, the pebbles must go, whether they like it or not.’”
Sartas took his eyes off the youngster for just a moment to see what the rest of the clan was doing. Their body language would tell him everything he needed to know. Most of the ones closest to Shar Enthiss had shied away from him, and very few at all seemed as friendly towards him as they were moments ago.
“Sartas is our talonmaster, and has been for many seasons,” said Ssenna, from out of the crowd. Then her voice turned contemptuous. “What do we know of you, Shar? Only that somehow, you survived out of all of your clan.” She left unspoken anything else that might be implied; Ssenna was very good about saying only enough, and no more.
Someone else in the crowd—Sartas could not tell who it was—snickered and added “Dung always floats.”
“We know why we of Long Fang lived,” put in another of the hunters. “Because Sartas with the hunters, and Reshia with the foragers, both recognized something terrible was happening in time to get us to safety. I do not think we should abandon a path Sartas thinks is wise, given that.”
Shar Enthiss was not pleased to see the conversation turning against him. Abruptly, he kicked a log in the fire, sending sparks skittering out. “Enough of this pointless yammering! If you’re all too addled by your love of this fool, then I’ll handle this myself.” He unsheathed his claws and lowered his head, growling low. “I’ll lead this clan to safety. Not you, Sartas Rewl.”
Sartas nodded once, walking through the edge of the crowd into an open area. “If this is the way it must be, then know this; after it is done, there will be no more trouble from you, and you will do your share for this clan.” The younger male roared once and charged, barreling over some of the crowd to reach Sartas. At the last moment Sartas unsheathed his claws and squared his shoulders to meet the charge. Just Shar reached him, Sartas grasped the bully’s shoulders while rolling back with his momentum. Arching his back as they rocked to the ground he simultaneously planted a hand in his opponent’s chest, kicking him off and behind him. Shar impacted the ground with an audible thud, landing awkwardly on his back. Sartas had already spun around and readied himself in a low crouch; the youth was dazed for only a moment before him regained his senses and lifted himself from the ground.
Shar Enthiss still had plenty of fight left in him. He was more careful this time, however. They circled each other for several long moments before he lashed out again; two quick swipes and then a bull rush. Sartas dodged both blows, and sidestepped the rush; as Shar went under his arm, Sartas chopped the back of his neck to send him off-balance. His opponent recovered quicker than he had anticipated, and retaliated by raking his claws across Sartas’s ribs. A slick of red colored the tips of Shar’s claws; he grinned ferally, emboldened by drawing first blood.
Shar made what looked like another rush . . . but then, just before he would have hit Sartas, he suddenly dropped to the ground and rolled. He hit Sartas’s legs, knocking them out from under him before Sartas could avoid him, and turned the roll into a pounce. Sartas threw his arms in front of his face, blocking his opponent’s hammer blows. Shar raised up both arms to bring them both down in a powerful strike; Sartas countered by striking him in the chin with a palm, then flipping him off to the side. As a parting gesture, he took a backhanded swipe, digging into the flesh of Shar’s shoulder.
Time to end this. Shar could wear Sartas down, if he had endurance enough; he was certainly large enough to overpower the leaner Mrem. And Sartas had to show the clan something decisive. He stood up from the ground, allowing his arms to drop to his sides casually. Shar was confused by this; Sartas was dropping his guard, leaving himself wide open for attack. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, Shar moved in and stabbed his claws at Sartas’s face, looking to blind him. At the last second before the claws reached him, Sartas locked an arm around Shar’s outstretched one at the elbow. The talonmaster used his free hand to push against the bully’s shoulder, forcing him down the ground; he then wrenched the arm, twisting it back and taking the strength out of it. Shar screamed in agony; his screaming grew higher in pitch when Sartas planted a hand against that same shoulder, standing on it as he bent down to place a claw at the rival’s throat.
“Do you yield?” Shar ended his screaming to huff and grunt in pain instead. Sartas applied more pressure to the joint he was standing on. Eyes going wide in agony, Shar managed to yelp, “I yield! Stop, stop!”
Sartas let go of his arm but took his time in removing his hand from Shar’s shoulder. “Tend to your wounds. But do it somewhere else.” He waited while Shar slinked off into the darkness beyond the light of the fire before turning to face the crowd. “As soon as preparations are made, we will ready ourselves and continue on the march. Does anyone else wish to contend this? If so, speak, and it will be heard.” The entire clan remained silent, but it was an approving silence, with thoughtful nods. There was no more grumbling or chords of discontent within the crowd, now. Finally Miarrius spoke up.
“I would request a full day of tomorrow to properly pack, rather than the hasty thrown-together packing we have been forced to do until now, Talonmaster,” he said, with great d
ignity. “Proper packing will enable us to move efficiently, and if any of the food has not dried completely, we can arrange for it to be eaten first, rather than spoil slowly in the bottom of a basket.”
“That is wise. We’ll make sure it is done.” The gathered Mrem began to disperse, then, to talk about what had just happened, and to discuss how to get ready for tomorrow. Reshia waited until after the last of them were gone from the fire before she approached Sartas.
Her ears were flattened. “That did not go as well as I had hoped,” she said, in a voice loaded with chagrin. “Let me tend your wounds.”
“Better you than Shar.” He winced as she began to inspect and poke at the claw marks. “I don’t think we will have any trouble from that one anymore, however. Thugs are easily broken when they find someone truly willing to stand up to them.” He watched her as she worked, speaking softly. “What are you thinking, my heart?”
“I am thinking that the clan is behind you, but even with this rest, they are weary and will only get more weary. Is there any way to make the march easier?” She sighed, and cleaned the blood from the slashes on his shoulder.
“Ask the gods to dry out the valley, to burn the Liskash from the lands, and grant us jars and baskets of clean water and food that never need to be refilled.” She ticked his nose at the jest. “Honestly . . . there is nothing more to be done, other than to continue forward. We have limited means. If it weren’t for the village that Ssenna had found . . . I don’t think we would be able to continue. Perhaps that was a mercy from Aedonniss; I hope we will gain more, but I do not count upon hopes to see me through.”
“I did not expect so much opposition,” she said slowly. “I hope it has been settled, but it surprised me, and I am not sure what to think.”
By Tooth and Claw Page 5