By Tooth and Claw

by S. M. Stirling

  She looked up at him, puzzled. “The . . . Ashala,” she said carefully as if the name hurt to say, “called her handmaidens priestesses. But they were Liskash. Can a Mrem be a priestess? And a priestess of what?”

  He was shocked. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that they wouldn’t know of Aedonniss and Assirra. That was like not knowing which direction the sun rose.

  “Surely you know about the great god Aedonniss?” he said. “He created the world!” And he told her all about that.

  Prenna nodded politely when he’d finished.

  “What do you think?” Canar Trowr asked when she remained silent.

  “I think it’s a very pretty story,” she said. “But we were fooled once into worshiping a false god. I don’t think we’ll give our faith so easily to another. Besides,” she said thoughtfully, “if he created everything and he is a Mrem in shape, then why did he make the Liskash so powerful? Or at all for that matter?”

  He stared down into those big, green eyes and had no answer. “I’m only a soldier,” he said. “Not a philosopher. There are such among the Clan of the Claw. If you care to seek them out perhaps they could tell you.”

  “Look,” Prenna said pointing ahead.

  There in the distance was a dust cloud, a fairly substantial one. And here, running towards them as fast as he could was a spear-carrying scout.

  “Hamsticorns!” they heard him shout. “Our hamsticorns!”

  The word spread rapidly and the Mrem all cheered and clapped their hands in joy. Krar came jogging up to the head of the caravan and consulted with the panting scout. Then he gave a shout and ran the way the scout had come.

  * * *

  As soon as the caravan joined the herd they made camp. The first thing they did after circling the wagons was cut out a beast to kill and roast. Everyone was cheerful at the thought of fresh meat.

  Mrem, Canar Trowr reflected, were made to eat meat.

  As the feast finished, thunder rolled and they hastily erected the huge tents they’d been hauling. As much as they liked meat they disliked being rained on. It was unnerving, too, to have rain so far out of season. The wise in the Clan of the Claw had told Canar Trowr that it was because of the new sea. Apparently all that water was changing the weather.

  “We’ll be here for a day or so with this,” Tral said, handing him a skewer of meat chunks. “The trails, such as they are, will be too muddy for the wagons to travel.”

  “It’s good you’ll have a chance to rest your stock,” Canar Trowr said. “Besides, it’s past time you all had a meeting to decide what you want to do.”

  Tral looked at him. “I suppose it is. Our idea when we escaped was to join up with the wild Mrem,” he said thoughtfully. “But that’s not much of a plan.”

  “The preferred term is ‘free Mrem.’” Canar Trowr told him. “My people don’t think of themselves as wild.”

  The healer laughed. “No, I suppose not. Thank you for pointing that out. Perhaps you could tell me the best way to approach your people. All our hopes are tied to traveling with you to someplace far from the Liskash.”

  Canar Trowr nodded. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

  * * *

  The next day the remains of the bundor herd caught up to them, and again there was much rejoicing. Not least from the bundor herders who had feared being left hopelessly behind.

  That night they gathered together for a long delayed meeting. The Mrem stood in a circle around a central fire; even the kits were among them for this was an historic event. In a cleared space before the fire stood the acknowledged elders.

  Mahssa and Tral as the eldest among them took charge. They’d long since felt out the other elders about confirming Krar as their leader. The others had hemmed and hawed and said they’d like to ponder, but when pressed acknowledged that he was the best candidate by far. Still, they insisted on putting it up for a vote and so that business led off the meeting.

  “Does anyone have another they’d like to propose?” Tral asked the crowd.

  “I object to Krar as leader,” Rav said. “He’s a bully who pushes people around.”

  “You mean he pushed you around when you were acting like a rampaging bundor.” Mahssa sneered and her tail thrashed. “And the question was who else could be our leader? Are you suggesting yourself, Rav?”

  The young Mrem held up both hands in negation and took a step back.

  “We don’t have time to waste,” Tral said. “If there are no others then I move we vote now.” He looked around at the serious faces. “All those in favor of Krar for leader say aye.”

  The entire crowd roared “Aye!” with one voice.

  Krar stood a moment longer among them, then strode into the center of the circle.

  “I swear to lead you to the best of my ability,” he promised. “I also swear to place your good above my own and to strive to be an honest and responsible leader. I will always listen to you.”

  He lowered his head and snorted softly. “I can’t and won’t promise to always do what you want. I can only promise to try to be fair and just to all of you.”

  When he was finished the crowd roared approval and Krar smiled, fit to burst with pride.

  Then Canar Trowr shuffled painfully into the open circle.

  “You may not know me,” he said to them. “I am Canar Trowr, soldier and scout of the Clan of the Claw. It is good that you have finally selected a leader. But now you must do more. You must become a clan. All of you will be bound by this. It means that you are like one family, loyal to one another and to your leader. It means that if you go off on your own you might not be able to come back. Because each member of a clan relies on every other Mrem in the clan. You must become a unit. And your clan must have a name that you will all acknowledge.”

  This threw them all into an uproar. They actually were all related. Sisters and brothers, mothers and cousins, fathers as well, though because of the way the Liskash had arranged things, fathers never knew their kits. But the groups had been segregated and thought of themselves as members of those groups and not, as Canar Trowr proposed, as a single unit.

  After a time Krar stood forward again and asked, “Can we do this? Can we be as one?”

  There was a pause and then a rather lukewarm, “Yes,” came from the crowd.

  “We will do this with a whole heart or not at all,” Krar commanded. “We need to be a clan for our own sake, and because it will cause the free Mrem to accept us. Now . . . are we a clan?”

  “Yes!” came back to him in a mighty shout.

  “What will you call yourselves?” Canar Trowr asked.

  Prenna came forward into the speakers circle.

  “I think we should be the clan Ranowr,” she said. “To honor the hero who brought us to freedom. Without him we’d be laboring on Ashala’s holding—slaves still.”

  Krar held back the disbelieving laugh that threatened to escape him.

  Did I hate being under Ranowr’s shadow? he asked himself. Now I shall labor all my life under his shadow! He shook his head.

  Then thought: On the other hand, Prenna is right, he is . . . was . . . a hero, well deserving of the honor. What’s more he’s dead, but I’m alive and the clan’s leader. And, he glanced at Prenna, if I work it right, I might end up mated to the most beautiful female in the clan.

  There was a more solemn pause and then, one by one each Mrem said, “Aye.”

  Krar managed to say his “Aye,” late, but not last.

  * * *

  They resumed their march two days later, well rested and feeling certain that Ashala’s people did not pursue them. Now that they had become a clan the groups mingled more and they relaxed with one another.

  After another four days scouts came back to report that the free Mrem had been spotted. The Clan of Ranowr greeted this news with joy and trepidation mixed.

  Krar, Tral, Mahssa and Canar Trowr went forward to meet them in one of the wagons.

  At first all they saw was the du
st cloud, even a heavy rain didn’t keep the ground damp in this heat. In what seemed like a very short time they were in sight of the great caravan of Mrem and their stock. From out of the cloud strange vehicles came towards them, pulled by strange creatures.

  Krar pulled the wagon to a stop and stared anxiously, not certain they wouldn’t be met with weapons instead of welcomes.

  “What are those things?” he asked Canar Trowr.

  “Chariots!” the wounded scout answered. “And unless my eyes deceive me that is Rantan Taggah himself coming to greet us!”

  “He is your leader?” Krar asked.

  “Talonmaster of the Clan of the Claw,” Canar Trowr answered. “Just as you are talonmaster of the Clan of Ranowr, and so you must identify yourself.” He put his hand on Krar’s shoulder. “My people will welcome you, I think. Be happy! Be proud!”

  “Yes,” Krar said quietly. “I am.”

  * * *

  Song of Petru

  XXXIV

  Heart

  Lost and alone

  Amid Liskash hordes

  They sought the path

  The way to home

  Instead they found

  A Sacred Path

  A Blessed Home

  Song of Petru

  * * *

  Sanctuary

  ERIC FLINT

  CHAPTER 1

  Sebetwe

  Knest died toward the beginning of the durre kot, the witching time before sunrise.

  It was a dangerous period. Not as dangerous as midnight, but still perilous—especially this early into durre kot. Knest’s soul would have to withstand the assault of pejeq and milleteq and whatever other demons might be lurking on the great mountainside until the sun finally rose above the horizon and Huwute’s brilliance drove the demons back into their lairs.

  Even the strongest disciple would be hard-pressed to survive that long. As the sky brightened, the demons would be driven to greater and greater fury in their assault on Knest’s soul. That was especially true of the pejeq, who were undoubtedly in great numbers at this altitude. Milleteq were often sluggish, but not their hungrier and more ethereal kin—and the greater danger the pejeq faced when Huwute’s rays began piercing the heavens would make them frantic toward the end.

  Only the firmest disciple’s soul could hope to pass through that ordeal intact. And Knest . . .

  “He was a weakling,” Herere said harshly. “He won’t last even halfway through the durre kot.”

  Aqavo stared down at Knest’s corpse, hissing softly as her eyes traced the long wound left by the grek wadda. The venom had left the flesh pale, putrid-looking, altogether horrid. Fortunately, the plant’s venom rendered its victim unconscious before it began its deadly and hideous work. Knest had at least not died in great pain.

  The fourth member of the party, Nabliz, gazed at the horizon where—much too late—Huwute would finally rise. “Herere is right,” he said softly. “You know she is, Sebetwe.”

  Sebetwe did know it, but he hesitated to give the order. Aqavo, probably the kindest of the group, put his reluctance into words. “That would be the true death for Knest. His soul gone forever.”

  Herere shifted her weight on her haunches. “When his soul is taken by a demon he will also suffer the true death—and we will be at great risk ourselves.”

  She was right. A pejeq riding a captured soul or a milleteq enlarged by devouring one would be able to attack them throughout the night. At dawn and dusk also—any time except when Huwute’s glory filled the sky.

  “We must do it, Sebetwe,” said Nabliz.

  Aqavo said nothing, but her slumped shoulders indicated her agreement. Herere glared at Sebetwe, then down at the corpse of Knest. After a moment, she drew her knife.

  Sebetwe raised a hand. “I will do it,” he said. “Aqavo, start the fire.”

  He drew out his ax. It was typical of Herere that she would think to use a knife to cut open a skull. The huge female was always prone to displaying her great strength. Sebetwe, average size for a male Liskash, would use a more reliable tool for the purpose.

  Delay was dangerous. So, with none of the ritual formality he would have preferred, Sebetwe smashed open Knest’s skull. Two more blows of the axe were enough to expose the narrow brain case. Then, using a taloned hand, he scooped out the brain. He laid it on a bare rock, since Aqavo’s fire was only starting to build.

  While he was busy at that task, Herere sliced open Knest’s chest and abdomen. With Nabliz’s help, the dead disciple’s heart, lungs and liver were soon removed from the body.

  The heart and lungs, they would eat, to keep what might be left of Knest’s valor and spirit in their midst. Could they have done the same with the brain, they might have been able to save Knest’s soul as well. But that would be perilous. Devilkins usually infested the brains of dead people; not powerful ones like pejeq or milleteq but sly and malicious ones who sought to infest those who ate such brains.

  So the brain would have to be burned. Had Knest died at home, or at least in safer surroundings, they could have performed the rites and embalming rituals that would have preserved his soul long enough for it to pass into a newborn.

  The liver would also be burned, lest whatever sins and evils had lurked within Knest should escape into the world with his death.

  * * *

  By the time they were done, Huwute had fully risen. The goddess’s splendor was still dim enough that one could gaze upon her without danger, but that would not last long. Huwute was vain and thus dangerous, as deities so often were.

  Sebetwe knew that most Liskash tribes actually worshipped Huwute. Primitives, not much more than savages, who could not distinguish the manifestations of the Godhead from itself. In truth, it was sloppy thinking to visualize the sun as a “goddess,” though most disciples did it anyway.

  Sebetwe knew that Huwute was not really a deity, simply the manifestation—not the only; but certainly the greatest—of the Godhead’s self-consideration. Dangerous, not in the way that a conscious beast is dangerous but in the way a fire or a rockslide is dangerous.

  It was not always easy to remember the teachings, though. Sebetwe found it hard not to resent Huwute’s stately and self-satisfied progression. Could the goddess not have hastened her steps a bit, to keep Knest’s soul in the world?

  * * *

  The work was done, all their belongings back in their packs. Sebetwe straightened and gazed up the mountain. They still had a long way to go before they reached their destination. The trek up the slope would be arduous. The thin and cold air of the mountainside would sap their energy, making them more sluggish as the day passed.

  That was how Knest had died, in late afternoon of the previous day. His brain had become dulled; so dulled that he had not noticed the filaments of the grek wadda lying in wait against the rocks until the monster struck.

  They would have to be careful—and ever more so as they neared their goal. The gantrak of the mountains guarded their nests fiercely.

  Achia Pazik

  Lavi Tur slid down the slope to come to rest beside Achia Pazik. Despite the peril of the moment, the Dancer was amused by the young male’s graceful flamboyance. Because of his age, Lavi Tur was not formally a warrior yet—a fact that aggravated him no end because he felt, probably rightly, that he was as strong and agile as almost any warrior in the clan.

  “Probably” rightly? Achia Pazik asked herself silently. The question was a bitter one. After the disastrous outcome of the battle three days ago with Zilikazi’s army, Lavi Tur was almost certainly as strong and agile as any warrior in the tribe. She didn’t think there were many left who weren’t dead or captured or so badly wounded that they were unavailable for any more fighting. For a time, anyway. And the casualties among the Dancers had been worse than those suffered by the warriors.

  Zilikazi had targeted the Dancers from the very beginning of the battle, sending massed units of mounted warriors at them. The mind power of the Liskash noble who lorded it ov
er the lands bordering on the great southern mountains had been incredible. No scaled noble they’d encountered before had been nearly as domineering.

  The Dancers had been stunned, the warriors even more so. The battle had been over within two hours. Only small groups of the tribespeople had escaped; the rest, killed or enslaved. Most of those who had escaped, Achia Pazik thought, had fled back in the direction from which they’d come, to the northeast. But she and the handful with her wound up, in the chaos and confusion, being separated from all others and making their escape to the south. They’d apparently moved completely around the huge Liskash army, although they’d had no conscious intention of doing so.

  But it was too late now to do anything more than continue south. Trying to retrace their steps would surely be disastrous. Achia Pazik wanted no further contact with Zilikazi until and unless she could figure out some way to counteract his incredible mental force. And how was she supposed to do that, with no more aid than could be provided by one other Dancer, five warriors, one not-quite-a-warrior, four other females—one of them elderly, albeit hale and vigorous—and three kits?

  Their only chance was to make it into the mountains. Hopefully, the dropping temperatures would deter Zilikazi’s soldiers from pursuing them. Liskash didn’t like cold; it made them sluggish.

  “Chefer Kolkin says the way is clear as far ahead as he can see.” Lavi Tur spoke in a hissing whisper, which Achia Pazik thought was a bit dramatic given the very content of what he had to say. If the way was clear, why worry about being overheard?

  But she didn’t chide or tease him. Like most younglings, Lavi Tur was sensitive to criticism.

  “All right,” she said. “Pass the word to the others. We’ve rested long enough. We have to get higher before nightfall.”

  After Lavi Tur left, Achia Pazik looked up the slope. She was in a slight depression and couldn’t see the peak of the mountains whose side they’d been climbing. But she knew they still had a long way to go.