Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One

by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson

  Petru didn’t make too much of a show of his ministrations, nor did he reach for the sparkling dust with which he loved to adorn himself. Emoro thanked Aedonniss for small mercies, and nodded to the dino to lead the way. The torchbearers moved out ahead.

  “Make way!” they cried in hollow, piping voices. Lizards couldn’t possibly have any balls, not with kitten cries like that.

  Lanterns or stinking, guttering torches hung on every corner and at the doorway to every domicile, however humble. The Liskash couldn’t see in the dark like Mrem, so if they wished to go abroad at night they had to herald the way with artificial lights. Emoro did his best to avoid looking directly at any of them, lest the miniature suns blind him to movement in the shadow.

  He spotted plenty of that. The sorry-assed Mrem of this town—curse every dino back to the egg!—came and went about their tasks, all of them round-shouldered and droop-tailed. Not one of them looked as if it had had a decent meal in months. It would be his pleasure to take their host by his scrawny neck and wring the life out of him for the humiliation of his fellow Mrem. He was grateful for the protection of the Dancers. He’d faced Liskash without Dances performed behind his force. When a noble was nearby, he felt a strong urge to drop his weapons and surrender. Common sense had taken point, though, and he killed the enemy with all the more ferocity thereafter. He kept the image of the last Liskash he had speared in the forefront of his mind, to refer to in case he forgot how dangerous and treacherous the scaly worms were.

  The closer they got to the keep, the more he could feel an oppressive sensation around his head. Lord Tae was trying to influence his mind. He ground his sharp molars together.

  None shall pass! he thought. He hoped the others could withstand it. Cleotra must have felt it, for she began to chant quietly to herself. After a startled squeak that told Emoro the girl had to be nudged for inattention, Ysella joined in.

  “Aedonniss, how this place smells!” growled Neer, one of his seasoned warriors, two steps back and two to the left of him. “Reminds me of that hole in the wall up near the south border we cleaned out, Clawmaster, remember…?” His voice died away. That border was gone, along with all the towns to the north of it. No doubt the Liskash had lost plenty of their kind when the water began to flood the Hot Lands, but Emoro didn’t care about that. Everyone he knew was missing friends or relatives who had been caught by surprise.

  “Aedonniss decided He needed another body of water close to us, Neer,” Emoro said stoically. “We don’t question the gods. We just take orders. Right?”

  “Right, sir,” Neer said thoughtfully.

  The warriors felt naked without their arms. At that moment, Emoro was certain his best war-claws were mounted on the wall of the gatehouse-keeper’s hovel. He understood how little choice they had in approaching this lizard-lord as supplicants. His warriors could defend such a small group with no trouble. They were well-schooled in hand-to-hand fighting. Aedonniss grant they wouldn’t have to use any in the next few days. All he had to do was get a fat counselor and a couple of spoiled Dancers back and forth to their camp. That was all. Hah! All!

  With all the fanfare, their small procession gathered quite a crowd of onlookers in the short walk between the walls of the lower tower and the main keep. This building, unlike the two smaller ones flanking it, was surrounded by guards. Emoro studied their placements. Not bad, but too much space between sentries in the dark. On the other hand, an enemy would have to fly—and get past the leatherwings circling overhead—to pose much threat to Lord Tae, and this was the cork in the bottleneck blocking the Mrem from passing safely to the west. They were only the first of the tribes that would come this way. Others were no more than weeks behind them. This mission must succeed, so Emoro could not indulge his deep-seated wish.

  As the smaller keeps were built, so was the larger one. There was no gate. At a ladder, carved and pegged from an exotic wood and polished smooth with wax, the Liskash urged them forward with spears lowered. Emoro counted guards on duty, how far away they were, and how well armed. He might need this knowledge later; he might not.

  He sent Scaro up the ladder first with four warriors. They swarmed up and stood waiting on the first stage. Scaro sent him a hand-signal to say that the walkway was wider than on the smaller building. He nodded.

  “Up you go, Priestess,” he said, holding out a hand to Cleotra. She scorned him, like the fancy bitch she was, and clambered up without help. Petru passed within a hair’s-breadth of him, grinning under his whiskers. He put his hand into Emoro’s and stepped up onto the rung after his mistress.

  Emoro brought up the rear of the party, behind the last warrior. It was a long way up to the smooth metal lip hammered onto the stone around the top, and a long way down. He took a good look at the courtyard before he made the descent.

  The building was deceptive in its size. From the outside, it looked much smaller than it was within. The pylon-walls contained a courtyard that could hold a thousand people. The black and white checked floors were made of fitted and polished squares of stone that felt pleasantly cool under the foot, but were no doubt slippery as river eels when wet. The evening dew was falling. Emoro watched his steps cautiously so as not to slide.

  “This is horrible,” Petru said, just audible to his fellow Mrem. “I think, yes, that I may be sick. Could this have been worse designed?”

  Emoro had to concur. The colors of the Lord Tae’s home clashed on the eyeballs, even by torchlight. Against the walls, which were painted, as far as Emoro could tell, in bright blues and greens from copper minerals, hung vast tapestries of red, orange, purple and brown. They had orange-and-purple checked borders that matched cushions on the couches that had been arranged before these hideous works of art, if a blind Mrem was led up to feel them and told that’s what they were, obviously so people could study them at their leisure. Emoro would rather have gone on maneuvers over shards of volcanic glass with a double-weight backpack.

  Two lines of heavyset guards in metal-studded leather armor stood in the very center of the courtyard. Emoro did a quick count and got four eights in each. Three officers commanded each line. They wore bronze plates sewn to their leather tunics and had crested helmets with low snout-pieces. The chief commander, discernable because he had a white Mrem tail depending from his helmet, curse him to the depths of the sea, marched out before the Mrem got within ten paces of the line and shouted.

  “Halt there!” he ordered.

  Sherril undulated out of the group, elbowing Emoro aside. He made an elaborate obeisance. “Greetings, Commander. We are to meet with the Lord Tae.”

  The commander pointed a leather-gloved finger at a pair of doors with a pointed arch behind him.

  “There is where you will have your audience. Stay back behind our lines and do not attempt to cross them. Anyone to approach the throne too closely will die! This is the order of His Godliness, Lord Tae Shanissi. State your names.”

  Sherril bowed low. “Then we heed the order. We are the representatives of the Mrem of the Lailah tribe. I was here only four days ago. I am Sherril Rangawo. I present the Dancer Cleotra Mreem and her apprentice Ysella Ehe.” That self-aggrandizing heap of fur was going to ignore them! Emoro growled low in his throat. Sherril glanced over his shoulder with a haughty sneer, but he turned back to Tae. “And the senior warriors who have escorted us to your presence, Clawmaster Emoro Awr and Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh.”

  Petru cleared his throat meaningfully, but Sherril did not speak again. Emoro stifled a grin.

  “Welcome to you, and welcome back, Sherril and your companions.”

  A reedy voice echoed forth. Emoro blinked. Through the wide doorway he saw a thin, very short Liskash with pale blue skin the color of a winter sky seated on a stone chair on a platform eight feet or more above the floor. His black eyes bulged in his narrow face. His skull was rounded except for a narrow ridge of scales that ran from just above his eyes over and down the back of his head to his collar. His raiment was bright
orange with narrow black lines. Bronze ornaments jingled on his sleeves, and tall, vividly colored feathers stuck up around the collar like a picket fence. Statues of the Liskash lord in various outfits and painted garishly to match stood on plinths all around the room. The costume he wore that night was depicted on the third figure to the right of the doorway. Lord Tae could behold his own image whenever he chose.

  “I shall be ill,” Petru said, feelingly.

  “That is hideous,” Scaro said, in a rare moment of concord with the valet.

  Sherril bowed again. “Greetings, Lord Tae. Thank you for this audience.”

  The Liskash beckoned with one skinny finger. “Come forward.”

  The first line of dinos formed a square around the Mrem, spears pointed in. Emoro wished again for his battle claws, or one little stabbing spear. The commander gestured them to move. Sherril glanced back imperiously and strode forward, following the double-line of Liskash into the throne room.

  Once inside, the doors closed behind the Mrem with a hollow BOOM. Emoro glanced back to see two guards hefting a huge latch into place across a pair of brackets. Easily undone if necessary.

  The lines of Liskash spread out again into a double border between the Mrem and Lord Tae. Sherril stepped off, Emoro close behind him. The Liskash shifted with them, keeping their beady eyes fixed on them. The closer they got to Tae, the more the headache he had felt coming on increased. The Dancers were aware of it, too. Both of them had been moving their hands and bodies in light, subtle motions as they walked. Those increased in intensity, and the pressure receded from Emoro’s mind. It was still there, though.

  Sherril halted at the prescribed limit and bowed again. Emoro followed suit, signing to his warriors to do the same. His knees felt as if they wanted to bend, too, to take him to the floor where he would prostrate himself. He fought the impulse. It was no doubt coming from the lordling on the throne. Tae was going to keep trying to control them.

  “We came here of our own free will,” Emoro growled, forcing the words out as he forced his back to straighten. “We do not bend to yours.”

  Sherril turned so the Liskash lord couldn’t see him, and glared. He purred at the Liskash, offering a supplicating gesture.

  “I apologize, Lord Tae. It was agreed that I would speak for the group.”

  “It was not,” Cleotra snapped. Sherril’s fighting ridge went up at the sound of her voice. “I speak for myself.”

  Lord Tae smiled. His face moved but his eyes bore no expression at all. “No offense is taken. All these reactions teach me more of your culture.”

  Sherril seemed relieved. “We are pleased to bring you the fruits of our history and our arts,” he said. “I have memorized the sagas of our people, from the cold days until now. There are many heroic poems that you will enjoy, translated into your own language by myself. The first one I would have you hear is of the first Clan Leader of the Lailah. In fact, Soroo was an ancestor of mine. He lived—”

  “No.” The refusal was dry but final. “I may wish to hear your poetry another time. Frankly, your voices hurt my ears. I am a student of your religion. I wish to see your dance.”

  Cleotra threw back her head proudly. “The hour is late and we were not given time to refresh ourselves,” she said. “Our Dance is not a simple thing. My apprentice and I have been marching for two days. In our normal routine, we limber up and do exercises before beginning our rituals. They are sacred things, not mere entertainment!”

  The ridge above Lord Tae’s eyes went up. “I would see those exercises as well as your dance. You may begin.”

  “We begin with refreshments and repose upon comfortable seats,” Cleotra said.

  Lord Tae looked a little bored. “Oh, very well.”

  He did not move or speak, but very shortly, a rap sounded upon the door. Emoro and the other warriors tightened their muscles in preparation, but when the portal was unlatched, it was to admit an eight of gray-scaled servants. They bore huge pillows in a mismatch of colors and hammered metal trays with enameled pitchers and bowls upon them.

  Petru took charge. He ordered the servants, who were as dull as their skins, to place the pillows on the shining floor to one side of the area they had been allotted. Once they were placed to his liking, he escorted the Dancers there and assisted them to sit down. Cleotra settled gracefully upon the ugly cushions. Ysella plumped down beside her.

  Sherril swaggered after them. A low argument ensued between Petru and the counselor. Her green eyes blazing, Cleotra stood up between them. Effortlessly, she lifted her left foot and kicked each of them in the head. Emoro rumbled in his own throat. What a warrior she would have made!

  Lord Tae rolled back on his padded throne, laughing. “Fantastic! So limber!”

  She stood glaring as they both staggered backward. They didn’t look at one another or at the Dancer, but Petru pulled a drab purple cushion along the floor a short way from the Dancers, and Sherril sat down on it, waiting patiently for Petru to serve refreshments to Cleotra and Ysella before bringing him a selection of dainties.

  Lord Tae watched with curiosity as the Dancers lapped the pale white liquid from the wide goblets and sampled the savory brownish nuggets of food. Some looked chewy, others crunchy. Emoro licked his chops. It had been hours since he had had a decent meal, out on the road, though he had eaten the nuts and dried fruits that served as field rations, but he was a warrior. He could wait until the lizard had finished toying with them and they were safely back in their fish-trap. Cleotra set down her goblet.

  “Are you satisfied?” Lord Tae asked. Cleotra rose in one smooth motion. Behind her, Ysella was as awkward as a frog.

  “I thank you, our host,” Cleotra Mreem said.

  “Then dance for me.”

  * * *

  Scaro Ullenh made sure that his guards were well deployed, keeping watch on the Liskash. He stood as close to the Dancers as he could manage without getting in their way. He didn’t want to miss a moment. As a warrior, he saw Dances performed during sacred feasts and other occasions, such as the circle to protect them here in Ckotliss. He had never beheld the warming-up sessions. He had fantasized about the females throwing themselves about in their exercises, lithely and energetically in wild abandon. He had mated with many a Dancer after they had finished their rituals for the day, but it would add spice to see what made them so hot and ready. Now he would. And perhaps he could approach Cleotra later on to help her burn off that excess energy. He grinned to himself.

  The valet settled himself on a pile of cushions with the dombek drum between his knees. He rattled off a quick roll, then began a slow, syncopated rhythm. One, two-three, one, two-three, one, two-three.

  Cleotra and Ysella touched fingertips and paced off a circle about two Mrem-lengths in diameter. Scaro fancied he could feel the power of the gods sealing it, so intent were the Dancers’ expressions. Ysella, for all her adolescent awkwardness, once she began to focus, moved almost as smoothly as her mentor. A pity she was too young for mating. He couldn’t blame her for fixing on him. He was handsome, well groomed, and possessed of enviable style that attracted the eye of many a Mrem female. Still, until she matured, he wasn’t going anywhere near her!

  Once they had created their sacred space, Cleotra led Ysella through a series of exercises. They began with simple steps and stretches, and moving into thrusts, kicks and claw swipes, shifting sideways, jumping backwards, leaping and pirouetting. The steps swiftly became more complicated and rapid. In fact, if he did not know they were Dancing, he might have thought they were fighting one another. The drum beats sped up until they were moving so fast he could hardly follow. Ysella was open-mouthed and wide-eyed, but Cleotra looked serene, as though she was Dancing with the gods themselves. No wonder she was to be Cassa’s chosen successor.

  Scaro found himself breathing hard. His resolution deserting him, he wished to mate with both of them right there in the middle of the throne room.

  They stopped. The drum ceased. Cleotra stro
de magnificently to face Lord Tae. She was not even breathing hard. Ysella was.

  “Our exercises are complete,” Cleotra said. “Now we will perform for you the Coming of the First Dawn.”

  “I would rather see the Wooing of Assirra by Aedonniss,” Lord Tae said. “It is a story I have heard of, and have long been curious about.”

  Cleotra’s eyes flashed. “That is a sacred Dance, not suitable for outsiders.”

  Lord Tae’s brows drew down. “If you do not want my help, you may leave.”

  The Liskash guards behind them lifted the latch from the door.

  Cleotra looked as if she might storm out. Scaro speculated on whether any of them would make it out of there alive. His task, should all things go awry, was to see to the Dancers’ safety. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to spring to their defense. Liskash took a long time to die, but they were slow moving. He could probably kill six or seven of them before getting the Dancers out of the room.

  Cleotra lifted her chin. She was still angry.

  “For the sake of my people, then, I break my vows. Ysella!”

  The girl ran to her side. Cleotra assumed a pose with her hands outstretched, palms down. Her fingers moved gracefully as if each was a bird flying through the air. Ysella moved at once to a distance of two Mrem-lengths and composed herself, her eyes cast modestly down, shoulders turned inward. She must be playing Assirra to Cleotra’s Aedonniss.

  Cleotra leaped into the air. Her hands and feet kicked out, and her tail lashed. She was a storm, she was a cataract, she was a whirlwind! The mighty powers of nature were all contained in one slender, lithe body. Scaro could not take his eyes off her. She kicked high and twirled in midair, coming down on her toes. Then, staying poised on the ball of one foot, she crouched low, watchful and wary. The world was created, but Aedonniss was alone and lonely.

  Ysella moved then, wafting her arms in gentle waves. As the dombek thrummed, she moved sinuously around the circle, exploring the domain that had been made. She stopped, withdrawing into herself, as she saw the hulking figure of Aedonniss. He was powerful and fierce, but she was clearly attracted to him. She held back, not knowing what she should do. She was alluring in her grace. She seemed to rub affectionately against the air, seeking someone to share that caress. Scaro yearned to be the one that she sought. He could give her the love she craved.