Song of Petru
XVII
Sword
They fled the sea
Torn by the storm
The way was lost
But He spoke and
Sartas begat Mreiss
And the Lawgiver
Danced the Way
Bury My Heart
The encampment of the Clan of the Long Fang was not in disarray, but the practiced eye would have seen that there were many things wrong with it. Where were the tents of the Dancers? And there did not seem to be nearly enough tents for all of the Mrem in the camp; Mrem liked their space, except in the deep cold when it was good to pile together and share warmth, but from the look of things here, the Mrem in this clan were crowding as many bodies into each tent as could physically fit there. They were also missing many of the amenities of even the poorest war band; no mills or ovens, only a few baskets or pots arrayed outside the tent-flaps or hanging from the posts, almost no carts or wagons, and barely any herd beasts for a clan of this size.
The Clan of the Long Fang was destitute. Destitute, but alive. This was how the coming of the New Water had left them. They had been the clan nearest the break-through point—or at least, they had been the clan nearest the point where the water had come rushing in that had actually had any members survive. The waters had taken all of the Dancers that had been with the clan, and it was little short of a miracle that many of the elderly, the females and the young had been on a gathering expedition and had managed to climb trees to escape the first of the flood. Many had not been so fortunate, swept away by rushing water mere feet away from their loved ones. It had been another miracle that the hunting males had been able to get to them and get them out as conditions worsened. But the Dancers had all been in camp, on the flat dancing-space where they practiced, and had perished. What hope could there be for a clan without Dancers to pray for Assirra’s entreaty to her husband?
Sartas Rewl was not going to lie down and wail in the face of such misfortune. As the talonmaster for his clan, he was now all that stood between them and annihilation. If there were no Dancers, well, then Aedonniss would have to notice their bravery by Himself. He and Reshia, his mate, had herded the bedraggled survivors together with claw and soft words as needed. Reshia had scolded them into scavenging what was left of their tents and supplies from the waters . . . or, let it be said, scavenging what was left of . . . someone’s tents and supplies. There were hides with markings no one recognized, and eventually, bodies no one recognized among the debris. Soon it was obvious that their plight could have been worse. He had cuffed and cajoled the males into a massive hunt at a moment when all they wanted to do was sit down and howl their grief into the sky. Reshia had done the same with any of the females, the children, and the elderly who could still manage any sort of task—patching tents, hastily smoking the meat that the males brought in, putting together an encampment that would allow them all to survive in the critical days after the initial disaster. Oh, and bullying them into pulling up and moving the camp every day, as the waters rose, and rose, and rose. It seemed like there was no end to all of the water, as it washed away everything the Clan of the Long Fang had fought and worked for for over a generation. “Sing the Mourning Songs,” Reshia said sternly. “But sing them while your hands are working. Those who have gone will not be better honored if all of the clan dies.”
Reshia was not a priestess; fortunately not a Dancer, as fate would have it, though she had aspired to be one when she was younger. Despite that, she had a granite will to her that commanded almost as much respect as her mate’s leadership.
It was not only the hunting males that brought in meat. Some of the elders, whose nerves and stomachs were strongest, scavenged among the wreckage and, at least in the first few days before the bodies began to rot, hauled in the carcasses of those animals that had perished and were good to eat. Kits helped, too, catching the many smerps that had fled the rising waters. What little food they had would not keep indefinitely, and with the devastation from the valley flooding, it was uncertain how much more the clan would be able to procure. The meat they gathered needed to be cured as soon as possible; a complication, but not one they could shirk if they wanted a steady food supply. Hunting was not always to be depended on . . . and with the New Water continuing to rise, could become uncertain. The smoke from the curing fires rose thick; for lack of carry-baskets, the females packed the slabs of blackened meat in layers of leaves and bound them together in bundles, wrapping those in turn in more leaves. More luck, such as it was: the riding and burden-beasts had survived, snapping their tethers and fleeing before the flood. So eventually they came back, or were found, and could be loaded with these provisions as they were created. There was little else that could be done for sustenance; the waters had seen to that.
It was cold comfort to see the Liskash bodies were far more numerous than those of the Mrem in some places. There were always more Liskash, no matter how many drowned or were cut down. Most were the simpler cousins of the Liskash sorcerers; a few, however, bore signs of the cold intellect of the most hated sort of Liskash. It was too much to hope that they had all died in the flood. Even if the ones that had held territory in the hot valley, now underwater, were all gone, those in the lands outside would see this as a chance to expand that should not be allowed to slip away. The Liskash hated each other almost as much as they hated the Mrem, and were constantly fighting one another; one small thing to thank the gods for.
And . . . as Sartas had known would happen, the Liskash came for them. There was no shelter or safety from the Liskash, now. They were on the lizards’ territory, and the Liskash would not abide free or living Mrem on their lands. Slavery or death were what the Liskash brought with them for any that stood against them.
* * *
By the time one of the roving groups of Liskash had found them, the clan had managed to survive two full moons, always in retreat from the waters, never quite sure what they were fleeing to. But a few stragglers from other clans had come through, with a rumor. The Clan of the Claw, always a strong clan, had survived the flooding intact. And they were gathering together any that would come to their banner. They were far to the south, however, across uncertain lands; it would be a perilous journey for the Clan of the Long Fang, even if they were still fully equipped.
So now Sartas’s ragged band of survivors had a destination: rally to the Clan of the Claw. And a goal. Survive the journey.
* * *
The Clan of the Long Fang had been trekking slowly for the last few weeks. They were slowed by sickness, by lack of food, by the weak and injured, and the elders. More wagons would have helped—but the few wagons they had were needed to carry the tents. With so few arx, all but those that could not move on their own had to walk. They were also slowed by the kits—not that the kits couldn’t keep up, but because no opportunity to forage along the way could be wasted. A handful of berries, a few roots, even an armful of edible shoots could mean the difference between “enough to go on” and having another person too weak to keep up.
No matter what Sartas seemed to do, however, his people kept dying. He was walking beside his mount when the news came; the few warriors that still had mounts (no chariots were left) saved them for scouting or for fighting. Everything that was left was precious to the clan, now. The heavily wooded lands that they had favored had suited them well when they had only needed to move to keep hunting grounds fresh . . . now they had to fight their way through those same woods, and progress was achingly slow. “We need to move faster. We’re covered by the trees, but it is only a matter of time before we are found at this rate.” Sartas scratched behind his ear in annoyance, the only nervous habit he ever exhibited. Tall and lean, Sartas was very much like the rest of his clan while being so very different at the same time. Unlike some other clans, who boasted members of wildly different coat colors and length, Long Fangers were fairly uniform in color and appearance; dense, sandy-gray fur, shading to cream on the face and underbelly. And they had two very distinct characteristics; tuft-tipped ears, and naturally bobbed tails, both very useful in woodlands. Long Fangers, if tall, also tended to be heavy; it was the short cats that were lean. Sartas was tall and lean, and very, very quick. It was a combination that had made him more than usually deadly against the Liskash.
Sartas heard the outriders approach; those at the back of the clan’s line stirred at their sighting. The rearmost guards were led by Arschus Mroa and Miarrius Srell, two seasoned warriors. Sartas hoped that there had been no trouble, but he also knew it was probably a vain hope. Both warriors were riding behind by the clan’s lead scout, Ssenna Errol, a rare female warrior. Sartas sometimes wondered if she was part lizard; she was almost as cold and as calculating as a Liskash. That trait was what made her perfect for her role, however. Her face betrayed no emotion as she and the other two warriors pulled their mounts up to him, jumping from their saddles to lead the krelpreps beside their talonmaster.
Ssenna was the first to speak. “We encountered another patrol of roving Liskash. Survivors from the flooding, no doubt. These ones were a mixed bunch, with one of the bigger lizards leading them. We dispatched them before any could escape.” Sartas could see some of the blood matted into each of their pelts; none of them looked injured, so it followed that it could only be Liskash blood.
Arschus Mroa was the next to speak. He was by far the largest Mrem that any in the clan had ever seen in recent memory, fully two heads taller than most, and a head taller than Sartas himself, with a slightly darker shade of fur than the rest of his clansmates. “We lost two while fighting them. Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara. The first fell to a flight of arrows at the start, and we sent the second off at his request after he was laid low with a stinking gut wound.” Arschus Mroa hung his head; it was easy to forget how sensitive the warrior could be sometimes, given his immense size and strength.
Miarrius Srell was not nearly as gentle with his words. “Better than bleeding out or having dung-eating Liskash at you while you’re down. He went out well, and we’d all best choose that way if it comes to it.” Miarrius was the oldest warrior left in the band, and had been even before the flood. His disposition never seemed to change; he was consistently dour and had a scowl that never seemed to leave his face. His fur had long ago started to go gray. He was further distinguished by his missing left ear and the mass of scars that ran down that side of his face, trophies for living through a hard battle long ago. “The Liskash that got those two didn’t have such a good end.” A smirk curled his lips ever so slightly, as he remembered exactly the end the Liskash they encountered had come to.
Sartas nodded. “Any other injuries? Signs of more Liskash?” Two more warriors gone . . . it was two too many. The clan’s scouts were already stretched thin, trying to find safe passage in the now seemingly crowded woods; the floods had driven out everything into the forest, with much of the traffic concentrated near the new—and ever-encroaching—shore. They would miss Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara in the coming days, and miss their spears.
“Nothing significant. Those that are hurt are being tended to, Sartas Rewl.” Ssenna nodded once. “I’ll take another group of riders out to see if there’s more to find, however.”
“Rotate your complement to the front; send those already at the front to the rear,” he ordered. “If you head out again, borrow a fresh mount from someone.”
“No need,” said Miarrius, “when we have Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara’s. We dismounted to fight; the beasts didn’t get much of a workout.” Arschus winced ever slightly at the harshness of his friend’s words, but said nothing.
“Make it so. We need to find an appropriate place to make camp, somewhere that we’ll at least have some cover from prying eyes. Get some drink and then get to it.”
The two led their mounts up into the van of the group. Reshia must have seen them and spoken to them, for it was not that long after they left that she made her way back to him.
“I have a little good news to add to your bad,” she said, and cheek-rubbed him for comfort. “The kits have been lucky, and we have added much more to eat, enough so that some of our weak have regained the strength to take to their own feet again.” She made a face. “At least we do not lack for water. Even if the New Water is salt, there is plenty of fresh water streaming towards it.”
“I’ve never wished for a desert so fervently as I do now. Rather that we had lived in one.” He shook his head. “We’ll need to keep close watch on the kits, maybe even let them forage once camp has been made; but never on their own. We’re not alone in these woods. We lost two more. Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara. Another group of stranded Liskash.”
“We have been lucky. So far we have only encountered those Liskash whose homes were also destroyed. Eventually—”
“I do not think we will continue to be so lucky. At this rate, losing so many so fast . . .” Sartas laughed bitterly to himself. “At this rate, I’m going to turn into another Miarrius.”
“Do, and I shall beat you into good nature again myself,” she half-threatened. “Not that such a thing is likely. You are far too handsome to become another Miarrius.” This time Sartas laughed honestly.
“We still have far to go, love. We’ll see what the forest brings; hopefully, Aedonniss isn’t in too bad of a mood.”
“You have done what few talonmasters could have, beloved.” This time she briefly caressed his ear. “You took a shattered clan with no Dancers, herded it into unity again, and got it moving. If you had asked me before the flood if such a thing was even possible, I would have told you that not even the heroes of an epic could have done it.”
Her eyes darkened with too-recent memory; Sartas fell briefly into the same dark place himself.
* * *
Sartas thought back. Had it only been a few hands of days? It had all begun with something that only the gods could have caused. Strangely, it had been a fine day. Cool, by the standards of this tropical forest, and the Dancers had elected to take advantage of the weather to make an entire day of practice and prayer. That was fine; Clan of the Long Fang had more than enough hunters that they could afford to do so. Sartas himself had led one of the two hunting parties upland, driving the dangerous root-diggers before them, away from the camp and into a funneling trap. Reshia had taken the kits out to learn foraging techniques, from her wealth of experience in what was edible, what was medicinal, and what was dangerous.
She had been a little concerned that the weather was too good, and had been keeping half an ear cocked for the sound of distant thunder. Nothing was harder to deal with than a mob of wet, miserable kits. She saw two playing with each other in the distance, throwing handfuls of grass at each other. A boy and a girl, running and pouncing without a care in the world. It brought joy to her heart, and reminded her of her own upbringing.
It had been during a season when the clan was changing grounds, and had been a great trek. She and Sartas were of an age together, with him only being slightly older. They were like brother and sister as they grew up, inseparable most of the time, twins in mischief. He hadn’t been nearly as tall then, of course, but was certainly was on the smaller side compared to the other kits. It colored his demeanor; he always had to prove to others that he was just as good, just as strong and fast. In those days, she was the one that defended him. As time passed, he grew from a boy into manhood; no longer was he teased for his size, since he was taller than almost any other male in the clan, with the speed and reflexes of a seasoned warrior instead of the awkwardness of adolescence. He also had a clarity of vision and purpose that few seemed to possess; when Sartas set his will to a task, nothing could sway him.
When Sartas Rewl decided to take her hand as a mate, nothing and no one could sway him then, either. Not that she wanted him swayed. The clan had newly settled—in the same spot where they rested to this day—and Sartas came to her in the light of the new moon. Up until then, she had been the perfect maiden, and had turned down plenty of suitors; some were young, some old, some wealthy, others strong or brave. She would always rationalize that each one had some flaw, but secretly she knew; she was waiting for Sartas Rewl. No one else was her match.
Her pleasant reminiscence had been interrupted by a distant rumble. It wasn’t the thunder that she had been half expecting, however. This was deeper and somehow . . . more sinister. Then the ground had begun to tremble, only a little bit at first and then growing in intensity, and she knew that something was horribly wrong.
It had been instinct that had saved them; her instinct, that said “This is not rain, it is not earthquake, it is something else, get off of the ground” and sent her racing around the group, scolding and swatting and sometimes throwing the kits up into the trees. “Climb!” she had yowled at them. “Climb! Higher! As high as you can!” The Clan of the Long Fang was blessed with many things by Aedonniss; one of them was deep forests with towering trees. Not just high, but huge in girth, some so big that it took several Mrem with their arms outstretched to ring them. More blessings came in the form of the long water-vines, tough enough for adults to climb and swing from, not just kits, vines that wreathed the trunks of the larger trees and made them trivial to climb.
It was painfully slow progress; first, to get everyone to realize the danger, and second, to get everyone climbing. Many scrambled up the trees, but there were some that could not; the youngest kits that had to cling to their mothers, the elders needed help from the older kits. Meanwhile the distant mutter grew to a growl, the growl to a rumble, and the rumble to a roar. The earth trembled and the trees swayed, and there was a wind rushing through the forest carrying the scents of wet earth and salt. By this point everyone’s instincts had kicked in, and danger! thrilled along every nerve. Reshia herself swarmed up a huge tree at last, moving as fast as hands and claws could take her, her eyes on the distant top of the tree, her mind fixed on that goal.
Somehow and somewhere along the way she had picked up two mewling kits, both of them clinging to her back, their tiny claws pricking her through the leather of the working-tunic she always wore to forage to protect her from thorns and stings. The kits were terrified at this point, silent rather than crying in terror, digging in like little burrs. More instinct; it would have taken a strong Mrem to pry them off her now, and a good thing as well.
She saw the trees swaying and toppling before she saw the wall of water itself. By that time the roaring was so loud it would have drowned out any other sound. It certainly drowned out the noise of the trees being broken off and crashing down just ahead of the flood.
Reshia didn’t recognize it at first for what it was. It looked—it looked like a wall of churning earth, dark brown, roiling with splintered trunks, tossing with broken branches. She had just a moment between sighting it, and when it hit her tree, and the huge tree shook like a sapling in a windstorm. She clung to it as the kits were clinging to her, claws locked into the bark. Some were not so lucky. The impact shook some of her clansmates from their trees, sending them to fall into the water below. Others hadn’t climbed up high enough, or were even still on the trunks near the ground. And others still hadn’t found a strong enough tree; the force from the oncoming water was enough to topple thinner trees as if they were saplings in the path of an arx. It was all that Reshia could do to hold on to her tree with all of her might as it swayed with the power of the flood.
The power of the water, the horror of what was happening, had bludgeoned her into a state of numb mindlessness. She had only been able to close her eyes and hold with claws that cramped into position, whimpering, until long after the worst was over.
* * *
The flood had caught the hunters in a relatively “good” place; somewhat higher ground, and a grove of the largest trees in their part of the forest. It made a good channeling trap.
The rooters they had driven into the trap had given them their first warning; before any of them even heard the first noise, the creatures suddenly went absolutely insane with terror. Insane enough to forget their fear of the Mrem and literally try to run over them . . . insane enough for some of them to try to climb the trees themselves.
Later, Sartas learned that his instinctive reaction had been the same as Reshia’s: to climb the trees. He screeched the order; his battle-trained hunters followed it. The grove stood, although on the side that took the first impact, there was a virtual island of debris piled up against the trunks.
Sartas’s first thought, when the initial wave was past and they were stranded in the treetops in a slow-rising flood, was for the rest of the clan. Reshia and the foragers were nearest them—if they survived—
They survived! Reshia is smart! He had to tell himself that, or he would have gone insane, right there and then. He knew where they were going to be, and aside from the water everywhere, he thought he could still find the place. And almost all Long Fang Mrem knew how to travel tree-to-tree. Learned first as kits as a part of playing games, and later honed for survival. There were plenty of Liskash-relatives that were more than big enough to take out a small hunting party, much less a single hunter, and often the only way to escape one was to take to the trees.
“Report!” he snarled, pitching his voice to carry. One by one, the names of his hunters came back to him through the branches. Some, impressively enough, came from higher in the trees than he was. “Gather on me!” His tree was enormous, and a little higher than he had managed to get there was a huge limb that was more than enough to take the weight of the entire party without even bending a little. Once everyone had joined him on the massive tree, he called out to them, steeling his voice; any sign of weakness, and panic might overtake them all. “We travel together! We need to find the rest of the clan, get to the kits and elders!” He extended a claw in the direction that Reshia had told him she would take the others to forage. “We will go this way! Use the vines, and only go to a tree that looks sturdy!”
The vines provided a network that strung trees together. While it wasn’t precisely easy, his hunters knew how to hook their legs over a vine and pull themselves along to get to another tree. If trees were close enough together, it was also possible to leap from limb to limb, extending the claws in midair so that the Mrem could sink them deep into the bark on landing. Twice, his hunters weren’t as nimble or sure of themselves as they could have been; two different hunters fell, crashing into the water. Both were able to be saved, but one had a broken arm.
“We can leave you here and come back for you, take you with us and go slower, or leave you to catch up with us however you can,” Sartas told the injured warrior, as one of the others bound his arm to a couple of sticks after it had been pulled straight. The Mrem’s nose and lips were almost white with pain, but he nodded his understanding. “You might be able to pole yourself along one-handed on a log.”
“Go. Save as many as you can. I will manage.” Sartas nodded curtly to him as the others finished binding him. The clan—family—always came first, always before oneself. Every warrior understood this, and Sartas was proud to see one of his being so selfless without even a second thought.
“We’ll be back for you, along this path. If you aren’t here, mark the direction you went; we’ll find you.” Without another word, Sartas was off again, leading the other hunters swarming back up the trunk and into the treetops.
And he would never forget the moment that he knew that Reshia and the kits were still alive—when he heard them, singing valiantly, their voices cutting through the leaves, her voice rising above all the others. And then, her chiding. “Sing! Sing louder! The hunters will hear us and come for us! Sing!”
Clever. She’s always been sharp. The hunters all gave a cry as soon as they heard the singing. After the confusion and biting worry, some wept with relief as they swung to their loved ones. Others were not so fortunate, finding that their mates or kits were not among those in the trees. Sartas, for the moment, had no thoughts for either. His heart was near to bursting as he enveloped Reshia in his embrace. It didn’t matter what happened to this world; whether it drowned or burned or was rent to pieces; so long as he had her, there was hope.
* * *
There was more heartbreak to come, when they found nothing but a rippling sheet of brown water where the camp had been, and no sign of the Dancers. By this point it was obvious that whatever danger there was, it wouldn’t be from the great predators, so taking their cue from Reshia, they had all begun to sing, hoping for some response, any response, from those who had been left in the camp. They did pick up a few stragglers; a couple of agile kits, a handful of adolescents, and one shockingly spry elder, and finally, the injured warrior that had been left behind. When it was painfully obvious that there were no more to be found, they made their first camp of the flood-times in the tree, using vines to tie themselves in place so no one would fall in his sleep.
It was hard living, and it took the clan several days to find good ground at the edge of the flood waters. Sartas Rewl was surprised to find others as they descended from the trees; stragglers and survivors from other clans. Too few, in his estimation; how far had these waters gone? What was left of their world after such destruction? That was when they started scavenging. Some was taken from what had washed up on the edges of the water; very little of it was usable, and much of it had to be repaired. The rest had to be remade from scratch, which was no easy task with almost all of the tools and materials that the clan owned having been swallowed up in the floods. There were trickles of good news as, one by one, some of their mounts and even a few of the pack-beasts came back to them. The snapped reins and broken halters told the tale; like the forest animals, the mounts had sensed the danger, fought their tethers until they broke, and made a run for higher ground. But the water rose with every day, and Sartas began to fear that it would not stop until the entire valley was under the churning, brackish waves.
He wondered where the water had come from. Then, unexpectedly, the kits found the answer one morning. A small group that had been out foraging had strayed a little farther than they were supposed to. In doing so, they had found a small pool of water that had been left behind after the initial rush of the flood. What was left in the pool, however, was not small. They ran back into the temporary camp, breathless and half-terrified. “It’s a monster, a real monster!” Sartas’s first instinct told him that it was what he feared most: Liskash. His clan was in no state to fight off even a loosely organized attack at this point. Grabbing a spear and gathering the warriors, he set off with one of the kits leading him.
It didn’t take the group very long to reach where the kits had found their prize. The waters had come over this part of the woods, and receded. Because of a rather large ditch at the base of a small hill, some of the water had been retained. In that pool of water, half-submerged, was what the kits had discovered. The “monster” was—thankfully—dead. Very dead. And a good thing, too, since it was the biggest animal Sartas had ever seen in his entire life. It was easily fifty times as long as an adult warrior Mrem was tall, probably longer, since it had twisted up in its death-throes. One thing was certain: it could have swallowed an adult warrior whole without thinking twice about it. The creature had two rows of small fins that flanked its sides, with a long barbed crest on top. The thing’s head seemed blunted, with the mouth and jaws elongated for several strides before it ended in a sharp beak. Its maw was filled with rows of teeth, interlocked like a saw; Sartas didn’t want to imagine what a bite from them would feel like. Assuming it actually bit you before it gulped you down . . . He’d seen a fisher-flier toss a minnow in the air, catch it, and swallow it whole once, and he could easily imagine this thing acting the same with a Liskash or a Mrem. What could such a thing prey upon that would keep it fed?
“What . . . is it?” One of the junior warriors warily prodded at the beast’s carcass, as if to make sure that it was still dead.
Another warrior piped up. “A new horror created by the Liskash? Something we haven’t encountered before?”
Sartas shook his head. “Something vomited forth from the sea. There are tales of giants and monstrosities in the deeper waters of the sea. That is why even the Liskash do not venture far out on the salt waters.” The Liskash made boats; the Mrem would use a boat if they could capture one, but he had never heard of a Mrem making anything more complicated than a raft. No matter how delicious water-creatures were, venturing out far from a shore . . . did not appeal.
“Can we eat it?” It was the kit that had led the warriors to this spot. His belly rumbled, looking at all of the meat sitting there.
“We don’t know what it is, or whether it might be poisonous to us or not. Besides, it is already half-rotted. We leave it behind.” Sartas knew that there were a lot of hungry eyes that were on his back at that moment, and none of them happy with the decision, but they still obeyed. Things had been very lean for his clan, even with everyone doing whatever they could to forage for food. If it had been before the flood, things might not have been so hard. As it was, everything and everyone had been pushed together along the waters; almost everything easy to reach had already been picked over. It would not be very long until the clan was reduced to nettle teas and bark soups, if they weren’t diligent.
Sartas Rewl was silent for the rest of the walk back to camp, consumed by his thoughts. It occurred to him that finding the sea beast on land was a very appropriate sign for what his clan had become; a fish out of water. Hopefully, they’d fare better than the “monster” in this strange new world they had suddenly been thrust into. The question that troubled him the most was how exactly they would do so.
* * *
A distant rumble jarred Sartas back to the present day. Virtually every head came up, ears pricked and twitching nervously at the sound. When it died away, proving that it was the sound of thunder and not another flood, the tension eased. Mrem were quick to adapt; it was what had saved so many of his clan when the waters came crashing down around them.
But if there was thunder, there would soon be rain, and this was as good a place as any to stop and hunker down. “We camp here!” he called, and saw relief in the adults at his decision. No one wanted to have to make a wet camp. Better to stop now, and get some level of protection and comfort before it was miserable work to try to do so.
And now there was a mad scramble for fallen branches, and a frenzy of cutting down vines. Because, thanks to the still-rising water, there was no promise that the camp you made on dry land was going to still be dry when you woke up, so tents were always pitched on top of platforms, so the worst that happened in the morning was that you got wet feet. Ideally, the platforms were knee-high or higher, with shallow trenches dug around them. That was the work of every kit old enough and anyone else who could be spared.
Sartas had too few warriors; with the waters on the rise and only Aedonniss knows what out in the woods, he wanted to keep guards on watch at all times. After a hard day’s march and setting up camp, in addition to hunting duties . . . it became difficult to find anyone that could still stand, much less be alert for threats. Often, he took it upon himself to walk the camp, inspecting preparations and checking the perimeter. He had to keep himself abreast of what was happening among his people. What starts as a small problem today can become a catastrophe tomorrow, if left unchecked. The clan was hardy, but even the best of them could only take so much hardship before the edges start to fray and unravel.
But today they were cutting the march short. With luck that meant someone else could help him. Thunder rumbled in the distance again. He twitched an ear. It didn’t sound appreciably nearer. He hoped it was a slow-moving storm. Small favors from the gods were to be taken where they could be had, these days.
Sartas was just starting his rounds when he spotted one of his scouts among some of the older kits; Mreiss Lrew, the youngest warrior left to the clan. He was scratching designs in the dirt with a stick, looking positively miserable.
“Shouldn’t you be helping the others finish making camp?” Sartas Rewl stood with his arms crossed, looking down to where Mreiss was kneeling. The young warrior looked up with a start, quickly throwing the stick away and sweeping away the dirt when he saw who was talking to him.
“Sir, the kits are all set up, sir,” he replied. “And everyone else . . .” His ears flattened. “Uh . . . kindly refused my help.”
“Chased you off, did they?” He snorted. “Their loss. Come help Reshia. Tell her I sent you.” Mreiss nodded once before dropping his eyes to the ground and running in the direction of Sartas and Reshia’s tent. He’s troubled. It’s best to keep him busy, keep him working. I’ll have to keep a close eye on Mreiss Lrew in the days to come.
* * *
The next few hours passed quickly for Mreiss Lrew. As commanded, he assisted Reshia in setting up the tent she shared with Sartas Rewl. Theirs was one of the few that only housed the two of them . . . but it was tiny, and had been made from pieces that had been scavenged out of the flood. Sartas Rewl made certain that no one in the clan was wanting for anything before he took supplies or provisions for himself and Reshia; he made sure that everyone was fed and had a place to sleep before he looked to himself. He had been a good talonmaster; he was a very good clan leader. At least in Mreiss’s opinion. He never talked down to Mreiss, not like some of the others did. When he didn’t want Mreiss to do something, he always explained why.
Once Mreiss was finished with that he was set to gathering wood for the small cooking fires, sorting the kindling, and arranging the firepits. After that, Arschus Mroa called upon him to help sharpen spear tips and their own blades. He always liked the time spent with Arschus; the senior warrior was always patient with him, no matter his mistakes. Arschus was quiet by nature, and didn’t say much, but when he talked, it was worth listening to. He’d taught Mreiss a lot over the years, just with a few well-chosen words.
By the end of all of the chores, it was well into the night; the camp was made and all within it were ready to bed down. Mreiss shared the meager dinner with the rest of the clan around the main cookfire. There never was very much chatter during supper lately. Before the flood, there would always be laughter and stories; Mreiss liked the ones about battles and ancient heroes from distant lands the best. He always imagined himself as being one of those heroes someday, traveling away from the Clan of the Long Fang and leaving his mark upon the plains. But there were no stories to fuel his daydreams anymore. Everyone sat and ate quietly, the hushed conversations always short and private, as if the speakers were afraid that being too loud would bring some new calamity down upon them. There were no Dancers to lend their wisdom and to calm the fears of the clan. There was only Sartas Rewl, stony-faced and stoic no matter what came. Mreiss hoped it would be enough.
It wasn’t until he had bedded down for the night that Mreiss had time to think again; even dinner was a chore, dealing with the unpalatable food and the long silences. He was stuck in a tent with nine kits, all of them younger than he was by a score of years. There was one good thing, though. There was no such thing as a restless, sleepless kit now. After a day’s worth of exertions, they all fell asleep soundly and easily. Mreiss was not so lucky. He didn’t mind the indignity of being set up with the kits; he had no family left in the clan, as his parents were both killed when he was still too young to remember them except vaguely, as dreamlike blurs and the feeling of comfort. He had been raised by the entire clan from that point on, but always felt different. Some of the kits in the tent were also orphans; parents taken in the flood or dead along the trail.
What kept Mreiss awake long into the night were his memories of that horrible, disastrous day; the day when the flood waters came.
He had wanted to go out with the hunters. The leaders of both hunting parties had rebuffed him. Sartas had at least been kind about it. “We hunt root-diggers, youngling,” he had said. “Only the strongest dare that.” And he had known Sartas was right; there was no way he could hold a charging spear against a root-digger. “There will always be next time. In a season, you’ll be stronger. We’ll see you ready by then.”
Knowing that Sartas was right didn’t do very much to heal Mreiss’s wounded pride, however. Having been a loner for as long as he could remember, Mreiss had plenty of practice in going off alone in the woods outside of their village; the years of experience he had doing that were what made him a good scout. He could lose himself in the forest, leave his worries and frustrations behind and just listen to the world. He certainly hadn’t wanted to go off with the foragers. They were all kits and the elderly and the women. And though he would very much have liked to stay and watch the Dancers, they had chased him off, some with unkind comments about skinny adolescents with stronger desires than his body could meet.
That had been why he had decided that he was going to watch them anyway, whether they liked it or not.
Not just any tree would do, however. It had to be big, very tall, and heavy with leaves, the better to screen him. Best of all would be one so big he could lie down all along a branch, and blend in with the bark. From high vantages like the very tallest trees, he felt like he wasn’t a part of the world, but above and outside of it. He didn’t dare liken himself to Aedonniss; such would be blasphemy. Mreiss simply wanted to escape from the mundane life that surrounded him, the indignity of being treated like a kit when there was adult work he wanted to do, or warrior’s work he wanted to try, but like an adult when there were onerous chores to be done. It seemed the height of unfairness to be told “You are not strong enough” when he wanted to hunt or train against Liskash, but then be told “You are not a kit anymore” when there was water to be hauled or wood to be brought, or heavy objects to be moved. He was caught between two different sets of claws; both hurt, albeit differently.
Mreiss didn’t know how long he had been in the tree he had found when it started; he had indeed found one with massive branches that allowed him to lie down fully, and had fallen asleep between his brooding and reverie. He was awakened by a noise, low at first. Mreiss initially thought it was someone growling at him to quit being such a layabout. It took him a few moments for the grogginess to clear from his head and realize he was still up in the tree. When the tree began to shake and the noise grew louder, he looked down at the base of it. What kind of animal could shake a tree like this and make that sound? Only then did he notice that it wasn’t just his tree that was shaking; the entire forest was moving as the rumble grew louder. Steadying himself on the branch, Mreiss stood up and hugged the tree trunk with one arm while he used his free hand to shield his eyes as he scanned the horizon.
“An arx stampede? An army?” He wondered allowed as he took in everything below. A short distance away he could see the village; the Dancers were in the prominent clearing where they always practiced. Some were under the low shade trees on the far end, resting. They stood out against the ground; years of the action of hands-on-ground had removed the grass in the center to leave a roughly circular patch of compacted sand. Even from this distance, he could plainly see that the Dancers were alarmed as well; some of the ones that had been lounging under in the shade had stood up, looking around.
The noise was getting louder. It didn’t sound like a stampede—it took him a moment, but he remembered being with a hunting-party in the spring just after a big rain, when they encountered what had been a trickle of a waterfall and had seen it had become a torrent. The thunder of the waters had sounded just like this . . . only this was much, much louder. Where’s it coming from . . . there! Oh, gods, there! In the east, he could see large trees shaking with the impact as something struck them, and smaller trees snapping and falling over as if they were just blades of grass being knocked over by a rolling kit. It seemed to Mreiss that whatever was causing it took up most of the horizon, and that it was getting larger as it came closer.
He let go of the trunk and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting at the Dancers in their clearing. “Run! Run! Climb a tree, a big one! RUN!” He pitched his voice high to make it carry over the noise, jumping up and down on his branch, waving. “RUN!”
He saw the—thing—his mind didn’t even take it in as water at the time, just in time to drop back down to the branch and cling on for dear life. It looked like an avalanche, or a mudslide, a churning, grinding force of rocks and tree-parts and something that was dirt-colored but moving faster than any mudslide he had ever seen before.
One moment, he was staring in wide-eyed horror at the Dancers. Some of them had started to run, but none of them knew where the danger was coming from, or what it was; the trees blocked their view. The next moment, the edge of the flood reached the clearing, and just as quickly it all disappeared under the tumbling water. Mreiss didn’t even have a chance to cry out in grief before the oncoming mass slammed into his tree. Several times the tree canted dangerously back before swinging forward a little bit; Mreiss had to cling for dear life, his claws straining at their roots to keep him attached to the tree. He shut his eyes, willing that it was all just another dream, as the sounds of splintering wood and churning water filled his ears.
But it hadn’t been a dream. . . .
Eventually, so numb with shock, horror, and grief that he had felt as if he had turned to stone, he began clambering from tree to tree, heading in the direction that the foraging party had taken. The hunters under Sartas had found him a little before he reached them, but well after he had heard their faint singing in the distance, and had known that at least he was not utterly alone.
He had been the one to tell Sartas that he was the sole survivor of the camp. He had been the one to tell the talonmaster that all the Dancers were dead, and that he was certain that none had gotten to safety. He had looked past Sartas to see the faces of those who had heard that their mates, their daughters, their sisters were forever gone, and if he could have managed it, he would have sunk into the ground to hide. He had known what they were all thinking, after the first shock of grief. So why are you still alive? No one ever said it, of course. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been asking himself that same question with every breath he had taken since the waters came.
Just as he was asking it now, lying in the darkness, unable to sleep.
Then, finally, the storm came. Thunder rumbled overhead, rain pounded the tent, and under cover of the storm, now that no one could hear him, he could curl on his side, and cry.
* * *
Thunder rolled and the night sky whitened with flashes of lightning up above the trees. It was a good thing the clan had stopped early; it had been possible to make shelters for all of the campfires before the rain came. For once, no one was going to have to go to bed wet.
“I’m not saying that he’s wrong. I’m just not saying that he’s right, either.” Miarrius Srell finished picking his teeth with a bone splinter before tossing it into the fire. He was seated across from Arschus Mroa and Ssenna Errol; the three of them always ended up on their own after the clan ate, to discuss the day and plan for tomorrow. It usually devolved the same way it had tonight; with Ssenna and Miarrius opposed to each other, with Arschus sitting silently and weighing everything.
“Be plain, and say what you want to really say. What would you rather Sartas have us do?” Ssenna, as icy cold as stone most of the time, only seemed to become heated when she talked to Miarrius. The two of them never could agree, and it always vexed Ssenna; Miarrius seemed not to have cared less about how he frustrated her, to the point where others wondered if he did it for his own enjoyment.
“All right, I’ll tell you what I’d have our talonmaster do. Stay. Rebuild. We have lived in this valley for over a generation. The mountains and the forests protected us. We can find another home here, where there’s still forest that hasn’t been drowned in water.” Miarrius shifted his weight a little farther back on the stump he was using for a seat. “Joining the Clan of the Claw means the end of the Clan of the Long Fang. I may be old, but I still have pride in my name.”
“And just how do you propose to get the water to stop rising, hmm?” Ssenna asked. “You’ve seen it for yourself. When we backtrack, the water is right at our heels and our side. It would be foolish to stay here; before we could even begin building a permanent camp, the water would be up to our ankles. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I do know this; it isn’t stopping.”
“The water can’t keep coming forever. I’ve seen floods before. This one was costly, and bigger than the others. But that’s how things are; the next worst thing is always the end of the world, until the thing after it comes along.” Miarrius glowered. “It’s just a flood.”
“The water, you moron, is salt. Have you ever been to the Great Salt?” Ssenna smirked. She had. She knew very well that Miarrius hadn’t. “The Long Valley always was lower than the Great Salt. What if the land that held it back broke? The water will pour in forever until the valley is full.”
“And what if Aedonniss thought that it would be a fine time to take a long piss on us? You can guess and wonder what did it until your fur is as gray as mine.” Miarrius pointed one finger at her face. “It still doesn’t change the fact that our clan dies if we join with the Clan of the Claw.”
“And you can flaunt your ignorance as well as your stupidity, but that won’t change the fact that we’ll drown if we try to stay here. Unless you plan on growing fins and gills.”
Arschus Mroa had been stirring the fire with a long stick, gazing into the flames while he listened to his two friends argue. Finally, he straightened up and took a breath to speak. The others stopped talking to listen; whenever Arschus chose to talk, which was rarely, it was usually for a good reason. “You know—”
“Are they at each others’ throats yet? It’s been a rather dull day, and I could use some entertainment.” Rrerren Rras chose that moment to make his entrance. He shook himself mostly free of the rain on his hide just out of range of the fire, which was only polite, then ducked under the leaf-canopy to get as close as possible to dry off. He was carrying a large folded leaf in one hand. “Found something on my way over.” He unfolded the parcel, revealing a chunk of meat. “Mind, if you’re fighting, please continue. If I can’t have a brawl with the Liskash, I’d like to watch one between you.”
Ssenna leaned forward, licking her lips. “You bloody fool, How in the world did you get that?” Everyone’s eyes were on the unexpected treat; with so little meat for so many in their clan, every morsel was added to a stew or dried out and rationed out. Freshly cooked meat was as rare as mercy, these days.
“With my good looks and charm. How else?” Rrerren picked up a dry stick from the pile of firewood, brushing it off before he used it to skewer the meat. “Oh, don’t give me that look. The major share went to the common pot.” Rrerren was lithe for a warrior, but not in a lanky way. He didn’t need bulk; whenever he moved it was with a casual grace that belied his bravado. In the Clan of the Long Fang, there were no males so handsome as he was, and he knew it. Wherever he went and whatever he did, he always seemed to be wearing the same perpetual smirk, as if there was some joke that only he was privy to. It infuriated some—and made all of the available females of the clan swoon—but that expression never seemed to leave his face. “So, what are we arguing about tonight? The color of the sky?” He cocked an eyebrow at Ssenna. “You know that the only way to get him to admit that it is blue is to declare it is the color of sand.”
Miarrius crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The fate of the clan, and our talonmaster’s vision of what that ought to be.”
“Oh, so nothing too troubling, then.” Rrerren’s smirk was back. He waited for the old warrior to take his bait while he made a show of carefully skewering and roasting the meat over the cookfire.
It was Ssenna’s turn to speak. “No, it isn’t troubling. Sartas Rewl has always put the Clan of the Long Fang first, in all things. He’s never led us astray, never taken us down an evil path in the years that he’s been talonmaster.” She unsheathed a claw and poked at the meat on the skewer, checking to see how it was cooking.
Miarrius nearly exploded. “How can you say that? How can you say he puts the clan first, if he takes us to join another and there is no clan? Have we endured all of this to be swallowed up and vanish?”
“You don’t know that will happen,” Rrerren countered. “Unless you’ve turned Dancer on us. Turn around, let me look under your tail and see if you still have your old equipment. After all, they say miracles can happen.” His little smirk turned to a grin as Miarrius flicked a small piece of wood at him. “You’d make a lovely lady. A bit beefy and ancient for my taste, but lovely.”
“And you call me a moron,” Miarrius growled to Ssenna.
“I think . . .” Arschus said slowly, and they all turned towards him. “I think, for I have been there, that the New Water comes from the sea, and I do not know how to swim.” He reached for the meat, gently taking the stick from Rrerren’s hand. He picked off a small piece, popped it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “And I also think, that if everyone dies here, the clan dies too, and you can bury my heart with it.” Arschus gazed into the fire once more, then nodded solemnly before standing up and walking to his tent.
The three warriors sat around the fire in silence, gazing after Arschus. Rrerren was the first one to speak. “You know . . . he has a good point.” He sat for a few moments longer, deep in thought. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he sat up straight. “And he just stole my dinner!”
* * *
It was still raining when the camp roused, which made for a miserable start to the day. But Sartas reminded himself that the fires had been kept burning, so at least their scant breakfast was going to be warm, and they’d been mostly dry while they slept.
It was just around sun-high—not that you could see the sun, given the rainclouds and the trees—when Ssenna came looking for him. The clan was still packing up to resume the trek. She didn’t have the sense of urgency about her that would have indicated her scouts had found something dangerous—but her hackles were a little raised, and her scent told him she was profoundly disturbed about something.
“We’ve found a Mrem camp,” she said shortly. “I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but I know that you need to see it.”
“Are there other survivors?” Usually Ssenna wasn’t this guarded about a scouting report; something was wrong, and she didn’t want to say it in front of the others.
“You’ll just have to come and see, Talonmaster. And I suggest we bring a lot of help, along with a couple of the arx.” Sartas called out, gathering some of his warriors. He instructed four of them to stay with the camp and guard the perimeter, while the rest were tasked with rounding up the able-bodied to follow him. Ssenna walked with him when the gathered Mrem were ready to leave.
“I was checking on the progress of the New Water before we moved out,” Ssenna explained. “Miarrius and I were having a . . . discussion . . . about the water rising last night, and I wanted to verify something.”
“You mean you were fighting about how fast it was rising, and wanted to use the patrol as an excuse to prove him wrong. Again.” Sartas had no illusions about that, nor why they were fighting. Miarrius wasn’t precisely rebellious, but he was very conservative, and very protective of the clan, and consequently of the clan’s heritage. He was afraid that for all intents and purposes, once they joined with Clan of the Claw, Long Fang would vanish.
He could be right. But if we stay in the valley, or what’s left of it, we’ll die anyway. And if we strike out on our own, we’ll die off. We don’t have enough females. And we don’t have enough warriors to fend off the Liskash on our own forever. Hard to have a clan identity if you’re all dead, after all. And, of course, they didn’t have any Dancers. Without the Dancers, a clan had very little it could call a soul.
It took the group about the same amount of time it would take to boil water four times to get to where Ssenna had left Rrerren and Arschus. When they reached the village, Sartas almost immediately saw why Ssenna didn’t want to say anything at first. The village was in perfect condition, aside from being a couple of hand-lengths underwater. Truly perfect condition; the entirety of it looked untouched. Sartas motioned for his warriors to spread out and be vigilant; nearly silent save for the light splashing of their hands through the water, they moved through the village.
“I observed this place until the sun was halfway to midday, Talonmaster. Nothing was moving here, except the water. There’s no one here, at all.” Ssenna was back to her usual stony demeanor, her eyes still scanning the settlement. Sartas decided it was time to see for himself. He walked through the water into the village proper, and several things immediately stood out to him. A kettle sitting over an extinguished fire outside of a hut, still full of food; by the look and smell of it, it couldn’t have been left out for more than a day. There was a sitting mat next to another tent, and in the water next to it, scattered, as if the project had just been dropped in a hurry, were arrows, half-fletched. More such projects were around the village; hides stretched on frames, half-scraped. Toys dropped carelessly, or tossed aside. Grain half-pounded in a mortar, or only partially husked from stalks. Even swords, spears, and shields were left behind; something no warrior would ever abide. The oddest—and the one that put his hackles up—a skewer of cooked meat just under the surface of the water, half of it gone, and a bite torn from one of the pieces still on it.
It seemed that everything was left here but the Mrem that once owned and lived in this place.
Sartas’s ears perked up when he heard a cry from the far side of the village. Snatching up his spear, he started to run towards the sound. As he got closer, it became apparent that it wasn’t a scream or a yell; it was whooping and excited shouting. He turned the corner of one building when he saw two of his warriors, standing in front of an open hut with their teeth bared in grins.
“What is it? What have you found?” They were both so busy jumping up and down and clapping each other on the back that they didn’t realize it was their talonmaster talking to them at first. When they finally recognized Sartas Rewl, they sobered up somewhat, but kept smiling.
“You won’t believe it . . . food!” The one that spoke went inside and came back out with a large pot. He opened the covering on top, and then pulled out a handful of grain. “There’s so much food! Some of it is wet, but most of it was in pots or hung on the rafters. Fresh food!” By this time the rest of the party had arrived to see what the commotion was about. It didn’t take long for the rest to join in the celebrating; after so many weeks of being hungry every day, food had become the only thing that some thought about.
After allowing some time for his people to enjoy the discovery, he held up a hand for quiet, and eventually got it. Ssenna was again at his side.
“What do we do, Talonmaster?” Ssenna asked quietly.
He thought about it. In a few more days, all this was going to be underwater—wasted. “Did you look for the clan this belongs to?” he asked. Miarrius, Arschus, and Mreiss all walked to the front of the group to face him.
“We did,” said Rrerren, as Arschus nodded. “We did a fast running-scout, covering as much territory as we could. We went a long way, Talonmaster, and there was nothing. Not so much as a tuft of fur.” He reached into a bag of jerky—presumably from the storage hut—and began chewing on a piece. “Not even any tracks. Though, with all of this rain and the flood, that isn’t so surprising.”
Sartas nodded. “All right then. In a day, no more than two, this will be ruined. If we run across the clan it belongs to, we can share it back, but for now, we take everything that is still useable. It will do no Mrem any good underwater.”
While the rest of the group were merrily grabbing baskets, pots, and hanging meats, Sartas held Ssenna back. “This troubles you the same as it troubles me. Tell me why.”
“The things left here . . . no clan can survive very long without them. We had no choice; much of what our clan owned was washed away while many of us were out, either hunting or foraging. These ones . . . this place wasn’t swept away by the flood. It’s only now starting to get a taste of the water; it couldn’t have started any earlier than last night for this part of the land.” She bit her lip and furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what happened here. I’m not sure I want to know, Sartas.”
He looked into her eyes for several very long moments before turning back to the group. “I don’t know what happened here, either. I just hope we don’t find out what happened to these Mrem the hard way.”
His hackles wouldn’t go down. He had, perhaps, too good of an imagination to feel easy about this situation. Had one of those monsters from the Deep Salt survived and attacked the village? Was it some new Liskash deviltry? Did the clan become hysterical when the floods came, run off in every direction and been lost that way? Kits wouldn’t survive alone for long . . . but why wouldn’t their mothers have taken them? Look how Reshia’s group had done! Could it have been something else? Some new madness or plague?
Had the gods themselves simply come and taken everyone?
And his conscience still bothered him about his order. This all had belonged to someone, and they were taking it. But necessity dictated he looked to his people first. And as he had said, in a day, it would be so far under water that it would all be useless. Wasn’t it better for Long Fang to have it, than have it go to waste?
There was only so much ground left, anymore, that the Mrem who lived here could be on. If they were found, they would be returned their goods, with the hope and understanding that they share with his clan. If they weren’t—somehow, Sartas knew instinctively that they would never find the Mrem that lived here. That thought frightened him more than the New Water ever had.
* * *
There was too much to take in one trip. Sartas was forced to tell the clan to make camp again as soon as they found a secure spot, and prepare to divide up the . . . well, he could only call it “loot” . . . and dry out what needed to be dried. He didn’t want to stop, but he didn’t have a choice. What was the point of rescuing all this stuff if half of it spoiled or rotted or went otherwise bad because it hadn’t been properly dealt with? “Fires for drying, fires for more smoking,” he decreed, because if they re-smoked the wet tent hides, they had a very, very good chance of saving them even if they couldn’t completely dry them out.
Miarrius was happy, or at least as happy as he ever was; Sartas knew why. He thought, once the clan had settled for a day or two, it would be easier to get Sartas to agree to stay and give up on the march to find the Clan of the Claw. But the land here was different than where they had their village, and things were still shifting. They hadn’t seen a Liskash in a number of days, but that could change at any time. And there were still the flood waters to worry about; each day, the water rose, and the clan would be forced to go higher. The camp they had made for now was nowhere near as “permanent” as Miarrius fondly hoped. Soon, they wouldn’t have the cover of the forest to help keep them hidden.
Sartas saw signs that some of his people shared Miarrius’s desire to end the march. It had been a long and hard path, and it had cost them dearly. Compounded with the fact that they still had so very far to go to reach their goal, it was almost too much for most of them to bear thinking about. They wanted a place to stay. They wanted a home. A home where they needn’t worry about drowning, starving, or being killed by the Liskash at any given moment. While only a few were vocal in their desire to end the march, many behaved in a way that showed how ready they were to accept that decision. An older smith that had joined them from another clan was starting to plot out a new forge for himself. Sartas almost didn’t have the heart to point out that his fires would be underwater in seven or eight suns.
But weavers were setting up their weighted looms again, and some were sending kits out to forage, not for wood for the fires he had ordered, but for reeds and whip-tree branches for basket-making. And the potters were considering a kiln. Not good. Not good at all.
But at the same time . . . the kits were playing again. They hadn’t even gotten more than their first meal out of the bounty, and already one good meal had revived them so much that he was shocked. He hadn’t noticed how worn down they all were. That was especially worrisome; he hadn’t recognized how badly deteriorated his people were becoming. Sartas tried to rationalize it away, thinking that he had to keep focused on getting as many to their destination alive and quickly. His doubts weren’t quieted, however.
Or was it only that he’d been forced to think about other things? True, he hadn’t been with the main part of the march since it began.
But he should have noticed. Shouldn’t he?
Sartas sensed Reshia walking up behind him before she even spoke. No matter how quietly she moved, he always knew it was her, always knew she was there; partly it was that he had honed already keen senses to be some of the sharpest in the clan, partly it was the closeness they had.
“You are unhappy,” she stated. “I, too, am concerned. It is good that we rest for a little, and better that we have had this gift of food and goods. I am no Dancer, but I have tried to thank the gods for it, and if the clan that left these things behind is truly lost, I have tried to thank their spirits. It means life for us. But . . . I am concerned.”
He turned to face her, studying her features. Reshia was a few fingers shorter than Sartas, and with a figure that would have made her a fine Dancer if she had chosen that path. Leaner than the norm for Long Fang females, her fur was fine and not as dense, more gray than sand. The tufts at the ends of her ears were longer than the usual, which would have given her features a kittenish cast, had they not been so severe. This was not to say she was not beautiful, certainly she was the most lovely Mrem he had ever seen, but she had none of the softness, the roundness, that most males seemed to prefer. And she had a trait he had only ever seen in Ssenna’s face; the tips of her fangs showed, ever so slightly, all the time, instead of being hidden by her lips. It made her look just a little dangerous, just a little feral. The thing that Sartas loved the most about her, however, was that they shared the same heart; in her own way, she was every bit as much the warrior that he was.
“Is it that plain?” Sartas sighed heavily, shaking his head and peering behind her to look at the camp. “We cannot become too comfortable here. If we do, we may never get moving again.”
Reshia turned her head to the side, watching him as she talked. “But you have doubts.”
He nodded. “Sometimes I feel as if you know me better than I know myself.” A group of kits ran past them, chasing one another, laughing and shouting. “I set us out on this journey, and when I decided to do so, I knew it would be hard and unforgiving. I fear I may have blinded myself to our people, though. We’ve all suffered since the New Water came, and I forgot that not all of us are warriors; we may need time to heal.” He pointed a claw at the group of kits that had passed by moments ago. “I see sights like that, with the kits laughing and looking healthy, and I wonder if perhaps Miarrius is right; we end the march, settle somewhere on the ridge, or even find high ground that will be an island, where the waters can’t find us. I wonder how much more of this trekking what is left of the clan can take.” Sartas looked to the ground, shaking his head again. For that moment, his guard fell, and Reshia could see how much this was paining him. She waited the space of many breaths before she spoke.
“We can do as you say and as Miarrius and those that will listen to him want; we can stay here, end the trek. But we will not.” She placed a hand upon his arm. “You know the danger we’re in, how real it is. We have no Dancers; the messenger that brought us news of the Clan of the Claw was weeks ago, looking for other clans to inform. None of the stragglers is a Dancer, and not one of the females that are left to us has had the gods speak to her and tell her she should take up the heritage. And if that was to happen? Who would teach her?”
He hesitated. “That is true.”
But she was by no means finished. “Even if the Liskash were to leave us in peace—if, say, we managed to settle on land that became an island and successfully hid ourselves . . .” She shook her head. “I cannot see that happening. We are not adept with water. Only a few of us swim, and we do not know how to make boats, only rafts. We have never fished; well, except by accident. Do you see us being able to hunt, to forage, under such a circumstance? We have no trade, no contact with any other clans. We are cut off, and we are the only ones that can change that; sitting around and waiting will not do it.” She patted his forearm. “Let us rest another day, and finish drying and preparing what we found. Then call a council. Let everyone speak. I . . . will have a few words with some of the others.”
“Words? Try not to beat Miarrius too badly; we’ll need his spear arm in the future.”
She purr-chuckled. “No, no, I mean to speak with . . . shall we say, those who worry a great deal. It does no harm to plant doubts. You know of whom I speak . . . Ssenna for one. She is the sort to look at a cloudless day and assume in the night there will be a storm.”
“Yes, but then she prepares for it, and if there is a storm, is near-unbearably smug, and if there is not, says ‘Well, the thing you take care against never comes. Perhaps I prevented it.’” He laughed, then embraced Reshia. “You are my rock in this storm, love. Thank you for helping me remember that.” Turning back to face the camp, he left his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “The hard part is still to come. Convincing the rest.”
* * *
It was at the campfire the next night when everything unraveled. Sartas had heeded Reshia’s words, and waited for another day for preparations to finish; he was clear to everyone that they were to begin tearing down what they could in preparation for the next day, when the march would begin again. In retrospect it was a mistake, and one that would cost him; he was simply doing what felt right, however, and was at the time ignorant of the consequences. Shortly before the campfire, he sent word through the camp that there was to be a council held at that night’s fire, and all were to be there and be heard.
Everyone had already been fed when it was time for the council; Sartas thought that was good. Being fed before the discussion might’ve quieted some who would otherwise have been loud in their opposition. He only hoped that Reshia’s words had quieted the others, or helped them to see reason. Once it looked to him that everyone was assembled, he raised a hand for silence.
“We will be leaving again, soon. On the morrow or the next day.” Sartas waited while the expected murmuring quieted. Finally, he began to speak again. “Perhaps none of you have gone to the New Water to see how far it has risen since we camped here,” he said. “I can understand that. But I tell you we cannot stay. In three suns, the water will be here. In four, this camp will be ankle-deep. Before the water is here, other things will be; serpents, poisonous insects, perhaps disease. They, too, flee the water. It is time to move on. We have all rested, recovered our strength, and now it is time to seek the Clan of the Claw again, where we can unite with them and find safety.”
One of the elders stepped forward feebly. “What of the oldest of us? This journey has been hard on everyone, but we cannot recuperate so quickly in so few days. Many of us have died, and more will die if we continue on much further.” There were some nodding their heads in agreement at this. “It places strain on the rest of the clan in helping us, as well, along with the injured and sickly. How is it fair for us, at the end of our lives, to steal the energy needed for the kits, who are at the beginning? We cannot go on like this. Our wisdom has value, but is it more valuable than the future of the clan? Better to stop for a while so we can have both.”
One of the females spoke up now. “I had five kits before the New Water. Now I only have one.” It pained everyone the most when one of the young ones was lost; Sartas could scarcely imagine what she must have been going through. “It was not your fault, Sartas Rewl, but that doesn’t bring my kits back to me. I cannot lose my last; my husband was gone in the floods, and all I owned; my child is all I have left.”
More stepped forward. “Those of us with kits still need to care for them. They forage on the march and grow weaker with every day out there. They need rest. Those poisonous creatures you say are coming, well, we can at least see them coming when we are in a camp—but my kit was bitten by a serpent on the march. How can we defend against things we cannot see, that we blunder into? We are not, and our kits are not, trained hunters. We do not know these things are there until we step on them and they turn on us. You drive us before you, and we are defenseless against these dangers. It is time to stop, Talonmaster.”
One of the smiths called to speak. “We cannot make a living at our trade on the march; we’re no better off than the women, and unable to help the clan, unless we have a place to do our work. A forge doesn’t work so well on a wagon bed. We need weapons, we need hunting implements. We need to be able to repair and refurbish the ones we have. We can’t do any of that on the march.” A potter joined him in his complaint. “How can we replace all the storage jars that are broken without a kiln? We have tried firing pots overnight in the ashes, as our ancestors were said to do, but it just doesn’t work! Are we to turn basket-weavers now?”
“We’ll turn into corpses if we continue this.” This was a voice that Sartas was not familiar with. It belonged to a young male, one of the ones who had joined them shortly after the flood. He wasn’t as tall as Sartas, but he was very fit; stocky, functional strength. He was not of the same body type as the Long Fangers. Unlike them, he had no ear-tufts, and he had a long and very mobile tail. He was tan with subtle reddish and cream markings rather than tan with a heavy frosting of gray. He had heavier jaws and a longer face, too, which had the effect of making his eyes look smaller. Scars on his face and shoulders said that he was used to fighting. But he had not become one of Sartas’s warriors. He didn’t seem to do much of anything around camp, either; just enough to keep anyone from bothering him. “Continuing is foolish. If it weren’t for your obsession with tucking tail and bowing down before the Clan of the Claw, we would have found a new home already.”
Sartas sized the young male up instantly. A bully, and used to getting his way. “Who is this that is speaking? I don’t know you.” Sartas had to tread carefully here, but already had an idea of what this would ultimately come to. There was only one thing that this young Mrem had on his mind right now: a challenge. For him, it was a no-lose proposition. Long Fang did not have so many young warriors that they could afford to cast him out even if he lost the challenge. And if he won? He would be the new clan leader—though probably not for very long—a jump in status that under ordinary circumstances he could not have dreamed of achieving.
“I am Shar Enthiss.” The young hothead puffed his chest out and stood tall, putting his fists on his hips.
“Strange, I’ve never heard of the exploits of Shar Enthiss. I haven’t heard how many war bands he has led, or how many Liskash he’s killed.” Sartas Rewl paced around the fire as he talked, keeping a wary eye on the bully. “I haven’t heard of his skill with javelin or sword, either. Yet here he is, it would seem.” He stopped, turning to face the male. “My only concern is the survival of the people of this clan. If that is what I’m obsessed with, as you put it, Shar Enthiss, then it’s not something I’m ashamed of.”
“Your words are strong, but your actions show the opposite,” the youngster huffed. “Here you have mothers with kits, the elders, and the injured and ill begging with you to leave off this pursuit of yours, and still, in the face of harm to your own clan, you insist on trying to find another clan. And you don’t even know where it is! How long do you propose to drive us? Until everyone is dead?” There were more voices joining his in agreement, now. “You started us on this path, and now you need to end it. If you won’t, then—”
Miarrius Srell stepped through the crowd and snarled for quiet. Shar Enthiss, confused, went quiet. Miarrius looked around at the gathered Mrem, taking his time before speaking. Sartas held his breath. This was the last thing he needed . . . when Marius supported this youngster, there would be an avalanche of support piling up behind him.
“If we continue on, more will die. I assure you all of this.” The old bastard has sunk me. Sartas Rewl felt as if there were a block of slick ice in his belly, dragging him down. Miarrius fixed him with a stare, his face revealing nothing. “I can also tell you that if we stay here, all of us will die. In the lowlands, we were protected. Now, we are not; there are no more lowlands, only the New Water and the Liskash holdings that surround most of it. If we stay, we will either drown or eventually be found. Either way, we die.” Miarrius turned back to the bully, pointing at him and glaring now. “We are too committed, but more than that, the New Water will drive us no matter what our wishes are; we continue on if we want to save anyone.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I do not want to join Long Fang to Claw. But I also do not want to watch as our elders and kits starve or are slaughtered by Liskash. As the saying is, ‘when the avalanche has begun, the pebbles must go, whether they like it or not.’”
Sartas took his eyes off the youngster for just a moment to see what the rest of the clan was doing. Their body language would tell him everything he needed to know. Most of the ones closest to Shar Enthiss had shied away from him, and very few at all seemed as friendly towards him as they were moments ago.
“Sartas is our talonmaster, and has been for many seasons,” said Ssenna, from out of the crowd. Then her voice turned contemptuous. “What do we know of you, Shar? Only that somehow, you survived out of all of your clan.” She left unspoken anything else that might be implied; Ssenna was very good about saying only enough, and no more.
Someone else in the crowd—Sartas could not tell who it was—snickered and added “Dung always floats.”
“We know why we of Long Fang lived,” put in another of the hunters. “Because Sartas with the hunters, and Reshia with the foragers, both recognized something terrible was happening in time to get us to safety. I do not think we should abandon a path Sartas thinks is wise, given that.”
Shar Enthiss was not pleased to see the conversation turning against him. Abruptly, he kicked a log in the fire, sending sparks skittering out. “Enough of this pointless yammering! If you’re all too addled by your love of this fool, then I’ll handle this myself.” He unsheathed his claws and lowered his head, growling low. “I’ll lead this clan to safety. Not you, Sartas Rewl.”
Sartas nodded once, walking through the edge of the crowd into an open area. “If this is the way it must be, then know this; after it is done, there will be no more trouble from you, and you will do your share for this clan.” The younger male roared once and charged, barreling over some of the crowd to reach Sartas. At the last moment Sartas unsheathed his claws and squared his shoulders to meet the charge. Just Shar reached him, Sartas grasped the bully’s shoulders while rolling back with his momentum. Arching his back as they rocked to the ground he simultaneously planted a hand in his opponent’s chest, kicking him off and behind him. Shar impacted the ground with an audible thud, landing awkwardly on his back. Sartas had already spun around and readied himself in a low crouch; the youth was dazed for only a moment before him regained his senses and lifted himself from the ground.
Shar Enthiss still had plenty of fight left in him. He was more careful this time, however. They circled each other for several long moments before he lashed out again; two quick swipes and then a bull rush. Sartas dodged both blows, and sidestepped the rush; as Shar went under his arm, Sartas chopped the back of his neck to send him off-balance. His opponent recovered quicker than he had anticipated, and retaliated by raking his claws across Sartas’s ribs. A slick of red colored the tips of Shar’s claws; he grinned ferally, emboldened by drawing first blood.
Shar made what looked like another rush . . . but then, just before he would have hit Sartas, he suddenly dropped to the ground and rolled. He hit Sartas’s legs, knocking them out from under him before Sartas could avoid him, and turned the roll into a pounce. Sartas threw his arms in front of his face, blocking his opponent’s hammer blows. Shar raised up both arms to bring them both down in a powerful strike; Sartas countered by striking him in the chin with a palm, then flipping him off to the side. As a parting gesture, he took a backhanded swipe, digging into the flesh of Shar’s shoulder.
Time to end this. Shar could wear Sartas down, if he had endurance enough; he was certainly large enough to overpower the leaner Mrem. And Sartas had to show the clan something decisive. He stood up from the ground, allowing his arms to drop to his sides casually. Shar was confused by this; Sartas was dropping his guard, leaving himself wide open for attack. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, Shar moved in and stabbed his claws at Sartas’s face, looking to blind him. At the last second before the claws reached him, Sartas locked an arm around Shar’s outstretched one at the elbow. The talonmaster used his free hand to push against the bully’s shoulder, forcing him down the ground; he then wrenched the arm, twisting it back and taking the strength out of it. Shar screamed in agony; his screaming grew higher in pitch when Sartas planted a hand against that same shoulder, standing on it as he bent down to place a claw at the rival’s throat.
“Do you yield?” Shar ended his screaming to huff and grunt in pain instead. Sartas applied more pressure to the joint he was standing on. Eyes going wide in agony, Shar managed to yelp, “I yield! Stop, stop!”
Sartas let go of his arm but took his time in removing his hand from Shar’s shoulder. “Tend to your wounds. But do it somewhere else.” He waited while Shar slinked off into the darkness beyond the light of the fire before turning to face the crowd. “As soon as preparations are made, we will ready ourselves and continue on the march. Does anyone else wish to contend this? If so, speak, and it will be heard.” The entire clan remained silent, but it was an approving silence, with thoughtful nods. There was no more grumbling or chords of discontent within the crowd, now. Finally Miarrius spoke up.
“I would request a full day of tomorrow to properly pack, rather than the hasty thrown-together packing we have been forced to do until now, Talonmaster,” he said, with great dignity. “Proper packing will enable us to move efficiently, and if any of the food has not dried completely, we can arrange for it to be eaten first, rather than spoil slowly in the bottom of a basket.”
“That is wise. We’ll make sure it is done.” The gathered Mrem began to disperse, then, to talk about what had just happened, and to discuss how to get ready for tomorrow. Reshia waited until after the last of them were gone from the fire before she approached Sartas.
Her ears were flattened. “That did not go as well as I had hoped,” she said, in a voice loaded with chagrin. “Let me tend your wounds.”
“Better you than Shar.” He winced as she began to inspect and poke at the claw marks. “I don’t think we will have any trouble from that one anymore, however. Thugs are easily broken when they find someone truly willing to stand up to them.” He watched her as she worked, speaking softly. “What are you thinking, my heart?”
“I am thinking that the clan is behind you, but even with this rest, they are weary and will only get more weary. Is there any way to make the march easier?” She sighed, and cleaned the blood from the slashes on his shoulder.
“Ask the gods to dry out the valley, to burn the Liskash from the lands, and grant us jars and baskets of clean water and food that never need to be refilled.” She ticked his nose at the jest. “Honestly . . . there is nothing more to be done, other than to continue forward. We have limited means. If it weren’t for the village that Ssenna had found . . . I don’t think we would be able to continue. Perhaps that was a mercy from Aedonniss; I hope we will gain more, but I do not count upon hopes to see me through.”
“I did not expect so much opposition,” she said slowly. “I hope it has been settled, but it surprised me, and I am not sure what to think.”
“Talking helps to lessen pain, especially when there are so many to listen. There may have been those that you did not know about, that needed to talk.” Sartas shook his head. “I agree, though. I did not expect to see so many that were ready to lie down and give up the march. They are tired, and they have every right to be. But this world is not fair; it is cruel and harsh. We must be strong and tough enough to face it, or we do not deserve it.”
She made a face. “Well, that is true, but no one ever wants to believe it. There. I think you will heal.” She smoothed down his head-fur. “I am glad Miarrius stood up for you. That he did, after openly grumbling, I think is what convinced many. They saw as he did in the beginning, and then as he did in the end.”
Sartas looked at her with puzzlement. “I thought you had spoken with him, like the others that expressed a wish to end the march. I was certain he was going to go against us until the very end.”
“I did speak with him. And he was still grumbling and saying that you were completely in the wrong when I left him.” She tilted her head to the side. “I do not know why he changed his mind; it was certainly none of my doing.”
Sartas looked up at the stars overhead, and spoke in faux wonderment. “The gods do still smile on us.” Reshia punched him in the shoulder, which caused him to look at her, smiling. “Maybe we have a chance after all, love.”
* * *
Miarrius had been right about one thing; taking the time to properly and efficiently pack everything and distribute the loads more evenly was already making a difference. Even the kits could manage small packs—their own bedding, for instance—and every bit that was distributed to someone else made things easier on the pack-beasts and the adults. For the kits, having their own little packs seemed to be a source of pride; each competed with the other to have the smallest and best organized.
The food had been divided up into meal-sized portions, which meant, in addition, that everyone could carry his own midday meal. That meant the midday stop for the group wasn’t lengthened by trying to sort out food and squabbling over portion sizes. Everyone knew what they were getting, and it was done impartially with considerations made to the sick, young, and elderly. That in itself was a relief. It translated into less time and energy wasted on arguments and more on the task of surviving.
The edges of this valley were . . . a challenge to negotiate. Gnarled roots and vines everywhere, with boulders at the edge of a heavy slope to make walking difficult even if they hadn’t needed to fight their way through. No obvious paths, or even game trails.
Also, no sign of that missing clan, either. The empty camp still haunted Sartas. With the New Water in their way, and the edge of the valley on the other side, there were only so many places that a clan could have gone. Long Fang was on one of the only ways out, following a “path” of least-resistance and least-growth in the direction they needed to take; neither he, nor any of his scouts, had seen any sign of that missing clan.
Could Shar have been from that lost clan? There had never been any time to press him on how he’d survived the flood and where, exactly, he had come from. It didn’t seem likely, but this world had recently had a spate of the unlikely afflict it. Well at least he’s acting like a productive member of the group now. Sartas didn’t trust him as a scout, but he was doing fine as a guard on the rest, and carrying a full pack, too. In time, he would be a worthy addition to the clan. If we live that long. The thought stayed in the back of Sartas’s mind, constantly toying with him. There was still such a long way to go, across unknown land with undoubtedly many dangers ahead. Not to mention needing to actually find the Clan of the Claw.
* * *
It seemed that Sartas’s fears all came true two days later. The sun was out, but it looked as if there were another storm coming from the direction of the Great Salt Water. Everyone still kept an eye for a renewed flood; if one part of the valley walls could come down, why not another? The New Water still kept rising, or so the scouts behind said. Slowly, but inexorably. It was the new constant for their world, it seemed.
The trail had been clear for the last few days, with the clan hardly seeing anything moving aside from the odd game animal. Sartas was at the head of the march again, talking with one of the wagon riders when Ssenna came from the rear of the line, riding her krelprep at breakneck pace. She leapt from her krelprep at the last moment, landing at a run before stopping next to the talonmaster. “Sartas Rewl! There is news!” Miarrius was a breath behind her. He looked even more grim than usual; never a good sign.
“What is it? What has happened?”
“Liskash, Talonmaster.” Ssenna bit her lip, baring her fangs more than usual. “Hundreds of them. You know we have made no effort to hide our backtrail, and they are on it; even without a trail, there isn’t any other way for them to go other than to follow us. From what we saw, they are a motley group at best. They have no nobles that we’ve seen, and don’t look to be as organized as other Liskash forces. Still, their numbers alone are enough to overwhelm us. There is one large scaled-fiend that seems to be in charge of them, however.”
“They’ve got archers, sling-throwers, and plenty of footmen with pikes. They’re a force, to be sure.” Miarrius shook his head. “They’ll be caught up with us in three days’ time, maybe four if we’re lucky. They aren’t burdened with wagons or elders like we are; they’re a pillaging force, taking what they find and destroying the rest.”
“Not even slavers?” Sartas growled under his breath. Slavers were less likely to charge in with wanton violence; capturing Mrem was their goal, not slaughtering them. This spelled doom for the entire clan. A pillaging party would leave no one alive. Even an enslaved Mrem could scheme to escape, as long as he wasn’t mind-wiped by one of the Liskash magicians. It was better to die than to lose one’s name to one of those foul bastards.
“They had no slaves with them, nor the means to keep any. They’re out for blood and meat, and nothing more.” Miarrius took a deep breath. “We could try to hide our backtrail, but that would delay us a great deal, and I do not know how effective that would be. I am a warrior, not a hunter.”
“There’s no time for that, at this point. Even if we could hide our trail, there’s only so many places that we or the Liskash can go. They’re also more numerous than we are, and will find us eventually.” Sartas looked to Ssenna.
“We need to draw in the other patrols immediately, gather our strength to the center. We have very little time left to prepare.”
“Go, all of you. Bring all of our scouts back. We need to meet tonight, and decide—”
Mreiss Lrew chose that moment to ride in on his krelprep, pulling up short of the talonmaster and the rest where they had stopped. “I’ve got news, Sartas Rewl!” Mreiss paused for a few moments to catch his breath. “There’s a series of cliffs well ahead of us. A day and a half’s ride, by my ranging. They’re near impassible, with the wagons and whatnot. I tell you truthfully, I could hardly climb them, even with only my harness and sword—” He paused, canting his head to the side. “Why are all of you looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong?”
“How far do these cliffs go?” Sartas asked carefully. “Half a day? A full day? More?”
Mreiss shrugged. “As far as I could see in either direction. More than we could travel in seven sunrises, to be sure.”
Sartas looked to the others. “Be quick about your tasks. We have even less time than before.” He explained the situation to Mreiss; all of the color drained from the young warrior’s face as he came to know the full extent of the clan’s troubles. Almost stumbling over himself, he left to make preparations. Only Miarrius was left once the others had gone.
He stopped, laying a hand upon Sartas’s shoulder, looking to the ground before meeting the talonmaster’s eyes. “I was wrong, Talonmaster. You were right, and I was wrong, when I urged us to stay, and said that you were driving the clan too far. If you had listened to me, we would already be dead.” Without another word, Miarrius strode off to fulfill his talonmaster’s command. Wonders upon wonders, Sartas thought, as he contemplated what new evils they would face. It wasn’t enough that the clan was battling starvation and disease at every turn, that they now be plagued with a storm of Liskash, with no way to escape? How much more would they need to endure before there was respite?
And had he saved them this long, only to destroy them in the end?
Sartas Rewl knew he would not be sleeping this night.
* * *
“I tell you, if we do this thing that you say, then we’ll all die.”
The meeting that night was even more heated than the last one. Everyone had a different idea about what to do concerning the oncoming Liskash horde and the cliffs that were blocking them in ahead. It didn’t help that each Mrem seemed to be utterly convinced that their plan was the best to lead the Clan of the Long Fang to salvation and glory. The only ones that weren’t talking were Sartas Rewl and Arschus Mroa; both took in the debate in silence.
The one that had everyone’s attention at the moment was Rrerren Rras. “We should split up into several different groups, all heading in different directions. We’d cover our tracks, and agree to meet up at a predetermined point after we’ve lost the Liskash bandits. They can’t follow everyone, and either all of them will pursue a small, fast band of us that can evade them, or they’ll split up and get lost from each other. You know what happens when they lose their leaders; they fall apart.”
“And where would you propose we meet up, warrior? Not a one of us knows this land; the farthest that we’ve scouted are those cliffs, which the Liskash will smash us on if we’re wandering aimlessly looking for each other!” That was one of the smiths; he’d lost one of his legs on the trek, and had been forced to hobble behind everyone else on a crutch when he wasn’t riding a wagon.
“Both of you are wrong.” Another Mrem that Sartas didn’t immediately recognize stepped forward. “The clan needs to head to the water. We can make rafts, and float along out of range of their javelins and arrows. The Liskash wouldn’t dare follow us out onto the water—”
“For good reason, you mindless smerp! The New Water is death! Were you asleep in a wagon when the kits found that carcass? There are beasts from the sea in it, not to mention rotting things from all that died in the floods. And snakes and poison insects and who knows what else hiding in the trees, starving and just waiting to drop on you because they can’t reach land!” The female pointed at the maimed smithy. “How many of our wounded or elderly would drown, besides? We’re not fish.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea! We go into the trees! It’ll be like we just vanished into thin air. We’ve traveled in the trees before, and those dirty Liskash don’t know how to climb all that well. The ones that fly can’t see us through the tops of the trees, as well.”
“. . . except that the trees end in less than half a day’s ride from here.” Ssenna was crouched by the fire, poking the embers with a long stick. “Between the end of the forest and the cliffs, it’s just open ground, with a small valley with some hills on either side.”
“We can fight them.” Miarrius was a few paces behind Ssenna; the way that the shadow and the light from the fire were playing across his face made him look like a demon incarnate. “We stay in the forest, keep moving, double back on our tracks. Keep the women and kits ahead of us, while we strike at them and then fade away, wear them out.” The old warrior was caressing the pommel of the sword on his side. “Once they’ve bled enough, they’ll lose the taste for chasing after us.”
Mreiss Lrew shook his head. “There’s not enough room, not with the New water on one side and Liskash holdings on the other. With only half a day’s ride of forest left, we’d be pushed out onto the fields soon enough.” He looked around, suddenly seeming unsure of himself. “Besides . . . what if they got around the attackers? Who would be there to defend the rest of the clan?”
“Well, why not lay traps? Pit traps, deadfall traps, all kinds of traps!”
“Not enough time to lay enough traps to slow the Liskash; they number in the hundreds.” Ssenna interjected. “By the time we’d have enough traps in enough places to make them start to be careful, they’d be upon whoever was making the traps.”
“Mreiss, what is the territory ahead like?” Sartas asked slowly. “Exactly.”
The youngster gathered up a pile of leaves, sticks and stones and squatted down, clearing off a space of ground. He scattered leaves over half of it. “This is the forest we’re in.” He laid a line of twigs along one side. “These are the cliffs, they go on . . . well, for a long time. Longer than I was able to go, since I needed to come back and report. Far enough to reach both horizons.” He laid in two groups of stones with a space between them. “These are the hills, and the pass between.”
Sartas dropped down on his heels, and studied the construction, pondering it. Then he stood up. “I have a plan. I believe it will save the clan, the kits, the females, the elders. But it will mean that those who stay with me will die.” The entire gathering was silent, now, with all eyes on the talonmaster. He took a handful of seeds and put them at the pass through the hills. “A single small force, using traps first, then themselves, can hold the Liskash here. And meanwhile, the rest of the clan can get up the cliffs. The longer that force can hold, the likelier it will be that everyone gets to safety. By the time any Liskash that are left break through—and they will, with the numbers Ssenna describes—there will be no trace of those who scaled the heights. The trail will be cold, and in any event, even the Liskash are not going to pursue a few Mrem up a cliff and into the territory of some other god-king.” He looked about, and shrugged. “That is all I have. If anyone has a better plan, please speak up now.”
Arschus Mroa held a finger up. “There are no other plans; this is the only plan that will guarantee the survival of the Clan of the Long Fang.” He looked to Sartas. “Might I make a suggestion, though, Talonmaster?”
“Of course.”
“I suggest that we kill every bloody one of those Liskash fiends. Even if we die trying.”
The entirety of the clan gave a roar in approval, the warriors thrusting their javelins into the air and whirling swords above their heads. Sartas was filled with pride to see his people looking strong and courageous again. He only hoped that their strength and courage would see them through the battle ahead.
* * *
Sartas Rewl was at the edge of the camp again, well beyond the light of the fires. He was staring back towards the direction that the Clan of the Long Fang had come from. It was now the direction that the Scaly Ones were coming from; if he was wrong about this plan, then it would mean the end of his entire clan. This wasn’t the first time that they had been faced with dire circumstances; the entire trek, starting from the flood of the New Water, had been fraught with danger and death. But this was worse, if such a thing existed. A Liskash horde. No nobles, thank Assirra; without any Dancers, the clan would have been defenseless against Liskash spells. The numbers that the Liskash had more than made up for it, however; even with all of his warriors, Sartas knew that they could not hold for long against even an undisciplined mob of a few hundred Liskash.
Perhaps we will hold long enough. Long enough to save the clan, at least, to have our name carry on.
Reshia came out from the camp, her eyes fixed on him, her posture a little stiff, her face full of suppressed grief. “Is it that certain?” she asked, when she was close enough to speak. “Is there no other way?”
Sartas turned to face her. “None that I have been able to see. We must do this thing, or the rest of the clan dies as well. I do not know if I am right about this plan; it might not help at all. But it’s the only thing I can see to do.” He cursed, spitting onto the ground. “If we had more warriors, or more time, working chariots, then maybe I could come up with something else. But Aedonniss hasn’t granted us any of those things, and we have no Dancers to plead to Assirra for us.” He looked back to her, suddenly weary. “I do not want to leave you, love.”
She sighed, bitterly, and her blinking betrayed that she was fighting tears. “If I were a warrior, I would fight at your side, and then we would never be parted. But I would be of more hazard than help.” Her fists clenched, betraying how much she was fighting saying anything else, words that would also do more harm than good.
The talonmaster took her chin and forced it up so that her eyes were meeting his. “Speak. If I cannot share my mind with you, and have you do the same with me, then we’re all already lost.”
“This is not fair!” she wailed. “To have come through so much, for this! I do not want to be alone!” And she flung herself on him, clinging to him.
Sartas held her as close as he dared until he could scarcely breathe. “For a moment, I thought of taking you and our fastest krelprep and riding away. Just leaving everything and trying to make it on our own.” He pulled her back by the shoulders, resting his forehead on hers as he closed his eyes. “I couldn’t do that, though. Just as much as we’re the strength of our clan, they’re the strength of us, as well. If we left them, they’d fall, and then we would, too.”
She had no answer for that, only tears, tears that they both knew were their farewell.
“I need you to do something for me, love.”
She lifted her face from his shoulder. “You have only to ask. Only do not ask me to give you my blessing for this. I cannot bless what takes you from me forever.”
He smiled at that, trying to help lessen the burden on her heart. “I would never dream of asking your blessing on this, love. I only ask that you remain as strong as I know that you are. The clan is going to need someone with a strong spine to see it through the rest of the journey, and find the Clan of the Claw. You’re the only one that can do that.”
“Then I promise I will harry, hound, scold, scream, and drive them before me until they are safe,” she replied fiercely.
Sartas’s smile grew and became more heartfelt. “I haven’t a single doubt that you will.” He took her face into his hands again; it was part of the closeness they shared. “You need to remember that even as I go off to kill these Scaly Ones, that I will never leave you. Sure as Aedonniss makes the sun rise. So long as you and the clan live, no one will ever bury my heart.”
* * *
It was a hard push to the hills, with everyone moving as quickly as they could. They spared no pity for the beasts; after all, they were either going to be abandoned at the bottom of the cliffs, or left with the warriors at the hills. In either case, there was no point in sparing them. Everything but the krelprep were slaughtered; what meat that couldn’t be smoked and taken with was gorged upon. For some, it would be their final meal.
Farewells had all been said the night before. At the pass in the hills, the clan moved on at the same pace, while the warriors remained behind. So far as Sartas could tell, no one, not even Reshia, looked back. Good. It will be easier on them, and on the warriors. This was the way life was in their world; the warriors fought to protect the clan, and often died doing so. Still, after having lost so much already to the New Water and the horrors that had followed, it was a testament to his clan’s strength of spirit that they were able to press forward.
They had laid traps at the edge of the forest, counting on the Liskash to become careless and bloodthirsty at that point. They’d made no effort to conceal their trail; they hadn’t before knowing of the Liskash, and with a group their size to try was pointless. Sartas also instructed his people to make no effort to trap it until the end of the forest, either; better to draw the Scaly Ones in, thinking that their prey was running scared. Sartas had reckoned that a little time spent at the end of the trees would be worth it in Liskash casualties.
They had managed to use the gifts of the forest to hastily construct some unpleasant surprises for the oncoming raiding party. Spiked pits concealed from view on and off of the main trail, snares, and deadfalls comprised the majority of them. He was particularly pleased with the swinging logs. Someone was going to get his long, scaly neck broken. Several someones, if there were any justice in the world. Sartas wasn’t fool enough to think that these traps would be anything but a minor inconvenience for the Liskash following them, however; if anything, it would only incense them. But, an angry Liskash wasn’t a thinking Liskash, as much as they ever did think. It was something that he could use against them. His warriors being able to keep their heads would double the effectiveness of his force.
His warriors waited at the pass, most mounted on their krelprep with shields and javelins ready. Rrerren was on one end of the line, telling jokes and boisterous tales of his own exploits to lighten the moods of those around him. Miarrius and Ssenna were on the other, arguing about some new trifling. Arschus Mroa and Mreiss Lrew flanked him on either side; the latter was fidgeting with his harness and his weapons, while the former was seemingly as still and impassive as a carved rock. Sartas had inspected the line; in all, he had thirty fighters. Most were warriors, but some were untrained and simply chose to join the battle. He had done his best to make them as ready as possible in the little time that they were all left. One of the males that joined them had surprised him; Shar Enthiss.
The young male walked in front of Sartas’s krelprep, keeping his head bowed and only raising it slightly so that his eyes met with the talonmaster’s briefly. “Sartas Rewl.”
“Speak, if you wish.” Sartas was curious as to what was going on here; he didn’t quite know what to expect of the young upstart.
“Before this fight, I just wanted to say . . . I was wrong in what I did, and did it for the wrong reasons. You are the greatest talonmaster I’ve seen. I’m honored to fight by your side; it’s what little honor I have left.” Shar pounded the haft of his javelin to his chest once before casting his eyes to the ground again.
Sartas nodded. “If you fight against the Liskash half as well as you fought against me, Shar Enthiss, you’ll surely have no shortage of honor and glory. I’m glad we have your spear to aid us; I’m even happier that it isn’t against us.” Shar looked up then, and a mean grin spread across his face. He stood up straighter, raised his spear in salute, and walked off to rejoin the line.
Arschus Mroa leaned forward in his saddle. “That was a kindness that you did him now. Especially for one that, not so long ago, wouldn’t have minded having your throat in his teeth.”
“Kindness is as rare as nectar, these days. With what is to come, it is of no cost to spare even one such as Shar some kindness.” He turned and beckoned to Mreiss. The young male wheeled his krelprep to face the talonmaster, eager to hear what Sartas wanted of him.
“Yes, Sartas Rewl?” Mreiss did his best to puff his chest out and hold himself high in his saddle.
“To you goes the most important task of all, young warrior,” he said gravely. Mreiss bounced in the stirrups of his saddle, waiting, no doubt, to hear that he was to lead a charge, or something similar. “I want you—up there.” He pointed a talon to the top of the tallest hill behind where the battle lines would be. “I want you to watch everything. Above all I want you to survive. You are not to engage the enemy. And when we are done, I want you to race back to the clan, and tell them everything that you saw.” He leveled a stern gaze on the youngster. “Listen to me: it will take more courage, and more will, to do this, than it will to fight. There is no harder task. And none more vital.”
“But—I can’t leave all of you! I won’t!” It was plain for any to see how conflicted Mreiss was; he wanted to do his duty, to do as he was ordered to. Yet he did not want to abandon his fellow warriors when they were in their darkest moment.
“You will. You are not a heedless kit anymore, Mreiss Lrew. Will you leave the clan without a senior warrior to fight for them?” He didn’t roar, he growled. “Your duty is to the clan. Not to a band of its warriors. The whole clan. They must know what happened. They must know everything. Then they must have a strong, young, seasoned warrior to lead what is left of the fighters. You are not ‘the one that can be spared.’ You are my best choice. You are fast. Your mount is fleet. You are clever. You’ve been trained by Ssenna to be a scout. By Miarrius to be crafty. By Arschus to be strong. By Rrerren to be gallant. You can evade any Liskash that are left. You are my best choice for this; no one else has as much likelihood of making it back to the rest.”
“I—”
“You’ll follow your orders, Mreiss Lrew, as a true warrior must.” Every word pained Sartas to say, but he did not allow any of it to show on his face. This must be done, for the good of the clan.
“I’ll . . . I’ll do as you command, Sartas Rewl. For the Clan of the Long Fang.” Without another word Mreiss turned his mount to face the hill where he was to observe the coming battle. He paused for a moment next to Arschus Mroa.
“In the next life. Warrior.” Arschus laid a massive hand on Mreiss’s shoulder for a moment. Then Mreiss spurred his mount to gallop towards the top of the hill where Sartas had pointed.
Sartas and Arschus watched until Mreiss was so high up on the hill that he and his mount were barely visible against the earth. Then they made sure that he had concealed himself so well not even their sharp eyes could spot him. Sartas nodded. “He has learned his lessons well. Now it is time for our task. The Scaly Ones will be here soon.”
Arschus appraised the entrance to the pass, below them. “I imagine they will wish they hadn’t survived the coming of the New Water after they see what is waiting for them.”
No sooner did the large warrior finish speaking than did the first Liskash rounded the bottom of the hills at the beginning of the pass. First one, then four, then forty Scaly Ones. And more kept coming. Soon the entirety of the entrance to the pass swarmed with Liskash.
Arschus hissed. “They look like carrion-bugs.” Even at this distance, the Liskash were clearly a motley and sorry group; very few had any armor, and whatever they were wearing was mostly in tatters or ruined with filth. Despite that, they still had the numbers to be more than a credible threat. And they were hungry. It was to raid and pillage or to die, for them.
“Soon they will be feeding carrion-bugs,” Miarrius said. “Something will, at least. Bugs will be getting a full meal today, one way or another.”
Rrerren galloped to the center of the line to join Sartas and the others. “You worry too much, gray-hair. In fact, take a nap; I’ll take care of these interlopers.”
Ssenna, quiet as death, moved her mount within the vision of the others. “I don’t think your jokes will be any more lethal than they already are, Rrerren.”
“Maybe he’ll just bugger them to death.” Miarrius slipped his sword and dagger from their sheaths, eyeing the approaching Liskash. “He’s buggered damn near everything else in the clan.”
“That will do.” Sartas did not turn to stare at his warriors, he let his tone of voice tell them that the time for joking was over. “Every arrow, every javelin, every thrust is precious and cannot be wasted. Make each one count. If you can’t kill, maim, cripple. I don’t want a single Liskash in that horde to be unmarked. Remember that we are buying time. Hurt these forsaken lizards. Make them know that the Clan of the Long Fang lives for their blood!”
All of the warriors roared as one at that. The oncoming Liskash seemed to pause at the sound of the battle cry. It was only for a moment, though. They began to advance again; Sartas saw that their archers and those with slings had crowded to the front. Their lines weren’t nearly as well organized as if they should have been; the orderly formations had been replaced with a crush of Scaly Ones, gathered together in smaller groups behind the front rank. Ssenna was right; they don’t have a noble leading them. This is not a coherent force, this is a mob. For a moment he had a glimmering of hope. Was it possible they might survive this? Soon they were in range to start firing arrows and slinging stones, cutting off his thoughts. “Shields!”
As one, all of his fighters brought their large shields up over their heads; the shields covered most of their bodies and the front of the krelpreps. Arrows, stones, and then javelins came down in uneven volleys; the Liskash weren’t coordinating their archers at all, it seemed. The rain of projectiles slackened and finally became a drizzle. No one seemed to be hurt, beyond one unlucky krelprep that caught an arrow through the neck. They must be running out; with no way to resupply, perhaps they’re down to their last. “The stupid beasts are out of ammunition!” he roared. “Send some back!” Again as one, all of Sartas’s fighters threw a volley of javelins; only one, since they had so few to begin with. Some of those that were left without any picked up the javelins that had just moments ago been thrown at their hides. Their javelins found good purchase in the Liskash ranks; most found their marks, with the Liskash being too focused on their victims to worry about their own safety.
Sartas dropped the large shield while swinging a lighter one from his back; the first was covered in dents and protruding arrows along with one Liskash javelin. He noticed that there was dried blood on the javelin; the sight of what was probably Mrem blood caused his anger to burn in cold waves throughout his body. He raised his javelin into the air, then pointed it towards the Liskash. “Forward!” Tucking the butt of the javelin under his arm, he spurred his mount, sending it surging forward with a whinny in protest. His fighters roared in response, following him down the path. The Liskash were at the base of the rise where his warriors had gathered; any ground they hoped to gain would have to be taken while fighting uphill. This gave Sartas’s riders and the fighters on foot the advantage of momentum for their charge. Only a few of the Liskash raiders were able to position their shields or ready javelins for the oncoming charge; most of them were still pushing forward, too eager to be the first to kill one of the Mrem.
No time to think, now. This was the work for training, reactions, and the will to survive. Sartas was the first to meet the Liskash line; on instinct, he worked his javelin at the final moment, leveling it at the enemy. His spear found the first Liskash with a shock of contact, lodging in its mouth; he instantly withdrew it and thrust it out again before the first had even fallen; another was taken in the throat, and the one after that through its eye. The rest of his fighters were right behind him; they had formed into a wedge, the better to pierce through the massed Liskash. Those without mounts crashed through Scaly Ones that had been off-balanced by the charge; javelins and swords and axes flashed, and the ground was quickly stained with blood. The Liskash were reeling; they couldn’t have expected their foes to attack so ferociously against their superior numbers. Here they thought they had been pursuing refugees like themselves, fleeing before the New Water. They had never expected the pursued to turn and bare their fangs in defiance. Hunters often grew in fervor when a prey-beast ran in fear; so it was with these Liskash. They had not taken into account the terrain that had become the battleground. Scores of the Liskash were paying for this miscalculation with their lives and limbs.
Even with the flow of battle on their side, there were just too many Liskash; after Sartas lopped the head off an archer, his mount took a javelin to its side, followed by two more javelins once it reared up with a scream of pain. He was able to leap from the krelprep and land on his feet without it toppling over on him. The beast was still kicking in its death throes when he came up, shield and javelin in hand. Several of his warriors dismounted near him; the killing resumed immediately. Arschus Mroa had eschewed a shield in favor of using both hands to wield his axe; it was suitably large to fit his gigantic frame. Swinging it back and forth, he cleared Liskash two or three at a time from around him, as if he was knocking the heads off flowers.
Rrerren Rras had both of his long swords out, and was whirling them while laughing raucously in between dispatching Liskash; he was graceful with each dodge and feint, every parry and slash. Two Liskash sought to attack him from front and back at the same time; deflecting the tips of their spears at the last moment, he redirected the points into the Liskash on opposite sides as they charged forward so that they impaled each other. “Careful! You slimy lizards might hurt someone with those things!”
Ssenna was on the edge of the fighting, standing on her fallen mount; she would spot opportunities in the fighting, and loose an arrow at a Liskash; sometimes a breath before it would have delivered a killing blow, other times to take pressure off of a harried comrade. She never missed with a single arrow, always calm and methodical in her aiming and firing. For a moment, Sartas wondered if he should have allowed Mreiss to stay; with his lightning reflexes, slim build and shorter stature, he could have dashed among the fighters retrieving spent arrows for her. Well, too late now. Miarrius was doing his best to cause as much havoc as quickly as possible in Mreiss’s place. For such an old warrior, he was surprisingly spry. He rolled between the legs of one Liskash, slashing its ankles as he moved. Springing from a crouch, he skewered another through its throat, and then turned to parry a javelin-thrust with his dagger. Slashing the offending Liskash across its snout, he dashed inside of its guard, hacking off its arm first and then its head. The final Liskash that Sartas saw Miarrius kill was taken down after the warrior had tripped it and used his legs to immobilize it before disemboweling the Scaly One.
As well as his fighters were doing, Sartas had his own hands full. For every Liskash that he cut down, there were three more to take its place. He gave the head of his javelin to one of them; dying, it reached for the haft and held onto it as it fell backwards, taking the javelin out of the talonmaster’s grip. Snarling, he ducked under a sword just in time as he pulled his own blade from its sheath; he felt the tip of one of his ears trickling blood. Too close. He chopped at the Liskash that had swung at him, forcing it back. Feinting to the left, he ducked low and stabbed quickly with the short sword, catching his opponent in the chest with the tip of the blade. The Scaly One didn’t have time to hiss as it fell off the blade, dead.
There were already others to take its place, however. A slung stone grazed the side of Sartas’s shoulder; he whirled and dropped to a knee as two more went sailing over his head to impact with a foe behind him. He charged forward again, shouldering a Liskash in the back; it stumbled forward, impaling itself on one of his warrior’s javelins. He knew that he couldn’t stop moving; more would be crowding at his back. Sartas slashed one lizard across its legs, spinning with the cut and opening its throat with another blow as it fell to the ground.
Finally, the inevitable happened; they started dying. One warrior fell, followed by another; javelins and swords and claws from the mob came in unending waves. Even with all of their ferocity and bravery, Sartas’s warriors could not fight in such a melee forever. Sartas had just cut a Liskash from stem to stern when he noticed that Rrerren had suddenly stopped laughing; whirling around to where he last saw the warrior, his heart dropped. Rrerren was standing with a sword through his back and out his chest, a confused look on his face. Then he spun on a heel, decapitating the Liskash that had run him through. Sartas sprinted through the fighting, dodging Liskash and Mrem alike to reach Rrerren’s side just as he fell to his knees.
“Already?” He sputtered, trying to grin as he was coughing up too much blood. “I’ve only killed twenty more Scaly Ones than Arschus has. I can’t let—” The light left Rrerren Rras’s eyes in that moment, and he went slack in Sartas’s grip, still smiling. Sartas came up from the ground roaring, baring his fangs and looking at the surrounding Liskash with unadulterated murder in his eyes. He surged forward, blocking a javelin with his sword; he collapsed the throat of the javelin-wielder with the edge of his shield. The Scaly One doubled over, unable to breathe; Sartas swung his sword with all of his might, cleaving off the enemy’s head and shoulder with a single blow. The other foes all backed away from him, none of them wanting to be the next to face his wrath.
Sartas took a step towards them, intending to find a new victim for his fury. He stopped suddenly, feeling as confused as Rrerren had looked. He couldn’t move his left leg. Looking down, he saw that there was a javelin going through the meat of his thigh, still quivering. The Liskash around him saw the opening, and came for him; he was put on the defensive, swatting away swords and javelins while not being able to maneuver at all. Soon, they would swarm him, and that would be the end. He could see that more of his warriors were failing and dying; in twos or threes or alone, they killed and were cut down in turn.
Just when it looked like the onslaught was going to overwhelm him, Sartas saw that some of the others were coming for him: Ssenna and Miarrius, fighting as a pair, with Arschus carving a path through the Liskash from a different direction. The throng of Liskash separating them from the talonmaster was too strong; every time they pushed forward, they were driven back just as quickly. He tried to call out to them, to tell them to leave him and fight for themselves. It was no use, however; the din of battle drowned out every word he said more thoroughly than the New Water had drowned the valley.
Arschus disappeared behind a wall of Liskash. He had several arrows and javelins sticking out from his hide, but he did not stop; whenever the Liskash came at him, he cut them down with swings of his axe. He eventually slowed, however, until he progressed no further; the last Sartas saw of him, before the Liskash got between them, he was splitting one of the Scaly Ones in half while throttling another to death with his left hand.
Miarrius and Ssenna had been stopped by the mob of Liskash between them and Sartas as well. They were fighting back to back; Ssenna was cradling her left arm while stabbing Liskash with one of their own javelins. Miarrius was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but that didn’t seem to have slowed his assault. A slung stone struck his hand, causing him to drop his dagger; with that hole in his defense, three Liskash swords bit into the flesh of his chest. Miarrius killed two of them, rending the throat of the second one with only his claws before he finally fell to the ground. Ssenna finished off the third Liskash, standing over Miarrius’s body. The Liskash pressed in with spears; from the sound of things, Sartas knew that she did not die alone.
The wounded talonmaster hissed at the Liskash around him. We all go together here. He was committed to make his friends’ sacrifice worth it, and to match it. He gathered his strength, willing himself past the pain from his wounds. Sartas snapped the haft of the javelin that had pierced his thigh to free himself, then leapt into the air off of his good leg. Driving the splintered wood down, he lodged it into the eye socket of a Liskash, sending the scaly horror down gurgling.
Another opponent came swept in from Sartas’s left, narrowly missing the talonmaster with a poorly aimed bash from his shield. Sartas struck the Liskash on the temple with the pommel of his sword, spinning it in his hands to turn the point downwards before stabbing the Liskash in its back from above. Just as the spray of its blood washed over his face, he felt his body shake. An arrow had slipped past his arms and through his armor, lodging in the side of his gut. Sartas stumbled backwards, barely managing to wrench his sword loose before he lost his balance completely.
“I’m done for.” Sartas said it for no one other than himself. He had seen enough arrow wounds to the belly to know that he didn’t have long. With no Dancers to heal him, never mind the fact that he’d never get off of this battlefield, the outcome was certain. He’d bleed out. So he had better take as many of the bastards with him as he could before he no longer had the strength to move. Propping himself up on one arm, he held out his sword with the other, keeping the blade as steady as he could. “The next one of you dies. The one after him won’t be as lucky, you sons of snakes.”
Sartas couldn’t hear any of the sounds of battle; no more swords on shields or other swords, the whack of javelin hafts meeting, the screams of the dying. Was he really the only one left?
“SARTAS REWL!” The Liskash around him opened their ranks just enough so that he could see who had called out his name. It was Shar Enthiss. Sartas had not seen him during the fight, save for the very beginning. After that, it had been hard enough for any of them to keep track of anything besides the enemy immediately in front of them. Shar had lost all of his weapons, and his shield. His armor looked like it had been clawed and ripped away from his body, with his harness left in tatters. His fur was utterly drenched in blood, his ears were tattered, and clumps of fur around his face were torn out. Sartas could not tell how much of the blood was Shar’s and how much of it was Liskash. His doubts were dispelled in the next moment, when Shar dug both of his clawed hands into the belly of a Liskash and nearly pulled it apart. Gore splattered everywhere, but Shar did not stop for a moment. His eyes were wild, and any Liskash that came across his path met its end. With claws and fangs, anything he was able to touch he would rend to pieces.
Shar had breached the circle of Liskash that surrounded Sartas. They all backed away from him, some trembling visibly; Shar looked like something from a terrible afterlife full of blood and rage. Upon spying the talonmaster, Shar smiled, baring yellowed teeth between red-covered lips. His smile left him just as suddenly as it had come when a javelin pierced him just below his breastbone. He looked down at the offending javelin as if it was rude to interrupt him. The Liskash that was holding the javelin tried to pull it back out, but Shar grabbed the shaft of it. The Liskash began to pull on the javelin more frantically. That’s when the young warrior pulled himself along the javelin towards the Scaly One, impaling himself further. Shar stabbed his talons into the Liskash fighter’s arms when he was close enough, screaming, “CLAN OF THE LONG FANG!” He then sunk his teeth into the lizard’s neck, ripping out its throat. A look of deep satisfaction was the last thing to cross Shar Enthiss’s face before he fell to a dozen swords and javelins.
The Liskash were gathering in closer around Sartas now. They were hissing and spitting, with swords raised. He was losing strength, fast; too much of his blood was gone. A wordless roar pierced the air; all of the Liskash around him went quiet. An opening formed in the circle; beyond it was the largest Liskash Sartas Rewl had ever seen. It was armored in patchwork bronze scales and pieces of discarded hide. Sartas’s eyes went wide at what it was holding, however; the mangled body of Arschus Mroa. The Liskash fiend dropped the corpse, licking its lips as it stalked over to Sartas. It stalked closer until it was next to him.
The Liskash, clearly the leader of the others from the deference they showed him, pointed a single scaly claw at Sartas. “You die,” it said in broken Mrem. “We take all.” Its expression remained unchanged, but Sartas could tell it was relishing this moment. Sartas took several deep breaths, then propped himself up on an elbow. With a monumental effort, he brought himself to his feet.
“No. We both die.” Sartas pulled the javelin from his thigh, a gout of blood spurting sluggishly from the wound; he would bleed out that much quicker because of it, but he could also move better now. The Scaly One must have understood Sartas; tilting its head back to roar, it sprinted towards him. Sartas dashed at it; he would have to have perfect timing for this to work. The Liskash swung his sword down just as Sartas knew he would. The talonmaster raised his sword to meet the blow, but held it in a loose grip. At the last moment, he pulled the sword closer so that it was the tip that made contact with the Liskash blade. The swords meet with a clang, and Sartas’s spun out of his hand into the air. As quick as a blast of lightning, he snatched the sword with his off hand, and swung it laterally; it caught the Liskash leader in the ribs, snaking under the edge of its armor. Sartas tugged on the blade to carry it through, then pulled it out. The ground trembled as the leader fell to its knees, clutching its ruined belly. With a final scream, Sartas raised his sword above his head, then brought it down with both hands through the Liskash’s spine.
There was absolute silence for a long time, as Sartas stood, swaying in place. Then the air filled with hisses, in tones of panic, and the Liskash backed away—slowly, at first, then scattering like the leaderless lizards they now were. In a few more moments, he was alone on the field of battle, surrounded by the dead.
His vision went black around the edges, and he found he was unable to stand any longer. He fell to the ground, but no longer felt any pain in his leg or his belly. The last thing he saw was the sun, partially hidden behind some clouds. That seeing the sun like that . . . always reminds me . . . of Reshia. . . .
* * *
On the hill above, Mreiss Lrew dashed the water from his eyes with the back of his hand, and watched the panicked mob of Liskash scatter to the winds. It would take them a long time to organize themselves, get over their fear, and come back. But it would happen, he had no doubt of that. Maybe not that particular group, but these were Liskash lands; it would happen under one of the nobles, or another strong warrior.
By that time, he needed to be long gone.
More treacherous water blurred his vision, but he gathered up the reins of his mount, and scrambled onto its back. Lashing its rump with anger, he startled it into a gallop. He wasn’t going to worry about saving it now. He would be leaving it at the base of the cliff anyway.
In the meanwhile, he would get all the speed out of it that he could. And maybe the wind would dry his eyes so that he did not disgrace himself in front of the clan.
When he reached the cliff, his mount was stumbling; he snatched what was left of his belongings off its back and turned it loose with a final slap to its rump. There was no sign of the clan, not even the eldest or the most feeble. Good. Sartas and the rest had bought them enough time.
Damn his eyes! They would not stop watering!
But he didn’t need to see to climb.
With the aid of a lifetime of practice, he swarmed up the face of the cliff, claws finding sure purchase every time he planted them. In what seemed like almost no time his hands met empty air; he was at the top. He hauled himself over the edge, and peered to the horizon.
There they were, made small as fleas by the distance. He began to run.
* * *
Mreiss reached the clan, panting hard and sweating heavily. The others all crowded around him when he came. Every new person had a question for him.
“Did the others make it?”
“Where is everyone?”
“How many Liskash did we kill?”
“Did we win?”
He ignored all of them. But he didn’t ignore her. When Reshia came forward, all of the others went silent.
He saw by her lack of expression that she already knew the sum of what he would tell her. But she didn’t know all of it, not the details, not the whole truth. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he began to recite, calling up even the smallest action in his mind, for none of this should be forgotten. There were three of the elders that were singers and tale-tellers; vaguely, he heard them murmuring to themselves as they committed his words to memory.
Finally, he was almost done. Silence fell heavily on the Clan of the Long Fang. He opened his eyes, to look into Reshia’s face.
“Reshia . . .” He took a deep breath, fighting back the cursed water from his eyes; he must not break now, not in front of her and the rest. “Sartas . . . he was the bravest . . . he—”
“He did what he must for the Clan of the Long Fang.” She placed a hand upon his shoulder. Just for that moment, Mreiss saw a flicker of what she was really feeling; the loss, the pain, and also the resolve to survive. “As you must now do.”
He remembered what Sartas had told him; how the clan would need a seasoned, fit warrior to lead it. There were elders who were seasoned, but not fit. There were fit males that could become warriors who were not seasoned. And there would be fit and seasoned warriors who could not lead if their lives depended on it. Now it was clear why Sartas had given him the orders that he had. Now, in this moment, when the others were listening to him, when they were looking at him with eyes that begged for someone to tell them what to do, he could be that person, that leader. Letting Sartas down . . . was not an option. There was only one thing that he could do to honor the memories of his comrades, his mentors . . . to honor his friends, who had all died so valiantly.
Mreiss Lrew was certain of what must be done; he hadn’t ever wanted it, and still didn’t, but honor and the survival of the Clan of the Long Fang demanded it.
He drew himself up and planted the end of his spear in the ground at his feet. “The Liskash that pursued us are scattered, but we are still in Liskash lands, and we have a long way to go.” He looked about him to see who was left. “Hwrarall, take three of your choice and scout the path ahead. Reshia, please lead the van and keep them in order; stop when you see a good place to camp for the night. I will take Llrariss, Shorwa and Mrawwa and cover the rear.” He pointed towards the horizon.
“We travel to the Clan of the Claw, as Sartas Rewl, talonmaster of the Clan of the Long Fang, wished.”