“So it seems we need to address that one first,” he said. “How many of your people can you send out to accompany our scouts? I think without you to talk to anyone we encounter, they will not be willing to listen to us.”
Achia Pazik chuckled. There wasn’t much humor in the sound. “They’d be much more likely to try to kill you.”
CHAPTER 8
Meshwe
The Krek began its march two days later. By then, Zilikazi’s army had made its way entirely through Nesudi Pass and had come onto the plateau. Had that army been made up only of warriors, it would have been able to move more quickly. But it was not. For every warrior there were three or four camp followers, most of them females and younglings.
The Krek was not moving much faster. The Kororo also had younglings, elderly and infirm members, some of whom had to be transported if they could not move on their own. In addition, as was true of Zilikazi’s army, they had to bring supplies with them. They could not count on foraging—not enough, certainly—while on the march.
If anything, their burdens were even heavier. Beyond supplies, the invaders were bringing nothing with them except simple yurts. The Kororo, on the other hand, were trying to salvage as much as they could of all their belongings. Even if they were able to return to the eyrie someday, Zilikazi’s warriors and camp followers would plunder everything left behind and burn whatever they could not carry away.
But the Kororo had a greater incentive to move quickly, of course. The situation was another illustration of the old saw that, in a chase, the hunter runs for his lunch and the hunted runs for his life. Every member of the Krek knew full well that if they couldn’t stay far enough ahead of Zilikazi’s army, the noble would shackle their minds. The powers of the tekkutu could shield them to a degree, but that degree depended largely on distance.
Calling tekku a “shield” was misleading, actually. The main effect for a tekkutu of drawing upon the consciousness of a predator was to withdraw, in a sense, from the psychic realm in which the nobles held sway. A predator’s fierce and narrow mind ignored the faculties of the nobles altogether. They simply did not exist for them, any more than such a predator would be swayed or influenced by logical reasoning or argumentation or peroration—or poetry, for that matter.
That made the mind of the tekkutu partnered with the predator something slippery, its presence sensed but its location uncertain, undetected—hidden in a fog, mentally speaking.
But even the thickest fog can be penetrated, if the observer gets close enough. So it was here. Most of the Kororo tekkutu trailed behind the main body of the Krek, using their powers to veil them from Zilikazi’s mindsight. But they could only do so successfully if enough distance was maintained from the oncoming army.
Initially, Meshwe had hopes that Sebetwe’s control of the gantraks might enable them to hold off Zilikazi indefinitely. But that proved not to be true.
For one thing, they could only use one gantrak at a time. They’d found that if they tried to harness both of the adult predators simultaneously and make them leave their younglings behind, the creatures resisted fiercely. The risk of losing control of them entirely became too great.
So, the tekkutu could only use one of them if they left the Krek’s current immediate vicinity. And the strength of just one of the great predator’s spirits was simply not enough to enable Sebetwe—or any tekkutu including Meshwe himself—to withstand Zilikazi’s mind control if the noble got close enough.
That said, by coupling with a gantrak Sebetwe could accomplish two things. First, he could get much closer to Zilikazi than would have been heretofore possible. Not close enough to assassinate him, but still close enough to bring back much more precise information than they could have obtained by spying on the noble’s army from a great distance.
More useful, though, was the second ability Sebetwe gained. He could shield a number of the Krek’s warriors for much longer than he could have without the gantrak. Long enough to enable them to create bigger rockfall traps in Zilikazi’s path than they’d expected to be able to, and traps that could be set off with better accuracy and timing because Sebetwe could stay behind for much longer. They wouldn’t have to rely on mechanical triggers, which were imprecise and susceptible to being discovered by scouts and disarmed.
None of this allowed the Kororo to do anything other than retreat, true enough. But they could retreat in reasonably good order and at a pace that the entire Krek could manage.
What was perhaps most important was that the additional time Sebetwe could provide them would help their own scouting parties, both those ranging ahead seeking the best routes as well as those which were spreading through the mountains in search of other Mrem bands who had also managed to escape Zilikazi’s crushing of their tribe.
Nabliz
The leader of one of those scouting parties was feeling disgruntled, and for a variety of reasons.
First, because the terrain they’d been passing through for the past three days was rough, with little even in the way of animal trails. Second, because at this altitude and at this time of year, he and his fellow Liskash warriors were very sluggish in the morning.
Third, because the Mrem accompanying them, a warrior named Chefer Kolkin, seemed to have no trouble at all getting started at daybreak.
Fourth, because it was obvious the miserable furball managed that annoying feat by eating twice as much as anyone else in the party!
Being fair about it, the Mrem was carrying his own food.
Being petty and ill-humored about it, his food smelled bad.
Being really petty and ill-humored about it, the food didn’t taste very good either—which Nabliz knew because the miserable furball had offered him some, thereby upsetting his well-constructed view of the inherent selfishness of furballs.
(They ate too much. It followed that they had to squabble over food, didn’t it? And didn’t it thereby also follow that they were by nature a squabbling and quarrelsome breed?)
(Apparently not—which just gave Nabliz yet another source of vexation. He disliked it when reality did not match his preconceptions. Especially in the morning.)
On a more positive side, Nabliz knew from experience that his foul temper would fade away within two hours after sunrise. A wiser and more charitable soul than himself—Meshwe, and probably Sebetwe as well—would have accepted all along that the disagreeable nature of the Mrem at dawn was really a function of the Liskash’s own metabolism, and that the furball was quite innocent in the matter.
The knowledge did him no good at all at the moment, though. It just gave him a sixth reason to be grouchy. Early in the morning, Nabliz disliked wise and charitable souls.
Being fair about it, early in the morning, Nabliz disliked pretty much anything and everyone. At home, back in the comfort of the Krek, he’d still be asleep at this wretched time of day, as would any sensible Liskash.
So, he spent the next hour or so detesting Zilikazi, who was, after all, ultimately responsible for Nabliz’s foul state of mind that morning.
And every morning, for that matter.
And every afternoon and evening too, now that he thought about it. The vile noble had a lot to answer for.
Chefer Kolkin
Now that he’d had a bit of experience dealing with the Liskash at close quarters, Chefer Kolkin had learned to keep his distance from them in the morning. The reptiles tended to be surly in the first hour or two, especially if they arose as early as they had been since they began this expedition. Even though he was the grouchiest of the small group at that time of day, the one named Nabliz who was in charge insisted that they all be ready to resume the expedition by dawn.
Chefer Kolkin understood the reason for their peculiar behavior—or thought he did, at any rate. The Liskash were not exactly reptiles, although Chefer Kolkin routinely used the word to refer to them, as did all Mrem. They seemed to be somewhere between mammals and reptiles, in terms of their energy and activity levels. Unlike true reptiles, t
hey had a certain—fairly large, in fact—reserve of energy which they could draw upon even when they were cold. They benefited from basking in the sun, especially at daybreak, before they tried to engage in any activity that was more energetic than eating. But they weren’t as dependent on using sunlight to raise their energy levels as true reptiles were.
Perhaps oddly, what Chefer Kolkin found most unsettling about them was how little they ate. More precisely, how little they ate most of the time—and how much they gorged when they did finally sit down for what they considered a real meal.
There hadn’t been any of that on this expedition, though. The similarity between Liskash and true reptiles was most evident after they’d gorged themselves. The next day, they were almost as torpid as a snake who’d swallowed whole prey. They weren’t very active the following day, either.
In the safety and comfort of the Krek’s eyrie, that hadn’t been a problem. But it was clear to Chefer Kolkin that Nabliz had ordered his warriors to refrain from any heavy eating on this expedition. They couldn’t afford to waste a day or two just digesting a big meal. So, they made do on what the Liskash seemed to consider light rations—which, from Chefer Kolkin’s point of view, barely qualified as snacks.
For the first time in his life, the Mrem warrior was contemplating the idea that perhaps there were some advantages to being a Liskash instead of a Mrem. The notion was unsettling, of course. But he was an experienced warrior and a proficient scout, and it was a simple fact that for all their grumpiness in the morning, the Liskash were covering at least as much ground as a party of Mrem were—in part, because they weren’t laden down with the heavy packs that a Mrem needed to carry his food in these barren highlands.
As Chefer Kolkin did. And the pack chafed. Especially in the morning.
True be told, he was feeling pretty peevish himself.
Lavi Tur
As it happened, a Mrem still too young to be a warrior was contemplating the same idea. In his case, though, without the irritation of a heavy pack weighting him down since he was walking alongside the litter carrying what few possessions his Mrem band had retained when they joined the Kororo and—never let it be said that diplomacy didn’t have its uses—Achia Pazik had persuaded the Kororo to give them two beasts of burden to do the work of hauling those possessions.
True, the beasts had their full share of reptilian sullenness at this high altitude. You had to be careful not to place your feet where they could step on them or the rest of your body where they could nip you. Surly brutes.
But they didn’t smell bad—they hardly seemed to defecate, either—and a bit of wariness was far less tiring than hard labor, when you got right down to it.
Lavi Tur also had the benefit of his age. He’d often been irritated by the limits that age placed upon him. But he also lacked the much deeper irritation of a full life spent being limited by experience. His mind could range freely; more than those of most Mrem.
So, he was contemplating the possibility that the very nature of the Liskash could, at least in some circumstances, give them a mental advantage over Mrem. Less able to deal with reality by the use of sheer vigor, perhaps they compensated to a degree with reflection and meditation. A Mrem had to remind himself to look before he leapt; to measure before he cut; to think twice before he acted. To a Liskash, those things came rather naturally.
This much he had concluded so far, in the manner that brash youth sniff disdainfully at the stolid certainties of their elders: even from what little Achia Pazik had translated for him, it was clear to Lavi Tur that the Kororo creed was far more sophisticated than the one he’d been raised within.
When you got right down to it, Mrem tribal beliefs—he thought they barely qualified as religion—were childlike. Downright silly, in many cases.
From what little he knew of them, he thought traditional Liskash creeds were no more sophisticated, and probably even less.
The teachings and beliefs of the Kororo, on the other hand . . .
The day before, Achia Pazik had explained to him that the old Kororo priest (or was he a shaman? possibly even a sorcerer?) named Meshwe did not believe any gods were real. Not, at least, in the way that the Mrem envisioned Aedonniss and Assirra—as real beings, who could not be seen simply because they were so gigantic and powerful that their forms fell beyond mortal vision.
Meshwe didn’t believe in any of the Liskash gods, either—even though the Liskash had far more of them than did the Mrem. They had gods or goddesses for everything, it seemed. Achia Pazik had told him of some of them:
Huwute, the sun goddess.
Ishtala, the moon god.
Ghammid, the god of good fortune.
Yasinta, the goddess of the evening.
Morushken, the goddess of thrift. She also seemed to be a deity given to pity and compassion, but those aspects were less prominent. The Liskash had a thrifty sense of mercy, apparently. As an almost-warrior, Lavi Tur didn’t really disapprove.
But however many deities the Liskash professed to believe in, the creed of the Kororo was that none of them were truly real. They were simply manifestations of what they called “the Godhead,” produced by the inherent limits of mortal minds. In the very nature of things, neither Liskash nor Mrem could grasp divinity in its full and complete splendor. So, mortals essentially invented “gods and goddesses” as a means of comprehending at least some of the aspects of divinity—and those, only poorly and in part.
Meshwe had told Achia Pazik that mortals were like insects trying to grasp the nature of a Liskash. (Or a Mrem, he had added, perhaps out of politeness.) With their poor vision, able to see only a portion of a Liskash at a time, they would come up with the idea that there was “a toe goddess” and a “claw god.” And they would imagine those toes and claws in their own insectile manner.
Lavi Tur had no idea if Meshwe and the other Liskash priests were right in their beliefs. What he did know was that those beliefs were far more interesting than the tales of Aedonniss and Assirra.
What a marvelous adventure this was turning out to be!
CHAPTER 9
Nurat Merav
“Are we finished with the mountains?” Nurat Merav asked weakly. The past few days had been very hard on her. Despite the best efforts of the young Liskash females who’d been sheltering her and her kits, the rigors of travel through rough terrain had almost killed her. So it felt, anyway.
Twice, they’d had to dismantle the yurt completely, since the trail was too steep for the big draft animals that normally carried it perched on a great litter. Too narrow, rather—the beasts were immensely strong and surefooted, but they had to be able to march two abreast to carry the litter. During those periods, Zuluku and the other females had concealed Nurat Merav within a great rolled bundle carried by one of the animals.
They’d been warm, at least. But the constant jolting had been stressful, and the lack of food even worse. It seemed that during times like this, Liskash simply went without eating for two days or even more. They’d made up for it when they reached the plateau by preparing a great feast.
While that sort of regimen might have suited the reptiles well enough, it was not good for Mrem, even healthy ones. For someone trying to recover from injuries like Nurat Merav’s, it was far worse.
She hadn’t complained, though. She knew the reason the female Liskash hadn’t fed her during those periods was because they couldn’t. At Zilikazi’s order, all foodstuffs and cooking equipment and implements had been stored away. They’d most likely have been spotted if they’d tried to feed Nurat Merav and her kits.
Thankfully, her kits were not much given to squalling. It was a good thing, too. While the Liskash beasts of burden made quite a racket themselves, there was precious little resemblance between their basso grunts and bellows and the high-pitched squeals of unhappy Mrem kits.
“Yes,” Zuluku replied. “For at least four
t understood meant days.
“And after that?” she asked.
Zuluku looked unhappy. From experience, the Mrem Dancer was coming to recognize the facial expressions used by Liskash. She’d found they substituted subtleties in the way they moved their jaws for the lack of mobility in other parts of their faces. This particular half-open, lower-jaw-skewed-to-the-left grimace indicated a mixture of distress and apprehension, but one which fell short of extreme anxiety. That would have been indicated by jaws held wide open.
“Not sure,” was the answer. “If the Kororo fight
The lower jaw closed further and shifted to the right. That seemed to indicate something along the lines of dawning-hope, or maybe anticipation-of-improvement. A Mrem would assume an exaggerated upside-down smile and a wag of the head.
“But the warriors I talked to
That seemed . . . fairly clear. If she was interpreting Zuluku correctly, the Kororo would not be able to put up enough resistance in the next range of mountains to require Zilikazi and his army to move off the road into the narrow trails. The yurt would remain intact, which would make it easier for them to keep Nurat Merav and her kits hidden—and fed.
Moved by a sudden impulse, she said: “You have been a good friend. I thank you for it.”
The expression that now came to Zuluku’s face was not one Nurat Merav had seen before. It seemed to have traces of uncertainty and . . . chagrin? No, more like doubt.
But all the Liskash said was: “We are
Zilikazi
After the frustrations of the passage through the mountains, Zilikazi was almost enjoying the march across the plateau.
By Tooth and Claw Page 18