The hide flaps moved again, and another female came into the yurt. Then, still another.
Three of them, and all young. They were staring down at her intently. What did they want?
She tried to remember the few words of Liskash she knew. Or rather, the few words of the tongue spoken by the Liskash who’d lived in the lowlands near when her tribe had once lived. She had no idea if these Liskash spoke the same language. Mrem dialects—at least, on this side of the newly formed great sea—were all are related, many of them quite closely. But the Liskash had lived here for…ages. No one knew how long. She’d heard that their languages could be completely different from each other.
Before she could utter more than a couple of halting syllables, however, the second Liskash to enter the yurt spoke to her. In a Mrem dialect that was not her own but was still mostly comprehensible.
“What you
Acting on that assumption, she said: “Nurat Merav. What is your name?”
Liskash expressions were unfamiliar to her, but she suspected the stiff-seeming appearance of the creature’s face was the Liskash version of a frown.
“You mean my
“My
Naftal mewled softly. Abi did the same.
“Quiet must!” the Liskash hissed, softly but urgently. “Very must!”
The three young Liskash females stared at the yurt entrance. They seemed tense and agitated.
Nurat didn’t understand what was bothering them so much, but it was clear they felt the kits had to be kept silent. She saw no reason to argue the matter; and, besides, the kits were hungry. So she began nursing them.
After a while, the Liskash seemed to relax. The one who called herself Zuluku turned away from the entrance and stared down at Nurat.
“Why are you doing this?” Nurat asked.
But no answer came. Perhaps the Liskash had not understood the question.
Zuluku
In fact, Zuluku had not understood the question, although she’d recognized most of the words. But even if she had, she would have found it difficult to answer.
Perhaps even impossible. She did not clearly understand herself why she was hiding the wounded barbarian. Part of her motive was certainly her sense of khaazik. But only part of it. Khaazik was not something that normally moved people to acts of daring, after all.
Most of all, she was driven by deep frustration. At every turn and in every way, her spiritual urges were stymied and suffocated. As a youngster, she’d once heard a Kororo missionary speak to a secret gathering of Old Faith adherents. She had understood very little of what the Kororo had said—almost nothing, being honest—but she’d never forgotten the missionary’s sense of sure purpose.
She’d dreamed of that purpose ever since, and gathered around her other young Old Faith adherents who shared her dissatisfaction. None of them had any clearer idea than she did of what their goals should be. They simply felt, in an inchoate way, that they should have some goals that went beyond the never-ending passivity of their religious superiors.
Njekwa seemed to have no goal beyond survival. They wanted more.
In the end, perhaps, they sheltered the badly wounded Mrem and her kits simply because they’d finally found something they could do.
Chapter 6
Meshwe
“Tekkutu! Tekkutu!” Little Chello came racing toward Meshwe. She was still limping a bit from the lingering effects of the tritti-bite, but was so excited that she ignored the pain.
Excited by what? Meshwe wondered. He could see nothing behind her but the narrow lane winding between the town’s yurts. Although, now that he concentrated, he thought he could hear some hubbub in the distance.
He wasn’t certain, though. At his age, his hearing was mediocre at best.
“What is it, child?” he asked, as the little one raced up. She tried to stop too abruptly, stumbled, and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
“It’s Sebetwe and the others!” cried Chello. “They’re back. And they brought with them—oh, you won’t believe me! Come see for yourself!”
The youngling got back on her feet and began tugging Meshwe by the wrist. “Come see! Come see!”
* * *
As they neared the town’s central plaza, the hubbub resolved itself into the excited speech of a large crowd. Judging from the tone, the crowd seemed agitated but not panic-stricken.
Once they got still closer, Meshwe could distinguish a single voice rising above the others. That was Sebetwe, he was sure. So the hunting party must have returned, then.
Finally, just two rows of yurts from the plaza, Meshwe could make out the words Sebetwe was shouting.
“Stay back, you idiots! If we lose control of them, some of you will get killed!”
That sounded…dangerous. Even if the crowd’s hubbub still didn’t seem that frightened.
“Come on, tekkutu! Come on!” Chello was so excited she finally let go of his wrist and raced ahead of him. He hurried his steps but didn’t break into an outright run. At his age, running was not the least bit enjoyable.
He came into the plaza and stopped. Very abruptly. The sight before him was without a doubt the most bizarre thing he’d ever seen—and Meshwe had lived a long and varied life.
In the center of the plaza were two adult and two juvenile gantrak. Judging by the size and subtleties of coloration of the adults, one was female and one was male. A family group, presumably. The trappers who’d gone out to capture (hopefully—the prospect was always chancy) a juvenile gantrak were positioned on either side of the predators, keeping a wary eye on them. The leader of the little party, Sebetwe, had a look of intense concentration on his face.
Meshwe recognized the expression. It was that of a skilled tekkutu maintaining control over a predator.
But controlling an adult gantrak? It was unheard of! Meshwe himself would not dare to do it, not even if he had several other tekkutu to assist him.
Then, further back, Meshwe spotted a still more outlandish sight. There was a party of Mrem in the rear. Two handfuls, perhaps more. And in the fore were two Mrem he thought to be females. Both of them were advancing with a peculiar manner—a bizarre one, actually. They were prancing and capering about as if possessed by demons or under the influence of one of the jatta syrups.
It took him a few moments to realize that the Mrem females were engaged in that weirdly frenzied mammalian version of dancing. And another few moments to remember that according to reports the Krek had gotten from its spies in the lowlands, Mrem dancers were able in some unknown and mysterious way to counter the mental power of the Liskash nobility.
Was it possible that…?
Ignoring the noise and excitement around him, Meshwe squatted and began the process needed to place him in tekku. There were several stages to that process—the exact number varied depending on circumstances—and with his long experience and proficiency he was able to pass through the initial ones quickly. But then, entering the phase known as efta duur—merging with the target spirit—Meshwe encountered an obstacle.
Not an obstacle so much as turbulence, he realized. It was as if, wading into what he’d thought was a pool, he’d encountered rapids. The clear, crisp, harsh minds of the great predators he sensed nearby were constantly being undercut—perplexed; disarranged, disoriented—by…
What, exactly? He could detect Sebetwe’s presence in that turmoil. The young tekkutu seemed to be guiding the gantrak through their confusion, giving them desperately needed clarity and focus. It was only that controlled orientation that kept the ferocious beasts from running wild.
But how was he doing it? No tekkutu, no matter how strong and adept, could possibly m
aintain that control while simultaneously undermining the normal instincts of a predator. It would be as hard as trying to run a race while juggling knives. Possible theoretically but not in practice.
It was the Mrem, he realized. Somehow, in some way, their dancing—or rather, the mental concentration—no, it was more like force, vigor, tension—they derived from the dancing, was the main factor keeping the gantrak off balance. The mammals, with their weird prancing about, unsettled all of the predators’ normal rhythms of behavior. In desperation, the gantrak then leaned on Sebetwe’s tekku presence to provide them with a focus. Their spirits converged with his, as it were.
He was not controlling them in the normal manner of a tekku handling a predator. With minds this great and fierce, that would be impossible. Instead, he was guiding them through the chaos, reassuring them. He was not their master so much as their mentor—it might be better to say, their spiritual counselor.
No—ha! who could have imagined such a thing?—he was their shaman!
Zilikazi
The first attack from the Kororo came as Zilikazi’s army was marching up a narrow and steep col two days after they entered the mountains. He’d been expecting it and had warned his commanding officers to be prepared, but it was still an unpleasant surprise.
The surprise—certainly the unpleasantness—came from the manner of the ambush, not the casualties it caused. Empathy was an emotion that, while not entirely absent from the caste of noble Liskash, was very limited in its range. More so for Zilikazi than most. The sight of his soldiers crushed and mangled by the rocks that had come crashing down the slopes was purely a matter for tactical calculation. Suffering casualties, including fatal and crippling ones, was a necessary feature of soldiers, no more to be rued or regretted than the rough hides of draft animals.
What did bother Zilikazi—not quite concern, but close—was the method used by the Krek’s warriors. The Kororo had been able to trigger the rockfalls while staying far enough away to nullify Zilikazi’s mind power. He could detect them, but their mental auras were somehow obscured as well as dimmed by distance. Trying to impose his will upon them, at this range, was like trying to catch fish swimming in a murky stream with your bare claws. He might be able to move fast enough but he couldn’t detect their location well enough.
How were they doing that? And how were they causing the rockfalls? Presumably his soldiers would discover those secrets once they advanced further into the range. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done but heal those who could be healed and euthanize those who would never recover.
Zilikazi did not maintain a medical corps, as such. He relied on the females who still adhered to the Old Faith to serve him in that capacity, since the witless creatures insisted on maintaining their silly beliefs and rituals. They might as well be good for something. He did, however, keep a cadre of medical inspectors who would ensure that the females did not waste valuable resources tending to those injured soldiers who were doomed anyway.
The Old Faith’s notions of khaazik and duzhikaa were not absurd, in and of themselves. Any sensible and capable ruler understood the principles of thriftiness and obedience to norms. But the relative weight that the Old Faith assigned to those beliefs was impractical at best. Why keep a soldier alive who was so badly injured that he would never again be able to serve his purpose? That was simply a waste of food and healing supplies. Better to put him down quickly and efficiently—and painlessly, so far as possible, there was no need to be cruel—in order to concentrate resources on those who might someday be able to rejoin the ranks and be of use to Zilikazi.
But he spent little time musing on the matter. The medical inspectors would take care of the problem for him.
Zuluku
“What should we do?” asked Raish, peering through the slightly open flap of the yurt. Her anxiety was plain in the timber of her voice. “The inspector will be here soon. If he comes in, he’s bound to discover…”
She nodded toward the far side of the yurt, where they’d hidden the Mrem and her kits under a mound of hides and thrushes. That had been enough to fool the soldiers who’d carried in their terribly injured comrade and given him over for treatment. They’d been in a hurry, since Zilikazi’s officers didn’t tolerate slackness when it came to minor tasks like tending to the wounded. But it wouldn’t be enough to fool the inspector. Adherents to the Old Faith had been known to hide severely damaged soldiers and the inspector would be on the alert for that. He’d poke through any piles that were big enough to hide a large body.
Zuluku wasn’t worried about the wounded soldier himself. He was barely alive and certainly wasn’t conscious.
What to do…?
Raish drew back from the open flap, a look of surprise on her face. A moment later, Njekwa came through into the yurt, pushing Raish aside not by physical force but by her sheer presence. When she chose to be, the priestess could be intimidating.
Njekwa cast a quick, knowing glance at the pile of hides and thrushes, and then looked down at the wounded soldier.
“Idiots,” she said, her tone calm and even. “Did you give any thought to what might happen?”
The priestess knelt and gave the soldier a quick and thorough examination.
“He has no chance,” she said. “Not once the inspector sees him. Bring over the blade and the bowl.”
Zuluku, realizing her intent, hesitated.
“Now,” Njekwa commanded.
Whatever her qualms and doubts might be, Zuluku had obeyed that voice since she was a youngling. She and Raish moved quickly to bring over the implements.
“Hold up his head,” Njekwa said. “Over the bowl. You know—”
She didn’t need to say anything further. Zuluku had done this before, on three occasions. She lifted the soldier’s head, as gently as possible, and brought it over the wide bowl that Raish held in position.
Neatly, quickly, efficiently, Njekwa severed one of the great veins in the soldier’s neck, being careful not to slice the artery. The cut was as small as possible for the purpose, not a great gash that would allow fountains of blood to spill everywhere.
It didn’t take long for the soldier’s life to drain away. Thanks to Brassu, the goddess of tranquility, he never regained consciousness.
When it was done, Raish removed the bowl and Zuluku lowered the soldier’s head back onto the hide he’d been resting on. After cleaning the blade, Njekwa assisted her in rolling the hide around the corpse.
Zuluku was about to finish the process, covering the face and tying the laces, when Njekwa said: “Wait.” The priestess’ head was turned toward the entrance flap.
Listening, Zuluku could hear footsteps approaching. A moment later, the medical inspector came into the yurt. He took two steps within, gazed down at the corpse and the three females—one of them still holding the bowl full of blood—and grunted with satisfaction. Then, without a word, turned and left the yurt.
Sighing, and trying not to quiver from tension, Zuluku said softly: “Thank you, Priestess.”
Njekwa’s responding grunt held more in the way of sarcasm, perhaps, than satisfaction. But she said nothing further and a moment later, she too had left the yurt.
Meshwe
“Now I understand,” said Meshwe to Sebetwe. “The Mrem dancing gives us strength—say rather, finer control—at the same time as it confuses—say rather, confounds—the gantrak.”
Sebetwe issued the throaty Liskash version of a chuckle. “I’m still groping for the right words. I think we may have to invent some. But, yes, that’s about my sense of what happens also.”
Both of them studied the gantraks. They had to look up to do so. It had taken the better part of the afternoon, but the family of predators had now settled down, more or less. Working hard under Meshwe’s commands, members of the Krek had erected a fair imitation of a gantrak nest atop a small hillock on the edge of the town.
Then, they studied the Mrem. The mammals had been given three yurts not far from the
hillock. They were supply yurts, not personal dwellings. But they were clean and had been emptied of their former contents.
Most of the Mrem were inside the yurts, no longer visible. But their leader, the young female called Achia Pazik, was squatting outside one of the yurts and returning their scrutiny.
Calmly. And there was obvious calculation in that gaze.
Good signs, both.
“We will need to find more Mrem dancers,” Sebetwe said.
Meshwe made no reply. The conclusion was also obvious.
The scouts had come back with their reports. Zilikazi was coming. The traps would damage his army, but not enough.
Chapter 7
Nurat Merav
Nurat had watched the quick and efficient slaughter of the badly wounded Liskash soldier carried out by the females in the yurt. She’d also observed the encounter between the females and the male who’d briefly entered the yurt afterward. He’d seemed to be an official of some kind.
Her view of the incidents had been limited, just what she could see through the small opening—no more than a slit—she’d created in the pile of hides and thrushes the females had hastily piled on top of her and her kits. She’d understood none of their speech, either. She thought she recognized two of the words they’d used, although she wasn’t even sure of that.
But, by now, one thing was clear to her. For whatever reason, the female Liskash were protecting Nurat and her kits. They’d not only provided her with healing treatments but they’d gone to considerable length—and considerable personal risk, she suspected—to keep the Mrem hidden.
Hidden from who? She didn’t know, precisely. But whatever Liskash officials they were hiding them from, ultimately they were hiding them from Zilikazi himself.
How could they be doing that? Nurat had felt herself the Liskash noble’s incredible might. She wouldn’t have thought a small group of female Liskash could counter that mental power.
But, then, she understood very little of the way that mind control worked. Perhaps it could be evaded, if not directly countered.
By Tooth and Claw - eARC Page 16