by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson
And so, instead, she told Demm Etter what she thought. The senior priestess inclined her head. “The name may not lie under Sassin’s tongue any more, but it is not in Grumm’s heart, either, where it belongs.”
“Where is it? Can we get it back?” Enni Chennitats asked.
“I cannot say,” Demm Etter answered. “Now and then, time shows us what we did not know before. It may here. Or”—she lowered her voice so Grumm couldn’t hear—“it may not. I think he has gained something by Sassin’s death. Now his surname is free to wander, free to find him again if it will, not trapped the way it was before. And I know—I am as certain as I have ever been about anything—how much the Clan of the Claw has gained from Sassin’s fall.”
“Aedonniss, yes!” Enni Chennitats exclaimed. “Did you see the Liskash run away after he died? What could be finer than that?”
“Their not attacking us to begin with,” Demm Etter said, which, once Enni Chennitats thought about it, was plainly true. Sighing, the senior priestess went on, “Too much to hope for, I suppose.”
“How many Liskash nobles’ lands will we have to pass through before we find our own kind again?” Enni Chennitats asked, disquieted.
“I don’t know. I don’t believe anyone knows, unless the Scaly Ones should,” Demm Etter said. “I do know this, though: if we win through, when we win through, Mremkind will sing our names and our deeds forevermore.”
Enni Chennitats wished she hadn’t put that if in there, even if she’d amended it right away. The consequences of failure…Well, were they any worse than the consequences of staying on the old grazing grounds? Rantan Taggah didn’t think so, and Enni Chennitats wasn’t inclined to doubt the talonmaster. On the contrary.
“Well, well,” Demm Etter said quietly. Enni Chennitats followed her gaze. Here came Zhanns Bostofa. He was limping. He had a bandage on his right leg and another on his left arm. But he carried himself with pride of a sort different from his usual arrogance.
He bowed, first to Demm Etter and then to Enni Chennitats. “My males and I, we did what was required of us,” he announced, as if he were summarizing a battle for the talonmaster. Rantan Taggah wasn’t here, though. The mental link between him and Enni Chennitats had broken when the Dance ended. She hoped he hadn’t come to grief after his great triumph.
Demm Etter received the report as gravely as he might have. “You did well,” she told Zhanns Bostofa. “You did well—this time—and you were seen to do well. If you and yours had failed, Rantan Taggah’s success would mean far less.”
Zhanns Bostofa took her qualification with more humility than he was in the habit of showing. “I thank you,” he answered. “What is best for the clan is what I want. I have said this again and again.”
“So you have,” Demm Etter said: acknowledgment rather than agreement, if Enni Chennitats was any judge. The plump male’s problem was that his view of what was best for the Clan of the Claw often revolved around what was best for him. This time, those two things truly had matched. Staying alive and keeping a swarm of Liskash from overrunning the wagons was in Zhanns Bostofa’s best interest as well as the clan’s. Too bad only a desperate emergency created the match.
“And now we can go on,” Zhanns Bostofa said grandly. “Since that is the talonmaster’s decision, I will not stand in the way.”
Until the next time you do, Enni Chennitats thought. The black-and-white male would soon forget his humility. He would go back to being himself. And he could no more help acting obstreperous than hamsticorns could help shedding their long pelts in the springtime.
One of these days, he would go too far. Or he might actually turn out to be right, in which case it would be hard to keep him from becoming the clan’s new talonmaster. And what would become of the Mrem then? Enni Chennitats didn’t want to think about that.
And she didn’t have to, because a sentry shouted that he saw Rantan Taggah and Ramm Passk’t coming back from the south. All the Mrem started yowling joyously at the top of their lungs. Enni Chennitats didn’t hold back. Killing a Liskash noble and getting away with it was worth celebrating any day of the month.
* * *
Rantan Taggah had never dreamt he might get tired of males making much of him. He’d really never dreamt he might get tired of females making much of him. Ramm Passk’t hadn’t got tired, except perhaps in the most literal and happy way. Rantan Taggah wouldn’t have been surprised if half of next year’s kits had sandy fur and uncommonly broad shoulders.
After Sassin’s death, the Liskash in what had been his domain stayed away from the Clan of the Claw. Maybe the unexpected triumph of the Mrem intimidated them, at least for the time being. Maybe they realized the clan would soon be gone, and then they wouldn’t have to worry about their hated enemies for a long time. And maybe they were so busy plotting among themselves about what would become of Sassin’s lands that a detail like the Mrem hardly seemed important. Chances were every one of those things held some truth.
Which held the most, Rantan Taggah neither knew nor cared. He rode at the head of the Clan of the Claw, in a chariot Zhanns Bostofa gave him to replace the one he’d lost in battle. He felt uneasy accepting the other male’s gift, which was putting it mildly, but saw no graceful way to refuse. Zhanns Bostofa tried to give him a team of krelprep, too. Those he did decline. He used krelprep from his own herds, and would train them up to the standard of the the pair that had died on the battlefield.
He checked the territory ahead with the same care he would have used to check under flat rocks for scorpions and centipedes before laying his blanket on the ground. The Scaly Ones had a sting worse than any from some crawling thing with too many legs.
The clan was nearing what Rantan Taggah thought to be the western edge of what had been Sassin’s land when Enni Chennitats walked up to him as the Mrem were setting up camp for the night. “Will all the other Liskash nobles fight us the way Sassin did?” she asked.
“By Aedonniss, I hope not!” Rantan Taggah burst out. “I hope they’ll leave us alone. If I’m by myself, without a bow or a sling, I’ll leave a somo alone unless it decides not to leave me alone. I hope the way we served Sassin will make the rest of the Scaly Ones think three times.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Enni Chennitats persisted.
“Then we keep fighting them and keep beating them till they get the idea,” the talonmaster said. “Or they beat us. In that case, you can stand beside Zhanns Bostofa and say, ‘I told you so.’ ”
“I don’t want to stand beside him. Just being near him makes my fur want to twitch,” Enni Chennitats said. She set a hand on his arm. “I’d rather stand beside you.”
Far and away the biggest reason Rantan Taggah hadn’t cut a swath like Ramm Passk’t’s through the clan’s females was that he’d hoped to hear something like that from her—or to work up the nerve to say something like that to her. He hadn’t. Sometimes—often—it was easier to risk his life than rejection from someone he cared about.
“Well,” he said, and then “Well” again. He tried once more: “Where do we go from here?” That was better, but not, he feared, very much.
“West, of course,” Enni Chennitats answered, which startled a laugh out of him. It wasn’t that she was wrong—she was right. “But wherever we go from now on, we go together.”
“Yes,” Rantan Taggah said, and he’d never felt so clever in all his life.
A Little Power
S.M. STIRLING
And so Rantan Taggah spoke and the way was open. But he walked in blood and wept. “Why,” he demanded, “have you abandoned us in this forsaken land?” But there was no answer and the call to arms came again. There was no rest for three days and three nights.
Then when the demons had been cast asunder, the Dancer Enni Chennitats told Rantan Taggah to sleep and he did. In his dream Assirra appeared. She stood tall with golden fur and eyes that glowed with the green of Spring. Around her the earth sang and stirred, bringing forth an unending vista of great f
ields of grass and grain in which countless herds grazed.
“Lead our people home,” She commanded. “Go West and take them to the promised lands. Lead them and they will be free.”
And Rantan Taggah knew that there was not greater need than to be free. So he sharpened his claws and regained his faith. On the next day he told the clan of his vision and Enni Chennitats Danced it until all understood and agreed.
And so the people began to be free.
—The Book of Mrem, verse forty-two
PROLOGUE
The plains baked under the sun, and the long yellow grass hissed like the ghosts of angry warriors as the herds grazed under watchful eyes or paused beneath gnarled, thorny trees. The hills stood blue with forest in the distance, and tendrils of their green followed the watercourses; in season the wings of the birds filled the sky. From time-weathered citadels of stone the magician lords of the Liskash folk waged their wars with swords and spells and poison and knives in the dark, rising and falling in a cycle that changed little but the names.
So it was; so it had always been.
But the wild Mrem were coming, and nothing would be the same. Nothing, ever again.
* * *
The great hall of the goddess Ashala had walls of sandstone colored like pale gold, with specks of mica that glittered in the hot sunlight of these lands; it rose to the height of three tall Liskash standing on one another’s shoulders. The timbers that bore the roof were of a hard dark wood that had been hauled laboriously from the far mountains and each one was richly carved in images that told of her power and the legends of her ancestors. The air smelled of fear and ancient death.
The wall behind the throne was stuccoed and inlaid with colored tiles in a design of the rayed sun in splendor, Ashala’s personal symbol. Before the tall-backed throne of wrought night-black wood and beaten gold the stones of the floor had been blackened by fire.
That was where the goddess staged her executions. She could burn anything to ash with her mind and frequently did so, especially those who had displeased her. Sometimes it was a limb or an eye, sometimes the whole of them, depending on the depth of her displeasure.
The hall was high but narrow, and nobles crowded back to make an aisle for Hisshah, the daughter of the goddess.
Hisshah stood, nervously waiting for her name to be called, controlling the impulse to flick her tongue over her fangs and thin narrow lips. The dry, musky scent of the packed nobles made her heart beat faster, but her face was calm. She did not think the ultimate punishment would be hers today. She was, after all, her mother’s only heir.
“Let Hisshah approach the Divinity!”
She walked carefully towards the throne, keeping her stride slow and long and the sway of her head and tail regular. All of the high Liskash of the court were gathered and she would not show weakness before them. Hard enough to do as she was shorn of all the jewels that marked her rank, save those embedded in the scales of her forehead in a sigil that marked her as her mother’s.
She’d been proud of the mark at five summers; now at twenty it infuriated her to be claimed, like a piss-pot or a rug.
Her mother wore no jewelry at all; instead her whole body glittered with tiny embedded gems, one to a scale, a privilege she reserved for herself alone. Ashala sat on her carved throne of ebony and gold still as a statue, her yellow eyes cold and the pupils narrowed to an S-slit.
At her mother’s orders it had been two weeks since Hisshah had fed or, more importantly, drunk. Only a people as strong as the Liskash could endure such deprivation. Now she was to be humiliated as the final, and to her, the worst, phase of her punishment. But she would not stumble, she would not weave drunkenly down the aisle; though her head was swimming. She would show herself to be a proper heir to the throne. Knowing that one day she would be sitting there meting out rewards…and punishments…made it possible to endure this.
* * *
Ashala watched her daughter’s slow but steady advance and grudgingly respected her for it.
The the weakest and last of my clutch and very disappointing since the moment she broke the shell, which she barely managed to do without dying of exhaustion. Still, mine, which is to judge by high standards.
Hisshah could move small objects with her mind and perform some basic magic, but her powers were trifling and no training had been able to discover much more. The one thing she could do well was ward her mind. She’d gotten that from her father.
The impossibility of reading his mind was what had made Ashala kill him in the end. There was just no telling what he might be plotting. And unlike his last daughter his powers had been formidable.
It’s time I had another clutch, she thought. Try again for something better while time enough remains for the hatchlings to reach maturity while I can guard them.
But she dreaded the negotiations, as well as the proximity of a powerful male and his entourage.
The last one’s minions had spied on everything and then they’d all refused to leave.
No wonder I killed him, Ashala thought with satisfaction.
It had been cleverly done, too, if she did say so herself. They suspected, naturally, but they couldn’t prove anything, which meant less chance of a feud. Of course, those suspicions might make it difficult to find a new mate. But not impossible. Her domain was rich and she had much to offer in the way of favors. It was always a balance, of course; you wanted a strong heredity for your offspring, but not strong enough to make it likely they’d succeed in killing you, and not from a mate so strong that he’d succeed in doing so himself.
If anything her disappointing remaining offspring might be the sticking point. How her children had all managed to kill themselves or each other, except for Hisshah, was a source of amazement. Perhaps she’d erred on the side of recklessness when selecting the sire. Certainly she had always showed an adequate degree of patience.
Yes, she would set things in motion. It was her duty, and duty was not to be shirked.
At last Hisshah was crouched before her in the posture of submission. It wouldn’t have taken any longer if she’d crawled, Ashala thought in contempt.
She waited until she sensed the court getting restless. Her people were still by nature, but their eyes had begun to move, and nictitating membranes to flicker.
“Why, Daughter, do you make me punish you?” Ashala asked.
Hisshah went from crouching to completely prone, plastered to the floor from snout-tip to tail-tip in one long exclamation point of submission.
“I beg your forgiveness, great goddess, it was never my intention to insult you.”
“And yet, you did. By suggesting that I might bring food and drink to you and your cohorts as though I were a mere slave.”
“It was only meant to be a small joke, great one.” Hisshah writhed in humiliation. “No one could ever take such a thing seriously.”
“My dignity,” Ashala snapped, “and your loyalty should never be the subject of jokes! I am tempted to have you flogged for your insolent tongue!”
There were a few shocked, involuntary hisses at that. She would not, of course. Hisshah was, at the moment, her only heir. And there were some things that underlings did not forget; too much disgrace would make it impossible for the heir to reign securely. Again she waited, until the moment was almost too stretched.
“Tomorrow you may drink. The day after you may have food,” she said at last.
“The goddess is gracious,” Hissah said to the floor.
“Rise up!” Ashala snapped. She’d thought of a way to punish her daughter and perhaps help to thwart the danger that marched towards them.
When Hissah was on her knees once more she continued, “Perhaps you have time for jokes because you haven’t enough to do. I have decided that some of the Mrem require training as soldiers. I shall give that task to you.”
“Thank you, great one,” Hisshah said, her voice clear and firm.
Inside Hisshah’s third stomach had clenched. Make the Mre
m slaves into soldiers… Clearly impossible!
If it were possible it would also be dangerous. What is my mother thinking?
She knew of nothing that could prompt such a mad idea. Her mother had soldiers enough to make any ambitious neighbor wary, and as much territory as could be dominated from a single holding. It must be a scheme to further humiliate her with an inevitable failure.
“You may return to your chamber,” her mother said. “My steward will attend you to answer any questions you may have concerning the Mrem and whatever weapons are available to arm them.” She waved her hand in dismissal.
Hisshah rose and bowed, then backed away for ten steps until she could turn and leave the hall. When she was gone it would be prepared for feasting as hers was the last business of the day.
Tomorrow I will drink. And the next day I will eat and I will eat well, Hisshah promised herself.
A pleasant thought occurred to her. If she was to make Mrem into soldiers, she would have to discipline and punish them. Perhaps she could eat a few.
I always was partial to mammals, she thought.
* * *
Two days later, Ranowr squatted in a circle of friends and fellow slaves, together in the dust outside the low opening of the barracks entrance. There was a sort of familial resemblance amongst most of them. Their short, downy fur was grey with darker grey stripes and most had white bellies and hands. Two were yellow with darker stripes and one was a solid grey.
There was nothing unusual in the circle; they often sat together so, gathered in front of the dormitory where the adult males slept. But tonight they waited for Tral to bring them word that old Sesh was gone, devoting the hours of sunset and night to him, as the heat faded out of the stone walls of the compound and the colored band of stars stretched itself across heaven. This time of the cycle was more natural to Mrem in any case.