EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  Another voice pulled him from a doze. A male guard had come to replace the female. Silence again, and again Talwe closed his eyes.

  Finally he slept, and he dreamed of Morian, and then of the Dancer and the whitefur. And then he saw Forun speaking to the guard, and he saw the guard walk toward him with his sword raised high above his head. When he reached him, he brought the sword down.

  Talwe woke up and rolled to the side. The sword thudded into the floor under his blanket. Jumping up, Talwe dodged a second blow and leaped for the door. Even under attack he knew he dare not fight back, for if he struck the guard he would be marked for death.

  Out the door he raced, winding among the huts to throw off his assailant. He left the village with the guard far behind him, running toward the hills where he would find a place to hide. By the time he stopped, the guard was off his trail, and Talwe looked for a small cave he had known when he was a boy.

  The cave was small and familiar, and it bore no smell of liskash. Talwe laid his head on the floor and listened to the stream nearby. Tired and frightened, he decided to stay the night here and return to the village in the morning.

  •

  Arklier felt a hand on his shoulder. Leaping up, he drew his knife and glared at his attacker. When he saw it was Bodder, he relaxed and sheathed the knife.

  “How many times, Bodder,” he asked angrily, “have I told you not to do that?”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Bodder said. “I had no choice.”

  The ClanMrem’s son saw tears in his companion’s eyes. “What is it?” he asked.

  Bodder’s voice quavered as he spoke. “The ClanMrem, my lord, is dead.”

  “Dead?!” Arklier jumped. “How? He was ill when we left, but not as badly as that.”

  “He died of wounds the healers do not understand,” Bodder muttered. “The clan would have you return immediately.”

  Arklier nodded. “I will,” he said. “Tell them I will.” When Bodder left, he put his head in his hands and wept.

  “Dead?” Crethok snarled. “Dead, you say? Why did no one tell me this before?”

  “No one could find you, my lord,” a tall mrem said. “Some said you were spending your time gambling in the wilds, others that you had found a land filled with women—”

  Crethok raised his hand. “Never listen to idle tales,” he said. “There is nothing to be gained by it. Now, what arrangements have been made?”

  The tall mrem spoke. “Arklier has returned and has effected the Burning. He sent many messengers to find you. I was one of them. He wishes to tell you that a new ClanMrem will be chosen at the spring solstice, as the gods demand. He tells you also that he will be leaving for the villages soon, to gain support for himself, and that you perhaps should do the same.”

  Crethok laughed hoarsely. “Tell my brother I thank him,” he said with a sneer, “but that I shall gain support in my own way. Tell him I shall launch raids with the strong, rather than talk with the weak. Tell him that power alone will decide who shall be ClanMrem. Tell him these things, and then spit in his face.”

  “I shall tell him,” said the other, “but I cannot do the other.”

  “Of course not,” Crethok laughed. “You are weak, like him. Go now, before I put you to work.” The tall mrem ran off, and Crethok smirked as he watched him.

  “Set my mrem in order,” he said to the red-caped mrem beside him. “Tomorrow we raid.”

  •

  “This is Talwe, my lady,” Orrintar announced.

  “Yes,” replied the Dancer. “I know him.” Then, after a pause, “Where were you this morning?”

  “I was sleeping in a cave I know,” Talwe said firmly. “I was attacked last night, and I had to escape.”

  “Attacked?” the Dancer asked. “Who attacked you?”

  Talwe hesitated, then looked her in the eyes. “One of your guards, my lady,” he said, and he waited for her response.

  She stared at him for several minutes. Under her gaze Talwe felt suddenly powerless, suddenly without pride. When she spoke, he was as relieved as he was afraid.

  “We have heard differently,” she said. “Some have told us that they saw you chasing the guard, and that he was holding his arm as if wounded.” He looked up sharply. “What have you to say to that?”

  “It is wrong,” was his only reply.

  A female guard advanced. “My lady,” she said, “the others have returned.”

  Talwe turned and saw the leader of the guards. In her arms she carried a lifeless body, and Talwe saw that it was the body of his attacker.

  “His throat,” the guard said, “was slashed almost through. We found him near the stream, just to the northwest of the village.”

  “That is where you were, is it not?” the Dancer asked Talwe.

  There was no point in lying. “Yes,” he replied softly. “But I did not kill him. I did not even attack him.” He suspected it was the strange mrem he had seen, but it was obvious no one would believe him.

  The Dance of Truth was harsh that day, and Talwe saw in it a sadness as well. He sat bound by ropes to a songomore near the dance-earth, and with each whirl and leap the Dancer kept her eyes focused straight on him. She danced jerkily, her movements disjointed and sharp, and the music that she danced to was filled with disharmony and unagreeable noise.

  When she stopped, she stood still for several minutes, and the reed-player held his note all during her silence. Then she pointed to Torwen, and also to Talwe, and together they rose and approached her.

  “I have no choice,” she announced, “but to begin an Edict of Banning. It will begin immediately.”

  Torwen cried out in alarm, but Orrintar and Dalriatar stood silent.

  “Perhaps,” she chastened him, “I should even be declaring one of death.”

  Torwen fell silent, and his tail twitched nervously. There was a growing murmur from the villagers gathered a respectful distance away.

  “And Talwe shall be banished from the village forever.”

  Her voice was low. The murmur died as all strained to hear her pronouncement.

  Talwe turned away. He had known what her decision had to be, and he also knew it was unfair. But he was neither shocked nor saddened by it, because he knew she had no choice. In her position, he too would have done the same thing.

  But then he saw the whitefur approach the Dancer, and he turned and saw her whisper in the older woman’s ear. The Dancer stepped back and glared at the whitefur, but under the younger female’s strong stare even she finally relented. “It shall be done,” was all she said, and the white mrem showed the trace of a smile.

  “I have altered my decision,” the Dancer announced, and the villagers broke into a long, loud murmur.

  “There will be no Edict of Banning. Talwe will become a Dancer’s guard. In this, one of your village will repay what has been lost. He leaves with me.” And with that she turned and walked toward her wagon.

  Talwe walked toward the whitefur and nodded. “I thank you, my lady,” he said.

  “I am not your lady,” she replied, the smile gone completely. “My name is Sruss, but you will have no need to talk to me at all.”

  She turned from him and strode to the wagon.

  •

  “Seven villages in three weeks,” Talwe muttered. “Don’t you think that’s too many?”

  “No,” replied Crellna. The guard licked the back of his hand. “We’ve done more. Sometimes we’ll do less. We have to cover a large number before the weather gets colder.” As always, he groomed himself as he talked, rubbing his hands over his face and his arms and emitting a soft, tuneless hum.

  Talwe shook his head. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But I grow tired of the traveling, and I grow tired of the duty. I have even begun to dislike the dancing.”

  Crellna shrugged. “That isn’t surprising. It ha
ppens to all of us, sooner or later.”

  “How long did it take you?” the darkfur questioned.

  “About six weeks. Much longer than it has taken you.” The guard stared at his companion. “You seem impatient, Talwe,” he whispered, “impatient for something to happen.” Placing his hand on Talwe’s shoulder, he said, “Don’t be. You are here, and there isn’t much you can do about it. After a year you can ask to be relieved, but by then you won’t want to. Once you’ve been a Dancer’s guard, no village, and few cities, want to keep you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are dangerous to them. You are no longer a guard, but to them you will always be one. You are thought to have the Dancer’s ear. And that means they fear you, for they think they cannot punish you.” He kept his voice low, and it was both earnest and understanding.

  Talwe waited a moment, then said, “So it is true about our protection,” he muttered. “We cannot be attacked, not by anybody.”

  “It is true,” Crellna replied. A pause, then a resumption. “Now, where were we?”

  Talwe grinned. “You were telling me about the armies of other cities beyond Ar,” he said. “About their tales of something called a chariot.”

  “Yes,” mused the other. “I believe you’re right.” Licking his other hand, he settled into a comfortable position. The wagon bounced lightly over the grass beneath them, and the night was beginning its descent. To their left loomed a forest of trees of many kinds, and straight ahead the forest curved in front of them. In the next few days they would have to brave the dangers of that forest, for their next village was to its north, far on the other side.

  Crellna was already speaking. “The old soldiers say, and you must remember they say a great deal, that they have met armies in the east who do not use uxen for travel. These armies have a different kind of animal, something we have not seen here. This animal is taller than an uxan, its neck is longer, and it laughs instead of bellowing.”

  He broke into laughter himself, and Talwe followed suit. “Well,” he continued, “let’s forget the laughing. In any case, what they do with this animal—I forget what it’s called—they strap him to a small cart and charge into battle. This cart, they say, is called a chariot.” He laughed again. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  Talwe smiled. “No. It sounds interesting.”

  Frowning, Crellna protested, “But an uxan would never charge into battle. He’d turn and run first.”

  “That’s true,” Talwe nodded. “But another animal might. What about a bunda?”

  For a moment Crellna was silent. “Any bunda big enough to pull a cart would be too dangerous.” Neither spoke of the bunda’s magic. “But you’re right. One might be willing to fight.”

  Again Talwe smiled. “Perhaps these stories are truths,” he said, not expecting a reply. In his mind he saw a host of young bundor pulling tiny carts, each cart carrying two hunters with spears and bows. Nothing, he felt, could stop them.

  Suddenly the wagon stopped. Talwe jumped down from it and saw, walking toward him, the tall guard from the lead wagon. The guard’s tail was stiff and so always was her manner. Her name was Strace, and her tone was cold. He did not like her.

  Strace stopped in front of his wagon. “We will stop a mile further on,” she announced, “and tackle the forest at dawn.” She paused. “Talwe, you are to join the Dancer on her wagon.” Glaring, she demanded, “Immediately.” Then she turned and contemptuously walked away.

  “I must go,” Talwe told his companion. “But keep your stories ready for when I return.” He enjoyed Crellna’s stories. Before being summoned to the guard, Crellna had served in a noble’s army in Eiritu, and by the time of his departure he had become a leader himself. So good was he that the king’s brother himself had recommended him to the Dancer. Now Crellna wondered if the king had simply wanted him out of the city.

  When he reached the middle wagon, he saw the Dancer sitting outside the covering, a thick fur blanket wrapped around her to keep out the cold. “Jump up,” she ordered the young mrem, and Talwe hastily obeyed. He sat himself at her feet, and waited for her to speak.

  “We have met often of late,” she said, “and yet you say you would learn more. I have little else to teach you of the stories and the songs and the dances of the many villages scattered throughout the land, because much of what I remember you have already learned.” She looked at him warmly and asked, “What is it you would know?”

  Talwe returned the look. “Whatever you would teach, my lady,” he said. “I am content to learn what you will.”

  Her eyes shone as she smiled. “You speak well, my young guard, but you are not always truthful. I do not know where you keep all your new knowledge, but I know you hunger for something more. You will listen to all I say, I have no doubt, but not all of it do you bother to retain.” She paused and her face grew solemn. “You are after something, Talwe,” she whispered. “I want to know what that is.”

  “I am after,” he replied, “knowledge that other mrem do not have.” He stopped short, considering his words. She had told him much about the magic of the tribes, and as much as she could about the magic of the cities and of the gods, but he yearned, always, for more. And yet he was wary of her probing, her constant searching through his mind for signs that there was more to him than fighting skill and the strength of his muscles. She wanted to find proof of magic in him, but he was frightened to show her anything at all. She claimed to approve of magic, but he did not know if she was sincere. Perhaps it was her sincerity he listened for. Though she had given him no reason to doubt her.

  “What kind of knowledge?” she asked. “What do you want to know?” When she received no answer, she said, “I will tell you what I can, Talwe, because I do not think you will misuse what you learn.” A pause, then, “Tell me what you want. I command you to do so.”

  Talwe started. A command? Could she do this? And then he thought, of course she can do this. She is the Dancer, and outside the cities the Dancer was the law.

  “Under your command, my lady,” he muttered, “under your command I will answer.” He chose his words carefully. “I want to know, my lady,” again a short pause, “I want to know the knowledge of the gods.”

  She shook her head. “Only a magician will ever come close to that knowledge, Talwe,” she said, “because the gods are the greatest magicians of all.” She stared at him and asked, “What hope could you possibly have?”

  “None,” he replied.

  Again she shook her head. “Not true,” she said flatly. “Only a magician, Talwe, would even want to know.” She did not smile as she said, “I am afraid, my young guard, that you begin to give yourself away. Now go, and come to me when you want to know more... and say more.” She reached out her hand, and Talwe pressed the back of it to his cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the whitefur looking out from the covering, and he wondered how much she had heard.

  Probably all, he thought, as he drew his hand away.

  “There is nothing wrong with magic,” the elder Dancer whispered. “There is only wrong in denying it.”

  And he saw the whitefur’s eyes dance wildly in the light of the moon.

  IN THE THREE weeks since the death of his father, Crethok’s army had been busy. They had swept through two entire valleys, seeking out the villages and tearing them apart. There was little enough to be gained from raiding small villages, who lived after all from hand to mouth, but with each victory Crethok felt a stronger sense of power. Besides, after each raid they ate extremely well. While in the villages, they demanded to be treated like lords, and they enjoyed the village females. Best of all, the enjoyment was anything but mutual.

  He liked his females to scream when he took them.

  One of these now lay in the dawn light naked at his feet, running one hand up his thigh and the other along her own, exactly as he had commanded her. He was tire
d from yesterday’s fighting and the night before’s female, but under her ministrations he was almost hard again. He leered at the woman, and she bared her teeth in a grimace. She had two thick welts across her back and a small tear in one ear. She had shown spirit, but now he was the conqueror.

  “Hands and knees,” he commanded, delighting in the tears that welled in her eyes. He knelt behind her and entered her hard, and the sound of her sobs brought fury to his thrusts.

  He liked having village females. The fur on their breasts was soft, and their legs were slim and muscular. While he stroked he debated staying here forever, demanding a different female every night, but then he remembered that he always chose the youngest and the most beautiful and that there was none left after this one but drooping mothers and tired hags. This thought always made him angry, and he began to pump harder until the female began to scream.

  When the door opened, he wasn’t yet finished.

  “Let her go,” a voice commanded, and a sheepish Crethok looked up into the intruder’s eyes.

  “Cwinyd!” he shouted, pulling out of the female and getting to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  “It seems, my friend,” the sand-colored mrem said, “that I should be asking that of you.” He looked at the female and said, “I apologize for this monster’s behavior,” he said to her. “Go now, and rejoin your village. He will not bother you again.” He sounded like a courtier addressing a fine lady. Confused, the young female tried to cover herself with a cloak.

  “Who the hell are you to say these things?” Crethok asked as she stood up. Despite the surprise he was still hard, and Cwinyd was standing between him and his clothes.

  Cwinyd grinned. “It is said, Crethok, that a well-placed whip can relieve a mrem in your condition. Do you want proof?”

  “No,” the other mumbled. He, too, had heard of this, had even thought of trying it some time. But not, certainly, on himself.