By Tooth and Claw

by S. M. Stirling

  The lanky Mrem bowed his head.

  “As you wish, Fistmaster. It would be my honor to serve. I will bring the others back safely.”

  And the story of his exploits upon his return would be certain to earn the admiration and attention of several of the females among them, Petru noted, with an inward smirk. He did not mind what the excuse, if it obtained for him a strong escort.

  “It is settled, then,” Bau said, nodding sharply. “You may choose a fist of warriors to accompany you. Valet, you have my authority to choose three of our number who are not yet afflicted with the fever to gather these herbs and whatever else you may find in the marshlands. Anyone who is not caring for the sick or protecting the perimeter can accompany you to locate these herbs. Come back as quickly as possible.”

  Petru righted himself and brushed off the few grains of sand that had accumulated in his coat.

  “I shall do so, Talonmaster. I have my workforce in mind already.”

  * * *

  “How dare you tell the talonmaster I would come with you?” Sherril Rangawo complained, not for the first or even fifth time since they had set out from the oasis. He trudged along unwillingly, a pack containing several hide sacks on his back, though he was careful to stay half a step before Petru. “I have many important duties to serve!”

  “Nothing is more important than this,” Petru said, fixing a fierce eye on the diplomat’s spine. He could see it was rigid with indignation even under the scanty moonlight of the new claw. “Lady Cleotra has refused to eat anything for more than a day. More than half of the kits are afflicted. They need soft, fresh foods to tempt their appetites, or I fear they may die.”

  Sherril ignored him. His long tail switched back and forth to show his annoyance.

  “I have a basket for gathering eggs,” Nolda said, shrugging a crate woven from straw and stuffed with rags over her narrow shoulders. She had a veil around her face to keep the sand out of her eyes. Her young kit, now several months old, was back at the camp in the care of a nursemaid who was still in good health. He had not shown signs of fever, but she was worried about his dwindling appetite. “We can surely bring enough back for all the sick. I will ensure they return intact.”

  Petru was flattered that she had volunteered to accompany him. As a Dancer she was sacred to the gods, but he knew her to be resourceful and energetic. He regarded her with affection, his pupils enormous in the dim starlight.

  “Dear lady,” he said, with a deep bow. “Your grace will aid us in this enterprise. But just let me straighten that cloth for you.” Nolda had not yet mastered the skill at tying a sand-shield. She had it wrapped as though she was going to play the part of Mystery in the sacred Dance about the origin of Night. With careful hands, Petru pulled the veil off, shook it out, and wound it over the female’s soft black ears and under her chin, leaving the fabric to bell out before her face without touching it. “That’s better.”

  “You take such good care of us, Petru,” Nolda said, with a smile.

  “You honor me.”

  Sherril snorted. The Dancer turned huge golden eyes upon him in surprise.

  “I beg your pardon, Dancer,” he said unctuously. “Sand in my nose.”

  Behind the female’s shoulder, Petru smirked.

  Scaro regarded the valet’s fussing with little patience. He turned to the final member of the foraging party, a former slave named Bireena. Slender but no longer emaciated, she had short, bronze-colored fur with a dark streak on her forehead, a lighter throat and chin, and enormous, sensitive ears that he found intriguing.

  “How far are the swamps from here?” he asked her.

  The Mrem shook herself as though she was surprised to be addressed without violence.

  “A half day of fast walk,” she replied shyly. She carried at least two eights of sacks, more than she ought to have borne, but she had insisted, saying that she was used to burdens. She had a sweet, sad face, with a pointed chin that drew attention to her broad cheekbones and forehead. Scaro wished he could find the Liskash who were responsible for her ill-treatment and tear their guts out, but the chances were great that some of the freed slaves had already taken their revenge on those particular dinos. Bireena was a pretty female. If she had had any spirit in her, she might be a fine companion when they stopped to rest, but he had no wish to take advantage of a Mrem who did not feel she could refuse.

  Scaro looked up. The sky was clear, and the wind had died down to a breeze. He smelled the salt breeze to their right. It seemed closer all the time. So did the faint stink of Liskash. He couldn’t tell whether the smell came from intelligent lizards or their huge and stupid dino kin. Either way they were bad news. He wished he had more warriors at his side than a single fist. Instead, he took the long, bronze-barbed spear from the pack on his back and gripped it in his fist. He nodded to Imrun and Golcha to fan out to the left and right. Taadar and Nil already were in position to scout ahead and trail behind to ensure they were not being followed.

  The smell of Liskash became stronger the farther they walked. He hoped that the lizard-kin would follow their normal pattern of being torpid in the cool night. That way, if he stumbled upon them in their somnolent state, they stood a chance of killing a number of them while those he was protecting could escape.

  Close to dawn, the sweet decay of the marshland was almost overwhelmingly strong as the sun warmed it. The air was moist if not fresh. The ground underfoot changed from wind-polished sandstone to thin grass to almost lush plant life. Ahead in the nascent sunlight they saw the tips of reeds and the sausage shapes of cattails waving in the breeze. To everyone’s relief, the temperature was markedly cooler than it had been in the oasis. Fresh water flowed downhill from the headlands at their left to join the Great Salt not many hundreds of Mrem-lengths to the right. As they stepped over one of those rain-swelled rivulets, the shapes of the plants were thrown into relief.

  “That way,” Petru said, pleased. He recognized those shapes. The reeds were of the type that his grandmother’s book described. This land burgeoned with healing plants. There was more than enough for him to distil tinctures to treat the whole clan and their beasts, and to dry herbs against later need. Scaro took the lead. He let out a whistle that sounded like the hoot of a night bird. It was answered by a similar call from Taadar, far ahead.

  Bireena became almost animated as they walked on in the purple light.

  “We are near my old home,” she said, looking around, her pupils enormous. “It was such a beautiful place. We lived at peace for many generations until the Liskash decided they required slaves. I do not know if anyone remains in this area.”

  “I don’t smell any trace of Mrem,” Scaro said. “Only Liskash.” He had donned his protective necklet and bronze overclaws, a fearsome weapon that could gut a giant lizard in two swipes. He bore his spear in his left hand and his toothed sword in the other. “Stay close to me.”

  “Bah,” Sherril said, looking around him in disgust. “There is nothing out here for the lizards to eat. Why would they be here and not in the citadel?”

  Scaro had no time to answer. He used the spear to part the increasingly tall greenery, seeking for stable footing. Shadowy trees stunted by the brackish water that fed them had become covered with twisting lianas. Huge, multilobed leaves tipped water on them as they passed. One gigantic, cup-shaped frond unleashed a torrent that splashed all of them. Sherril looked disgusted. Bireena seemed delighted. It must remind her of home.

  “I seek triangle-reeds,” Petru said. “Where will we find the greatest number?”

  Bireena jerked her head in a rapid nod toward a wall of greenery to the south. “They grow in large clumps along the inner shore of the marsh, just under the drip line of the trees. We will find a broad line of them just on the edge of the water.” She beckoned to the others to follow her.

  Scaro hurried to catch up as she all but disappeared into the thick marsh. Vines trailing down from the treetops brushed his shoulders. He jumped at each fresh
touch.

  But Bireena, far from being nervous at the plant life, seemed to have been set free from her reticence. She beckoned to Petru to show him this or that flower, that or this reed. Petru nodded, as though taking an inventory. The footing became more and more spongy. Scaro disliked the feeling of water seeping between his toes. He clenched them to test the solidity of the ground below. His warriors followed, picking their way uncomfortably. He sniffed. The heavy smells of rotting plants and mud masked the Liskash stink, but it was still there.

  Petru, as usual, managed to find the driest possible jumps. With grace surprising in one so large, he leaped from hummock to tussock to clump, all without soaking the fur on his legs. Sherril Rangawo, just behind him, was not so lucky. He had already fallen in once, and his fluffy tail, the gray male’s pride and joy, was a stringy mess. Scaro grinned. It was because the councilor didn’t trust the valet’s instincts. And he ought to. That one had a knack for self-preservation.

  The land upon which they had been walking was once headlands, according to Bireena, parted by a delta of a slow-moving, shallow river that poured its brown waters into the once-distant Great Salt. They made their way downslope to the marshland beside the river. Birds hooted their protests as the Mrem walked among their nests and the roots of the trees whose heavy crowns nodded over the flowing river. Bireena and Nolda lifted the leaves covering the nests and peered at each one in turn, marking them for the return journey. No sense in taking eggs yet. The fragile burdens weren’t going anywhere. If they happened to hatch, well, tender chicks were good eating for the sick.

  “Do you smell that?” Nolda asked suddenly.

  “What, mistress?” Petru inquired, hurrying to her side. The Dancer lifted large, worried golden eyes to him.

  “Evil magic is near, Petru. I am uncomfortable. The gods have forsaken this land. Even the birdsong sounds wrong.”

  Petru raised his nose to sniff. The Dancers had said that Liskash magic had a terrible smell like rotting flesh, detectable at hundreds of Mrem-lengths’ distance. Alas, he had not the enhanced senses blessed by the gods. All that he detected was the smell of ordinary Liskash, quickly being overwhelmed by the odors of brackish water and oil-rich plants. Petru’s heart sank. This expedition was so important, he felt that others might die if he did not succeed. If they failed, it would be no worse than if they did not try, but he would feel that he let his precious Dancers down.

  “Should we turn back, mistress?” he asked.

  For answer, Nolda held out her arms and bent her back in a graceful arc. Petru signed to the others to stop. Scaro held up his fist. The warriors halted immediately. The Dancer was about to commune with the gods and her sisters of the foot, to ask divine intention and to beg for protection from what may lie ahead.

  The Dancer began to move from foot to foot. Because of the long march, she had foregone all her jewelry, leaving behind bracelets, anklets and tail rings, but her movements were so graceful that it seemed as though she was arrayed in all of those plus translucent veils of every color. Nolda’s arms waved like leaves on a playful breeze. She swayed her head from side to side, almost touching her ears to her shoulders. A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth as though she felt the goddess rub against her in affection. Petru loved her wholeheartedly at that moment. She was the one of the clan’s sacred connections to the gods and all of nature. He was proud of what little he could do to see to her comfort and aid her so she was free to commune with that he could not see and did not pretend to understand. Unlike Sherril, who nodded approvingly at the Dancer’s every move.

  In the deep green light that preceded the coming dawn, Nolda’s graceful leaps and turns seemed to draw upon the marshy land beneath a pattern. It was open on one side in the direction of the way forward, as though asking a question about what lay there. Petru watched her in wonder, hoping that gentle Assirra was paying attention.

  Though he was impatient to begin their gathering and get back to the rest of the clan, it was a special treat to see a Dancer undertaking a sacred rite. Not all of the Dances were performed in the open for all the Lailah to see, let alone outsiders. Bireena was rapt at the grace and power. Nolda seemed to be several beings at once: child beseeching mother, mother giving gentle caress, father administering a kind but stern admonition to the eager kitten, then prey fleeing from predator. Nolda’s movements became clumsy during that passage. Petru guessed that she was performing as though she was a Liskash, who moved much more slowly and awkwardly than the Mrem. Next, she would surely be the Mrem who successfully hunted and slew her quarry.

  Suddenly, Nolda dropped to the ground, shielding her head with both of her hands. She held that pose for so long that the spell of the Dance was broken. Petru rushed to her side.

  “Lady, may I help you?” he asked.

  “You interrupt the Dance!” Sherril said, horrified.

  “No, Sherril Rangawo,” Nolda said, with a kind look at the valet. Petru noticed that the nictitating membrane half-covered her eyes. Her limbs were shaking. “The good goddess gives me a warning. It is one we must heed.”

  Sherril looked around him in alarm as though the gods themselves were nearby.

  “What is it, good lady?” he asked. “Are we in danger?”

  “We are always in danger on this path,” Nolda said, with a sigh. Petru pulled the large pack around from his shoulders to one arm so he could rummage through its contents. He came out with a stoppered ceramic bottle containing the herb-scented restorative liquid he gave the Dancers after major festivals and rituals. He peeled back the wax covering the mouth and offered a drink to Nolda. She sipped.

  “Is the peril close by?” Scaro asked. He offered her an arm to help her up.

  “Not so close, but we cannot avoid it, Drillmaster. We must be vigilant and clever. Assirra gives us her word that her husband will lend us the will to escape the trap set for us, but not the strength.”

  “A riddle, Dancer. What is the answer?”

  Nolda shook her head. “We must be as swift as possible. There is a chance to avoid the trap, but it is a small one. Most likely we have a fight ahead of us.”

  Scaro tilted his head toward the awestruck warriors at his back. “We’ll take that fight, lady.” He turned to Petru. “You heard the Dancer’s words, valet. Let’s move faster.”

  Petru inclined his head.

  “I am only too happy to follow the will of the gods,” he said.

  Now with every sense honed as finely as the tip of a claw, they marched on over the steadily softening earth. The day creatures were rousing. Birds chattered their alarm that the Mrem were among them. Petru stepped carefully to avoid roots that arced up out of the mire with an obvious intent to trip them. Lianas draped over outflung tree limbs brushed their heads and ears. Huge pink and white blossoms that only opened to daylight began to spread their petals, exuding their heady, sweet fragrance upon the already scent-laden air.

  Petru stopped just short of the broad cluster of trees on the near side of the sluggish river. With a gleaming, polished claw, colored green for the occasion, he pointed at the bright, yellow-green shoots poking up among the darker, more mature reeds.

  “Those are what we need,” he said. “Be careful also to take the thin vines clinging to them. The reeds will dry up the bowels. From the creepers, I can distil a powerful medicine against the underlying ailment.”

  “How do you know it will work?” Sherril asked, his face a skeptical mask.

  “My granddam seldom lost a patient,” Petru said firmly. “I have used dried plants myself of the same kind. Now, hurry before the sun rises too high! I want the roots as moist as possible. You, cut some of those big, ribbed leaves to wrap them in. Make haste! If we gather enough, we can turn back today, before the threat that the fates send!”

  Scaro signed to his soldiers. They crouched among the reeds, plucking the shoots as Petru directed. Bireena showed them how to pull the plants up whole, using a twist of her wrist to avoid tearing off the little wh
ite tendrils at their base.

  “You are very deft,” Scaro said. “Not a wasted motion. I admire that.” She lowered her head at the compliment, her ears swiveling shyly. Behind them, Sherril made a harsh noise in his throat. Bireena jumped away from the drillmaster. Scaro shot Sherril an angry look. Just when he had been making progress, too!

  “Hasten!” Petru said, clapping his hands. “When you have all of these, I see another patch growing just over there.”

  Fat, green, goggle-eyed amphibians sitting on broad, floating lily leaves jumped away as the Mrem splashed toward them. Taadar, a young Mrem whose accuracy with a lance made even Scaro envious, speared a plump one in midair.

  “Breakfast,” he said, with satisfaction, packing the twitching body away in his pack.

  Rustling in the trees alerted Scaro. He glanced up, but saw nothing unusual. Still, the smell of Liskash was stronger than before.

  “Was there a lizard village upriver?” he asked Bireena.

  “Yes, there was, but far,” the golden Mrem said, her large eyes wide. “They came downriver once in a moon or so to try to trap some of us.” She stopped suddenly and looked away from Scaro. That was what had happened to her, he was certain. Her people had been herded together and driven to Ckotliss to be slaves. “But we are not far any longer, are we? The sea has come closer, driving us south.”

  “That is so,” Scaro said encouragingly. “But we have seen none of them yet, so it is well.”

  “How many remain?” asked Taadar.