He dropped to the ground and crept back toward the campfire carefully. Stopping just within sight of the small campfire.
Shum was just standing there, his head and shoulders bowed, while a Liskash with a bloodied head came toward him.
Whar crept forward until he felt that strange sensation and then pulled back. While he watched the Liskash went up to Shum and viciously slashed his throat.
They will pay! Whar thought, keeping the snarl that lifted his lips silent. How they will pay!
He crawled in a wide circle, careful not to approach too closely.
Then, one by one, the captive herders came into view. They stopped by the Liskash, their arms dangling awkwardly, heads bowed. But Whar knew each Mrem and his heart stuttered in his chest in dread.
“Come out!” the Liskash bellowed. “Come now or I’ll cut their throats one by one!”
Whar put a large rock in his sling and stood. After a moment he began to whirl it around his head until it had reached a good speed, then he ran forward as fast as he could roaring at the top of his lungs. He felt the band fall over his head and kept running, when he felt his will slip he let the rock fly. For a moment his mind completely stopped.
Then the stone struck the Liskash full in the face, shattering the delicate bones and driving them into the lizard’s brain. It fell thrashing to the ground and after a moment was still.
One by one the captive Mrem raised their heads and looked around, several dropped to the ground in exhaustion.
“Shum!” one of them said, reaching out for his friend’s body.
Whar came up to them then and kneeling put his hand on Shum’s forehead.
“Shum was a good Mrem,” he said, his voice choked. Then he turned to his friends. “We cannot rest,” he told them. “There are three Liskash left and they’re driving the herd after our brothers.” He handed his water flask around. “Take their weapons and follow me.”
They loped off toward the herd, following carefully lest they come under Liskash influence. Whar vowed that if they survived this he was going to sleep a day and a night.
* * *
Vrar and the other herders ran from the hamsticorns for a while. Then at his signal when they were briefly out of sight of the herd they moved to the side, hiding in the tall grass to let it flow past them. The exhausted beasts went by bawling and complaining all the way.
They lay still, watching for the Liskash. At last they came, the three of them spread out behind the herd, following them at a distance.
For some reason the Mrem felt no compulsion from the Liskash and each of them knew cautious relief. They watched them go by, noticing that the missing Mrem were not with them.
“Stupid Liskash can’t see in the dark,” Vrar said softly.
“What shall we do?” Hoff asked.
“We shall kill them,” Vrar said with more confidence than he felt. He and the others spread out, stalking their prey with a natural silence.
The Liskash stopped and gathered together while the herd went slowly on. The Mrem froze and watched carefully. The three lizards seemed to argue, one pointing back the way they’d come while another waved in a general way around them, the third pointed to the herd which had begun to slow.
“What do you think they’re saying?” Hoff asked softly.
“Who cares?” Vrar said. “Let’s get them while they’re distracted.”
He held up a stone the size of his palm and the others hefted rocks of their own. Then the Mrem began to creep forward, slowly, carefully, the grass barely whispering with their passage. When they were about fifty paces from the Liskash they rose almost as one and let fly.
One of the lizards had time to point at them before the stones found their marks knocking them to the ground.
Vrar was the first one to reach them and his sword was out and flashing down before he came to a full stop. Within moments the Liskash were so much dead meat and the Mrem were hooting with victory.
“Stop it!” Vrar said, coming to his senses. “We’ll scare the herd. You, Hoff, take six Mrem and guard the hamsticorns. The rest of you come with me.” He turned toward the Liskash encampment and, he hoped, Whar and Shum.
They hadn’t gone far when they met with Whar and the six missing herders. There were embraces and backslaps all round.
Then Mazer asked: “Where’s Shum?”
Putting a hand on his shoulder, Whar said, “Shum was a good Mrem.”
Mazer gasped and went to his knees. “Shum is no more?”
Whar shook his head and the other Mrem caterwauled grief. He and Shum had been lovers. The others stood around him, silently offering support.
After a few minutes, Whar knelt beside him and gently said, “We must go. We will have to mourn later, there is no time for it now. The others are moving away from us as we weep.”
Mazer nodded, took a few deep breaths and got to his feet. “Yes, we must go.” And with that he started back the way they had come, the others following.
* * *
It had been Ashala’s Holding, before the Mrem rebelled. Then her daughter Hisshah’s Holding, briefly. For about twenty minutes.
Captain Thress lay in his own filth in the dark cell and cursed his life; cursed Hisshah who he had always despised; and cursed the guards who ignored him. He heard the door open and wondered if they’d finally come to kill him.
Sheth, Thress’s former second in the military hierarchy of the Holding, came into the cell. A soldier behind him put down a stool and at a gesture from Sheth left the cell. He didn’t bother to lock the door.
“You still can’t move,” Sheth observed.
“Can’t I? I hadn’t noticed,” Thress sneered. “Give me some water.”
“I no longer have to obey your orders, Captain.” Sheth sat on the stool, flicking his tongue once disdainfully. “You stink.”
“If it displeases you then it pleases me,” Thress said. “What do you want?”
“Maybe just to admire how the mighty Thress has fallen.”
The captain turned his head away and there was silence for a while.
“I thought you might like to know what’s going on,” Sheth said. “Hisshah’s pet slave Ranowr poisoned her, and all the nobles are wrangling about who is now the god among us.”
Thress barked a laugh; Hisshah had used that Mrem to humiliate him over and over again. He strongly suspected that the fuzzy beast had enjoyed it, despite the beatings.
“And I thought I would never smile again!” he said, and looked at his second in command. “And do you aspire to take Ashala’s place?”
Sheth snorted. “Not I. I am but a humble soldier. My parents are still alive as far as I know, and I have no particular desire to kill them. So I lack the basic qualification for leadership.”
“You do,” Thress agreed drily. “Why haven’t I heard screams and cries from the Mrem?” he asked. “The torturers seem strangely idle. Hearing him suffer would complete the joy of this day.”
“Ranowr? He convinced Hisshah to drink by drinking first. Really quite well done for a beast.”
“Then why not torture a few of the others? Screaming is one of the few things they do well.”
The other Liskash studied the ceiling. “It seems the Mrem have all escaped. Every last one of them. Along with our bundor and hamsticorns and seven wagons and fourteen draft krelprep. Not to mention seven wagonloads of supplies. Oh, and weapons. It was probably a mistake of the great god to have them trained in the use of weapons.”
The captain stared at him in disbelief, then laughed until he started to cough. His numb, inert but awkwardly still living body jerked.
“Oh, thank you for visiting me. You’ve made my day quite jolly.” He looked at his former subordinate. “Has anyone gone after them?”
“I’ve had no orders to do so. If we do I think it will be a token gesture. It’s only a matter of time before our more aggressive Liskash neighbors make a move on us.” He shrugged. “Why should we exert ourselves to enrich th
em?”
Thress chuckled. “Why indeed?”
Sheth leaned forward and put his arms on his legs. “Who do you think will come after us first?” he asked.
“Oglut,” the captain said at once. “He has two grown sons to worry about. He needs a new holding to keep at least one of them busy. How will you feel about serving a foreign god?”
Sheth tipped his head to one side, considering. “About the same as I’d feel about serving one of locally grown would-be gods.” He shrugged and leaned forward confidentially. “I live to serve.”
“It’s good that you know your place,” Thress ground out.
The other Liskash stood up and adjusted his sword belt. “I think the stink has grown to be too much for me now. I shall take my leave.”
As he turned to go Thress said, “Kill me or give me water.”
Sheth turned and shook a finger at him, tsking. “Once again you forget that I no longer have to take your orders, Thress.”
He cocked his head and tapped his teeth with a claw. “But you have amused me. I think I’ll keep you alive for a while. You’ll be a talking head for me. Very well,” he said, turning to the door. “I’ll give orders that you’re to be watered and fed . . . and cleaned up. At least for now.”
And with that he was gone, leaving the door wide open. Hisshah had had only a small power, the ability to move light objects. Her pet Ranowr had been the one who pointed out the potential of a small power, when applied to the interior of other beings’ bodies. The spine, for example, was quite vulnerable.
Thress cursed him, thrashing his head from side to side. He extended his will, trying to take over his second’s mind, ordering Sheth to kill him. Far down the corridor he heard the other Liskash laugh and knew he’d failed. He lay there torn between rage and black despair.
Perhaps if he was insulting enough he could get one of the guards to kill him.
* * *
Hormr, the lead bundor herder, shook out his long whip and faced the massive bundor bull before him. The creature stood in front of his harem of seven cows and shook his horns aggressively at the Mrem.
Hormr wasn’t impressed.
“I don’t want your females, you walking feast-day dinner,” he snarled. “I want you to move.”
The bundor didn’t see any reason to move; it was free of the annoying presence of the rest of the herd, the grass in this slight declivity was fresher than in most places because water collected beneath the soil, and there were no predators. Except the Mrem with the whip.
Hormr drew back his arm and flashed the whip forward, flicking the bundor on its tender nose with practiced skill—the whip could cut like a knife if you mishandled it, and he didn’t want that. The bull bawled and drew back, its big eyes rolling, then turned and moved in the direction Hormr urged it with a whip flick on its flank. The cows moved to follow it.
The round-up was going well. They’d come across some large groups and several small ones like this one, in little dry valleys and the lee of rocky hills. By now they had about a hundred and fifty. Hormr’s heart was very happy.
It makes me feel rich, just looking at all that meat and leather. Herding it all these years for others, and now it’s mine.
He was wishing he hadn’t brought the spear. It was a cursed nuisance to carry and he’d only used it once. He’d poked a bundor with it and made a wound. Bad herdcraft, that; there was always the risk of infection or maggots if you broke a beast’s skin. And so he carried the stupid thing because he didn’t want to hear Krar’s complaints if he came back without it.
Then he thought of how that cursed Krar had tricked him out of the herd and he swore. They’d just see about that. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right that he and the other herders did all the work, but the other do-nothing Mrem shared in the herds. Well, nothing was set just yet. He was certain he could get the elders to see reason and they were the real power among the Mrem.
His temper got the better of him and when he used the whip on a slowing cow it was hard enough to make her bellow. The bull turned toward him, but Hormr snapped the whip loudly and the bundor turned away, heading toward the gathering herd.
The others were already talking about taking what they had and following the other Mrem. “We’re too close to Ashala’s holding,” they insisted.
“Fools,” Hormr muttered to himself. A risk, but think of the reward!
Then he heard to sound of a large group of bundor. The bull turned its head toward the sound and started to move in that direction.
All right, the lead herder thought. The more, the better.
As they came over the crest of the hill the first thing he saw was a small herd of about thirty bundor and his heart leapt. Then he saw the Liskash sitting on the side of the hill below him.
He grabbed the bull bundor by a horn and started to pull its head around. The animal protested with a loud bellow and the Liskash looked up.
Hormr’s hand fell from the bundor’s horn and the bull trotted down the hill to join the herd. He stood there as the Liskash came toward him; he was not afraid, not angry, not anything.
By this time other Liskash had noticed his presence and they were coming to get a look at him.
“Well, well,” one of them said. “What have we here?”
“One of our runaways, sir.”
“I believe you’re right,” the Liskash said. “Where are the others?” he asked the Mrem.
“Far away, and getting farther,” the Mrem answered in a monotone.
The Liskash slapped him. “Call me great lord,” he said.
“Great lord,” Hormr said.
All the Liskash laughed.
“And where are they going?” the Liskash asked.
“Great lord they are going east and north.”
“Why?”
“To join the wild Mrem.”
Their leader clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “I think we will take these bundor and this slave back to the holding with us,” he said. “The nobles should know these things. They’ll tell us what to do.”
He gestured to the small herd and told Hormr, “Round them up and take them to their pastures. If you see any others take them, too.”
Hormr uncoiled his whip and went to work, somewhat to the Liskash leader’s surprise and pleasure. He hadn’t mind controlled a Mrem slave since he’d been young and he’d forgotten the pleasure it brought. It was a bit of a strain, but would probably take less effort the more he did it. This would certainly make it easier on them, the leader thought. The slave was used to these beasts. The nobles would be pleased.
* * *
Canar Trowr had gone from lying on the folded tents in the wagon back to sitting beside the driver. Grass bowed ahead of them; dust smoked in their wake, making the air scent slightly spicy. The lowering sun turned a scrim of cloud in the west to gold.
Being wounded is irritating. Everything itches, and I am bored, but there is nothing to do but endure and heal.
The shaking of the wagon as it passed over rough ground had been making him queasy when he was lying down. He was still miserable but at least he didn’t think he was going to lose his meager breakfast. He wished he could walk, but knew he was too weak. Besides, the Liskash had torn out all of his toe claws and it would hurt too cursed much.
Can you skin a Liskash without killing it? he wondered, not for the first time. That scaled skin is tough. It should make excellent leather.
He’d been holding himself aloof from the driver because he was afraid if he opened his mouth only whimpering would come out. Then he noticed that the driver was holding aloof from him. Now he wanted to talk, just to be annoying.
But these Mrem didn’t talk much, he’d noticed. They spoke softly and in short bursts as if afraid they’d be overheard. Because they’d been slaves, he supposed. Part of him looked down on them for that. Part of him respected their courage in escaping with what must have been a fair portion of their Liskash master’s wealth.
It still amazed him tha
t they’d actually believed that the lizards were gods. He smiled at the thought, then grew serious. It made it all the more amazing that they’d walked away.
Canar Trowr had to admit to himself that he was coming to like these strange Mrem. Tral and Wesha were fine healers and Krar was solid. But they knew nothing of civilized ways. They weren’t even a proper clan. And apparently they only possessed one name each. He’d never heard of such a thing.
He looked down to see a pure white female, obviously young, trudging along beside the wagon. The shape of her ears was exquisite, with just the hint of little tufts right at the tips. When she licked her nose the skin of her lips was the most delicate pink, and her canines were so sharp that the tips seemed to fade out into air.
Very sexy, he thought. Rrrrowr!
“What’s your name?” he said to her.
She looked up at him and he found himself staring at one of the loveliest faces he’d ever seen; she had huge green eyes. He caught his breath and wondered who her lucky mate was; such a beauty would never go unclaimed.
After a moment’s thought she said: “Prenna.” Then she looked down again, silent.
The rather mushy accent of these slave-Mrem sounded charming on her lips, soft and alluring.
“Just Prenna?” he asked, smiling.
She nodded, then looked up at him again. “Why would I have more?” she asked. “I am the only Prenna here.”
“All of my people in the Clan of the Claw have two names,” he told her. “It is the Mrem way.”
She stared at him with her brow furrowed. “We are Mrem, but it is not our way.”
He thought she felt insulted and he made a gesture of apology. “It is the way of the clans,” he explained.
Prenna looked back at the following Mrem. “Aren’t we a clan?”
Canar Trowr shrugged. “Are you? Have you all agreed to be? Do you have a clan name?”
They would need these things to be accepted by the other clans he knew. Right now they were just a mob of refugees. Especially now that their herds were gone. He frowned. He would have to encourage them to unite as a clan or his people and the other clans might refuse to accept them.
“You look like a priestess,” he told her.
By Tooth and Claw Page 11