Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One (31 page)

The Dancers murmured among themselves.

“So he can conquer ones like us more easily?” Bau growled. “Knowledge is power!”

“How does he want to learn about us?” Cassa Fisook asked.

Sherril opened a hand. “Before we pass through his land, Lord Tae proposes to have representatives of our tribe visit him in his citadel. They will be welcomed as guests, free to come and go as they please—with certain restrictions, naturally. He would hear our songs and poetry, see our art, and learn the history of our people. He specifically said he wished to meet the Dancers.”

“To deprive us of their magic,” Bau said at once. “Once in, the visitors are certain to become prisoners. I am wary of his intentions. My warriors will feel the same.”

“It is quite understandable that he wants to know us,” Cassa Fisook said, blinking her wise green eyes. “It is also undeniable that it might be a trap.”

“Whoever goes in will have no assurance of getting out,” Sherril said. He felt his own sacrifice was going unnoticed. After all he had been through! “As I had.”

Bau snorted. His golden eyes gleamed. “We are well aware that you have just gone into the serpent’s mouth and emerged unscathed,” he said. “You want gratitude; you have it. Well done. Now, we must plan to achieve the same with a greater number.”

Cassa Fisook saw the disappointed expression on Sherril’s face and regarded him with sympathy.

“Your deed will not be forgotten, my friend. It shall be added to the annals of our tribe. Rest now.”

Sherril feigned a convincing collapse into exhaustion though he held up a hand to protest. “That won’t be necessary, Your Sinuousness. I am prepared to lead our visitors back to Lord Tae’s stronghold, immediately if necessary.”

Bau was fooled neither by the sudden show of weakness nor Sherril’s self-sacrificing offer.

“The elders and warriors need to hear slimy Lord Tae’s proposal,” Bau said. He flicked a hand toward a white-and-black mottled servant. “Go tell them to gather in the hollow up on the ridge. I will address them there. We will decide which of us will go into the trap.” The servant bounded away, running.

“I will give them a full report, of course,” Sherril said, complacently. “They will want to know how many doors lie where, how high the walls are and how many guards stand upon them.”

Bau had to hand it to the old scamp. He would gladly have done without him—would rather have done without him—but he realized now that he could not. For the same reason that they had sent Sherril there as their emissary, he would be of great use on the return journey. Sherril had well-developed survival instincts. He seemed to sleep with one eye open, and no one had yet caught him off guard for any of the beatings that he had earned and undoubtedly deserved. Sherril was capable of preceding you through a doorway but ending up behind you as if he had the dinos’ own evil magic. His powers of observation were legendary throughout the camp as he had been in their own land, many leagues behind them to the east. If he had been able to wield a spear or hold up that bulk of his longer than three breaths in a fight, he could easily have maneuvered himself into the position of talonmaster. But no one would ever trust him. Bau knew better than that. But he always managed to find himself a vantage point. He
was
a Mrem. Better to give him his chance than to have him working against the group because he was thwarted.

“Very well, then. Come and make your case.”

* * *

The high hollow amid the thin-branched trees made a natural amphitheater. The remaining warriors, only three hundred sixty in number, settled themselves on the cool earth. With a hiss and a meaningful look, Cleotra made the younger females settle down and stop whispering. Only twenty-three Dancers and apprentices, out of fifty that had lived in the old land before the floods came, had made it this far. She fervently hoped they would lose no more. Her friend and fellow Dancer Nolda Ilu lay in a cool spot on the grass, attended to by a couple of the apprentices. She was due to kitten any day. Her last pregnancy, even in the safety of their old home, had almost finished her. Cleotra feared that having to give birth on the road would be too much for her. The baby in her belly kicked once in a while, showing the outline of a tiny foot, as if impatient to be free. Cleotra begged the tiny one to wait, at least until they knew they had safe passage through Ckotliss.

Many of the females of the clan were near to their time. By all rights they should be making up nests for themselves in a comfortable corner of their homes, laying in special treats and nourishing foods to see them through their confinements. Mrem females liked to give birth in private. The custom, admittedly, was a throwback to their uncivilized days, when males hoping to force females back into estrus would kill kittens who did not bear their scent, but Cleotra simply didn’t care for an audience when she was on her side, straining to produce her baby. No one would dare to watch her in that undignified time! She cherished her son and daughter, but was glad that no siblings for them were in the offing.

Everyone had had to fight their natural urges to beget more young, at least until they were safely on their way to rejoin the clan on the north side of the new water. It wasn’t easy when so many of the males were attractive and virile, and the tantalizing spice of spring was in the air. It would be the most natural thing in the world to choose this year’s mate from among the ebony-coated warriors and tear the night apart with longing cries and wails of satisfaction. Look at that foolish child, Ysella, making eyes at the lieutenant of the guard. She had not even had her first estrus yet! Luckily, Scaro Ullenh’s gaze was wandering among the mature Dancers, as if he had a hope of mating with one of them! It wasn’t for want of trying; that was sure. There wasn’t a female of bearing age he had not propositioned, many times, over the course of the last months, including herself. Handsome he was, to be certain, with a deep chest, a narrow waist, and strong, springy thighs, but what an ego!

Nature was against them. Cleotra believed—she must believe—that Aedonniss had not turned his face away from his children.

On one side of the ridge lay the verdant valley ruled over by the odious Liskash. On the other was the desert through which the Mrem had lately come. Personally, she liked the heat, though it was making her luxurious fur come out in handfuls. She refused to think the shedding was the result of a lack of decent food. Rations had become distressingly thin. They usually were at this time of year, just before the first planting of spring, but she and her fellow Dancers had sworn to make do on what scanty supplies were left, along with the results of hunting. The local wildlife, mostly lizards and other mindless Liskash-kin, fled on their approach. Cleotra was sick of chameleon stew, fried iguana and roasted flitter—when the hunters were lucky enough to get sufficient food for all the tribe.

She missed meat, red meat. Once when she woke from a dream of eating a thick, juicy haunch of venison, she almost cried. When she got over the disappointment, common sense had returned. Oh, she could have pulled rank and demanded a piece from a herd beast that died on the road. Those carcasses were a rare treat, and there were plenty who needed it more than she did. What easily-digested and most nutritious food they had must be saved for the very young, the sick, the elderly, and the warriors. None of the herd beasts could be spared. They were being used to haul wagons at the moment, but they would form the kernel of new herds when they reached the safe haven where the rest of the Clan awaited them. Out in the desert, there were few palatable sources of meat, almost all Liskash-kin. The sea, which had flanked them on their right all the way from their drowned home, was too perilous for all but line fishing, an unreliable and slow process. The rest of the Mrem could, and did make do on what was left, dried meats, pulses, insect-ridden grains and the disgusting small prey they could snare or shellfish they could dig out of the sand. Sometimes Cleotra hated being so responsible.

She could almost have borne a further trek through the desert better than what lay before them. From the hollow on the ridge she could not only see the valley of the Liskash, but she could smell it. The black earth, fresh and smelling of rain, had been freshly turned for planting, and lay in neat squares awaiting seed. The sour-sweet odor of composted manure did not sicken her, except possibly to make her homesick. Her mother’s household should have been planting now. All those farmers, swept out to sea! She lifted her hands to the sky and swayed them in a pattern of prayer to Assirra.
May their souls be at rest.
For a while when the Lailah had started traveling to the west, Cleotra had felt their presence, but only as far as the borders of their land. The dead had stayed behind. Cleotra missed the comforting sensation. In its place, she felt the imposition of the Liskash’s magic. And the stench.

Who would have thought that magic had an odor and a sound of its own? Since childhood, when she had joined the corps of Dancers, the magic of the Mrem’s prayers had been a part of her life, her coming and going, her lying down and rising up, the food she ate, the air she breathed and the people she loved. Though she had Danced many a ritual for protection from them, she hadn’t had to interact with Liskash nobles, until one month into their journey the Lailah had to fight against one who had suddenly noticed that the tribe was cut off from its kin and vulnerable for the first time. He had tried to take over their minds. Only Cassa’s swift realization that something was wrong had saved them. She had whipped the Dancers out of bed and made them dance for their lives. Their talonmaster at the time, Mowar Echirr, had driven back the Liskash’s forces. Cleotra had never forgotten the unbelievable smell of decay that had permeated the camp, and the off-tone of everyone’s voices, birdsong and frogsong. When the Liskash noble fell, everything returned to normal.

She was aware of it now. Lord Tae felt at them with his mind. He was powerful and dangerous. How she hated being at his mercy!

So did her kin. They muttered and yowled among themselves, speculating as to the news. Bau strode into their midst, attracting more gossip. He had buckled on his war harness and donned his bronze clawed gauntlets. The bronze gorget that protected his throat was buried deep in his black and white fur ruff. Instead of the flint-toothed spear he might carry into battle, he held the staff of leadership, a wrist-thick pole carved down its length as a braid. The teeth of enemies studded the turns and folds of wood. From the top dangled strands of hide on which were strung faceted crystals that twinkled and danced. It was used by the designated speaker of the moment because no Mrem could keep his or her eyes off the swaying strings.

Bau snarled and bashed the staff on the ground. Gradually, everyone turned to look and fell silent. Bau fixed his lamplike golden eyes on each of them in turn. When they met Cleotra’s, she shivered. He spoke.

“We are now entrusted by Rantan Taggah to open the way for the rest of the Mrem and find a path to safety. We are now the tip of the talon for the Clan of the Claw. Two weeks ago, we passed what has survived of brother Rau’s Three Fangs. They were supposed to lead next, but you saw in what poor condition they were after their battles.

“The Clan and our herds are hungry and tired. It is up to us to find a way west. We have found it, we hope, but as our scouts report, there’s a hopeless bottleneck. A fortress greater then any we have seen before. Greater than that of the Liskash Rau defeated. The alternative is not an attractive one, and a sand desert in which many would die.”

Some of the gathered Mrem stirred nervously. The hot sands were a friend to the Liskash and doubly dangerous. The leader raised his voice to regain their full attention.

“Where once we were just a small clan concerned for ourselves, now us, Rau, and all who must join together are of the Claw.” Bau paused and held up one hand claws extended. “Now our talons must be swift and deadly.”

He paused, letting his words have effect. Then, in a more even tone, continued.

“You are aware that four days ago, we sent Sherril Rangawo to negotiate safe passage for us through the lands down there.” He gestured down the slope toward the wide valley, then turned to point at Sherril, who preened at the attention. “But there he sits! You can see that he has returned safely. The Lord Tae Shanissi has agreed that we can proceed unmolested…” Bau’s voice was drowned out by a chorus of pleased yowls. “Bury it, you fools! You know it isn’t that simple! This is still a Liskash we’re dealing with. Nothing is straightforward. The weakling dinos always have a reason. They always want an advantage. This is it: in exchange for allowing the tribe to pass through the land, he demands a
cultural exchange
.”

“They can’t understand culture,” Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh said, with a scornful flip of his tail.

Bau nodded agreement. “Not ours; not yet. That is what he claims he wants. We are interesting to him.” He held up a hand to forestall the outbursts. “No, I don’t really believe him. I think it is just a means of gaining power over Mrem, though I do not yet know how he plans to achieve that. We will not know until it’s all over and we’ve shaken the dust of his realm off our feet. But we can’t stay here on the edge of his lands forever. There are too few of us to fight, though we’d take many times our number to Aedonniss with us. To go back and choose another route would cost us months more of travel. I do not lie to you; we have little food left for us or our beasts. We need to trade or buy, and no one else is near enough to sell us grain. We lose Mrem and herds on the road every month we must travel. Those who go to perform for Lord Tae will likely save many lives. I do not pretend that those who go will come back, alive or unaltered. The Liskash magic has robbed many Mrem of their names, minds and freedom. We could lose all those who go into the citadel. Therefore I ask for volunteers.”

Nearly all the warriors leaped to their feet, yowling their willingness. Bau couldn’t help but feel pleased. They knew it was suicide, but that never stopped a true Mrem. He had to weed out the foolhardy, the inexperienced, those who were too young or too old, and especially those who did not rise until they saw their fellows spring up.