There was absolute silence for a long time, as Sartas stood, swaying in place. Then the air filled with hisses, in tones of panic, and the Liskash backed away—slowly, at first, then scattering like the leaderless lizards they now were. In a few more moments, he was alone on the field of battle, surrounded by the dead.
His vision went black around the edges, and he found he was unable to stand any longer. He fell to the ground, but no longer felt any pain in his leg or his belly. The last thing he saw was the sun, partially hidden behind some clouds. That seeing the sun like that…always reminds me…of Reshia.…
* * *
On the hill above, Mreiss Lrew dashed the water from his eyes with the back of his hand, and watched the panicked mob of Liskash scatter to the winds. It would take them a long time to organize themselves, get over their fear, and come back. But it would happen, he had no doubt of that. Maybe not that particular group, but these were Liskash lands; it would happen under one of the nobles, or another strong warrior.
By that time, he needed to be long gone.
More treacherous water blurred his vision, but he gathered up the reins of his mount, and scrambled onto its back. Lashing its rump with anger, he startled it into a gallop. He wasn’t going to worry about saving it now. He would be leaving it at the base of the cliff anyway.
In the meanwhile, he would get all the speed out of it that he could. And maybe the wind would dry his eyes so that he did not disgrace himself in front of the Clan.
When he reached the cliff, his mount was stumbling; he snatched what was left of his belongings off its back and turned it loose with a final slap to its rump. There was no sign of the Clan, not even the eldest or the most feeble. Good. Sartas and the rest had bought them enough time.
Damn his eyes! They would not stop watering!
But he didn’t need to see to climb.
With the aid of a lifetime of practice, he swarmed up the face of the cliff, claws finding sure purchase every time he planted them. In what seemed like almost no time his hands met empty air; he was at the top. He hauled himself over the edge, and peered to the horizon.
There they were, made small as fleas by the distance. He began to run.
* * *
Mreiss reached the clan, panting hard and sweating heavily. The others all crowded around him when he came. Every new person had a question for him.
“Did the others make it?”
“Where is everyone?”
“How many Liskash did we kill?”
“Did we win?”
He ignored all of them. But he didn’t ignore her. When Reshia came forward, all of the others went silent.
He saw by her lack of expression that she already knew the sum of what he would tell her. But she didn’t know all of it, not the details, not the whole truth. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he began to recite, calling up even the smallest action in his mind, for none of this should be forgotten. There were three of the elders that were singers and tale-tellers; vaguely, he heard them murmuring to themselves as they committed his words to memory.
Finally, he was almost done. Silence fell heavily on the Clan of the Long Fang. He opened his eyes, to look into Reshia’s face.
“Reshia…” He took a deep breath, fighting back the cursed water from his eyes; he must not break now, not in front of her and the rest. “Sartas…he was the bravest…he—”
“He did what he must for the Clan of the Long Fang.” She placed a hand upon his shoulder. Just for that moment, Mreiss saw a flicker of what she was really feeling; the loss, the pain, and also the resolve to survive. “As you must now do.”
He remembered what Sartas had told him; how the clan would need a seasoned, fit warrior to lead it. There were elders who were seasoned, but not fit. There were fit males that could become warriors who were not seasoned. And there would be fit and seasoned warriors who could not lead if their lives depended on it. Now it was clear why Sartas had given him the orders that he had. Now, in this moment, when the others were listening to him, when they were looking at him with eyes that begged for someone to tell them what to do, he could be that person, that leader. Letting Sartas down…was not an option. There was only one thing that he could do to honor the memories of his comrades, his mentors…to honor his friends, who had all died so valiantly.
Mreiss Lrew was certain of what must be done; he hadn’t ever wanted it, and still didn’t, but honor and the survival of the Clan of the Long Fang demanded it.
He drew himself up and planted the end of his spear in the ground at his feet. “The Liskash that pursued us are scattered, but we are still in Liskash lands, and we have a long way to go.” He looked about him to see who was left. “Hwrarall, take three of your choice and scout the path ahead. Reshia, please lead the van and keep them in order; stop when you see a good place to camp for the night. I will take Llrariss, Shorwa and Mrawwa and cover the rear.” He pointed towards the horizon.
“We travel to the Clan of the Claw, as Sartas Rewl, talonmaster of the Clan of the Long Fang, wished.”
Song of Petru
XXIX
By the Claw
The Land was dry
Their hearts drier
Many were lost
All enslaved
But by the claw
And by the rock
Freedom was found
The Trek joined
A Clan’s Foundation
S.M. Stirling
I:
“Halt!” Krar called.
His tongue came out and licked his nose, but it was sandpaper-dry. He wrinkled his nostrils again, straining to scent something besides dry earth and rock and dry-season grass and the rank smell of males and females and kits pushed beyond endurance.
Water! He thought. Water is worth halting for. Thirst can kill us as dead as Ashala’s troops would if they catch us.
True, Mrem could keep going on willpower. But herdbeasts would just lie down and die if you pushed them too far.
If the stock die, we die too… But the Liskash need less water than we do. They are of the scale-kind, not beings-of-fur. They will not let their slaves go easily.
He looked around. Yellow grass almost the color of Mrem fur stretched in all directions in a hissing, swaying tide reaching to his waist. Now and then there would be a flat-topped thorny tree with dark leathery leaves, and weaver-nests hanging from the branches in untidy bundles. More occasionally a rocky hillock clothed in olive scrub. Wings hung overhead, from tiny creatures to great gruesome scavengers.
He smelled the wet earth nearby and yearned towards it, thirsty as he was.
“Follow,” he rasped.
Spears bristled behind him as he loped; he was a big tawny Mrem, with a longer tail than most and scars from Mrem claws as well as Liskash whips. The spring was at the foot of one of the rocky hills, trickling down the reddish sandstone of a cliff. Below it collected and spread to a fair-sized pool. With an effort of will that made him snarl he kept watch while others drank, then plunged towards the cool water.
“Ahhh,” he sighed, wiping his face and whiskers with the back of a hand. “Bring the others! Fill the pots!”
They were two days and a night away from Ashala’s holding, barely stopping long enough to water the stock at any scum-filled hollow and let them graze for short periods. Every animal and Mrem needed to rest.
Krar trotted back to the main body and raised a brawny arm; with much confusion the caravan eventually halted in response. He shook his head:
We’re in trouble. A herd of wild bundor has more order.
If Ashala’s troops caught up with them the living would envy those killed outright. The Liskash were cruel by nature, and coldly murderous when crossed or defied. He wanted to thrash his tail in frustration and worry, but was too cursed tired. The need to push on warred with the need to rest.
That and the fact that the krelprep pulling the wagons were practically dragging their noses in the dirt, their gaunt flanks heaving. They couldn’t aff
ord to lose even one more of them. The wagons carried their food and water. Those jars and bales let them endure between springs and not delay by spreading out to forage.
We move so much more slowly than soldiers would, or a party of hunters! The sick and the kits will die if I push too hard…but we will all die if the Liskash catch us.
The dried food was holding well enough and they could butcher a beast when they had to, but water…water was always a problem.
There was good grass here and even some high ground to give them a look down their back trail. He stared at the rocky face of the low cliff across the water hole. Yes, that would do very well for a lookout post. Krar wished he knew what was going on behind him, but he didn’t think anyone was going to volunteer to hang back to find out. And his leadership was tenuous, so it was unlikely he could order someone to do it. If he tried he had no doubt he’d be invited to do it himself. Too many of them thought being free of the Liskash meant doing just what they wanted at any given moment.
Mrem were making their way towards him, anxiety in their eyes, though their faces were blank in the way that habit and necessity made common among slaves.
“Is something wrong?” Mrownes asked. He was a few summers older than Krar with a whip scar across his face. A friend and hopefully a supporter.
“Nothing; something’s right for a change.” Krar gestured at the water. That was when he noticed the herds of bundor and hamsticorns surging forward. The heads of the krelprep were up, their nostrils quivering. The drivers were barely holding them in place.
“Curse it,” he swore. “Mange upon them!”
He and the other Mrem moved together as the animals pushed around them, their attention all on the water. Occasionally someone would snarl when the herdbeasts jostled them, and the sound of predator anger would make them shy away a little even in their thirst.
“It’ll be hours before the mud settles and we can fill our jars.”
He looked at one of the herders. “Next time we come to a water hole keep them back so that we can get our water first,” he snapped.
“You hold back hundreds of thirsty animals,” the Mrem suggested. “I can’t. Maybe you have some magic that will control them, eh?” He spat. “You might as well ask me to bring you a star in my hand while you’re at it.”
Krar frowned but had to admit to himself that the herder was right. Maybe bringing the herds was a mistake, even if it saved so much time from hunting. It seemed that every decision led to another problem. Sometimes it was overwhelming, not the glory and pleasure he’d thought being first would bring. A slave simply had to obey…
“Can you at least keep them from drinking till they’re sick?” he asked.
“Don’t tell me my business, Krar. You take care of yourself, we’ll see to our herds.”
Without another word, Krar stepped up behind the herder and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, giving him a sharp shake, then shoved him down.
“The herds belong to all of us now,” he said. “Don’t get the idea that they belong only to the herders.”
The herder glared up at him, then leapt to his feet, teeth bared and fur bristling around his head and shoulders.
“Who says they don’t belong to us? We guide them, we take care of them, they wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for us! The Liskash masters took the growth of our work, but—”
“I say. And for now my word is law. When we have time we’ll decide who will lead us, but until we have that luxury, I am in charge here. Unless you would like to fight me for that honor?”
Krar narrowed his eyes and locked them with the other Mrem’s; his hand drifted towards his knife and the tip of his tail twitched ever so slightly. The herder scowled, then lowered his head and shook it until his ears rattled, glancing aside and down and blinking as if the confrontation suddenly bored him. Krar suppressed a savage impulse to make the other male roll on his back and expose his belly.
“Now…can you keep them from drinking until they founder?” he demanded, danger in his voice.
“Yes, great god, we can do that.” The herder spat to the side. “We just can’t stop them from getting to the water in the first place.”
“Thank you,” Krar said, “that’s all I wanted to know.”
As he pushed his way through the jostling animals he glanced at Mrownes who raised his brows at him. Krar frowned but shrugged.
“I don’t want the herders getting the idea that the herds belong only to them. It’s important that they and everybody else knows we’re in this together.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Mrownes said. “Just don’t come down too heavy or you’ll have a rebellion on your hands. As you said, we’re all in this together.”
They’d come to the first wagon and Krar ordered the driver to put the wagons in a wide circle, then take the krelprep to the water hole.
“Having the wagons in a circle may keep the herds from wandering through our camp,” he explained to the driver.
As they walked on to give orders to the other wagon drivers Mrownes grinned at him.
“What?” Krar snapped.
“Now you’re getting it,” his friend said slapping his shoulder. “I’ll go tell the others. Here comes Tral looking like he wants to talk to you.”
Krar gave Mrownes a brief smile of thanks, then turned to the healer.
“How’s your patient?”
“I have many, but I assume you mean the stranger.”
The free Mrem prisoner had sparked the slave revolt. Just the knowledge that there were Mrem who were free of Liskash domination had set his people wild.
“He’s unconscious, but given the shaking the wagon’s been giving him that’s a mercy.”
Tral looked at the rocky cliff face beyond the water hole. “If it’s possible I’d like to take him up there, away from the smoke of our campfires and the noise. It’s not far and a litter would be easier on him than the wagon. And the flies…I couldn’t tell you why, but I think they’re bad for the sick.”
Krar looked at the cliff thoughtfully; he respected the healer’s judgment.
“I’ll send someone to see if it’s possible,” he said. “I wanted to post someone up there as a lookout anyway.”
He looked at the healer. “How is he? Do you think he’ll live?”
He held his breath as Tral thought it over. If the stranger died it might mean the end for all of them.
“I don’t know, because I don’t know him,” the healer replied. “He’s been badly used and he has a fever. A lot depends on his will to live. I’m guessing he has that from the way I saw him fight the Liskash. That and whether the fever breaks soon. Wesha—”
Krar frowned; that was a female name, and the Liskash had kept the sexes apart among their Mrem slaves except at breeding time.
“The female’s healer, she is helping me and she’s highly skilled, so he’s getting the best care we can give him. That’s all I can tell you.”
The younger Mrem put a grateful hand on the healers shoulder in an amicable grooming gesture.
“That’s all we can ask for.” Turning he called out:
“Fetys!”
A young Mrem came running, lithe and quick. Krar pointed at the height.
“See if you can get to the top of that and check along our back trail. While you’re there see if there’s an easy way up. The healer wants to bring a patient up there.”
Fetys nodded and moved off, threading carefully through the herd of massive stocky hamsticorns, then wary and alert among the horns of the bundors.
Then Krar noticed the others watching him. “Make camp!” he called. “We’ll stay here a day and night! Dry wood only for fires, we don’t want smoke.”
Being leader mostly seemed to mean work and worry. The problem was…
If anyone else was doing it, I’d worry even more.
The thought that he was the most cunning and fierce and able had made him proud. Now it…
Makes me worry.
*
* *
They’d killed a bundor and parceled the meat out to various groups. The herders and the females and the laboring males all kept to themselves as they had on Ashala’s holding. Clinging to habit in a hostile wilderness made them feel a little less lost. They’d hated their life at the Liskash fortress, but it was all they’d known.
A group of the younger males had found something they’d known but never tasted, a jar of forbidden wine jar in one of the wagons. Krar heard their high-pitched chirrs of excitement, and the hissing and spitting as it was handed around, or grabbed. He yawned and stretched and headed their way.
I should have smashed it, he thought. But the healers wanted it!
“What’ve you got there?” a burly young Mrem demanded of a group of females when the last drop was licked out of the tall jug. “Give me some, I’m hungry!”
He staggered over to the pot warming on some rocks by the fire and grabbed it, swiping up the contents with his hand and stuffing it in his mouth.
“Here now!” one of the females said. “What do you think you’re doing?” She stepped towards him and he pushed her down.
“I’m free now,” he snarled. “That means I can eat as much as I want.”
He leered at the female staring at him wide eyed from the ground. “And I can have any female I want, when I want, not when some master says I can.” He tossed the pot aside and lunged for her.
Krar halted his own dash. The pot the young male had just tossed aside crashed into his head and he dropped to the ground, his head covered in sticky lumps of meat and thick gravy.
By Tooth and Claw - eARC Page 8