by Bill Fawcett
And he drew out his sword, and raised it until the engraved tip touched his left shoulder, in the ancient gesture of defense to the death. “If any choose a dispute, I will argue with my sword. You will accept what I say, or you will face me in a death-duel. Choose now, because soon the cave door will open.”
He had grown tall, Bodder realized, taller than any mrem he had ever seen. His bright cape cascaded behind him in waves in the wind, and the studded leather that protected his neck and chest shimmered in the sunlight that peered over the mountainside. Instinctively he knew that no clansmrem would dare defy their leader, not because he was the ClanSon but rather because all knew they could not defeat him. He had called for the death-duel, and his part would never be death.
But suddenly the ClanSon whirled, and Bodder turned with him. Slowly the piles of cloth and the tangle of reeds dismantled themselves from the front of the cave, and when the barricade was gone the mrem of the caravan issued forth. Their bows were strung, but the archers held no arrows. One mrem led them, and he approached the ClanSon with his sword sheathed at his side.
“I speak for the merchant Wornlen,” Reswen announced. “He willingly accepts your offer.”
Arklier did not change expression. Instead he approached the leader of the guardsmrem, striding toward him until he stood within reach. He did not answer the other mrem’s words.
“Before I respond,” he began, “I want to know who you are.”
Reswen looked him deep in the eye. “My name is Reswen, and I come from the city of Ar. I am paid to lead the guard of this caravan, and I organized the defense of the cave. And now,” his voice softened slightly, “may I ask the same of you?”
A brief smile touched the caped mrem’s mouth. “You may, Reswen of Ar. My name is Arklier, and I am the ClanSon of Peorlias, son of him who is called the Fearless. Of all the ClanMrem who lead the clans of the highlands, I trust you have heard of him.”
“I have,” came Reswen’s half-whispered reply. “No fighter in Ar has not.” He paused, then shook his head slowly. “So you are Arklier. We have not met before, ClanSon, and gods know if we will ever meet again. I am glad we have had this moment.” And with those words Reswen extended his hand, claws retracted.
Arklier’s smile reappeared. “You speak well, Ar-mrem. I do not know you, but I admire one who knows the power of words. But my mrem grow impatient, and would have their reward.”
Reswen nodded and turned. “Give them their third, Wornlen,” he ordered the still-shaking merchant. “Fralter, keep him honest.” And then he turned back to face the ClanSon. “Will you guide us through the pass?” he asked.
“No,” Arklier quickly replied. “There is no need. I will only ensure that the pass is kept clear. Once you are through it, I can guarantee nothing.”
Reswen’s nod caught Wornlen’s attention. “You can’t agree to that!” the fat mrem shouted, his sweating face a brilliant red. “I’m not going to give up a third of my goods for no guarantees of safe passage.” He folded his arms and stood with squat legs apart, the traditional gesture of defiance.
The leader of the guardsmrem shrugged. “Fine,” he consented indifferently. “So die instead.” And he moved aside to let the merchant face the ClanSon.
Wornlen’s eyes opened wide. “Wait!” he stammered. “Reswen, you’re supposed to guard me.” His voice shook in a combination of rage and fright. “That’s what I’m paying you for, you useless idiot!” He glared at Reswen, but the other mrem only smiled.
A smirk widened on Arklier’s face. “You refuse to pay?” he asked quietly.
The merchant looked to the ground. For several moments he said nothing. Then, at last, his voice weak and high, he answered the challenge. “I will pay,” was all he said.
•
“Crethok wouldn’t have done it,” a short, muscular clansmrem grumbled. “He wouldn’t’ve settled for one part in three. He would’ve kept fighting until he got it all.”
High above the pass, the clansmrem watched the caravan disappear through the mountains. They had taken their goods and returned to the mountainside, but the complaining among them had begun immediately. Most was in whispers, but some had the courage to speak aloud.
“Maybe,” an older mrem said. “But Crethok isn’t here, and Arklier doesn’t like comparisons.” He returned the other’s stare of hate. “I advise you to remember that.”
Another mrem lay on his back, his left arm wound in brown cloth, limp at his side. “We lost ten mrem,” he reported sadly, “and one was my brother. They had sixteen, we had thirty-three, and already eight were dead or wounded. How long do you think we would have survived?”
The muscular mrem stood up. “We were almost there!” he hissed. “One more charge, and we could have—”
“Died,” another voice interrupted. The clansmrem looked into the face of Bodder. “Many could have died. Very easily. They were led by a warrior, did you not see him?”
“Arklier has grown soft!” the other said, his voice now shaking with anger. “He has been away for three years. How can he suddenly lead again?”
“He can,” Bodder shot back, “and he has. We have cloth, and reeds, and pottery. He brought us what we came for. We could have lost everything.” He paused and stared the other down. “And he will lead again, as ClanMrem, when the time comes. You would do well to remember that, before you curse him again.”
Bodder walked away, and the clansmrem were silent. But in the eyes of the one whose fur still bristled with a fierce anger and burning hatred, the issue had yet to be settled. He would not rest, he decided to himself, until Crethok had the place of the First ClanSon. His claws extended and dug deeply into the cloth he had been assigned to carry. For the past three years, Arklier had been among the Dancers. Crethok had stayed to lead the clansmrem into raids and battles. The clan needed no Dancer’s pet as ClanMrem.
THE NIGHT WAS long, the morning even longer. Talwe sat on a rock in the field far from the village, watching the uxen happily tearing the grass from the ground. This was the fourth day of his banishment, his sixth if he counted the journey to the fields. With each passing hour he resented more strongly the decision of the elders to send him away. And mixed with that resentment, deeper and by far more intense, was a feeling of failure.
He thought of the villagemrem, who needed him in the Hunt; of Ondra, who had done his best to keep him from the dance-duel; of Torwen, who wanted so badly for Talwe to prove himself; and mostly of Arigain, who had pointed to him at the end of her dance. His body ached with desire for her, and the hunter had to stop himself from fantasizing how her soft fur would feel under his tongue. His thoughts turned from Arigain’s silky softness to the gentle warmth of his mother’s fur. More often as the long days passed, more than these others, he thought of his mother.
Long ago, he had promised to bring honor to her name. To show the strength of his family’s honor to those who taunted him as a half-breed. With each succeeding failure, no matter how small, that honor slipped further away.
A female uxan strayed too close to the edge of the forest, and the hunter hurried to chase it back to the safety of the herd. As it fled his waving arms the beast danced a strange, almost graceful, step. For no good reason it reminded him of Morian, who had been his hut mate for years, and the first time they had danced. This made him smile, though it made his solitude even harder to endure.
For a year they had been together. She had stayed with him at the Feast of the Harvest last year, when Talwe’s kill had been the first made. They danced all that night, holding together while the other mrem whirled around them, finally agreeing to be one for that night and later in the darkness agreeing to stay together beyond the sunrise. Such an agreement was unusual, Talwe knew, because the purpose of the Feast was to share and not to hoard, but he felt strangely happy when Morian accepted his wish. He knew, too, that the other females had mocked her through th
e last year, their derision directed as much at her staying with him alone as at the color of his fur.
The banished hunter remembered bitterly, then, the night of his judgment. After the elders had made their decision, he had slunk to his hut, unable to stand the superior or, worse yet, sympathetic glances of the others. Waiting for him inside, as always, was Morian, her face smiling above the tears in her eyes. Her body had been soft and warm in his desperate arms. Talwe knew of her recent sadness, knew that with Arigain’s dance she had known he would soon leave her, but he had never been able to speak to her of it.
He had lain there feeling alone and still needing her on that night more than ever. Talwe had tried to tell her then how he needed her. Such words could mean much, but somehow the night had held no place for his words. He could answer her tears only with his body.
He wondered, now, what she was doing.
Suddenly he shivered. Standing up, he turned around slowly and counted the herd. They were all there, all eighty-seven of them, and none of them had even moved from their spots. But the shivering meant danger, and he had never known it to be wrong.
The hunter stepped away from the rock and began to search the grass. His eyes could see nothing unusual, and his nose smelled only the drying grass and the beasts. Still he circled the herd, turning his head slowly from side to side, looking first at the ground and then at the trees, drawing his knife in case something should burst upon him. He shivered again, and he knew that something was wrong.
As quietly as possible he slipped into the trees, until he crouched among the songomores growing tall into the sky. He looked back once, to make sure the herd was settled, and then he let himself stray further inside. He knew the forest well, this wealth of trees that started in the plain and ended near the banks of the singing river. For the mrem of his village the forest was a thing of mystery. Due to the headwaters of the Mraal, these fields were the last to brown, but they were two days’ walk away. No one from the village knew what creatures lived deep within them, because none had ever ventured so far from their village. Nor had there ever been any need to do so. Their beasts would always shy back from beneath the trees before they had strayed too far, their bellowing making it easy to retrieve any stray that was lost.
For Talwe, now herder of the village beasts, a need suddenly existed. Though he couldn’t understand why.
Deeper he slunk, always careful to be silent, often warned by his shivers that danger was nearby. The hunter found what he wanted some time after midday. Tracks on the forest floor led close to the edge of the forest, close to the herd that Talwe had left behind. He followed them south for a short time, to see where they came from, but when they began to disappear deeper in the forest he turned to the north and followed where they led. They veered back toward the forest center, away from the plain, and when they faded from sight on a passage of rock Talwe tracked by smell alone. He knew he was far from the herd, but the sun was still high in the western sky and he knew he could return to his post before dark. Then, too, for the first time in six days he felt as if his life had a purpose.
The scent of the tracks was strong now. It was a strange scent, neither the full scent of the villagemrem nor the animal smell of the herd. Even the forest smelled nothing like this, because the scent overpowered the smell of the wood. And yet it was not foul, like the smell of the Na-mrem of the tales, nor was it sweet, like the scent of the graincakes the females baked for the harvest. It was a scent Talwe liked, a scent that stirred strong in his mind.
It was the scent, he suddenly knew, of an unseen memory. He concentrated, but the memory would not come. It stayed formless and hovered just beyond recognition.
Again the warning came. So violent this time he could hardly retain his sword. Talwe stood and listened, but he heard only the wind in the trees. Stepping forward, he walked slowly past the trunks of three large resse grown together. The ground was disturbed here, and the hunter studied it as he walked. When he rounded the last trunk he raised his eyes from the ground.
What he saw only a few inches away and for a brief, fleeting moment, were the eyes of another mrem. Then he turned and raced back along the trail that wound through the forest, his heart thundering in his ears and his lungs gasping air as he ran. He did not stop until he was gasping, winded, and a pain had grown in his side. The eyes he had seen had been golden.
As were his own.
“Gold-eyes!” Forun had sung when they both had been young, pointing his finger and dancing around, teasing him. There is little a child can do when he is mocked by simply being told he was as he was. “Talwe has gold eyes!” And the children had mocked along with him, had pointed and sung and laughed as Talwe cringed, desperately stopping his tears.
Later, they stopped mocking. The taunts of day became the scratches of rivals and the jealous taunts thrown to those who showed an interest in him at mating dances. And always it was a color they hated, the gold of his eyes or the deeper brown of his fur.
And now, after all these years, another mrem had gold eyes, too.
Somehow, he wasn’t alone.
A branch cracked loudly behind him. He had been pursued. Once more the shiver alerted the mrem to danger.
His breath had slowed and the pain had faded, so Talwe ran again, the wind singing and fallen branches cracking under his feet. For a time he raced back toward the herd, hoping to outdistance those chasing him. But he turned and darted among the trees when he saw more mrem on the edge of the clearing. These too chased him, their cries and whoops signaling to the others where Talwe was, signaling to Talwe how close they had come. Talwe realized he was alone, two days’ walk from the village. There was no way for him to escape but to run harder.
He did. Over a fallen songomore he vaulted, twisting this way and that in an effort to shake off his pursuers. Far into the forest, further he was sure than any villagemrem had gone before. He raced wildly and recklessly, his arms held in front of him in an attempt to shelter his whiskers from branches that slashed at him as he passed. Mostly he was successful, but at times a low branch staggered him. Then he would drag himself up and stumble forward until the dizziness passed.
His heart throbbed now, and his fangs were bared with fear and his claws flexed uncontrollably. Only a few moments before he had looked back, and the gold-eyed mrem were still on his trail. Faster, his mind kept insisting, and faster his legs tried to move. His claws dug into the soft earth beneath the trees as he ran.
“Inla, hear me,” he mouthed his silent prayer. “Take me from the gold-eyed mrem. Take me from this forest and back to my herd. They are mine to watch over, and the day is late. The clouds grow dark in the sky. The night will not be kind. Take me, Inla, take me from my danger.”
He looked behind him. The mrem had gone. He did not know if they had given up the chase or if they were hiding in the bushes, awaiting his return, but he knew he was no longer being chased. His sense of danger had faded until it was only a nagging twitch. Slowing to a walk, Talwe bent from the waist and tried to regain his breath. His tail had been torn by a sharp branch and throbbed painfully. He leaned against a tree as the world began to spin. The rough bark snagged at his fur, but he didn’t notice. Somehow, he held his vomit.
Those who pursued him had been in the forest, but not of the forest. If they had been he would never have escaped them. But there was nothing beyond this forest except for empty mountains and desert in one direction and the valley of Ar in the other. And there were no gold-eyed mrem in Ar. He was alone in the hostile forest being chased by mrem that couldn’t be. Were they Na-mrem or worse? The dark-colored mrem refused to think about what that meant to the mystery of his ancestry.
When he looked up, he knew he was lost. Deep into the forest he had come, his twisting path defeating both his pursuers and his own sense of direction. As Talwe recovered, darkness began to settle over the trees and the forest was lost in the shadows of the evening. The
mrem looked hopelessly up to the sky. It was gray and starless. Even the clouds had conspired against him. They even prevented his determining in which direction the sun was setting. Frightened and utterly alone, he watched as the night enfolded the trees at his sides. Soon even the nearby leaves were merely dark spots in the moonless night.
For a time he walked blindly. Finally the smallest of the moons broke through and could be seen occasionally through the canopy of leaves overhead. The light from the moon was scarcely enough to give him any sight, and what it did give was only the sight of more trees. Dark and thick, and waving in the wind, they towered above him and looked down upon him. Where the moon told him the way to his herd, it also glistened off his fur. He felt naked and exposed, and he felt that the forest itself did not like him. The elders had taught him no propitiations for tree spirits. Talwe longed for grass under the wide, open sky, and he wondered how long the forest would let him live. He knew, as did all villagemrem, that the forest was unforgiving at night.
Weak and exhausted, he shivered, not from a warning but in fear. Each strange sound became a new threat. His mind was too numb and his thoughts were too fogged by fatigue to determine which sound might warn of a true enemy. In the darkness every pool of blackness contained golden eyes, threatening and mocking him. The urge to continue, to drive himself forward, became all important. He could not move, but he had to return to the plains, to the herd he was supposed to be guarding. The fear of failing yet again drove the mrem forward when no other motive would.
And so Talwe cowered and dropped to his knees and crawled. Tree after tree passed by him, and still he felt no closer to the herd. His nose to the ground, he smelled the trail for his own scent, but nothing was there but the scent of the night.