By Tooth and Claw

by S. M. Stirling

  Sartas’s smile grew and became more heartfelt. “I haven’t a single doubt that you will.” He took her face into his hands again; it was part of the closeness they shared. “You need to remember that even as I go off to kill these Scaly Ones, that I will never leave you. Sure as Aedonniss makes the sun rise. So long as you and the clan live, no one will ever bury my heart.”

  * * *

  It was a hard push to the hills, with everyone moving as quickly as they could. They spared no pity for the beasts; after all, they were either going to be abandoned at the bottom of the cliffs, or left with the warriors at the hills. In either case, there was no point in sparing them. Everything but the krelprep were slaughtered; what meat that couldn’t be smoked and taken with was gorged upon. For some, it would be their final meal.

  Farewells had all been said the night before. At the pass in the hills, the clan moved on at the same pace, while the warriors remained behind. So far as Sartas could tell, no one, not even Reshia, looked back. Good. It will be easier on them, and on the warriors. This was the way life was in their world; the warriors fought to protect the clan, and often died doing so. Still, after having lost so much already to the New Water and the horrors that had followed, it was a testament to his clan’s strength of spirit that they were able to press forward.

  They had laid traps at the edge of the forest, counting on the Liskash to become careless and bloodthirsty at that point. They’d made no effort to conceal their trail; they hadn’t before knowing of the Liskash, and with a group their size to try was pointless. Sartas also instructed his people to make no effort to trap it until the end of the forest, either; better to draw the Scaly Ones in, thinking that their prey was running scared. Sartas had reckoned that a little time spent at the end of the trees would be worth it in Liskash casualties.

  They had managed to use the gifts of the forest to hastily construct some unpleasant surprises for the oncoming raiding party. Spiked pits concealed from view on and off of the main trail, snares, and deadfalls comprised the majority of them. He was particularly pleased with the swinging logs. Someone was going to get his long, scaly neck broken. Several someones, if there were any justice in the world. Sartas wasn’t fool enough to think that these traps would be anything but a minor inconvenience for the Liskash following them, however; if anything, it would only incense them. But, an angry Liskash wasn’t a thinking Liskash, as much as they ever did think. It was something that he could use against them. His warriors being able to keep their heads would double the effectiveness of his force.

  His warriors waited at the pass, most mounted on their krelprep with shields and javelins ready. Rrerren was on one end of the line, telling jokes and boisterous tales of his own exploits to lighten the moods of those around him. Miarrius and Ssenna were on the other, arguing about some new trifling. Arschus Mroa and Mreiss Lrew flanked him on either side; the latter was fidgeting with his harness and his weapons, while the former was seemingly as still and impassive as a carved rock. Sartas had inspected the line; in all, he had thirty fighters. Most were warriors, but some were untrained and simply chose to join the battle. He had done his best to make them as ready as possible in the little time that they were all left. One of the males that joined them had surprised him; Shar Enthiss.

  The young male walked in front of Sartas’s krelprep, keeping his head bowed and only raising it slightly so that his eyes met with the talonmaster’s briefly. “Sartas Rewl.”

  “Speak, if you wish.” Sartas was curious as to what was going on here; he didn’t quite know what to expect of the young upstart.

  “Before this fight, I just wanted to say . . . I was wrong in what I did, and did it for the wrong reasons. You are the greatest talonmaster I’ve seen. I’m honored to fight by your side; it’s what little honor I have left.” Shar pounded the haft of his javelin to his chest once before casting his eyes to the ground again.

  Sartas nodded. “If you fight against the Liskash half as well as you fought against me, Shar Enthiss, you’ll surely have no shortage of honor and glory. I’m glad we have your spear to aid us; I’m even happier that it isn’t against us.” Shar looked up then, and a mean grin spread across his face. He stood up straighter, raised his spear in salute, and walked off to rejoin the line.

  Arschus Mroa leaned forward in his saddle. “That was a kindness that you did him now. Especially for one that, not so long ago, wouldn’t have minded having your throat in his teeth.”

  “Kindness is as rare as nectar, these days. With what is to come, it is of no cost to spare even one such as Shar some kindness.” He turned and beckoned to Mreiss. The young male wheeled his krelprep to face the talonmaster, eager to hear what Sartas wanted of him.

  “Yes, Sartas Rewl?” Mreiss did his best to puff his chest out and hold himself high in his saddle.

  “To you goes the most important task of all, young warrior,” he said gravely. Mreiss bounced in the stirrups of his saddle, waiting, no doubt, to hear that he was to lead a charge, or something similar. “I want you—up there.” He pointed a talon to the top of the tallest hill behind where the battle lines would be. “I want you to watch everything. Above all I want you to survive. You are not to engage the enemy. And when we are done, I want you to race back to the clan, and tell them everything that you saw.” He leveled a stern gaze on the youngster. “Listen to me: it will take more courage, and more will, to do this, than it will to fight. There is no harder task. And none more vital.”

  “But—I can’t leave all of you! I won’t!” It was plain for any to see how conflicted Mreiss was; he wanted to do his duty, to do as he was ordered to. Yet he did not want to abandon his fellow warriors when they were in their darkest moment.

  “You will. You are not a heedless kit anymore, Mreiss Lrew. Will you leave the clan without a senior warrior to fight for them?” He didn’t roar, he growled. “Your duty is to the clan. Not to a band of its warriors. The whole clan. They must know what happened. They must know everything. Then they must have a strong, young, seasoned warrior to lead what is left of the fighters. You are not ‘the one that can be spared.’ You are my best choice. You are fast. Your mount is fleet. You are clever. You’ve been trained by Ssenna to be a scout. By Miarrius to be crafty. By Arschus to be strong. By Rrerren to be gallant. You can evade any Liskash that are left. You are my best choice for this; no one else has as much likelihood of making it back to the rest.”

  “I—”

  “You’ll follow your orders, Mreiss Lrew, as a true warrior must.” Every word pained Sartas to say, but he did not allow any of it to show on his face. This must be done, for the good of the clan.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll do as you command, Sartas Rewl. For the Clan of the Long Fang.” Without another word Mreiss turned his mount to face the hill where he was to observe the coming battle. He paused for a moment next to Arschus Mroa.

  “In the next life. Warrior.” Arschus laid a massive hand on Mreiss’s shoulder for a moment. Then Mreiss spurred his mount to gallop towards the top of the hill where Sartas had pointed.

  Sartas and Arschus watched until Mreiss was so high up on the hill that he and his mount were barely visible against the earth. Then they made sure that he had concealed himself so well not even their sharp eyes could spot him. Sartas nodded. “He has learned his lessons well. Now it is time for our task. The Scaly Ones will be here soon.”

  Arschus appraised the entrance to the pass, below them. “I imagine they will wish they hadn’t survived the coming of the New Water after they see what is waiting for them.”

  No sooner did the large warrior finish speaking than did the first Liskash rounded the bottom of the hills at the beginning of the pass. First one, then four, then forty Scaly Ones. And more kept coming. Soon the entirety of the entrance to the pass swarmed with Liskash.

  Arschus hissed. “They look like carrion-bugs.” Even at this distance, the Liskash were clearly a motley and sorry group; very few had any armor, and whatever they were wearing was
mostly in tatters or ruined with filth. Despite that, they still had the numbers to be more than a credible threat. And they were hungry. It was to raid and pillage or to die, for them.

  “Soon they will be feeding carrion-bugs,” Miarrius said. “Something will, at least. Bugs will be getting a full meal today, one way or another.”

  Rrerren galloped to the center of the line to join Sartas and the others. “You worry too much, gray-hair. In fact, take a nap; I’ll take care of these interlopers.”

  Ssenna, quiet as death, moved her mount within the vision of the others. “I don’t think your jokes will be any more lethal than they already are, Rrerren.”

  “Maybe he’ll just bugger them to death.” Miarrius slipped his sword and dagger from their sheaths, eyeing the approaching Liskash. “He’s buggered damn near everything else in the clan.”

  “That will do.” Sartas did not turn to stare at his warriors, he let his tone of voice tell them that the time for joking was over. “Every arrow, every javelin, every thrust is precious and cannot be wasted. Make each one count. If you can’t kill, maim, cripple. I don’t want a single Liskash in that horde to be unmarked. Remember that we are buying time. Hurt these forsaken lizards. Make them know that the Clan of the Long Fang lives for their blood!”

  All of the warriors roared as one at that. The oncoming Liskash seemed to pause at the sound of the battle cry. It was only for a moment, though. They began to advance again; Sartas saw that their archers and those with slings had crowded to the front. Their lines weren’t nearly as well organized as if they should have been; the orderly formations had been replaced with a crush of Scaly Ones, gathered together in smaller groups behind the front rank. Ssenna was right; they don’t have a noble leading them. This is not a coherent force, this is a mob. For a moment he had a glimmering of hope. Was it possible they might survive this? Soon they were in range to start firing arrows and slinging stones, cutting off his thoughts. “Shields!”

  As one, all of his fighters brought their large shields up over their heads; the shields covered most of their bodies and the front of the krelpreps. Arrows, stones, and then javelins came down in uneven volleys; the Liskash weren’t coordinating their archers at all, it seemed. The rain of projectiles slackened and finally became a drizzle. No one seemed to be hurt, beyond one unlucky krelprep that caught an arrow through the neck. They must be running out; with no way to resupply, perhaps they’re down to their last. “The stupid beasts are out of ammunition!” he roared. “Send some back!” Again as one, all of Sartas’s fighters threw a volley of javelins; only one, since they had so few to begin with. Some of those that were left without any picked up the javelins that had just moments ago been thrown at their hides. Their javelins found good purchase in the Liskash ranks; most found their marks, with the Liskash being too focused on their victims to worry about their own safety.

  Sartas dropped the large shield while swinging a lighter one from his back; the first was covered in dents and protruding arrows along with one Liskash javelin. He noticed that there was dried blood on the javelin; the sight of what was probably Mrem blood caused his anger to burn in cold waves throughout his body. He raised his javelin into the air, then pointed it towards the Liskash. “Forward!” Tucking the butt of the javelin under his arm, he spurred his mount, sending it surging forward with a whinny in protest. His fighters roared in response, following him down the path. The Liskash were at the base of the rise where his warriors had gathered; any ground they hoped to gain would have to be taken while fighting uphill. This gave Sartas’s riders and the fighters on foot the advantage of momentum for their charge. Only a few of the Liskash raiders were able to position their shields or ready javelins for the oncoming charge; most of them were still pushing forward, too eager to be the first to kill one of the Mrem.

  No time to think, now. This was the work for training, reactions, and the will to survive. Sartas was the first to meet the Liskash line; on instinct, he worked his javelin at the final moment, leveling it at the enemy. His spear found the first Liskash with a shock of contact, lodging in its mouth; he instantly withdrew it and thrust it out again before the first had even fallen; another was taken in the throat, and the one after that through its eye. The rest of his fighters were right behind him; they had formed into a wedge, the better to pierce through the massed Liskash. Those without mounts crashed through Scaly Ones that had been off-balanced by the charge; javelins and swords and axes flashed, and the ground was quickly stained with blood. The Liskash were reeling; they couldn’t have expected their foes to attack so ferociously against their superior numbers. Here they thought they had been pursuing refugees like themselves, fleeing before the New Water. They had never expected the pursued to turn and bare their fangs in defiance. Hunters often grew in fervor when a prey-beast ran in fear; so it was with these Liskash. They had not taken into account the terrain that had become the battleground. Scores of the Liskash were paying for this miscalculation with their lives and limbs.

  Even with the flow of battle on their side, there were just too many Liskash; after Sartas lopped the head off an archer, his mount took a javelin to its side, followed by two more javelins once it reared up with a scream of pain. He was able to leap from the krelprep and land on his feet without it toppling over on him. The beast was still kicking in its death throes when he came up, shield and javelin in hand. Several of his warriors dismounted near him; the killing resumed immediately. Arschus Mroa had eschewed a shield in favor of using both hands to wield his axe; it was suitably large to fit his gigantic frame. Swinging it back and forth, he cleared Liskash two or three at a time from around him, as if he was knocking the heads off flowers.

  Rrerren Rras had both of his long swords out, and was whirling them while laughing raucously in between dispatching Liskash; he was graceful with each dodge and feint, every parry and slash. Two Liskash sought to attack him from front and back at the same time; deflecting the tips of their spears at the last moment, he redirected the points into the Liskash on opposite sides as they charged forward so that they impaled each other. “Careful! You slimy lizards might hurt someone with those things!”

  Ssenna was on the edge of the fighting, standing on her fallen mount; she would spot opportunities in the fighting, and loose an arrow at a Liskash; sometimes a breath before it would have delivered a killing blow, other times to take pressure off of a harried comrade. She never missed with a single arrow, always calm and methodical in her aiming and firing. For a moment, Sartas wondered if he should have allowed Mreiss to stay; with his lightning reflexes, slim build and shorter stature, he could have dashed among the fighters retrieving spent arrows for her. Well, too late now. Miarrius was doing his best to cause as much havoc as quickly as possible in Mreiss’s place. For such an old warrior, he was surprisingly spry. He rolled between the legs of one Liskash, slashing its ankles as he moved. Springing from a crouch, he skewered another through its throat, and then turned to parry a javelin-thrust with his dagger. Slashing the offending Liskash across its snout, he dashed inside of its guard, hacking off its arm first and then its head. The final Liskash that Sartas saw Miarrius kill was taken down after the warrior had tripped it and used his legs to immobilize it before disemboweling the Scaly One.

  As well as his fighters were doing, Sartas had his own hands full. For every Liskash that he cut down, there were three more to take its place. He gave the head of his javelin to one of them; dying, it reached for the haft and held onto it as it fell backwards, taking the javelin out of the talonmaster’s grip. Snarling, he ducked under a sword just in time as he pulled his own blade from its sheath; he felt the tip of one of his ears trickling blood. Too close. He chopped at the Liskash that had swung at him, forcing it back. Feinting to the left, he ducked low and stabbed quickly with the short sword, catching his opponent in the chest with the tip of the blade. The Scaly One didn’t have time to hiss as it fell off the blade, dead.

  There were already others to take its place, how
ever. A slung stone grazed the side of Sartas’s shoulder; he whirled and dropped to a knee as two more went sailing over his head to impact with a foe behind him. He charged forward again, shouldering a Liskash in the back; it stumbled forward, impaling itself on one of his warrior’s javelins. He knew that he couldn’t stop moving; more would be crowding at his back. Sartas slashed one lizard across its legs, spinning with the cut and opening its throat with another blow as it fell to the ground.

  Finally, the inevitable happened; they started dying. One warrior fell, followed by another; javelins and swords and claws from the mob came in unending waves. Even with all of their ferocity and bravery, Sartas’s warriors could not fight in such a melee forever. Sartas had just cut a Liskash from stem to stern when he noticed that Rrerren had suddenly stopped laughing; whirling around to where he last saw the warrior, his heart dropped. Rrerren was standing with a sword through his back and out his chest, a confused look on his face. Then he spun on a heel, decapitating the Liskash that had run him through. Sartas sprinted through the fighting, dodging Liskash and Mrem alike to reach Rrerren’s side just as he fell to his knees.

  “Already?” He sputtered, trying to grin as he was coughing up too much blood. “I’ve only killed twenty more Scaly Ones than Arschus has. I can’t let—” The light left Rrerren Rras’s eyes in that moment, and he went slack in Sartas’s grip, still smiling. Sartas came up from the ground roaring, baring his fangs and looking at the surrounding Liskash with unadulterated murder in his eyes. He surged forward, blocking a javelin with his sword; he collapsed the throat of the javelin-wielder with the edge of his shield. The Scaly One doubled over, unable to breathe; Sartas swung his sword with all of his might, cleaving off the enemy’s head and shoulder with a single blow. The other foes all backed away from him, none of them wanting to be the next to face his wrath.

  Sartas took a step towards them, intending to find a new victim for his fury. He stopped suddenly, feeling as confused as Rrerren had looked. He couldn’t move his left leg. Looking down, he saw that there was a javelin going through the meat of his thigh, still quivering. The Liskash around him saw the opening, and came for him; he was put on the defensive, swatting away swords and javelins while not being able to maneuver at all. Soon, they would swarm him, and that would be the end. He could see that more of his warriors were failing and dying; in twos or threes or alone, they killed and were cut down in turn.