By Tooth and Claw

by S. M. Stirling

  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 watc
hed 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.”

  * * *

  Song of Petru

  XXIX

  By the Claw

  The Land was dry

  Their hearts drier

  Many were lost

  All enslaved

  But by the claw

  And by the rock

  Freedom was found

  The Trek joined

  * * *

  A Clan’s Foundation

  S.M. STIRLING

  Halt!” Krar called.

  His tongue came out and licked his nose, but it was sandpaper-dry. He wrinkled his nostrils again, straining to scent something besides dry earth and rock and dry-season grass and the rank smell of males and females and kits pushed beyond endurance.

  Water! He thought. Water is worth halting for. Thirst can kill us as dead as Ashala’s troops would if they catch us.

  True, Mrem could keep going on willpower. But herdbeasts would just lie down and die if you pushed them too far.

  If the stock die, we die too. . . . But the Liskash need less water than we do. They are of the scale-kind, not beings-of-fur. They will not let their slaves go easily.

  He looked around. Yellow grass almost the color of Mrem fur stretched in all directions in a hissing, swaying tide reaching to his waist. Now and then there would be a flat-topped thorny tree with dark leathery leaves, and weaver-nests hanging from the branches in untidy bundles. More occasionally a rocky hillock clothed in olive scrub. Wings hung overhead, from tiny creatures to great gruesome scavengers.

  He smelled the wet earth nearby and yearned towards it, thirsty as he was.

  “Follow,” he rasped.

  Spears bristled behind him as he loped; he was a big tawny Mrem, with a longer tail than most and scars from Mrem claws as well as Liskash whips. The spring was at the foot of one of the rocky hills, trickling down the reddish sandstone of a cliff. Below, it collected and spread to a fair-sized pool. With an effort of will that made him snarl he kept watch while others drank, then plunged towards the cool water.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed, wiping his face and whiskers with the back of a hand. “Bring the others! Fill the pots!”

  They were two days and a night away from Ashala’s holding, barely stopping long enough to water the stock at any scum-filled hollow and let them graze for short periods. Every animal and Mrem needed to rest.

  Krar trotted back to the main body and raised a brawny arm; with much confusion the caravan eventually halted in response. He shook his head.

  We’re in trouble. A herd of wild bundor has more order.

  If Ashala’s troops caught up with them the living would envy those killed outright. The Liskash were cruel by nature, and coldly murderous when crossed or defied. He wanted to thrash his tail in frustration and worry, but was too cursed tired. The need to push on warred with the need to rest.

  That and the fact that the krelprep pulling the wagons were practically dragging their noses in the dirt, their gaunt flanks heaving. They couldn’t afford to lose even one more of them. The wagons carried their food and water. Those jars and bales let them endure between springs and not delay by spreading out to forage.

  We move so much more slowly than soldiers would, or a party of hunters! The sick and the kits will die if I push too hard . . . but we will all die if the Liskash catch us.

  The dried food was holding well enough and they could butcher a beast when they had to, but water . . . water was always a problem.

  There was good grass here and even some high ground to give them a look down their back trail. He stared at the rocky face of the low cliff across the water hole. Yes, that would do very well for a lookout post. Krar wishe
d he knew what was going on behind him, but he didn’t think anyone was going to volunteer to hang back to find out. And his leadership was tenuous, so it was unlikely he could order someone to do it. If he tried he had no doubt he’d be invited to do it himself. Too many of them thought being free of the Liskash meant doing just what they wanted at any given moment.

  Mrem were making their way towards him, anxiety in their eyes, though their faces were blank in the way that habit and necessity made common among slaves.

  “Is something wrong?” Mrownes asked. He was a few summers older than Krar with a whip scar across his face. A friend and hopefully a supporter.

  “Nothing; something’s right for a change.” Krar gestured at the water. That was when he noticed the herds of bundor and hamsticorns surging forward. The heads of the krelprep were up, their nostrils quivering. The drivers were barely holding them in place.

  “Curse it,” he swore. “Mange upon them!”

  He and the other Mrem moved together as the animals pushed around them, their attention all on the water. Occasionally someone would snarl when the herdbeasts jostled them, and the sound of predator anger would make them shy away a little even in their thirst.

  “It’ll be hours before the mud settles and we can fill our jars.”

  He looked at one of the herders. “Next time we come to a water hole keep them back so that we can get our water first,” he snapped.