Firebirds Soaring

by Sharyn November

“I’m not sick. I have to meet Bonechewer. Alone.”

  “Ratha . . .”

  “No!”

  His lip twitched back, showing a fang, but he remained sitting. Softly he said, “I think I should get Thistle-chaser and Quiet Hunter. Maybe they can reach you.”

  “You will not.” Ratha snarled, “You will go and teach your herding class in the meadow. You will not interfere. Am I understood? ”

  His reply came slowly and sadly. “Yes, clan leader.” His voice was low.

  Her own softened. “Thakur, much good will come from this. I can’t tell you everything now; it is still too soon.”

  “I hope that what will come is good, clan leader,” he said, and padded away.

  The next evening found Ratha crouching by the Red Tongue’s empty nest on the edge of clan ground. She shivered. Part of her wanted the fire again, but part of her was relieved that she didn’t have it. She still carried the vivid dream-images of Bonechewer’s clash with the Firecat.

  With her treeling, Ratharee, she waited in the moonlight. It was a long wait and she almost dozed off before she heard footsteps. More than one set. Her heart leaped up in hope. Bonechewer had done as he promised and brought UnNamed ones down from the mountains.

  Gently Ratha nosed Ratharee off her back and up the nearest tree. The treeling blinked, curled her tail up in a question.

  “With strangers around, you’ll be safer up here,” Ratha told her. When the treeling was well hidden among the branches, Ratha trotted toward the sound of the footsteps and called, “Bonechewer, I’m here.”

  The footsteps stopped, leaving silence. Ratha halted, puzzled, and went farther. She knew she was right at the edge of clan ground.

  “Bonechewer, where are you?”

  Again came silence. An uneasy feeling began crawling over Ratha. She didn’t know Bonechewer’s companions. They might be UnNamed ones seeking the clan’s help. Or they might not. Her voice sharpened with the realization that she might be walking into an ambush.

  “Bonechewer! Show yourself!”

  But he was Bonechewer, her first mate; the one who had taken her in and taught her to hunt when the clan exiled her. She wouldn’t have survived without him. He had cared deeply about her and still did. If she couldn’t trust him, whom could she trust? And he offered her the fulfillment of an ideal she had long desired.

  “Over here, clan cat,” came his soft reply. Relief washed over Ratha, making her weak.

  “I’ve come alone, without the Red Tongue,” she called back.

  “Good,” he said, and emerged from the shadows into the moonlight. Its light on his copper fur shone strangely cold, but his shape and stance were the same.

  Ratha’s quickening heartbeat nearly choked her as she bounded toward him. At last she could have what she wanted most, what had eluded her for so long—Bonechewer himself, and everything else.

  Images whirled through her head of UnNamed ones coming from all over, seeking the benevolence of the Named, of Thakur teaching UnNamed cubs to herd. Of daughter tribes springing up all around clan ground, a new breed of the Named arising, flourishing. And of all paying her honor for her vision and generosity, a leader not just respected but beloved.

  She took one last step to Bonechewer, boldly extended her head for the nose-touch, and was shocked with delight when he met it. His scent was deep, wild, and so rich with promise that her head spun.

  Ratha shook herself. She couldn’t get carried away like this. She needed to meet with Bonechewer’s companions, listen to their needs, and make her offer.

  “Where are your friends, Bonechewer?” she asked.

  He stared at her with an expression she had never seen, while the moon seemed to bleach his eyes from amber to steely white.

  “Here,” he said.

  Shadowed forms leaped from the bushes on either side and were on Ratha before she could move. Stunned by disbelief, she felt teeth sink into her nape while a clawed weight on her hindquarters flattened her.

  “Bonechewer, what are you—” she tried to cry, but a set of jaws closed over her muzzle, cutting off her scream.

  She felt as if she’d been flung off a peak into a chasm. She sought refuge in a thought that her enemies were attacking him as well, and the pair must fight to defend themselves. She jerked her head madly to free her teeth, but the jaws around her muzzle bit down hard. She felt a trickle of blood run into her mouth.

  Half expecting to see Bonechewer fighting off attackers, she shoved her assailant around until she could see Bonechewer with one eye. With horror, she noted that he was standing free, looking on. She was the only victim in this hunt.

  With her jaws clamped shut, she could only scream in her throat and through her nose, squeezing her eyes tightly shut.

  This had to be a bad dream, like her dreams of the Firecat. When she opened them, she would be lying by her campfire, Ratharee curled up against her.

  But the teeth still dug into her muzzle and fastened in her neck. Sudden rage made Ratha writhe and buck, but her captors subdued her by sinking their teeth deeper.

  Her mind jumped around, seeking any answer except the terrible truth. Any answer, no matter how crazy. This must be a trick of some sort, to fool other UnNamed ones who were watching. Yes, that was it. When the ruse was over, Bonechewer would release her, explain to her, lick her wounds, comfort her. . . .

  When she caught sight of him again, the bottom of her world fell out. Not only was he free, he was jerking his head at her captors, signaling them. Her cry turned into a maddened shriek that tore through Ratha. Crazed with rage and grief, she went into a wild frenzy and nearly broke free before her captors secured her again.

  She heard Bonechewer’s footsteps as he moved off. Her captors hauled her after him, taking her across the boundary and away from clan ground.

  At last Ratha’s assailants flung her down, pinning her and keeping her jaws shut. Bonechewer circled the struggle, shadowing her. Again Ratha fought, but only exhausted herself.

  “We have come far enough that the Named will not interfere.” His voice was still silky, but it held a chilling note. As she watched him through the one eye not blocked by the UnNamed ones who held her, he stopped his circling and stood over her, his eyes narrowed in scorn.

  “I know what you are thinking, clan cat. You are hoping that this is a trick. That I’ll release you, lick your wounds, and lie with you as I did once long ago.” He spat. “Well, it isn’t.”

  He put a paw on her side over her ribs. She was startled by the gentleness of his touch . . . before his claws drove deep and raked her. She gasped at the pain.

  “That,” he hissed, “is what I feel for you.”

  He stepped back from her, his foreclaws stained with red. A strange amusement came into his moon-pale eyes. “You made it too easy, leader of the Named. You gave me one of your vine ropes you use to lead your wretched herdbeasts. You wrapped one end around your neck and laid the other in my jaws.”

  Again Ratha struggled, but her rage drained into despair.

  “Do you know what that tether was, leader of the Named? ” he asked. “It was hope. Hope that I, once and perhaps again your beloved, could bring you a precious gift. That I care so much about you that I would help you turn the UnNamed from foe to friend.” He paused. “How reckless you were, chasing your dream. How deluded. How blinded by your ideals.”

  Ratha wrenched her head from side to side, trying to free her jaws from the enclosing teeth. She subsided, heaving, wishing she could go deaf. Or die. Anything not to hear the tearing words, but Bonechewer pressed on, relentless.

  “Do you want to know the truth, clan cat?” He stared down at her. “You thought I cared for you. You thought what I felt then was more than the mating lust.” He opened his jaws in a heart-killing snarl of derision. “I fooled you, clan cat. I used you. I never cared for you, then or now. I hate you and that bunch of animal-drivers you call the Named. I also hate the UnNamed ones you sought to help. They are savage, mindless, droolin
g beasts.”

  No, you are the savage, Ratha thought, shaking. I only wish you were just a beast.

  “Don’t fear that I will kill you,” Bonechewer sneered,

  “even though your clan nearly killed me. No. It is easier to kill what lies inside of you. The foolish hopes. The cub-dreams. Reaching a kind paw to the UnNamed, ptahh!”

  Ratha knew that he was not lying or posturing. She smelled his contempt and derision. Its strength dizzied and shook her. She thought she knew how deeply he could care when they laid together and created Thistle-chaser. Now she knew how deeply he could hate.

  Not only had he slain her hopes and present happiness, he had reached into the past and murdered her joy there as well.

  The wound was as deadly as a suffocating bite to the throat. Already she felt herself withering.

  “I will leave you to lie here, to die or not as you choose. I suggest you die, as you will no longer be of any use to the Named.”

  Ratha felt her captors pull back from her, but she only lay as if paralyzed. Her strength and will had died, along with her hope. He had ripped out, torn out, burned out her core.

  The Ratha that had been was gone, leaving only this. Spent. Empty. Worthless. And the one who struck her down was too cruel to grant death.

  A sudden shrill voice screeched from the bushes. “No, no, no! Get away from her!”

  It startled Ratha out of her sinking lethargy. She tried to lift her head as Thistle-chaser crashed from the underbrush and flew at Bonechewer.

  “Not him! Not Bonechewer. Not my father!”

  Bonechewer tried to fend Thistle off, but Thistle’s fury thrust her past his guard. She raked his face, tried to pull off his ear, then gave a strange gulp and dropped off.

  From the surrounding brush, the Named poured in to save their leader. Fessran and Bira, swinging torches and leading the Firekeepers. Thakur, leaping after Thistle, his tear lines crumpled by a snarl of rage.

  Dimly, Ratha saw him take a fierce swipe at one of her captors, sending the UnNamed one end-over-end into a thornbush, squalling. Fessran and Bira dealt swiftly with the others. Thakur jumped to Ratha’s side.

  She had never seen him so gallant, but he was too late. Bonechewer had already administered a poison no one could counteract.

  He laid one forepaw under her cheek, cradling her head. His whiskers trembled as he licked her face. “Easy, yearling. We’re here. I’m here.”

  But there was a deep cold creeping through her that even he couldn’t drive away. The knowledge that she had turned away from him to Bonechewer. He might care for her now, but he would soon hate her.

  “I’m sorry, Thakur,” she tried to say, but her tongue lay limp in her mouth.

  “Stay quiet, Ratha.” He paused. “Fessran,” he called.

  “We reached her before . . . well, she doesn’t have any severe wounds.”

  Not on the outside, Ratha thought. Just the one inside that is letting me bleed to death. She felt her senses fading, giving in gratefully, even eagerly.

  Then Thistle’s high, clear voice pierced through the dark walling Ratha inside herself.

  “Knew my father,” Thistle screamed. “Would never be so cruel. You are not him, not him, not him!”

  Somehow Thistle’s words penetrated, wriggling through crevices, forcing their way through chinks in the blackness.

  Dully Ratha heard sounds of fighting mixed in with Thistle’s yelling.

  “He cared for Ratha-mother. Would never have hurt her like this. Was there. I knew. I know!”

  A thought trickled into Ratha’s mind. Could Thistle be right? That the one who had tormented her, had broken her hopes and cast her down . . . wasn’t Bonechewer? No. He had to be Bonechewer. He knew her far too well. Who else could have seen her fatal weakness, her foolish dream? Who else could have used it so well against her, luring her so skillfully that she had no idea it was a trap? Who tricked her into exhausting herself in pursuit of an illusion, so that she would be open to his attack? Who had no ideals, no conscience, and thus had no qualms about turning her own against her?

  Faintly she heard more fighting, scuffling, and the crackle of torches. Soon, she hoped, she would hear nothing. The scuffling ended.

  “They’ve got him,” came Thakur’s growl. “Now . . .” Ratha felt his paw sliding from under her cheek fur. Thakur paused, both in words and in motion. “Bira,” he called. “I need you to stay by Ratha. Give your torch to someone else.”

  Then he was gone and the paw slipping under her head was Bira’s. “I’m here,” said the soft voice. “You will be all right, Ratha. Just lie still.”

  Thakur’s voice was thinned by a growing distance. “Hold him, Firekeepers. I need to look . . . Arrr, I thought so. Bring him over here. Ratha needs to see.”

  I don’t want to see anything. Everything is a lie. Why should I believe in words, or even in life? Even ideals and dreams are only bait for those who would prey.

  Dully she felt the sudden tension in the paw under her head, and Bira’s voice, strained with worry. “Thakur, she won’t wake up.”

  Then Ratha felt Thakur’s teeth take her nape. He shook her gently. “Ratha. Ratha?”

  Something in her wanted to respond, but she had gone down too far. Even if she wanted to come back up, she couldn’t.

  “Ratha!” The shake was harder, but she barely felt her head flopping and rolling. Then came lighter footsteps and Thistle’s voice. “Ratha-mother. Hear me. This one is not Bonechewer. I was there and I saw. He cared for you. Even after you got angry, bit me, chased the others away and chased him, he cared. I lay in his paws, heard his words. He cared. More than cared, but no word for it.” Thistle paused. “No matter what you did. Would never have hurt you. Not like this. Believe, Ratha-mother. Come back.”

  It was if a crack of light had broken through the wall isolating her. She summoned the only thing left in her: her will.

  Now she began a battle against an enemy greater than any she had faced, even the terrifying Firecat. It was as if she were clawing her way out of a pit, fighting a clawed shape that struck her down repeatedly. Each time she crawled and fought back, sinking her claws into the earth walls and dragging herself up to the light, only to be beaten down and begin the struggle once again.

  Only Thistle’s words, held close inside her, gave Ratha the determination to keep fighting.

  Ratha didn’t even know she was winning until her paw jerked itself up to her face and curled around Bira’s paw, which cradled her head. No, it wasn’t just Bira’s. Many paws helped support not only Ratha’s head, but the rest of her. Other paws lay on top of her. She could feel them all—Thistle, Bira, Fessran, Cherfan, Mondir, Chikka, Mishanti, Ashon, Bundi, even Ratharee’s small hand. Then last, Thakur.

  Their touch, their mingling scents gave her the renewed strength and will to climb the rest of the way out of the abyss.

  “Ratha,” said Thakur’s voice in her ear. “Wake and see. . . .”

  Ratha’s eyes slowly opened. Her sight, at first blurred, began to sharpen.

  “Bring him here. Turn Ratha’s head. Gently.”

  Ratha blinked. All she could see was a close-up view of someone’s flank with dark coppery fur. A paw came into her vision. The paw pressed, then swiped down the fur. The trail it left was no longer copper but shiny black.

  Despite herself, Ratha felt her eyes widen.

  “Pull him back so that she can see his face,” Thakur ordered. “But first, Ratha, feel this.”

  Thakur’s paw met hers. She felt something slick, wet, and slightly gritty on her pawpad. When she hesitantly lifted her paw to her face, she saw a dark copper-colored stain.

  “Colored clay,” the herding teacher said. “Thistle is right, Ratha. He rolled in it to color his fur. He even broke off part of a fang. To fool you into thinking he was Bonechewer.”

  Ratha managed to turn her head and gaze at the prisoner’s face. He stared back defiantly. His eyes weren’t amber. They were a green so pale that they
looked white. Firelight and her own imagination had disguised them.

  “Who are you?” she heard her voice ask weakly.

  “Why should I tell you? You’ll discover soon enough,” he said, his face surly.

  “Why did you trick me and hurt me?”

  The prisoner paused before he answered. “Pain.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Both, Named leader.” He fell silent, ducked his head, and would say no more, despite shakes and pokes.

  Perhaps the two herders who held the false Bonechewer relaxed, thinking he was completely subdued. Perhaps it was because everyone was distracted, trying to comfort their stricken leader.

  Only Ratha saw the sudden convulsion of his face and the tremor in his shoulders. Before she could croak a warning, he erupted into a flurry, tore himself from the two herders, and was gone.

  The two herders, their faces scratched and their claws full of copper-stained black fur, looked at each other, then at Ratha.

  Fessran yelled an order, sending the Firekeepers charging after the escapee, torches flaming.

  Fessran crouched down briefly beside Ratha, her voice and scent fierce. “I’ll bring you that son of a bristle-mane’s painted pelt, clan leader. With a few burned holes.”

  “No . . . don’t kill him,” Ratha said. “If you can . . . catch him. I need to know . . . who he is.”

  “All right, but—”

  “Catch him. Alive.”

  Fessran hissed in distaste but galloped after the Firekeepers, yelling Ratha’s instructions.

  “Don’t think they will catch him,” said Thistle, reminding Ratha that she was there. “Too fast. Too clever.”

  “Does it really matter?” asked Bira. “If he isn’t Bonechewer, the nasty things he said don’t mean anything.”

  “I need . . . to know . . . who he is . . . and why he did this.”

  Thakur interrupted, “But not now, yearling. You need rest and food.”

  And you, Thakur. Can you ever forgive me?

  “Cherfan and Mondir will carry you back to clan ground and your lair. I’ve got your treeling. Here she is.” Ratha felt the familiar little hands on her fur as Ratharee curled up on her neck and laid her pointed muzzle against Ratha’s cheek.