EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  It wasn’t to be.

  Settling between the embers of the fire and the wall, the hunter stretched. Sruss moved to his front and curled against him. Within seconds her regular breathing told him she was asleep. Talwe could no longer relax. His tail refused to still and his desire flushed and faded as he considered the warm presence cuddled against him. Twice he resolved to move away but failed to act. Finally he slept fitfully. Sruss never woke and he never spoke of it.

  “How much longer?” Sruss asked. The morning was cool, even with the bright sun. They had been climbing into a pass for hours and now were descending. The snow was only a few hundred paces above. This night, they both knew, would be the coldest of their journey, and both hoped they would not have to spend it in the wilds. Talwe paused at the first glimpse of the valley below.

  “It is beautiful,” Sruss commented, shivering beside him as the wind ruffled her white fur. “Shouldn’t we be able to see uxen grazing?”

  “Not far now,” Talwe replied, his eyes searching from side to side. “We are already near the feeding grounds of the herd beasts of my village. We should see the village fires after nightfall.” But his mind was not on the village, nor was it on the Dancer’s question.

  What bothered him was that he also could not see the herd beasts. Surely now, in the autumn cool, bringing them to feed was more important than ever. Soon the winter would drive the herders closer to home, and when the snow fell the village would be forced to feed them from their small, precious stores of grain. Talwe could not think why the herd beasts would be kept at home now.

  “You are thoughtful,” the Dancer broke in.

  He stopped and nodded. “Something is strange,” he answered. As best he could, he explained the problem.

  “Perhaps they have gone somewhere else,” Sruss suggested. “Maybe they have found better grazing land.”

  “No,” he replied flatly. “Ahead is the best land. It is still green.”

  “Maybe they have enough grain to start feeding them early.”

  Again he shook his head. “No. That has never happened.”

  “Then why aren’t they here?” she asked, and for the first time Talwe realized that she was trying to help him. But when he shook his head, and said he did not know, she merely turned to him and said, “We’ll find out tonight.”

  She was right, but Talwe did not want to wait until then. They walked quickly that day. Swaying in the light wind, the grass often rose to their knees. After the horror and the filth of the rocks and the caves, Talwe found it pleasant to be again in the fields.

  When the sunset came, he stopped and stared long into the west. Gold, red, and gray the sky looked back, and Talwe smiled as he saw the work of the Goddess. Her arms were long, and when they stretched out across the world at dusk the hunters knew they could sleep with the promise of a new hunt.

  But when he looked at the Dancer, her eyes were on the ground.

  “It is beautiful,” Talwe said, as much to her as to himself. When she looked to him quizzically, he pointed toward the sunset.

  “It’s a sunset,” she mused. “It’s fine.”

  Talwe shook his head. “No, my lady,” he said calmly. “The Goddess’ handiwork is much more than just ‘fine.’ More than anything I have seen elsewhere, it is filled with beauty.”

  Sruss grinned. “Talwe,” she said, “the Dancer was beautiful. Her dances were beautiful. Some have said that I am beautiful. The walls of the Palace of Ar are beautiful. What you see is only a sunset, something that belongs to the elemental world. A thing can be beautiful only if it is created by mrem.”

  “No, you’re wrong!” he insisted. “We see beauty in the sunlight, and in the run of the arbunda, and in the taste of the graincakes and the sweetcakes at the Feast of the Harvest. And in the sunrise and the sunset and in the rain when it is gentle. Some of us have even seen beauty in snow, but others disagree. We see little beauty in the walls made by mrem. The city is not beautiful.”

  For a second she snarled, but then she drew back and laughed. “You are a hunter of the wilds, Talwe,” she said with a smile. “How can you know what beauty the city holds?”

  “I can know,” he said, “because the elders have told me.”

  Again she laughed. “Sometimes,” she answered, “sometimes you seem nothing like these villagers. Yet at other times, like now, you seem to belong among them. I wish you’d make up your mind.” Her smile unfading, she turned around and started walking again. They were still far above the valley and the breeze was cold.

  Grudgingly, Talwe drew his eyes from the colors in the sky. “Yes,” he thought, “that is my problem. I haven’t yet made up my mind. One day soon, I know that I must.” And he turned on his heel and stepped quickly to catch up to her.

  They came to the village at midnight. When he saw it, Talwe cried. Sruss, staring straight at it, could manage only a moan. The village was black, burned with fire. Almost half the huts lay as rubble on the ground, what was left of their walls struggling pathetically to take the shape they once had been. Over to the south, where the herd beasts had once stayed during the cold of the winter, the stables stood empty and neither guard nor herd beast was in sight. Whatever was left here, none of it was worth guarding.

  Suddenly he heard a shout. “Who is it?” the male voice demanded, a voice Talwe thought he recognized as Forun’s.

  “Talwe,” he cried. “I come with the White Dancer.”

  Silence.

  “Talwe,” he repeated. “Do you remember me?”

  “We remember you,” the voice replied, “and I wish I could welcome you. But first I must find the elder, and he will decide....”

  “He has already decided,” a husky voice cut in. Talwe smiled. Orrintar, he knew, would not turn him away.

  “Talwe,” the elder said, “the village welcomes you and asks you to stay with us.” He walked toward the young hunter, and when he came out of the darkness the two mrem embraced.

  Orrintar spoke quietly. “But we are unprepared for the Dancer,” he told the mrem. “We must have time, to prepare whatever feast we can....”

  Sruss interrupted. “I do not need a feast,” she said, and her voice was not harsh. “If you have food we would be thankful. If you do not, we will find some in the morning. For now, we would welcome a place out of the cold.”

  “You are not the same, Dancer,” Orrintar observed quizzically. “Talwe, too, has something to tell. But we will gladly give shelter, my lady, and as much food as we can find. We ask that you enter our village.”

  “I will enter,” the whitefur announced. “And in the morning I will dance.”

  Orrintar smiled. His eyes, Talwe saw, were wet. “The legends say that the night is evil,” he said to the Dancer and the guard. “But lately the day has betrayed us, and tonight proves blessed indeed. A change is in the world,” he said, and he turned and led his guests back toward his hut.

  •

  “The village was raided,” he told them after they had eaten. “Darker-furred mrem in green cloaks and many-colored pants came, and with them a sandfur in a dark green cloak.” His voice lowered, and it was filled with anguish.

  “They were vicious, Talwe,” Orrintar said. “They were from the highlands, and always the robbers of the highland have hated the hunters of the valleys. They came in the bright of day, when the hunters were gone and the herders out with their beasts, and they stole our food and put our women to work. Later, they killed them, the ones they did not rape.”

  “Arigain?” asked Talwe.

  “She was the poorest,” the elder replied. “To her they did both.”

  Sruss grimaced. “She was beautiful,” she said, “and her eyes were clever.” Talwe turned to look at the Dancer’s face. He had not heard her talk like this before.

  “Where is Torwen?” Talwe asked.

  Orrintar shook his head. “
He is dead. He tried to save his daughter.” His eyes filled with tears, he began to chant the Prayer of the Dead. Talwe reached over and put his hand over the elder’s mouth.

  “Later,” he said. “Later, we will all sing for the dead.”

  “And I will dance,” Sruss whispered. “We will all dance.”

  Talwe waited until the elder had stopped, then looked in his eyes and asked, “What of the others? What of Dalriatar?”

  Orrintar stared at the ground. “Dalriatar was first to die,” he muttered. “He told them they could not enter the village. Their leader laughed, and ordered him killed.”

  Talwe put his head in his hands. But tears did not come. There was still another he must know about, and he was afraid to ask the question.

  “Forun did not want to let us in,” Talwe said. He paused. “Does he hate me so much, elder?”

  The other smiled. “No, Talwe. He is afraid, and he is under strict orders. He did only what he was told.”

  Talwe doubted, but he said nothing. Certainly Forun had been following orders, but just as certainly the look in his eyes had not been one of friendship. Perhaps he blamed Talwe for all that had happened. Perhaps, too, he felt Talwe had ordered the raid. Whichever was true, Forun still hated.

  “There are two I must still ask you about,” the hunter stammered. “I do not think I can.” He searched the elder’s eyes, and Orrintar nodded.

  “Ondra has gone with them,” he said, and Talwe jumped to his feet.

  “Gone with them?!” he shouted.

  The elder simply nodded.

  “Was he captured?” Talwe asked. “Surely they dragged him away, and surely he fought.”

  “Sit down,” Orrintar said gently.

  Talwe sat.

  “He went willingly,” the explanation began. “At least, he seemed to. He was not bound when they left, and he did not weep. Ondra turned his head and stepped into place. I do not know why he did what he did. Ondra, least of all. Others, perhaps....”

  Others, Talwe thought, like Forun. But Forun was here, now the village’s chief guard, while Ondra was gone, not in exile but as an enemy. Talwe’s mind reeled, and he walked to the door and looked out into the night.

  “There is another,” Orrintar said slowly.

  Talwe turned. “Yes,” he said. “Morian.” He was no longer sure he wanted to know. “Where is Morian, elder?”

  Orrintar faced him. “She is here, Talwe,” he said. “But she is no longer as she was.”

  Talwe drew his breath. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “She was raped, Talwe. They kept her alive so that they could use her, over and over, again and again. Finally the leader himself took her. He was cruel, but at least he was punished.”

  “Punished?” Talwe said, trying desperately to find some hope in what Orrintar had just told him. “Who punished him?”

  “The mrem in the dark-green cloak,” came the reply. “He was a magician, they said, and some said he was the true leader. He went to Torwen’s hut, where the leader and Morian were. When he found the leader upon her, he ordered her to keep him aroused. Then, after giving him orders, he told Morian to stand back and watch. A guard stepped in, and he had a whip. The magician ordered him to whip the leader’s cock. They let Morian go after that, and when I saw her she bore a sad, cruel smile. I called her, but she would not come to me. Even now, she refuses to see me.

  “Morian has not spoken to anyone since then. She cringes from any touch.”

  “Will she see me?” the Dancer asked. Her voice was quiet, but her eyes glistened with tears.

  “I do not know, my lady,” Orrintar answered. “But if you would try....”

  “I don’t make promises,” the whitefur said. “I will go to her, and I will do what I can. If she refuses to see me, I will keep returning until she will.”

  Talwe stirred. “Will she see me first?” he asked.

  “No,” came Sruss’ reply. “The only hope lies with another female, Talwe.”

  She was right, but for a moment he would not admit it. He had been her mate, and he could not believe that did not matter. But then he thought, and he realized that he had gone from her, and he understood too that no male could know what she had been through. After a long silence, he looked at the Dancer and nodded.

  “I want to see her,” he said, “but I will wait.”

  “If she wants you,” Sruss smiled, “I will bring her to you. I promise you that.” Rising, she left the hut, and Talwe saw Orrintar pointing where she must go.

  When she had gone, Orrintar returned. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he took Talwe’s hand in his.

  “Will Morian recover?” Talwe questioned.

  The elder sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “She is bitter, and her heart is filled with pain.” He stopped, then added, “If she recovers, Talwe, I fear she will not want you.”

  The hunter nodded and went from the hut. Searching through the darkness on his right, he saw the moonlight gleam off the Dancer’s white fur as she made her slow way to the remains of the hut at the end of the village.

  His hut, it once had been.

  Sruss grimaced as she walked. To be used that way, to be raped until she could only hate, these were things she could scarcely begin to imagine. Who was she, she now wondered, to be trying to console a woman who had undergone such abominable terror?

  Who was she, in fact, to be giving advice to anyone at all? In the past few days she had become the White Dancer, but only because the real Dancer had died. Before this she had been the most difficult of pupils, refusing to acknowledge even gratitude for the Dancer’s brilliant instruction. She was bitter at her exile from Ar, and she was not about to forgive those who had kept her.

  Kept her? Was that fair? Always the Dancer had told her that she could leave, but she had never taken advantage of the opportunity. Mostly, she did not know where she could go. The Dancer’s responsibilities had been the grasslands and the mountain villages. Only in the deep of winter would she come anywhere close to a city.

  Even in a city, Sruss knew she would not be safe.

  With her white fur, she would be noticed immediately. White meant well-born, and she was beautiful as well. The only way for her to go unnoticed would be to dye her fur a new color, but once she did so it would never be as perfectly white again. Since youth her father had accused her of being vain, and with a sudden smile she suddenly knew he was right. She would find another way.

  But the smile quickly faded as she approached Morian’s hut. She knew the woman needed a female to talk to, if in fact she would admit anyone at all, but surely the departed Dancer would have served her better. The Dancer had been wise; Sruss knew she was not.

  At least, she certainly didn’t feel wise. When Talwe had rescued her she knew that until spring she would be the new White Dancer, an irony considering her color was all that qualified her. She hadn’t realized until now what being the White Dancer meant. Above all it would require responsibility and wisdom, two qualities a princess of Ar had no need for. Her father had tried to teach her these things, but like everything else she had simply ignored them. She was a princess, not a priestess, and she had seen no need for any of these qualities.

  She was sure she had deceived Talwe, but he was only a grasslands hunter. A noble of Ar would never have fallen for her pose of self-confidence and self-control, but Talwe was far less sophisticated. Gullible and believing, he could easily be convinced of anything. So she had been hard with him, and he had responded as she expected.

  In fact, she felt a little bad about it. He was gullible, but he was also trusting, and in that trust she saw something she truly admired. For all her love for the city of Ar, it was filled with deception and intrigue; Talwe, first of any she had known, was simply not part of that life. His honesty had charmed her, and she had felt toward him like a mother to a newborn i
nfant.

  She wondered, suddenly, if Morian might be pregnant.

  “Morian,” she said through the bunda hide that hung across the doorway. “Morian, it is the Dancer.”

  She waited. Inside at first she heard nothing, but then came the sound of rustling, and then of a footstep. After what seemed an entire night, a woman’s voice sounded from within.

  “What do you want of me?” it said, and it betrayed neither passion nor interest.

  “I want to talk,” Sruss replied.

  Silence.

  Finally, “I have no need to speak,” Morian muttered. “I would like to stay alone.” She paused, then added bitingly, “Unless the Dancer would command me to talk.”

  Sruss had expected this. “I don’t want to command you at all,” she said gently. “No matter what you say, I promise I will not order you to do anything. And, besides, I didn’t ask you to talk. I said that I wanted to talk.”

  A long silence followed. Finally Morian spoke, and her voice was less certain than before.

  “What do you want to say?” she asked.

  The answer was a simple, “Revenge,” and Morian drew back the bunda hide. She was naked, and her face was slashed.

  “Yes, Dancer,” she said, “I will listen to you talk of revenge. Come in and be with me.”

  The Dancer stepped in, and her heart danced with fear. The hut was almost empty. A bed of straw and softened hides rested in one corner, and despite its crudeness it was neatly made up. A large clay pot occupied another corner, beside it a matching bowl, both potteries unadorned and uneven. In the middle of the floor stood a small table fashioned of smooth songomore on legs of baked mud. Unlike those in Ar, the mrem of the village used no chairs, and their tables were low to the ground.

  Morian guided the Dancer to the table. The villager sat on a hide on the floor at one side, motioning Sruss to sit on the other. For a moment neither mrem talked, staring instead into one another’s eyes as if trying to find a common understanding. Finally, Sruss realized that Morian would not begin their conversation.