He could be right. But if we stay in the valley, or what’s left of it, we’ll die anyway. And if we strike out on our own, we’ll die off. We don’t have enough females. And we don’t have enough warriors to fend off the Liskash on our own forever. Hard to have a clan identity if you’re all dead, after all. And, of course, they didn’t have any Dancers. Without the Dancers, a clan had very little it could call a soul.
It took the group about the same amount of time it would take to boil water four times to get to where Ssenna had left Rrerren and Arschus. When they reached the village, Sartas almost immediately saw why Ssenna didn’t want to say anything at first. The village was in perfect condition, aside from being a couple of hand-lengths underwater. Truly perfect condition; the entirety of it looked untouched. Sartas motioned for his warriors to spread out and be vigilant; nearly silent save for the light splashing of their hands through the water, they moved through the village.
“I observed this place until the sun was halfway to midday, talonmaster. Nothing was moving here, except the water. There’s no one here, at all.” Ssenna was back to her usual stony demeanor, her eyes still scanning the settlement. Sartas decided it was time to see for himself. He walked through the water into the village proper, and several things immediately stood out to him. A kettle sitting over an extinguished fire outside of a hut, still full of food; by the look and smell of it, it couldn’t have been left out for more than a day. There was a sitting mat next to another tent, and in the water next to it, scattered, as if the project had just been dropped in a hurry, were arrows, half-fletched. More such projects were around the village; hides stretched on frames, half-scraped. Toys dropped carelessly, or tossed aside. Grain half-pounded in a mortar, or only partially husked from stalks. Even swords, spears, and shields were left behind; something no warrior would ever abide. The oddest—and the one that put his hackles up—a skewer of cooked meat just under the surface of the water, half of it gone, and a bite torn from one of the pieces still on it.
It seemed that everything was left here but the Mrem that once owned and lived in this place.
Sartas ears perked up when he heard a cry from the far side of the village. Snatching up his spear, he started to run towards the sound. As he got closer, it became apparent that it wasn’t a scream or a yell; it was whooping and excited shouting. He turned the corner of one building when he saw two of his warriors, standing in front of an open hut with their teeth bared in grins.
“What is it? What have you found?” They were both so busy jumping up and down and clapping each other on the back that they didn’t realize it was their talonmaster talking to them at first. When they finally recognized Sartas Rewl, they sobered up somewhat, but kept smiling.
“You won’t believe it…food!” The one that spoke went inside and came back out with a large pot. He opened the covering on top, and then pulled out a handful of grain. “There’s so much food! Some of it is wet, but most of it was in pots or hung on the rafters. Fresh food!” By this time the rest of the party had arrived to see what the commotion was about. It didn’t take long for the rest to join in the celebrating; after so many weeks of being hungry every day, food had become the only thing that some thought about.
After allowing some time for his people to enjoy the discovery, he held up a hand for quiet, and eventually got it. Ssenna was again at his side.
“What do we do, talonmaster?” Ssenna asked quietly.
He thought about it. In a few more days, all this was going to be underwater—wasted. “Did you look for the clan this belongs to?” he asked. Miarrius, Arschus, and Mreiss all walked to the front of the group to face him.
“We did,” said Rrerren, as Arschus nodded. “We did a fast running-scout, covering as much territory as we could. We went a long way, talonmaster, and there was nothing. Not so much as a tuft of fur.” He reached into a bag of jerky—presumably from the storage hut—and began chewing on a piece. “Not even any tracks. Though, with all of this rain and the flood, that isn’t so surprising.”
Sartas nodded. “All right then. In a day, no more than two, this will be ruined. If we run across the clan it belongs to, we can share it back, but for now, we take everything that is still useable. It will do no Mrem any good underwater.”
While the rest of the group were merrily grabbing baskets, pots, and hanging meats, Sartas held Ssenna back. “This troubles you the same as it troubles me. Tell me why.”
“The things left here…no clan can survive very long without them. We had no choice; much of what our clan owned was washed away while many of us were out, either hunting or foraging. These ones…this place wasn’t swept away by the flood. It’s only now starting to get a taste of the water; it couldn’t have started any earlier than last night for this part of the land.” She bit her lip and furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what happened here. I’m not sure I want to know, Sartas.”
He looked into her eyes for several very long moments before turning back to the group. “I don’t know what happened here, either. I just hope we don’t find out what happened to these Mrem the hard way.”
His hackles wouldn’t go down. He had, perhaps, too good of an imagination to feel easy about this situation. Had one of those monsters from the Deep Salt survived and attacked the village? Was it some new Liskash deviltry? Did the clan become hysterical when the floods came, run off in every direction and been lost that way? Kits wouldn’t survive alone for long…but why wouldn’t their mothers have taken them? Look how Reshia’s group had done! Could it have been something else? Some new madness or plague?
Had the gods themselves simply come and taken everyone?
And his conscience still bothered him about his order. This all had belonged to someone, and they were taking it. But necessity dictated he looked to his people first. And as he had said, in a day, it would be so far under water that it would all be useless. Wasn’t it better for Long Fang to have it, than have it go to waste?
There was only so much ground left, anymore, that the Mrem who lived here could be on. If they were found, they would be returned their goods, with the hope and understanding that they share with the his clan. If they weren’t—somehow, Sartas knew instinctively that they would never find the Mrem that lived here. That thought frightened him more than the New Water ever had.
* * *
There was too much to take in one trip. Sartas was forced to tell the clan to make camp again as soon as they found a secure spot, and prepare to divide up the…well, he could only call it “loot”…and dry out what needed to be dried. He didn’t want to stop, but he didn’t have a choice. What was the point of rescuing all this stuff if half of it spoiled or rotted or went otherwise bad because it hadn’t been properly dealt with? “Fires for drying, fires for more smoking,” he decreed, because if they re-smoked the wet tent hides, they had a very, very good chance of saving them even if they couldn’t completely dry them out.
Miarrius was happy, or at least as happy as he ever was; Sartas knew why. He thought, once the clan had settled for a day or two, it would be easier to get Sartas to agree to stay and give up on the march to find the Clan of the Claw. But the land here was different than where they had their village, and things were still shifting. They hadn’t seen a Liskash in a number of days, but that could change at any time. And there were still the flood waters to worry about; each day, the water rose, and the clan would forced to go higher. The camp they had made for now was nowhere near as “permanent” as Miarrius fondly hoped. Soon, they wouldn’t have the cover of the forest to help keep them hidden.
Sartas saw signs that some of his people shared Miarrius’ desire to end the march. It had been a long and hard path, and it had cost them dearly. Compounded with the fact that they still had so very far to go to reach their goal, and it was almost too much for most of them to bear thinking about. They wanted a place to stay. They wanted a home. A home where they needn’t worry about drowning, starving, or being killed by the Liskash at any given momen
t. While only a few were vocal in their desire to end the march, many behaved in a way that showed how ready they were to accept that decision. An older smith that had joined them from another clan was starting to plot out a new forge for himself. Sartas almost didn’t have the heart to point out that his fires would be underwater in seven or eight suns.
But weavers were setting up their weighted looms again, and some were sending kits out to forage, not for wood for the fires he had ordered, but for reeds and whip-tree branches for basket-making. And the potters were considering a kiln. Not good. Not good at all.
But at the same time…the kits were playing again. They hadn’t even gotten more than their first meal out of the bounty, and already one good meal had revived them so much that he was shocked. He hadn’t noticed how worn down they all were. That was especially worrisome; he hadn’t recognized how badly deteriorated his people were becoming. Sartas tried to rationalize it away, thinking that he had to keep focused on getting as many to their destination alive and quickly. His doubts weren’t quieted, however.
Or was it only that he’d been forced to think about other things? True, he hadn’t been with the main part of the march since it began.
But he should have noticed. Shouldn’t he?
Sartas sensed Reshia walking up behind him before she even spoke. No matter how quietly she moved, he always knew it was her, always knew she was there; partly it was that he had honed already keen senses to be some of the sharpest in the clan, partly it was the closeness they had.
“You are unhappy,” she stated. “I, too, am concerned. It is good that we rest for a little, and better that we have had this gift of food and goods. I am no Dancer, but I have tried to thank the gods for it, and if the clan that left these things behind is truly lost, I have tried to thank their spirits. It means life for us. But…I am concerned.”
He turned to face her, studying her features. Reshia was a few fingers shorter than Sartas, and with a figure that would have made her a fine Dancer if she had chosen that path. Leaner than the norm for Long Fang females, her fur was fine and not as dense, more gray than sand. The tufts at the ends of her ears were longer than the usual, which would have given her features a kittenish cast, had they not been so severe. This was not to say she was not beautiful, certainly she was the most lovely Mrem he had ever seen, but she had none of the softness, the roundness, that most males seemed to prefer. And she had a trait he had only ever seen in Ssenna’s face; the tips of her fangs showed, ever so slightly, all the time, instead of being hidden by her lips. It made her look just a little dangerous, just a little feral. The thing that Sartas loved the most about her, however, was that they shared the same heart; in her own way, she was every bit as much the warrior that he was.
“Is it that plain?” Sartas sighed heavily, shaking his head and peering behind her to look at the camp. “We cannot become too comfortable here. If we do, we may never get moving again.”
Reshia turned her head to the side, watching him as she talked. “But you have doubts.”
He nodded. “Sometimes I feel as if you know me better than I know myself.” A group of kits ran past them, chasing one another, laughing and shouting. “I set us out on this journey, and when I decided to do so, I knew it would be hard and unforgiving. I fear I may have blinded myself to our people, though. We’ve all suffered since the New Water came, and I forgot that not all of us are warriors; we may need time to heal.” He pointed a claw at the group of kits that had passed by moments ago. “I see sights like that, with the kits laughing and looking healthy, and I wonder if perhaps Miarrius is right; we end the march, settle somewhere on the ridge, or even find high ground that will be an island, where the waters can’t find us. I wonder how much more of this trekking what is left of the clan can take.” Sartas looked to the ground, shaking his head again. For that moment, his guard fell, and Reshia could see how much this was paining him. She waited the space of many breaths before she spoke.
“We can do as you say and as Miarrius and those that will listen to him want; we can stay here, end the trek. But we will not.” She placed a hand upon his arm. “You know the danger we’re in, how real it is. We have no Dancers; the one that brought us news of the Clan of the Claw was weeks ago, looking for other clans to inform. None of the stragglers is a Dancer, and not one of the females that are left to us has had the gods speak to her and tell her she should take up the heritage. And if that was to happen? Who would teach her?”
He hesitated. “That is true.”
But she was by no means finished. “Even if the Liskash were to leave us in peace—if, say, we managed to settle on land that became an island and successfully hid ourselves…” She shook her head. “I cannot see that happening. We are not adept with water. Only a few of us swim, and we do not know how to make boats, only rafts. We have never fished; well, except by accident. Do you see us being able to hunt, to forage, under such a circumstance? We have no trade, no contact with any other clans. We are cut off, and we are the only ones that can change that; sitting around and waiting will not do it.” She patted his forearm. “Let us rest another day, and finish drying and preparing what we found. Then call a council. Let everyone speak. I…will have a few words with some of the others.”
“Words? Try not to beat Miarrius too badly; we’ll need his spear arm in the future.”
She purr-chuckled. “No, no, I mean to speak with…shall we say, those who worry a great deal. It does no harm to plant doubts. You know of whom I speak…Ssenna for one. She is the sort to look at a cloudless day and assume in the night there will be a storm.”
“Yes, but then she prepares for it, and if there is a storm, is near-unbearably smug, and if there is not, says ‘Well, the thing you take care against never comes. Perhaps I prevented it.’” He laughed, then embraced Reshia. “You are my rock in this storm, love. Thank you for helping me remember that.” Turning back to face the camp, he left his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “The hard part is still to come. Convincing the rest.”
* * *
It was at the campfire the next night when everything unraveled. Sartas had heeded Reshia’s words, and waited for another day for preparations to finish; he was clear to everyone that they were to begin tearing down what they could in preparation for the next day, when the march would begin again. In retrospect it was a mistake, and one that would cost him; he was simply doing what felt right, however, and was at the time ignorant of the consequences. Shortly before the campfire, he sent word through the camp that there was to be a council held at that night’s fire, and all were to be there and be heard.
Everyone had already been fed when it was time for the council; Sartas thought that was good. Being fed before the discussion might’ve quieted some who would otherwise have been loud in their opposition. He only hoped that Reshia’s words had quieted the others, or helped them to see reason. Once it looked to him that everyone was assembled, he raised a hand for silence.
“We will be leaving again, soon. On the morrow or the next day.” Sartas waited while the expected murmuring quieted. Finally, he began to speak again. “Perhaps none of you have gone to the New Water to see how far it has risen since we camped here,” he said. “I can understand that. But I tell you we cannot stay. In three suns, the water will be here. In four, this camp will be ankle-deep. Before the water is here, other things will be; serpents, poisonous insects, perhaps disease. They, too, flee the water. It is time to move on. We have all rested, recovered our strength, and now it is time to seek the Clan of the Claw again, where we can unite with them and find safety.”
One of the elders stepped forward feebly. “What of the oldest of us? This journey has been hard on everyone, but we cannot recuperate so quickly in so few days. Many of us have died, and more will die if we continue on much further.” There were some nodding their heads in agreement at this. “It places strain on the rest of the clan in helping us, as well, along with the injured and sickly. How is it fair for us, at the e
nd of our lives, to steal the energy needed for the kits, who are at the beginning? We cannot go on like this. Our wisdom has value, but is it more valuable than the future of the clan? Better to stop for a while so we can have both.”
One of the females spoke up now. “I had five kits before the New Water. Now I only have one.” It pained everyone the most when one of the young ones was lost; Sartas could scarcely imagine what she must have been going through. “It was not your fault, Sartas Rewl, but that doesn’t bring my kits back to me. I cannot lose my last; my husband was gone in the floods, and all I owned; my child is all I have left.”
More stepped forward. “Those of us with kits still need to care for them. They forage on the march and grow weaker with every day out there. They need rest. Those poisonous creatures you say are coming, well, we can at least see them coming when we are in a camp—but my kit was bitten by a serpent on the march. How can we defend against things we cannot see, that we blunder into? We are not, and our kits are not, trained hunters. We do not know these things are there until we step on them and they turn on us. You drive us before you, and we are defenseless against these dangers. It is time to stop, talonmaster.”
One of the smiths called to speak. “We cannot make a living at our trade on the march; we’re no better off than the women, and unable to help the clan, unless we have a place to do our work. A forge doesn’t work so well on a wagon bed. We need weapons, we need hunting implements. We need to be able to repair and refurbish the ones we have. We can’t do any of that on the march.” A potter joined him in his complaint. “How can we replace all the storage jars that are broken without a kiln? We have tried firing pots overnight in the ashes, as our ancestors were said to do, but it just doesn’t work! Are we to turn basket-weavers now?”
By Tooth and Claw - eARC Page 4