Petru’s attention was not on his angry companion or the females, but on the guards behind them. They had rheumy eyes. A green discharge dripped from their ugly nostrils. Their voices, when they shouted orders, were muted, and they coughed incessantly. One kept retreating behind a tree to squat.
When they were herded together to return to the camp, Petru whispered his news to the others.
“They have caught the fever!” he exclaimed. Sherril hushed him.
“Nonsense!” Sherril said. “How could they catch our disease? We are not the same species. The raw bird they ate yesterday must have disagreed with them. Or your terrible cooking has twisted their guts. The sickness is just catching up with them now.”
“It is the fever, I say,” Petru insisted. “My granddam would tell you. The symptoms are in her diary! There are illnesses she wrote about that affect all creatures that come into contact with them, although they are affected in different ways. It looks as though this spreads to Liskash and Mrem alike. But it seems to come on with them much faster than it does in us. Hmm.” He couldn’t keep himself from smiling.
“How can that possibly help us?” Taadar asked. He, too, had begun sniffling.
“It will help us to stay alive,” Petru said. “Perhaps long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” Bireena asked, her expression one of bemusement.
“Long enough to outlive them,” Petru said.
* * *
But waiting was not easy or safe. Petru fought as he was dragged forward and thrown to the ground before General Unwal. He pulled himself upright and brushed at his beautiful coat with irritated strokes. The scrawny dino pointed at the sagging nets on the back of the carrier beast.
“Eight birds? That is not enough food for all my people! You have failed to follow my orders!”
“We gathered all we could in the time we were given,” Petru said. “My Mrem held nothing back. Do you accuse us of theft?”
As if a wall fell upon him, a mighty force struck him to his knees. Petru struggled to get free from those holding him down. He realized in horror that no living creature was touching him. The general stood above him. He held nothing in his hands but power. Madness caused his flat eyes to gleam.
“Tomorrow, if you fail to bring us enough to eat, you will be the roast on the spit.”
“It’s been four days, War Leader,” Fist Master Emoro Awr said. “The foraging party ought to have come back yesterday.”
The grizzled Fist Master crouched before the senior officer in his tent. Bau Dibsea looked poorly, in Emoro’s eyes. He must have been sickening up, too.
“One day’s delay is not enough to worry me,” Bau said. “Why are you concerned?”
“You know Petru. He fears for the Dancers’ lives. He knew what he needed to make them better. He would hurry back as quickly as he could move and prepare his medicine. I am sure that something has happened to him. Them.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it, Fist Master,” Bau said, peevishly. “We can’t send out searchers. There are barely enough of us still standing to protect us against a Liskash incursion.”
Emoro lowered his gaze slightly.
“It isn’t just me. Young Ysella came to me. She is still well and fit. She’s put together a group of her apprentice Dancers. They are supple and strong, and it wouldn’t hurt to have those favored by the gods with me. They are prepared to go in search of Petru. He has always been kind to them.”
“Spoiled them within a pad’s width of her life, you mean,” Bau said, but his tone was indulgent. “I can’t risk the lives of our only healthy Dancers.”
“Young Gilas wants to come as well. He would do anything for Ysella. I know it’s not much, War Leader, but I have a feeling something went wrong. We must bring them back. Lady Cleotra is fading away, War Leader. We need Petru’s cure.”
Bau sighed. His breathing sounded labored. He needed the cure himself. Emoro had found his own throat was getting a little scratchy over the last few days. How long until he was raving and lying in his own muck? He feared that finding Petru was the clan’s only hope of surviving. At last, Bau nodded.
“Very well, Emoro. Go, but return safely, and soon!”
* * *
Petru woke on the fourth morning, annoyed. He had had a terrifying dream in which he ran from the sickbed of one Dancer to another, watching each of them die of the fever. The labored breathing and coughing was getting no better. He rolled over and poked Scaro in the side. The drillmaster flipped over suddenly, glaring at Petru.
“Isn’t the potion helping?” Petru asked in a low voice.
“A little, valet,” the drillmaster whispered. “I can breathe a bit. And I’m not so weak as I’ve been.”
“Then why are you still coughing and sneezing?”
“It’s not me,” Scaro said in surprise.
A fit of sneezing erupted. Both of them turned their heads toward the noise. One of the guards sat on a stump a few Mrem-lengths away. His flat black eyes were filmy. He brushed slime from his nostrils with the sleeve of his coat.
“Well, that’s a pleasant sight,” Petru whispered. “A pity we can’t do anything to make it worse.”
“Yes, we can,” Sherril said with a feral grin. “We will take vengeance for our own entrapment and the many Mrem they enslaved over the centuries.”
Bireena’s eyes gleamed at that last.
“How, councilor?”
“With the tool we have at hand,” Sherril said. He turned to Scaro. “Drillmaster, I have a special assignment for you today.”
While they hunted in the marshland, Scaro pushed his meager strength to the uttermost. He made certain to touch or breathe on every Liskash in the company at least once during the day. When he felt a sneeze coming on, he ensured that one or more of the soldiers was in range of his explosion of mucus. If he wasn’t coughing or sneezing, he made certain to touch or fall on them, making them touch him. Petru watched Scaro’s antics with growing pleasure. Within hours, nearly every Liskash displayed one or more symptoms of the fever. It seemed that every one of the dinos, including the beasts of burden were coughing or sneezing. The ones watching the Mrem hunt were almost tottering with weakness. Where the Mrem had a certain immunity garnered over the years, the Liskash had none. And the fever took hold with tight talons. By mid-morning, several of them were wheezing. Captain Horisi was dehydrated and shitting himself behind every tree. The Mrem pretended to see nothing as they worked.
“Hold there!” cried the grayface guard, pointing a trembling finger at Taadar. “That one is armed. Take him! Tie him up!”
The young warrior struggled in the grasp of three sniffling soldiers.
“I have nothing but kivor leaves,” Taadar insisted, holding them out. “Take them. I mean no harm.”
“A knife! He intends to slit our bellies!” the grayface shrieked. Petru came over to investigate the fuss. He took the leaves from Taadar and sprinkled them on the ground.
“Look here, captain. Nothing. Calm yourself.”
The guard bounded away from Petru and disappeared among the trees.
“They will kill us!”
On the way back to the camp, they saw the body of the grayface. He had collapsed in a heap on the path and died, a look of terror on his face. Petru kicked the body as they passed it.
General Unwal marched over to Petru and struck him across the muzzle with the back of his hand.
“What happened to my soldier?” he demanded. “Have you bewitched us all? How did you kill my man? Was it some kind of Mrem magic?”
“I have no power,” Petru said. He ignored the blow, holding himself tall and looking the officer straight in his eyes. “Perhaps the privations of the last weeks left him vulnerable to illness.”
“That skinny one has been sick since we took you all,” Unwal said, pointing at Scaro. “He must have infected my soldiers!”
“How could it be the same illness?” Petru asked. “We are Mrem and you are Liskash. Scaro has
not gone mad, and he still lives. Your soldier must have been suffering before our arrival.”
“My men are coughing and sneezing as he was. Only my power keeps me from having the same symptoms!”
“And have you no doctors? Hmph!” He shook his head in scorn. “I should have known Liskash were too far removed from nature to know anything of value! I am a herbalist of some repute among my people. Let me go out later to gather plants to make medicine.”
“See that you do!” Unwal thundered. His skinny purple body juddered as a sneeze took him. He clutched his sides with his thin hands. “I will be watching you! Now, bring me food!” Petru turned to hide his smile. The general’s symptoms were coming on rapidly. He pointed at his volunteer workforce.
“You, you and you! Begin to gut those frogs and thread them on the spit!”
Nolda sidled up to Petru as he went to oversee the females plucking the handful of geese that Taadar and Imrun had captured. The rest of the Liskash were so lethargic that they weren’t crowding up to steal fruit or meat.
“You won’t give them the cure, will you?” the Dancer asked. Petru was devastated to see that her eyes were becoming filmy. Because of the beatings and hard work, they were all susceptible to the fever.
“Never, Priestess,” Petru vowed. “Not if they kill me. But I must cook and not be cooked. A pity that a nourishing meal might help them to stave off the fever.”
“Burn it, valet,” Sherril said. “Ruin the food. Let them go hungry as we are. Once they are too weak, we can slit these hobbles and run away. Soon they will be in no condition to chase us.”
“I can’t,” Petru said, with a glance over his shoulder at Unwal. “He’s no fool. He will know if the geese are too long on the spit. Later today I will make them take me to hunt for herbs. I will promise a cure, but I will formulate false medicines. Once they are helpless, we can escape. I need to get back to Lady Cleotra.”
“Why wait until the fever takes them?” Taadar asked. “Bireena and I have been working hard all morning.” He beckoned to Bireena. The former slave hobbled toward them.
“Lord Petru, I wish to help you,” Bireena said, her expression carefully blank. She even kept her tail still. “I have herbs to season the meat.”
“What, did you manage to find spices?” Petru asked. “He opened the huge leaf she handed him. It was full of gripeweed. The grin spread across his black-furred face so widely that it could have touched his ears. “Oh, this will be a most flavorful meal!”
“Be prepared to flee when the moment is right,” Sherril told the others. “I will give you the signal.”
“We’ll be ready,” Scaro said. He still looked as though a strong breeze would blow him over, but his determination held him upright.
* * *
When the geese were done, Petru arranged a platter with the most tender and perfectly roasted pieces of meat, alongside a salad of green leaves mixed with white and purple berries, and flavored with wild scallions. It looked as delicious as anything he might serve his precious Dancers. With as much grace as the hobbles between his ankles would allow, he presented the platter with a flourish to General Unwal.
“This is the finest of our produce of the day,” Petru said. “I hope you will enjoy it.”
“I shall,” Unwal said. He stared at Petru, never looking at the food. “Eat it.”
Petru blinked.
“What?”
“If it is so fine, you won’t mind tasting it for me. All of you,” he said, gesturing the other Mrem forward. Guards surrounded them and forced them forward with the points of their spears. “Come here.”
“But why, general?” Petru asked. He wondered if the purple Liskash could see into his mind and see him chopping up gripeweed to mix into the salad and the sauce on the meat. The smirk on the dino’s face suggested that he could. Petru felt his insides twist.
“You are so solicitous of our health and well-being,” General Unwal said, pointing a skinny finger at him. “I do not believe slaves care so much for their masters. My men were not ill before you came. You must be poisoning them. This could be an attempt to poison me. Therefore, you will eat what you have prepared for me.”
“Oh, no,” Petru said, holding up his hands. “I couldn’t. This is a feast for you, good general.”
“I don’t believe you,” Unwal said, his eyes fixed on Petru’s. He tightened his fingers. The valet felt the invisible hand tighten on his windpipe. He released the hold and signaled one of his men to bring him beer. A green-faced dino hurried to do his general’s bidding. Unwal took a long drink from his enameled beaker and smacked his thin lips. “Eat, or you all die. I am patient. I can wait.”
Petru gazed at him, focusing all the hate in his body on the creature before him. His vengeance was coming.
“So can I.” He reached for the platter.
* * *
“I don’t sense Liskash nearby,” Ysella said. The young Dancer stalked along the crumbling path toward the rushing waters of the new sea. Every so often, she glanced at the broad expanse of water, expecting it to reach up and sweep her off the rise. If it was true that the Great Salt grew every day, then they were in danger.
“Can’t you smell them?” Emoro asked, wrinkling his scarred nose.
“I can, but there’s something wrong with the smell.”
The five tawny-coated females following in Ysella’s train, her apprentices, nodded their agreement.
Emoro had to concur with the females’ opinion, but what else could he do? He had to find Petru and the priestess Nolda and bring them back safely. The trail led in this direction, at least for a while.
He had set them a rapid march from the camp over the last day and a half. When they reached the marshlands that had been Petru’s stated destination, he had found signs of considerable activity. Threshed paths went off in all directions from that point. Broken branches leading downhill alongside the river to the north made him think that Petru had run into some trouble. Emoro followed traces, spotting a footprint here, a chopped branch there. He listened, but he couldn’t hear any voices, only birds and other creatures calling. Where was Petru?
The Liskash stink was everywhere. He couldn’t rely upon his nose, but he trusted his eyes, and the Dancers had a way of sensing the presence of the cursed dinos. They chopped and pushed through the thick overgrowth, hoping to discover the route taken by their lost loved ones.
Downhill to the north, he had come across a discarded bronze claw hand. He recognized it as one of Imrun’s prized possessions. More crushed and torn foliage, being swiftly overgrown by the hungry jungle, told him that there had been a struggle there. Scattered handfuls of fur also decorated the bushes, including thick, plushy black tufts he knew had come from Petru. They had come this way. Were they prisoners? Had they been killed? Emoro felt his soul sink, but he had to press on to discover the truth.
The young females had the kind of energy that Emoro had once possessed. He was reluctant to risk sending them out as scouts, but they were eager to help. Two of the tawny lasses raced down the path and disappeared over a slight rise.
They returned almost immediately, looks of horror on their faces.
“They’re all dead!” one of the girls wailed. “Bodies everywhere, Mrem and Liskash!”
Ysella let out a little chirp. All the courage she had shown had fled.
“It must not be true!”
Emoro pushed them aside and ran down the forest path. His heart pounded. Petru dead? The Dancer lost to them? He could not imagine either of those horrors. The young females and Gilas ran beside him, then outdistanced him. Ysella emitted her peeps of terror, showing again how young she was. Emoro wished he could console her, but he feared what he would see.
Gasping, he burst through the last hanging branches. With a backwards bound, he caught himself just Mrem-lengths from the edge of a precipice. The path was sheared off as though by an axe.
“Where are they?” he demanded. One of the girls pointed downward.
As the girls had said, Liskash and Mrem corpses littered the rockfall. Birds and other scavengers worried at the bodies, shrieking their delight at such a bounty. A black shadow stretched over a piece of shattered wall caught his eye. The body was broad enough to be Petru. He couldn’t see the Dancer, but surely she must lie near the valet. He would have protected her to the end. His heart clenched in his chest. He must not weep. He had to rescue the bodies and give them decent burial.
“We must get down to them,” he said. Desperately, he sought about for a path down to the water’s edge. The broken land started to crumble at his feet. Perhaps he could hug the cliff face and climb. “Stay here,” he cautioned Gilas. “Protect the Dancer.”
“No, Fist Master,” Ysella said, catching his arm as he dropped to his belly. Her voice was suddenly steady. “Don’t go down.”
“That is Petru there. He is dead!”
She pulled him back from the precipice.
“Breathe, Emoro. Smell. There is no life here, but these died too long ago to be our kinsfolk. I swear it. Smell.”
Emoro fought back his grief. He was annoyed that his nose was becoming clogged with the oncoming fever, but he blew it clear and inhaled deeply.
The stink of rotting corpses almost knocked him over. He looked down. With new eyes, he surveyed the scene. That poor Mrem on the rocks was not Petru. Its fur was far too short. The skin that showed in rents torn in its coat by the scavengers had turned a dark purple green. He nodded.
“Thank you, Dancer. You’re right. These poor souls are half a moon dead. When our clan passes this way, we’ll give them decent burial. But now we have to go back again to find…to find the Priestess. But, where?”
By Tooth and Claw - eARC Page 31