By Tooth and Claw - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  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

  Further 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 bee
n 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 even 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.

  But the errors and biases of the priestesses of the Old Faith were pallid compared to the ravings of the Kororo.

  No deities at all, just abstractions given names? Mere facets of a greater and mysterious so-called “godhead”?

  Preposterous.

  The Kororo didn’t even have proper priestesses and shamans—or even priests. Their religious leaders were called “tekkutu.” So far as Zilikazi had been able to determine, the term meant “adepts of tekku.” Apparently, this so-called “tekku” referred to some sort of mental power over animals.

  That such a power might exist was plausible enough. As children, members of the nobility often played with manipulating the minds of animals. But the intrinsic limits of that activity soon made it pall. Most animals simply didn’t have enough brains to make controlling them useful. If you tried to force one to open a gate by lifting the latch with a foreleg—assuming the beast was big enough to manage the task at all—it would fumble it, at best. More often than not, the beast’s mind would simply shut down under the pressure.

  Unless they were predators, especially large ones. Those would resist fiercely and usually successfully. Some would even attack the noble who tried to force his will upon them.

  And this fragile mental activity was the source of a Kororo tekkutu’s power?

  Preposterous.

  The Kororo fortifications might be a bit of a problem. They were reputed to be quite strong, in a primitive sort of way. The terrain would certainly be a nuisance. But the end result was not in doubt. Zilikazi estimated it would take him no more than a month to crush the mystics.

  Njekwa

  The slaughter of the Mrem too badly injured to move on their own or with minor assistance took place at noon. By then, the able-bodied Mrem had already been sent about their slave chores and duties, so there were few around to put up any resistance, and all of those were also injured.

  The task was done quickly, efficiently, and with a minimum of fuss, the way Zilikazi’s well-trained soldiers went about such things. There weren’t really that many badly injured Mrem left by then, anyway. Days had passed since the battle where they received their wounds, and the majority of the wounded had either started to recover or had already died.

  Njekwa and the other priestesses and shamans made it a point not to be present at the killing. They raised no public objection, of course. To have done so would have brought the noble lord’s wrath down upon them. But the savagery of the deed fit poorly with the precepts of the Old Faith, and none of its practitioners wanted to be in the vicinity when it happened.

  The issue wasn’t so much one of mercy. Liskash understood the concept, although it figured less prominently in their moral codes than it did (at some times and in some circumstances) for the Mrem. But the Old Faith did place a great premium on khaazik, the general principle that harm should be kept to the minimum necessary. Killing those who had no chance of survival was acceptable; indeed, in some situations, a positive good. On the other hand, killing creatures, especially sentient ones, for no greater purpose than to avoid minor inconvenience went against khaazik.

  Duzhikaa, it was called, which translated roughly as trespass-upon-observance. As misbehavior went, it was not as severe as outright criminality, but it was still frowned upon. Severely so, if the misdeed came to the attention of Morushken, goddess of thrift.

  But it was in the very nature of Morushken to appreciate all manner of thrift—such as the thriftiness of a high priestess who sheltered her adherents from avoidable punishment. Njekwa was quite sure the goddess would look away, so long as she and the other priestesses and the shamans stayed out of sight and sound of the killing.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, as it turned out, some of her adherents were unclear on the nature of thrift. Youngsters were particularly prone to that error—and especially the one who came before her with two Mrem kits hidden in her basket. This was not the first time Zuluku had been a problem.

  “There is no need to kill them,” Zuluku insisted. “It was their dam who was badly hurt, not they.”

  Njekwa looked down at the tiny creatures in the basket. “They are still suckling age, and will be for some time. I think.” She wasn’t sure how long, because she didn’t know that much about the barbarian mammals.

  But it didn’t matter. A few days would be too long. Newborns of any advanced species required constant feeding.

  “They’re mammals, Zuluku. Without their dam and her milk, they’ll die soon anyway.”

  The young female looked away, her expression seeming a bit…

  Furtive?

  The dam is still alive also—and this young idiot is hiding her!

  Njekwa started to say something. She wasn’t sure what, except that it would be harshly condemnatory. But then Zuluku looked back at her with a new expression. A very stubborn one.

  Njekwa hesitated. She had to be careful here, she realized. Young adherents tended to get impatient with the necessary caution their situation required. Some of them—but many, no, but the number might grow—were becoming contentious.

  Two had gone so far as to seek refuge with the Kororo in the mountains. Njekwa was afraid others would follow, now that Zilikazi was marching on the Krek. You’d think any Liskash with half a brain would realize that fleeing to the Kororo right when Zilikazi planned to destroy them was sheer folly.

  But youth was prone to folly. She had been herself—just a bit—at Zuluku’s age.

  Best to deflect the matter, she decided. She could shield herself easily enough, and if a young adherent to the Old Faith fell foul of their noble lord, so be it.

  “I saw nothing. I know nothing,” she said, turning away. A moment later, she heard Zuluku’s departing footsteps.

  She began composing herself, reaching out for serenity to Yasinta, goddess of the evening. With time and application, Njekwa could forget everything she’d just seen and heard. Well enough to sink below Zilikazi’s notice, at least.

  Nurat Merav

  She woke to pain. Terrible pain, on her left side below the ribs; aching pain most everywhere else.

  But fear rode over the pain. Where were her kits? They wer
e much too young to survive on their own.

  Her memory was blurred. Despite the age of her kits, Nurat had left them to join the other dancers once it became clear that the Liskash threatened to overwhelm the warriors because of their noble’s mind power. She remembered bits and pieces of the battle that followed, then…

  She’d been injured, obviously, but she didn’t remember how or when. Her last memories were of stumbling—often crawling—back to the place in the camp where she’d left Naftal and Abi.

  The great relief when she’d found them, still quite unharmed even if they were squalling because she’d abandoned them while nursing.

  Then…

  Nothing.

  She pressed down on the injury and was surprised to encounter bandages. Thick ones, even if they were crusted with blood—but the blood seemed to have dried. And the bandages were well placed and tightened by a cinch around her waist.

  Who had put them there? She certainly hadn’t. The best she’d managed was a crude poultice that she had to keep in place with one of her own hands.

  She looked around. She seemed to be in some kind of tent. But it was of no design she recognized. The frame was a circular lattice over which were stretched hide walls. All of it was covered with a dome made of thinner wood strips which supported some sort of felt. There seemed to be a thick lacquer spread over all the roof’s surface.

  She tried to picture what the structure would look like from the outside, and almost instantly realized that she was looking at a Liskash yurt. She hadn’t recognized it for what it was immediately because the interior had none of the decorations that would adorn the exterior. If “adorn” could be used to describe garish colors that usually clashed with each other.

  She was a captive, then. And soon would become a slave, once the noble who lorded it over these Liskash turned his attention to her.

  A Liskash female came through an opening in the yurt which she hadn’t spotted. The opening wasn’t a door, just a place where two hides overlapped. She thought the female was quite young.