Who, for its part, was now all but helpless. The Liskash still seemed to be conscious, more or less, but that last wound—or simply accumulated damage and exhaustion—had left it unable to do more than feebly try to lever itself up on one arm while, with the other, it tried to find a rock with which to defend itself.
The monster crept toward it. But then, suddenly, a second Liskash interposed itself. A considerably smaller Liskash—and one who seemed to possess no weapons at all. What did it think it could do?
Sebetwe
There was no chance Sebetwe could control the gantrak, even as battered and confused as it was due to Herere’s incredible fight and the completely unforeseen intervention of the Mrem. But he thought he might be able to keep the gantrak stymied long enough for . . .
Whatever. Perhaps the Mrem would finish it off. Perhaps Herere could be rescued once the rest of the Liskash arrived and they could flee.
Whatever. He had no great hopes or expectations.
He tried to apply gudh. But, as he expected, it served no purpose. The great predator’s mind was simply impervious to mental bludgeoning.
And thankfully so, all things considered. If Liskash nobility could control the world’s most terrible predators with their minds, they would be even more powerful than they were. But that sort of sheer will simply didn’t work well on hunters, unless they were small or young.
So, it would rest entirely on Sebetwe’s bradda. To make things worse, he hadn’t had time to do more than the first of the needed exercises—and certainly didn’t have time now. The gantrak was less than two body lengths away and about to charge.
Sebetwe began with a spike of pure glamor, doing his best to surround himself and the recumbent Herere with an aura that would make the monster wonder—leave the creature puzzled, at the least, hopefully tinged with a bit of awe.
It was the greatest such spike he’d ever created. By far. Why? He had no idea. Perhaps it was the peril of the moment. Perhaps it was the exaltation of trying such a feat against such a creature. For all he knew, it was simply caused by the lightheadedness brought on by the rarified atmosphere.
Whatever the cause, the gantrak’s forward creep stopped immediately. The monster’s head came up. Its two forwardly-focused predator’s eyes scrutinized Sebetwe intensely. Somewhat in the manner that such creatures studied their prey, but more like . . .
Sebetwe’s concentration was almost disastrously broken by a laugh. But more like a possible mate is studied.
He did not want that much glamor! Again, he had to force down a laugh.
The humor swelled his self-confidence. Now, through the veil of the glamor’s aura, he began to insinuate other emotions. The key one was kinship. Gantrak were not pack hunters. But they did mate for life and spent years raising their young. That was enough, he hoped—and blessed be whatever gods and goddesses did exist and never mind what the teachings said—for the tie of kinship to take hold. Long enough, anyway, for whatever else . . .
Might happen. He still hadn’t given that any thought at all. Any more than he’d been able to think about Nabliz’s situation. The last he’d seen, Nabliz had been trying to control two hatchlings with a snare in each hand. Good luck with that!
The arrival of another Mrem on the open space barely registered on him at all.
CHAPTER 4
Achia Pazik
When she reached the open space where the ledge widened, Achia Pazik was frozen for a moment by the bizarre scene in front of her. To her left, now pressed against the side of the mountain in a half-supine position, was Chefer Kolkin. The warrior was being tended by Puah Neff and Zuel Babic. He seemed shaken and perhaps dazed, but she could see no blood or open wounds on him.
In front of those Mrem crouched the Zeg brothers, their spears leveled at an incredible monster. But the creature was paying them no attention at all—neither them nor the badly injured Liskash lying unconscious on the ground. Instead, the huge predator’s attention was fixed entirely on a smaller Liskash kneeling not more than two arm’s-lengths away.
Who, for its past—most bizarre sight of all—was doing nothing more than peering intently at the monster. The Liskash not only had no weapons in its hands, the hands themselves were simply pressed flat to the ground. Its pose was not even one of preparation for sudden flight. More like . . .
A pose of prayer, almost. Except that was insane.
What was the Liskash doing?
Suddenly, she sensed something familiar. The kneeling Liskash was emanating—if that was the proper term; the power’s nature was unclear to Mrem—the same sort of mental aura that Zilikazi had used to destroy her tribe.
Except . . . not really. The aura was quite different in some ways. That it was some sort of mental force was certain. But it had very little if any of the sheer will that had suffused Zilikazi’s power. It seemed more like . . .
She had to grope for a moment before she found the analogy. And then she couldn’t help but choke out a half-laugh, half-cry of surprise.
The Liskash was trying to coax the monster! Yes! Just as you might try to inveigle a nervous and wary pet to let itself be stroked.
Achia Pazik would never have imagined such a thing was possible. And . . .
After a few moments, she realized that the Liskash was not succeeding in its purpose. The monster was growing restive, its narrow but fierce mind chafing at the restraints being placed upon it.
And if it got loose, it was likely to kill or at least injure more than just the two Liskash before it was finally brought down.
But if she ordered the Zeg brothers to attack, the monster was sure to break free of whatever strange binds the Liskash had placed upon it. At which point anything might happen. The creature was certainly more likely to go after its assailants than the Liskash.
As she’d been wrestling with this immediate quandary, a thought that had been congealing elsewhere in her mind suddenly came into clear focus.
Whatever powers the kneeling Liskash was trying to wield, she now realized that they actually had little in common with the forces Zilikazi had controlled. Instead, oddly, they reminded her more of the mental aura that she and other Dancers created in their war dance—which was not a “force” so much as a shield. And not a shield deployed in a way that stops a blow directly, but rather deflects it.
Confuses the blow, befuddles the blow.
Again, she choked down a half-laugh. You could even say, seduces the blow!
Without thinking about it, she’d come to her feet and began the first shuffling steps.
This was madness! Yet . . .
Who could say? All of these powers were mysterious and poorly understood.
Within seconds, she was into the full rhythm of the Dance.
Why not?
Sebetwe
Sebetwe had begun to despair when he felt a sudden surge of strength.
No—not strength, so much as a heightened awareness, a better and more acute grasp of the way the gantrak’s mind worked. It was as if he could suddenly understand a language that had formerly been nothing but a half-meaningless argot.
His new understanding was not fluent, but good enough that he could insinuate himself—his mind, his spirit, who knew what it was, exactly?—into the creature’s mind and quell its growing fury.
Again, he had to qualify. He was not quelling the fury so much as he was undermining it. He was persuading the animal that he was neither prey nor enemy, and doing so in the ancient manner common to most predators—by triggering its surrender reflex.
Most predatory species fight amongst themselves, but rarely do those fights result in death or even severe injuries. At a certain point, the animal that felt itself losing would submit to its opponent; who, for its part, would accept the submission and leave off any further battle.
So too, here and now. Steadily, inexorably—Sebetwe had never felt this sure of himself, this filled with mental acuity so great it transcended normal notions of power—he was bringing the mons
ter to an acceptance that it had fought—fought well; fought furiously—but was simply overmatched.
Where this new capacity had come from, he did not know. He was far too preoccupied with the needs of the moment to even give the matter much thought, beyond a passing wonder. The gantrak was on the verge of surrendering, but Sebetwe could still lose the contest if he fumbled even the least because he was distracted.
Achia Pazik
The Dancer understood the Liskash better than the Liskash understood itself.
No, himself. By now, and in her own very different way, Achia Pazik had penetrated the thing’s mind.
His spirit, rather. She could grasp no precise concepts, no clear ideas, nothing that could be given a name. Except, perhaps oddly, the thing’s own name. The Liskash called himself Sebetwe.
She was coming to know the Liskash also, far better than she would have ever thought it possible for a Mrem to understand such a creature.
No creature, now. Such a person.
There was great skill here, subtle skill—even sly skill. In its own fashion, Sebetwe’s power was as fearsome as Zilikazi’s. But it simply couldn’t be applied the same way. Sebetwe’s method was based on intuition, understanding—recognition. One being shaping another’s purpose not by forcing its will upon it but by persuasion.
The form of that persuasion was crude, of course, working with the mind—such as it was—of a savage predator. Achia Pazik did not think it would or could work the same way if applied to an intelligent mind. Sebetwe was not causing the gantrak—from somewhere, that name had come to her also—to hallucinate. He was not tricking the monster into thinking that Sebetwe himself was an even greater one of the same kind. Rather, he was . . .
She wasn’t sure what he was doing, in any way she could have put into words. But as she continued the Dance, she knew. She had perhaps never been closer to any person than she was in this moment to Sebetwe the Liskash.
She Danced, and Danced, and knew that Dakotsi Danced to her left and Mareko to her right. All the tales placed the goddess of wonder and the god of caprice in tandem at such times.
Chefer Kolkin
Chefer Kolkin had recovered enough to be able to follow what was happening. More or less, from the outside. He had no sense of the complex weaving of minds that was transpiring between the still, kneeling Liskash and the whirling Mrem Dancer. But he could see that—somehow—the Liskash was controlling the fearsome monster that had almost killed him. And he could see that—somehow—Achia Pazik was aiding and supporting the Liskash in its effort.
“What does she think she’s doing?” hissed Tsede Zeg. But it was a soft hiss, almost a whisper. “Is she crazy?”
“Be silent,” Chefer Kolkin commanded. The younger warrior obeyed. On this level, Chefer Kolkin’s authority was paramount.
Nabliz
Farther up the slope, in the nest, Nabliz was as puzzled as the Mrem warrior below. He’d expected the effort to control two gantrak hatchlings to be enormous; quite possibly more than he could manage. Even as small as they were—small compared to their parent; each of them still weighed a third as much as Nabliz—and caught in the snares, they were gantrak. Ferocity incarnate. There were larger land predators, but none who would willingly face a gantrak in direct struggle.
And, indeed, so it had been at the beginning. But then, something . . . happened.
Nabliz had no idea what it was, except that it coincided with the cessation of the noises of fighting coming from down the mountainside. The adult gantrak’s screams of fury had died, of a sudden. Thereafter—silence.
That silence was echoed, as it were, up in the nest. The hatchlings had ceased their own screeching and thrashing. Within a few moments, they’d become almost listless, as if they were half asleep.
Nabliz was pleased by the change, of course. Pleased and relieved. But some part of him worried all the more. Whatever else, the gantrak hatchlings had been a known quantity.
What was happening?
Sebetwe
Finally, it was done. The gantrak rolled onto its back, exposing its belly. Its underside was not exactly unarmored, given the toughness of the monster’s hide. But it was covered with none of the spines and plates that made so much of its body almost impenetrable by any hand-held weapon.
By now, Sebetwe knew enough of the creature’s instincts to make the appropriate response. He leaned over, placed his palm on the gantrak’s belly, and then leaned on it with all his weight.
But only for a moment. This was no pet to be stroked! That one brief but firm touch was enough to close the surrender reflex cycle. Henceforth, the gantrak would be submissive to him.
Not docile, though. Docility was simply not in the nature of a gantrak. But the predator had accepted Sebetwe as his superior.
Might it be possible to actually tame the creature? No adult gantrak had ever been tamed by Liskash. For that matter, Sebetwe knew of only one instance in which an adult gantrak had even been captured alive—and that had been an instant in more senses than one. Within a short time, the monster’s captors had been forced to kill it before it managed to break loose from its bonds.
It was hard enough to tame gantrak hatchlings. More than half of those had to be killed also.
But if it could be done . . .
The power and force of the great predator’s spirit, if it could be tapped by a Liskash adept, would be of tremendous assistance against Zilikazi’s mental power. It still wouldn’t be enough to beat down the noble—Zilikazi’s strength was incredible—but it would be enough to fend him off for a time. Perhaps quite a bit of time.
He decided it was worth trying. Provided . . .
He rose to his feet and turned to the Mrem whose dancing had given him such acuity, in some way that he still couldn’t fathom but knew to be true, as surely as he knew anything.
The only way to tame the gantrak would be with the Mrem’s continued assistance. Sebetwe had no idea how to persuade the Mrem to do so—even if he knew how to speak its language.
Which he didn’t. He knew none of the Mrem tongues. There were said to be dozens of them. Apparently, their mammalian quarrelsomeness extended to speech also.
But to his surprise—certainly his relief—the Mrem spoke in his own language. Even with the dialect of the Krek!
Achia Pazik
Somehow or other—she understood this no better than anything else—Achia Pazik had learned the Liskash’s language during the Dance. Quite well, in fact, even if she didn’t think she was fluent.
“I am Achia Pazik. And you are Sebetwe, I believe. Of the Kororo . . . I’m not sure if a ‘Krek’ is a tribe. But I know you are enemies of Zilikazi.”
The Liskash stared at her. “How did you know my name? And the Krek is a creed, not a tribe. All may join, no matter their origin. And, yes, Zilikazi is our enemy. Our greatest enemy.”
No matter their origin . . .<
She was pretty sure that sweeping statement had never been intended to included Mrem. But . . .
It was worth trying. As bizarre as taking shelter among Liskash might be, they needed to take shelter somewhere. On their own, as few of them as there were, running through the wilderness, half of them would be dead before much longer, even if Zilikazi didn’t catch up with them.
She was not so naïve as to believe that the enemy of her enemy was necessarily her friend. But, for the moment, she’d accept a simple lack of enmity. They managed so much right here on a mountainside, fighting together against a monster. Who was to say they couldn’t manage as much fighting side by side against a much greater monster?
“I learned your name—as I learned to speak your language—when our minds intertwined against the gantrak. Now, Sebetwe, I have a proposal.”
* * *
After Sebetwe accepted, she explained the situation to the others.
“You’re crazy!” exclaimed the Zeg brothers, speaking as one.
“Be silent,” Chefer Kolkin commanded. “Achia Pazik is our leader. She
decides.”
CHAPTER 5
Zilikazi
The third day of the march began late in the morning. Zilikazi would have preferred to begin sooner, as he had done the first two days, but practical reality dictated otherwise. They had entered the foothills by the middle of the afternoon the day before, and the temperature had dropped noticeably. If he ordered his soldiers to begin marching too soon, before they’d been able to soak up some heat from the rising sun, they would be sluggish. The huge train of camp followers who brought up the rear would be still worse, and not even a noble of Zilikazi’s power could override the ties between his army and their camp followers. Mates, children, the elderly—no matter how fiercely Zilikazi lashed his soldiers’ minds, they would resist simply leaving their folk behind. Not openly, of course; but resistance could take the more subtle form of lethargic incompetence. The soldiers would be taking two steps sidewise and one step back for every four steps forward.
Besides, he didn’t want his soldiers unready in case combat erupted. Zilikazi wasn’t expecting to encounter any armed resistance yet, but it was hard to predict the behavior of religious fanatics. If the leaders of the Kororo Krek had any sense of military tactics, they’d wait until Zilikazi’s much larger and more powerful force was well into the mountains. The terrain would then favor the defenders. Even such a crude and simple tactic as rolling large stones down the slopes would cause casualties.
But who could be sure what the Kororo would do? From what little Zilikazi had been able to glean from the babble of the one he’d had tortured, the Krek’s beliefs bordered on outright insanity.
Like all nobles, Zilikazi had little interest in the elaborate theology of the Old Faith. Whatever power the old gods might have possessed had mostly been superseded by the power of the newly-risen nobility. That those decrepit ancient deities still lurked about somewhere, Zilikazi didn’t doubt, but they mattered very little any more.
That said, he didn’t have any reason to question their nature. First, they were beings, with personal identities—names, genders, personalities. Zilikazi was dubious of some of the specific claims made by the priestesses. The sun deity Huwute, for instance, was almost certainly not female. Only a male god could shine so brightly.
By Tooth and Claw Page 15