by Bill Fawcett
The memory was pleasant.
Cwinyd nodded. “I have come to pay you, Tangren,” he said. “You have clearly done well.”
Smiling broadly, his teeth showing and his whiskers dancing, Tangren replied, “Without your help, it would not have been possible.”
“True,” Cwinyd said bluntly. “But you have done well nevertheless.” He reached into his cloak and drew out a small leather pouch. “It’s all here,” he said. “Count it if you don’t believe me.”
Tangren shook his head. “You are a mrem of honor,” he announced. “There is no need.”
Cwinyd sneered. “I have just paid you in gold to kill several of the palace guards, Tangren. How does that possibly make me a mrem of honor?”
The other frowned. “I do not understand....”
“It’s not important. Just watch what you say from now on.” He paused, then added, “There’s nothing to be gained by calling me honorable. I find it insulting. Do things only if you stand to gain something.”
Nodding, Tangren answered. “I will, Cwinyd. I certainly will.” His tail flicked against the door behind him.
Cwinyd smiled when he noticed the nervous gesture. Again he reached into his cloak. This time he pulled out a date. Popping it into his mouth, he began to suck on it as Tangren watched.
“You will continue, of course,” he said at last.
“Continue what?” the short mrem asked.
“Raiding.”
Tangren knitted his brows. “I hadn’t planned to,” he said hesitantly. “Except for this raid, we have had little success in the past.”
Cwinyd pushed the date into one cheek. “That’s because you didn’t have my help before. Don’t you think?” His voice, as always, was calm, arrogant, and infuriating. Greed was such a wonderful weapon. He could see the other beginning to melt.
“Possibly.”
“No. Definitely.” A pause, then, “What I want you to do now is start heading further into the valley. Step by step toward Cragsclaw. Lord Sleisher’s forces are spread out, and I want them scattered further. You are in a good position to help.”
Again Tangren frowned. “Why should I want to help? I have no battle with Lord Sleisher.”
Cwinyd smirked. “Perhaps. But Crethok does, for he alone sees the threat Sleisher presents to the clans. He has tried to warn Arklier, but that one is too weak to act.”
Tangren sat straight. “Arklier? Weak? I don’t think so, my friend.”
Leaning forward, Cwinyd grasped the other’s wrist. His claws were out, and cut into the other’s skin. “I am not your friend, Tangren,” he spat, staring deep into the other’s eyes. “And I do not lie. I’ve warned you not to speak before thinking. I rarely warn anyone twice.”
Sitting back, Cwinyd’s voice calmed. “Crethok seeks to destroy Sleisher, to take away that threat forever. Arklier’s only concern is with becoming ClanMrem.”
“And Crethok’s is not?” Tangren’s voice was brave, but his eyes were not.
“Crethok does not care who is ClanMrem. To him, defending the clan is the only thing that matters.” Again he leaned forward, and again he commanded Tangren’s eyes.
Tangren sat tall again, and again he was about to protest. Suddenly he felt something grab at his brain, and for a second his mind went blank. Shaking his head, he looked into Cwinyd’s eyes and said, “You’re right, of course. I’ve been worried about Arklier for a long time.”
“Of course,” Cwinyd replied. He closed his eyes to wipe away the sudden fatigue the mental blast had cost him, and some of the weariness he was beginning to feel after several weeks of using too much magic, but he smiled when he realized how well it had worked. Tangren would never know his mind had been changed.
“There’s only one thing,” Tangren stammered. He was shaken now, and his protests were weak.
“You need more money,” Cwinyd simply stated.
The short mrem nodded. His tail flicked in a tight circle.
“You will have it,” the other announced. “Crethok himself will deliver it, as soon as he becomes ClanMrem.”
Startled, Tangren argued, “But you said he didn’t care to be ClanMrem?”
“True,” smiled Cwinyd. “But if you want your clan to continue, you had best start caring yourself.” With one more short bolt to lock his lesson into Tangren’s mind, Cwinyd rose and left the raider’s tent.
His hands shook with fatigue, but he was satisfied. The Lords would be pleased.
•
Arklier stood high atop the cliff wall, watching the fighting below. Behind him, ordered to stay out of sight, almost a hundred of the clan’s best warriors waited for his order to march. He knew they had yet to understand his orders, but he also knew they would not question or disobey. In the past few weeks he had managed to re-instill fear and respect into his small band of warriors, and he realized now his earlier softness had been wrong.
The responsibilities of heading the clan were changing him. Not that he had become another Crethok, though. Unlike his brother, he believed that his warriors were more than just fighters, something beyond the fodder Crethok used his own for.
Yes, they were warriors, but they were also valued clansmrem. And when everything was accounted for, the clan—not the fighting—was the only important thing.
To watch his brother in the field below was to watch the mrem who disagreed entirely. Crethok’s faction had grown in strength lately, almost frighteningly, and would soon have the support of most of the leaders of the outlying villages of the clan. Twice in the past week Arklier had led his warrior band into a village, and both times he had been made to feel unwelcome, each time by mrem who had been kindly earlier. Crethok had left signs in the villages, but more importantly he had left behind an atmosphere of strength and defiance. Both times Arklier had talked long into the night with the village leader, but when he left the next day he knew he had won no ally.
If he did nothing soon, Crethok would almost certainly become ClanMrem.
In some ways, that was the knowledge that awoke him. Among the Dancers he had learned patience and the power of perfect movement, but he had come away from them thinking he would instinctively understand how to use that knowledge. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Even now he felt as if he was stumbling his way.
For weeks he had led his band on raids, but always he had left the spoils for others. Lately he had abandoned raiding completely in favor of seeking support, but here again he had underestimated the feelings of the clansmrem. Yes, they wanted to give him support, but they would only do so if he were to show them the type of strength they understood. They would support a warrior, not a Dancer.
As he watched Crethok in battle, he hoped he was not too late to repair the damage he had done. If he didn’t, if his brother became ClanMrem, not only he but also the clan itself would be in great danger. Crethok was a fighter, but he was nothing else.
Why did his father have to die?
Oh, it wasn’t the death that bothered him. Not really. What it was, more than anything else, was knowing that his father had expected him to take over. He had wanted to be ClanMrem since he had known what such duty meant, but like all young mrem he had never believed his father could die. He had expected, wanted Peorlias to grow older, to rule as an elder, to pass on to him gradually the reins of the ClanMrem’s power.
Now he was dead, and Arklier’s day had come. While he had mourned and waited, Crethok had been trying to steal his heritage.
He watched his brother standing in the rear, shouting orders to his band to advance. At least a hundred there were, a third in one wave, a third in the second, and the final third in the last. The focus of their attack was a guard tower set into the cliff face overlooking the pass, and Crethok’s mrem were advancing to form a semicircle around it. The swords of the first line were drawn, and a few carried ladders, while
half of the second had strung and loaded bows.
Arklier smiled. Crethok, it was clear, knew what he was doing.
The guard fired first. Arrows whipped through the air at Crethok’s clansmrem, and five fell. A few other warriors began to fall back, but at a bark from Crethok they took up their positions once more. Another volley, and two more mrem fell, but this time Crethok’s line held. Suddenly he roared, and the swordsmrem in the front charged toward the tower with a deep-throated, hissing scream of attack.
The tower was ready. Again a stream of arrows sang through the sky, and again the loss to Crethok’s band was more than he could afford. Arklier wondered why mrem would follow one who valued their lives so cheaply.
Still more arrows flew, and the clansmrem’s death toll reached ten. At last the first wave reached the tower, and swarmed up the walls. When they kicked open the door, Arklier saw the first guard die.
And then he saw the flames through the upper windows. Even across the valley, the ClanSon heard the shrieks of pain from the guards inside. He looked at the charging warriors to find the fire’s source, but could only see his brother was yelling to keep his frightened warriors advancing. Arklier searched through the band, but for a time he saw nothing unusual.
Then he spotted, in the middle of Crethok’s small personal guard, a tall mrem in a deep-green robe. This mrem stood perfectly still, his arms held fast at his sides, and at first Arklier did not see his mouth move. But the longer he watched, the clearer it became. Crethok’s personal guard was protecting not Crethok but the green-robe.
Crethok with a magician?
If it was true, his danger was greater than ever. By himself Crethok was formidable; with the help of magic, he would be unstoppable.
By now the clansmrem had breached the tower’s defenses, and Arklier heard the clamor of battle within. A guard was thrown from the upper window, then another from the lower. Each had been burned and decapitated, and Arklier grimaced at the sight. Crethok’s blood-lust was obviously growing stronger.
A few guards held out in rooms on the lower levels. The green-clad wizard was resting now, still surrounded by Crethok’s personal guard.
In less than an hour it was over. Crethok’s warriors yelled their victory, and as the slaughter ended they sang of victory, their wild song easily heard by Arklier’s still faithful mrem. Crethok ordered a group of five to perform the Dance of Killing, and in their own crude, macabre way these began the dance-telling of the fall of the guard. At its climax the few guards who had been captured, all injured, were slaughtered. The show was obviously for the benefit of the wizard, whose posture told Arklier he was mostly bored. It was not, Arklier thought, a very pretty sight.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, “The warriors are restless,” Bodder said.
Arklier turned and frowned at his Second. “I did not give you leave to touch me or speak,” he snarled. Bodder didn’t deserve this, but Arklier was visibly upset.
“My apologies,” the other replied. “But you seemed in need of attention.”
The ClanSon shook his head. “What I need, Bodder,” he said as his voice softened, “is not up to you to decide. At this moment I need only to be by myself.”
Nodding, Bodder turned away, straining to keep his claws sheathed. Arklier watched him for a moment, then called him back. His Second stopped, then slowly turned again. Into the ClanSon’s eyes he looked, and Arklier’s intensity stared straight back.
“We leave at midnight,” he said. “We will follow Crethok wherever he goes. And thank you, friend.”
“I’ll tell them, ClanSon,” Bodder replied, less tense. “May I also tell them why?”
Arklier shook his head. “No,” he said. “Tell them whatever will keep them happy.” He turned away, and looked again into the valley.
He knew now what he had to do, and he smiled at the thought. He would follow Crethok throughout the valley, waiting for the right moment to strike. He would let his brother carry the bulk of the raiding, and he would move in at the end and take what he wanted. It was hardly honorable, but it would help him take away Crethok’s support. Besides, he was no longer among the Dancers, and honor simply didn’t matter here. The clan was all that mattered. What he had learned among the Dancers he would have to forget here.
“Bodder,” he said, raising his voice above the noise below. “Tell them we will soon be rich.” Bodder nodded, smiled, and walked swiftly away.
TALWE PEERED over the rock. He lay behind it, out of sight of the mrem he had tracked for two days. With them, in the cave beyond, the white-furred Dancer was being held. The raid on the Dancer’s camp had been successful, and as part of their bounty the raiders had taken Sruss. Some had drifted off, probably to homes where they were respected. A large group had broken away to follow a herd of bundor, and could be expected in the morning. Half a dozen or more had taken all of the loot and entered this cave hours earlier. The smell of cooked meat reminded the hunter he had not eaten since before the attack.
He heard her voice, and it sounded anything but frightened. “You are nothing to me,” she announced, and Talwe shuddered at what they might do in reaction to her haughtiness.
What they did, though, was laugh. “We don’t have to be anything to you, prisoner,” a husky voice said. “But you have to be a lot of things to us.” He stopped briefly. “First,” he continued, “you have to be my female.”
“Shut up!” another voice said. “If Rundicor hears that, he’ll have your balls cut off.”
The first mrem laughed. “How will he hear, Trorin? He’s sleeping off his drunk. He won’t be hearing anything for a long, long time. And while he’s asleep, this one is mine.”
“Touch me and I’ll scratch out your eyes,” Sruss threatened. Talwe could imagine her face as she spoke, and he could imagine as well the sight of her claws as they lunged from her hands. Yes, he thought, she could scratch out his eyes. The mrem in the village were taught to take care with a female’s claws.
He heard a slap. “That’s to start with,” the husky voice snarled. “If your claws so much as touch my skin, anywhere on my body, I will pull them out of your hands. And once they’re gone, I’ll pull your pointed teeth out one by one as well.”
“For the last time, Okkin,” Trorin’s voice warned, “shut up before Rundicor hears you. You don’t know where he is.”
“He does now,” a higher-pitched voice said. “And don’t worry, Trorin, I heard it all. Are you all right, my beautiful one?” he asked with mock tenderness.
Sruss’s voice was just as mocking. “I am here in a cave with the ugliest and smelliest mrem I’ve ever seen,” she said. “How can you ask if I’m all right?” He heard her laugh softly. “I’d be better off with a black liskash,” she told her captors.
Talwe could hear the mrem in the cave reacting to her insults. He couldn’t make out the words, but there was anger in their tone.
“Don’t be stupid, female,” Rundicor’s voice was audible over the others. “Or I’ll find a black liskash and watch you eat your words.” He paused. “And then I’ll watch him eat you. In every way you can imagine.” His laugh was cruel, but Sruss refused to let up.
“At least he’d know what to do,” she mocked. Talwe wished she’d stop, before she brought their anger down around her. What could she gain from talking like this?
“If you think I don’t,” Rundicor shot back, “you have a great deal to learn. I have shown many females the true usefulness of their bodies, and some have been more beautiful than you. You’re a whitefur, and that makes you different, but I demand my females hot, and you don’t know what hot means.”
At last Sruss said nothing, and Talwe lifted his head higher. Inside the cave he saw three mrem in brown cloaks. Two of them held short, double-edged swords. Sruss and Rundicor were deeper in the cave, and he could not see them.
He lay quietly, waiting for a chance to
do something. He knew he was a good fighter, but he could not begin to tackle five bandits, maybe more. The only chance was to help her escape, but he did not know how.
The voices began again. Talwe listened, wondering if Sruss would speak or be silent. He prayed to Inla for her silence, because if she spoke he feared the raiders would kill her. Inla answered, and the White Dancer said nothing.
But her captors did. They argued again what they should do with her, and again Talwe heard the disagreements. Some wanted to keep her and use her, because with her beauty even their continued degradation would not spoil her for months. But others sought ransom, and argued that their money-sacks were more important than their cocks. Again and again they yelled at each other, until finally the voice of Rundicor rose above all.
“I have decided,” he announced, and the others fell silent. “Tonight we will use her, but that is all. After that, she will stay with me. We will send word to the king in Ar that we hold a Dancer. The ransom will be high.”
Listening, Talwe shuddered. He knew what they meant by “using” Sruss, but he could scarcely guess the horror for her of the night ahead. Dangerous though it might be, he resolved to act at once.
As quietly as he could, he crawled to the side of his rock. Standing up, he brought down first one foot and then the other, making just enough sound to be heard. At first nothing happened, but on the second try a voice rang out.
“Something’s outside,” it growled, and Talwe heard the sound of footsteps.
Only one, he thought. They’ve sent only one. If Inla stayed with him, he knew now he could succeed.
The raider stepped from the cave and looked around. Talwe stood motionless, watching the moonlight gleam from the raider’s sword. Suddenly the raider turned, and Talwe feared he would go back inside the cave. Instead the mrem relieved himself into a bush.
But then the bandit turned again, this time moving toward the rock Talwe hid behind. Talwe smiled and tensed his muscles. When the raider touched the rock, the hunter leaped from the shadows at its top and clamped his hands over his prey’s mouth and eyes. He let his claws spring forward, and his opponent was quickly without eyes. An agonized shriek was muffled by the fur of Talwe’s other hand. The neck was next, and in seconds the mrem lay dead.