Ratha’s Creature

CHAPTER SIX

When Ratha woke in her nest in the ash, morning had cleared the haze from the sky and deep blue arched over the burn. Slivers of green dotted the grounds; new shoots had come up overnight from fire-ripened seeds; each one so fragile that it bent beneath the weight of a single drop of dew.

Ratha sat up, yawned and brushed ash from her fur. She looked for Thakur before she remembered why he wasn’t there. Half the night spent tending the Red Tongue had made her peevish, and the hungry rumbles in her belly didn’t help her temper. A haunch of dappleback or some of those river-crawlers might be nice, she thought, feeling warm saliva filling her mouth. She swallowed and tried to turn her mind away from food. There was nothing to eat here. She would have to wait until she returned to clan ground.

“This place has food only for the Red Tongue.” Fessran’s voice came from behind her and the tang of smoke stung her nose. “And not enough, either. Your creature is a greedy thing; I grow weary of feeding it.”

Ratha stretched one leg at a time and arched her back to get the stiffness out of it. She groomed her belly, glancing now and then at Fessran, who was poking the last few sticks into the Red Tongue’s nest.

The morning breeze shifted, sending smoke into Fessran’s face and she shook her head, blinking, her eyes tearing. She backed away, grimacing. “Arr, you ungrateful creature!” she growled. “I feed you and feed you and then you make my eyes sting!”

“Stand on the other side.” Ratha yawned. “And you’re feeding it too much. Keep it small.”

“I will feed it no more; there is nothing left to feed it.” Fessran rubbed her face on the inside of her foreleg, leaving the fur damp and spiky. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. “There. I can see again.”

“I can get food for it.” Ratha pointed her nose at the tree. “Up there.”

“Unless you can knock down the whole tree, you won’t get very much,” Fessran said, eyeing the stunted saplings dubiously. “Even if you can feed your creature for a while, we can’t stay here.”

“And if we go, what happens to my creature?”

“We’ll have to leave it, Ratha.”

“No!” Ratha planted her paws in the ash. “It kept me warm last night. It kept you warm too. It is a cub; it must be looked after and fed. If we go, it will die.”

“We can’t stay here,” Fessran repeated.

“Why did you keep it alive last night if now you say it must die?” Ratha wailed.

“I was cold last night and I’m not now. I don’t want your creature to die either, Ratha, but staying here isn’t going to fill our bellies.”

Ratha circled the fire, pacing frantically. An idea struck her. “I want the clan herders to see my creature,” she said, turning to Fessran who stood waiting, flicking her tail from side to side. “I can stay here with the Red Tongue while you bring them. Can you bring them, Fessran? I can stay.”

“And be meat for the first hungry beast that comes along?” Fessran snorted. “If I left you here, I’d find only your bones when I got back, even if the clan herders would believe my words. Arr! What are you doing?” she cried in alarm as Ratha tried to snap at the flame and was driven back by heat and pain.

“I can’t catch it. There is nothing to catch. I see it, but my teeth can’t feel it.”

“Do you think you can carry the Red Tongue by the scruff?” Fessran wrinkled her nose. “I may not know much about it, but I know it is not that kind of creature.”

Ratha glared at Fessran, winced and licked smarting jowls. She turned once again to the enigmatic thing still dancing over its breakfast of twigs. Fessran had placed several small branches awkwardly, leaving broken ends sticking out. Gingerly, Ratha took one of these into her mouth and drew the branch from the fire. It was shorter than she expected and she shifted it in her jaws, fighting the urge to fling the thing away as it burned close to her face. Out of the corner of one eye she saw Fessran raise a paw to bat the branch out of her mouth. Ratha held her torch as long as she could before having to drop it back in the fire.

“There!” she panted. “I can carry my creature.”

Fessran lowered her foot. “You wouldn’t go very far before you dropped it. The sun is high, Ratha. We don’t need the Red Tongue.”

“No! You are just like Thakur, telling me to leave my creature. I found it, I fed it, and I’m going to take it back with me.” Ratha flopped on her belly and stared into the fire.

There must be a way ... there must ... yes, there is.

Ratha caught Fessran peering into her face. She sat up abruptly, almost bumping the other’s chin. “I know, Fessran! Look at the Red Tongue. See how the creature crawls along the branch? Do you see how the Red Tongue’s passing turns the wood gray and feathery?” Ratha leaned over Fessran’s shoulder as she snagged a charred stick with one claw and pulled it out of the fire. “Once the wood turns to feathers, the Red Tongue won’t eat it. If I pick my branch up by this end,” she said, tapping the blackened bark, impatient for it to cool, “I can carry it.”

When the wood stopped glowing and smoking, Ratha got her jaws around it and lifted the branch out of the fire. She raised her head, holding the torch triumphantly. An instant later, the charcoaled end collapsed between her teeth and the lighted end fell on the ground. It flickered out. Ratha spat out a mouthful of embers, gagged and drooled on the ground, trying to cool the burning bitterness with saliva. Through pain-blurred eyes she glared at the Red Tongue, retching as fluid ran down her chin.

She panted rapidly and stuck her sore tongue out into the morning wind.

“Arr! I thought it would work,” she said when she could speak.

“You did better the first time,” Fessran answered. “Perhaps a longer branch not yet touched by the Red Tongue would serve you. Wait. I’ll climb up and break one off.”

Ratha stared, open-mouthed, as Fessran hitched herself up the sapling’s slanted trunk. “You’re helping me?”

“I prefer that to leaving you here.” Fessran’s head appeared in a crotch between two limbs. The tree’s crown swayed as she balanced herself. She seized a nearby branch in her jaws, cracked it loose and tossed it down to Ratha. Several more followed, the dry wood snapping cleanly away from the trunk.

“My teeth weren’t made for that.” Fessran landed beside Ratha, sending up a cloud of flaky ash.

“Why did you knock down all those?” Ratha asked. “I can carry only one with the Red Tongue at the end.”

“Yes, but I can carry the others. And when the Red Tongue creeps to the end of your branch, I will coax it into one of mine and give that one to you.”

“Ah, but you are clever, Fessran,” Ratha said.

“Not clever. Just hungry. Take the large branch for your creature.” Fessran waited as Ratha lit the stick. “What about the rest of your creature?” she asked, her voice indistinct through the stick she had picked up.

“We will leave it and it will die,” Ratha said. “But my creature has given birth and its nursling dances at the end of my branch. So will it always be with the Red Tongue.” She paused. “Are you ready, Fessran?”

The other flicked her tail in answer and the two set off across the burn, Fessran in the lead, Ratha following, bearing the torch.

As the two traveled, the grass grew thicker underfoot, hiding the burn beneath a new carpet of green. Wild wheat stems stroked their bellies and flanks as they passed through, and Ratha had to hold her torch aloft to avoid setting the new growth alight. A sea of waving grasses covered what had been forest floor, swirling around the fire-blighted stands of pine and fir. Only the great red-woods still shaded the land, their heartwood still living, their fibrous bark only scarred by the Red Tongue’s passing. The wild grasses grew thin in their shadow and the torch seemed to burn brighter in the cool, still air beneath their boughs.

But the trees were few and the grass triumphant as it spread far in the open sunlight. Ratha walked behind Fessran, watching her tail swing back and forth in time to her pace, listening to the fire snap and hiss. The only other sounds were of grass swishing past legs and the muted hammer of a woodpecker from its faraway perch.

The sun reached its zenith and began to fall again. Fessran had replaced Ratha’s torch as many times as there were blackened stubs left along the trail. Ratha could hear Fessran’s stomach growl and her own, she was sure, would meet her backbone by the time they arrived on clan ground.

Ratha slowly became aware that the continuous low gurgle in the background was not coming from her stomach or Fessran’s. It was the sound of running water. She tried to scent the stream, but the acrid tang of torch smoke made her nose useless. She could only follow Fessran’s lead.

Soon they were walking along a grassy stream bank. Fessran found a ford where the stream ran shallow over gravel. They began to wade across, Fessran still leading, Ratha behind.

Fessran reached the other side and scrambled up the steep bank, shaking mud and pebbles from her feet. “Here is where we swam with the deer away from the Red Tongue,” she called back to Ratha, who still stood in midstream.

Ratha remained where she was, letting the water flow over her paws. The creek looked different in the open sun with grass instead of trees on its banks. But there, upstream, were the potholes she’d swum across and above them the waterfall she’d tumbled down. Her flank ached momentarily at the memory.

“I know your feet are weary, Ratha”—Fessran’s voice cut into her thoughts—“but we have only a little farther to go.”

Ratha’s jaws loosened in dismay and she almost dropped the torch in the water. Only at little farther to go? She wished that she was back on the burn, still traveling; the goal of her journey too far ahead to have to worry or think about. Now, suddenly, she had arrived. Ratha looked up the bank to where her companion was standing. Clan ground. And she wasn’t ready.

“Are you going to let your tail drag in the water all day?” Fessran sounded annoyed.

Ratha glanced down at her reflection. Herder of the Red Tongue, she thought wryly. A thin forlorn face stared back at her, holding the torch in its jaws. An echo of her own voice rang in her ears. Clan leader, hah! Who is he compared to....

“Ratha, hurry.” Fessran leaned down the bank. Ratha jerked her head up and sprang, dripping, onto the slope. Her paws slid on the muddy bank but Fessran seized her ruff and hauled her up.

Ratha paced back and forth on the stream bank while Fessran shook herself off. This was home ground, but very much changed. The forest no longer reached the stream and the meadow had altered shape and grown larger. The grass felt new and crisp underfoot. Ratha looked across the open land and remembered the cool dimness of the old forest.

The meadow stood empty. No beasts grazed; no herdfolk stood guard. Ratha shivered. Where are they ... ?

“Fessran, could the clan have gone somewhere else?” she asked, turning to her companion and speaking awkwardly around the branch.

“The meadow grass is not thick enough for beasts to graze,” Fessran said. “And the dapplebacks like to browse in thickets. Our folk may have taken the animals further away to graze, but I am sure they will return to the dens at sunfall.”

Fessran found the overgrown trail that led to the clan dens.

“The grass is bent here,” she said, nosing about, “and here are the marks of large pads. Meoran and the others came this way not long before.”

Ratha stood on the stream bank, her soggy coat still dripping. She stared across the meadow. She thought it was empty, but what had caused that patch of weeds to wave when the rest was still? The motion died out and though Ratha searched intently she could see nothing else. Her wet coat made her shiver again.

“Someone is stalking us,” she muttered in response to Fessran’s questioning look.

“Some clan cub out hunting grasshoppers.” Fessran wrinkled her nose. “Come out of the weeds, weanling, and give greeting to your betters,” she called. The meadow remained still.

“That isn’t a cub,” Ratha said.

“How do you know? I thought you couldn’t smell anything with the Red Tongue’s breath in your face.”

“My nose isn’t telling me. I just know,” she growled.

Fessran lifted her tail and waved the white spot at the end of it. No cub in the clan, Ratha knew, would disobey that signal. No one came, however, and Fessran lowered her tail. “Shake yourself dry,” she said irritably to Ratha, “and leave whoever it is to their games.”

Ratha shook her pelt and followed Fessran onto the trail. It wound among the few trees that had been spared by the Red Tongue and forest giants that had fallen across the path. Fessran seemed unsettled, even though this was a trail she had once known well.

She stopped, one paw lifted. Ratha halted behind her.

“They watch,” Fessran hissed. “All along the trail they watch and they hide themselves. If you be of the clan, come forward and give greeting!” she called, but again no one came out, although Ratha sensed motion between the trees and caught the phosphorescent gleam of eyes.

“Are they the Un-Named?” Ratha asked, shivering again although her coat was almost dry.

“No.” Fessran’s muzzle was lifted. “I smell scents I know well.”

“Then why do they not come out and offer greeting?”

“I don’t know.” Fessran walked ahead a short distance and called again. “I am Fessran of Salarfang Den, a herder of the clan. I walk by right on this ground. Do you hear me, those of you out there? Srass, that rank odor can only belong to you. And, Cherfan, I smell you along with Peshur and Mondir. Come and show yourselves!”

Her roar rang in the air, but once it died, the afternoon continued to slip into twilight in silence. Her ears and whiskers drooped. She crouched and picked up the branch she had dropped.

“Wait, Fessran,” Ratha said. “My creature grows weak. It wants food. Give it the branch you carry.”

Fessran laid her stick across Ratha’s until it caught. She held it while Ratha kicked dirt on the dying old one and then gave the new torch to Ratha. The fire snapped and roared, gaining hold in the wood. Ratha carried it high as she trotted down the trail after Fessran.

Again there were rustling sounds in the forest near the path and again sudden glimmers of eyes in the growing darkness. Faraway calls told Ratha and Fessran that the news of their coming was spreading far ahead of them. Fessran paced on, her head lowered, her tail stiff.

“I smell a kill,” she hissed back to Ratha. “The clan will meet us before we reach it; of that I am sure.”

Ratha felt her saliva dampen the wood between her teeth. The hunger had become a dull pain in her belly, drawing the strength from her limbs so that she trembled as she walked and she could see that her companion too was betraying her hunger. Only the Red Tongue was strong.

They went up the grassy rise and over the knoll, past the ancient oak with limbs low to the ground, where, Ratha remembered, she had first seen the Un-Named raider.

Fessran’s gait slowed. Her footsteps became quieter, then ceased. Ratha crept alongside her. “There. Up ahead.” Fessran’s whiskers brushed her face. “Do you see? There they are.” Ratha felt the whiskers twitch and slide away. “Stay here, Ratha,” Fessran said. “I will have words with them.”

Ratha dug her claws into the ground to anchor her shaky legs. She stared back at the eyes watching her. They had come out of hiding and were assembled together in mute challenge. Ratha smelled the scents drifting to her on the night breeze. She searched for the remembered scent of the clan, of kinfolk, of herdfolk who had taught her their skills and those she had run beside in the meadow when the Un-Named, their enemy, were attacking. The scents were there, but not as she remembered them. The smell of the clan had become the smell of the pack.

As soon as Fessran had taken a few steps downtrail, a single hoarse voice rose from the front of the group. “Come no further unless you wish to feel our teeth in your unworthy throats!”

“Are you growing blind with age, Srass?” Ratha heard Fessran yowl. “You know me and you know Ratha, who stands behind me. Let us pass and eat at the kill.”

There was only silence and burning eyes.

“The clan knows you, Fessran,” said a deeper voice, and Ratha’s hackles rose, for she knew that voice and hated it. “But the one who follows we do not know. Turn that one away and you may come and eat.”

“The one behind me, clan herder, is one you know and know well,” Fessran said. Her voice was strained and Ratha knew she was trying not to anger Meoran. “The smell that is mingled with mine is of the herder Ratha, the she-cub that Thakur and I taught.”

“She-cub? We smell no she-cub,” Srass howled, and Ratha could imagine that Meoran stood next to Srass muttering the words into the old herder’s tattered ear. “We smell no she-cub. We smell only that which burns, that which we hate.”

“Yaran!” Fessran called, startling Ratha by naming her lair-father. “If you stand among these mangy fleabags, answer me! Do you turn away your own, the she-cub that you and Narir bore?”

“I smell no she-cub,” Yaran’s gravely voice answered, and Ratha’s belly twisted in a sharper pain than hunger.

“Have you all got dung up your noses? Ratha, come forward and show yourself so we may end this nursling’s play.”

Shaking, Ratha crept forward, her torch casting orange light on the path. As the torchlight fell on the pack, they cowered. Ratha saw Meoran blink and narrow his eyes to agate slits in his broad face.

“We smell no she-cub!” Srass’s cry rose again. “We smell only the thing we hate. Drive it away! Drive it from clan ground.” He showed his broken teeth at Ratha.

She tried to speak above the pack’s howling, but the torch in her mouth kept her mute. “Let her speak!” Fessran cried, lashing her tail. “She is Named. Let her speak.”

“Fessran, take my creature,” Ratha hissed through her teeth. As soon as her jaws were free she faced the pack.

“Look! Fessran holds it. She doesn’t fear it,” Ratha said as Fessran stood beside her, the torch between her jaws. “This is my creature. I have brought it to the clan. I am Ratha, who once herded three-horn deer. Now I herd the Red Tongue.”

Ratha heard a muffled cry and Meoran shouldered Srass aside and came to the front.

Ratha felt the ground grow damp with sweat from her paw pads. Meoran’s odor surrounded her and seemed to crush her as he would with his great weight. His eyes were enough to still a challenge in any throat. If the eyes failed, the massive jaws would succeed. Ratha caught the glint of teeth like tusks behind his lips and remembered a time when the scent of freshly drawn blood mingled with his odor and those in the clan went about with lowered heads and eyes dull with fright.

“There will be no herder of the Red Tongue on ground I rule,” Meoran said, his gaze steady on Ratha.

“I have not come to offer challenge, clan leader. I bring my creature to serve you, to keep you warm while you guard the animals at night.”

“We do not know you, clanless and nameless one. Take the hateful thing and go.”

Cold seeped through Ratha and horror crawled across her skin like a flea seeking somewhere to bite. In those few words he had stripped her of her name, her kin and all that she knew and valued. Only one thing remained now and it blazed in the jaws of the one who stood beside her.

“Give me my creature,” she said to Fessran, who gave her a startled look at the change in her voice. Ratha took the torch from her companion.

She turned, playing the firelight across the front of the pack. They all squinted in pain and ducked their heads. Even Meoran lowered his jowled muzzle.

“Kill it!” someone screamed and the rest took up the cry. “Kill her and the thing she bears!” The pack glared at her with hateful eyes, but not one of them approached her as she swung the flame in a sweeping arc.

“Yes, kill it,” Ratha snarled through her teeth. “Come then. Tear out its throat. Spring and break its back. Here it is. What? You shy away?” She grinned around the branch. “You don’t know how to kill it, do you? Hah! Such sharp teeth the clan has. Surely you can kill a little creature like this? Or am I the only one who knows?”

“Sss, Ratha!” Fessran’s whiskers were in her ears. “You run too fast on a trail you don’t know. Thakur is in the pack. I smell him.”

“What do I care for ...” Ratha growled back.

“You will care very much if he speaks what he knows,” Fessran hissed, stamping her foot near Ratha’s.

“Kill the Red Tongue!” Meoran roared.

“How? We don’t know how,” the pack wailed.

“None of you know!” Ratha brandished the torch, swinging it viciously. “The Red Tongue is my creature. It can’t be killed.”

The howls died down into a low moaning. Some of those in the front were lifting their chins and baring their throats. Baring their throats to her and the Red Tongue, Ratha realized with a shock. Not to Meoran. Again she met the clan leader’s eyes and saw kindling in them a rage that would never burn out as long as her blood ran warm and the Red Tongue danced on the end of her branch. There was no returning along the trail she had chosen to take.

Meoran glared at the nearest herder whose chin was lifted. He raised a heavy paw and struck the supplicant, driving the lifted muzzle into the dirt. Other heads turned in fear of him, but Ratha could see that their terror of the fire was greater and the sudden fear in his eyes told her he also knew.

Ratha lifted the torch, casting its light further across the huddled bodies, seeking Thakur. She heard his voice before she saw him.

“Hear me, you of the clan. The Red Tongue can be killed. I saw her do it.”

Beside her, Ratha felt Fessran start. She saw Meoran spring over the backs of the crouching pack and land among them again, ignoring the squalls of those crushed by his bulk. He seized Thakur by the scruff and dragged him out of the crowd. He flipped Thakur on his back and spread a massive paw on his chest.

“You would speak, herder. Tell what you know.” Meoran seized and shook him.

Thakur twisted his head to look at Ratha. “He will kill you, yearling,” he said calmly, bright blood running down his neck. “Take your creature and run away now.”

Ratha’s lower jaw was trembling so that her teeth vibrated against the torch shaft and she could barely hold it aloft.

“Speak, herder!” said Meoran between his teeth. Ratha swung the torch at him, but Thakur was closer and in the way. However much Ratha hated Thakur for betraying her, she could not use the fire against him. She knew Meoran sensed her reluctance, for as he moved, he thrust Thakur in front of him, a shield between himself and the vengeful thing that fluttered on Ratha’s branch. He clawed at Ratha from behind Thakur’s head and over Thakur’s shoulder. Fessran danced around them, trying to distract Meoran enough so that she could snatch Thakur from the clan leader’s jaws.

Ratha caught glimpses of the pack, standing together behind Meoran. None of them moved to help him. They watched and waited to see who would be the victor.

“Run, Ratha!” Thakur called as Meoran threw him from side to side.

“Let him go, Meoran!” she snarled and lunged with the torch. Meoran jerked Thakur up so that he hung like a cub from the leader’s jaws, rear legs dragging on the ground, front legs stiff and splayed apart. Ratha skittered to a stop before she drove the torch into Thakur’s chest. She recoiled and staggered back. Thakur averted his face, shut his eyes and went rigid, his body tight and trembling.

“Why, Thakur?” Ratha cried and felt her insides churning in agony. “Why did you tell them?”

“It was not hatred, Ratha,” Thakur answered as he sagged in Meoran’s jaws. He grunted in pain as the clan leader gave him another savage jerk.

“If I run, he will kill you,” Ratha said. “If I free you, will you come with me?”

Slowly Thakur opened his eyes. “I can’t go with you. He won’t kill me. He needs what I know.”

Ratha stood paralyzed, staring at him, trying to find an answer in his eyes. Once he had been a teacher, a friend—and even something more. What had he become now?

She raised her head and met Meoran’s slitted gaze. Beyond him, the pack eyed her. Her power was waning as the Red Tongue crept down its branch. There was still enough to hold them from her throat, but soon they would sweep forward and engulf her.

“Go, yearling,” Thakur said again, his voice thin.

She felt Fessran give her a quick nudge. She turned, starting in fright at the shadows that seemed to jump from the trees as the flame’s light passed across them. She broke into a trot and heard Fessran following.

Several paces down the trail she stopped, lifted the torch aloft and looked back. Meoran and the pack were still there, black forms against the night. Ratha turned and galloped away, the fire lighting the trail before her. They weren’t following ... yet.

She plunged ahead, ignoring her shaking legs and the gnawing aching pain in her belly. The worst pain she could not ignore. It came from her own words that hammered in her brain as her heart hammered behind her breastbone.

Thakur ... why?

Ratha sprinted uphill toward the knoll and the old oak. Orange light gleamed on its leaves and an owl, startled from its perch, hooted mournfully and floated away.

“They come, Ratha,” Fessran panted beside her. “I hear branches breaking on the trail behind us.”

Ratha glanced to the side and saw a spare fire-lit form running alongside. Her breath hissed between teeth tightly clamped on the torch shaft. “Thakur ... Fessran, what will happen to Thakur?”

“What he knows about the Red Tongue may save him from Meoran’s teeth. It will not save him from mine if you are caught and killed.”

“No!” Ratha nearly stumbled. She lost ground, falling behind Fessran. “He did not do it out of hate. Take no revenge on him; promise me that.”

Fessran slowed, letting Ratha catch up. “My promise means nothing. Meoran will have my blood too, if he catches us. We will talk later, across the creek. Run!”

Ratha’s torch still flamed, but half of the wood was charred. The brand was nearly exhausted, although the wind whipped it and forced it to burn brightly, devouring the branch.

We can break branches from the trees on the far side of the creek, Ratha thought. If we reach them. If Meoran catches us before then, my creature will have no strength left to keep him from our throats.

Ratha and Fessran topped the hill and ran down the other side. Ratha gained speed from the long downslope and the Red Tongue burned fiercely near her whiskers. Somewhere ahead was the creek. Beyond that, clan ground ended.

Shadowed grass flew by beneath Ratha’s feet, and she stretched her body into the run. She saw only the swath of light the torch threw ahead of her, letting everything else slip by in a blur. She passed Fessran and left her far behind. Her speed and the rush of the Red Tongue gave her a wild exhilaration, as if she, not the clan, had been the victor.

She was too far ahead of Fessran to hear the other’s warning cry.

The grass beneath her paws changed to mud and she was skidding, unable to stop. Whirling her tail, she back-pedalled, trying to keep her hindquarters beneath her. Mud piled up between her toes. Pebbles raked her pads. The bank became steeper and dropped away. She gave one despairing kick that shot her out over the water. She lost control and tumbled. The torch sailed out into the darkness. For an instant, she saw two fires flash; one above the surface; one below. They met and died as the torch fell and sank.

Ratha hit the water and came up flailing wildly. She dug her feet into the stream bed and reared up, beating at the water with her paws. The fire was gone.

The stream rippled in cold moonlight as she searched for her creature. She splashed in the stream; sweeping her forepaw through the water; clawing at the bottom; even plunging her head beneath the water to search with her whiskers. Nothing.

She felt something bump her flank. She whirled and seized it. A familiar taste and charred smell told her it was her torch, but now, with the Red Tongue gone, worthless as any other stick. She let it drift away.

Ratha threw back her head and screamed in rage and terror. Now nothing could hold Meoran from her throat. And it had all been for nothing. The Red Tongue was gone.

She reared up again, slashing and tearing at the stream, as if it had flesh and could yield some retribution for killing her creature. She heard footsteps on the bank above her. A splash beside her nearly knocked her over. Sharp teeth fastened in her nape.

“Ratha!” Fessran’s voice hissed behind her head. Fessran’s breath was hot and moist on her skin beneath the fur.

“My creature! My creature is dead!” Ratha howled, her throat raw from her cry.

“The clan comes,” Fessran said between her fangs. “Your noise will guide them to us. Be still!”

“They seek me. Run, Fessran. If they find me, they won’t follow you.”

“Speak again and I’ll push your nose beneath the water. I too held the Red Tongue between my jaws and Meoran will not forget that.”

The teeth fastened on Ratha’s nape again and she was hauled through the water, dragged out and pushed ashore. She shook so badly she could hardly stay on her feet and the wind on her wet pelt made her feel as though she had no fur at all.

Fessran’s slick coat gleamed faintly as she passed Ratha and moved up the far bank.

“Wait.”

Fessran looked back, her eyes phosphorescent. “Clan ground ends here,” she said, “but the clan’s wrath doesn’t.”

“We can’t outrun them. It has been too long since we’ve eaten,” Ratha said.

Fessran lowered her muzzle and hunched her shoulders.

“Fessran, there is no hope they will spare me. But you may be able to turn their hatred away from you.”

“How?” The eyes narrowed.

“The Red Tongue is dead. Meoran need not know that it was my foolishness that killed it. It was you, Fessran. You killed it and drove me off. He must have heard my cry.”

“Yarr ... and I hear him,” Fessran muttered. “Quickly, Ratha.”

“He’ll believe it. Here,” Ratha said, swiping at her belly and extending her fur-covered claws to Fessran. “A tuft of fur. Put it between your teeth.” She lifted a paw and smeared Fessran’s coat with the blood and dirt from her cut pads before Fessran could stop her. “There. I turned on you with the Red Tongue, but you struck it down and killed it. Can he doubt my blood on your fur? And the stick has come ashore downstream. Show him that when he arrives.”

“Enough!” Fessran hissed. “He will never...”

“You don’t have time to wash yourself off before he gets here.” Ratha pawed Fessran’s face, leaving a smear along her jaw. She jumped back at Fessran’s strike. The eyes were blazing.

“Get away from here before I make it real!” Fessran snarled.

Ratha ducked her head and scuttled away. She paused, lifted her head and looked back. “May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den, Fessran,” she said softly. “You are of the clan. You cannot leave them. I am the one whose way lies apart from the rest.”

The other’s eyes cooled. The tail gave one last twitch. “May the trail you run lead you back to us.”

“See to Thakur,” Ratha said.

“I will. Go now.” Fessran’s whiskers drew back. “I don’t want you to see me fawning on Meoran.”

Ratha leaped up the bank, leaving her behind. The howls of the clan sounded not far across the creek. Ratha trotted downstream for a short distance and angled off into the brush. Making sure that she was downwind from the stream bank, Ratha crouched in a thicket, listening. Her heartbeat threatened to choke her. Would her plan work? Would the clan leader believe Fessran’s story and spare her? They needed good herders too badly to kill one needlessly.

If Fessran dies, Ratha thought, kneading the earth beneath her forepaws, I will go and bare my throat to Meoran.

The howling swelled, then fell silent. Voices spoke. Ratha was too far away to hear the words, but she caught tones. Meoran’s deep growl, Srass’s whine. Fessran’s voice, rising and falling. Then, silence. Ratha tensed, grinding her teeth together, waiting for the outcry from the pack that would signal Fessran’s death. Nothing.

She lifted her chin, swiveling her ears all the way forward, hardly daring to think that such a simple trick had saved her companion. She peered through the interwoven branches. The moon was silver on the stream bank. Forms paced up and down on the far side. Fessran was seated, speaking to Meoran. She extended a paw. Meoran leaned forward to sniff it while the clan gathered about them. Fessran got up, joined the others, and Ratha lost her among them.

She dropped down behind her thicket, dizzy with relief and weariness. She laid her chin on the damp ground and felt her heart gradually slow. The ache in her belly came back and the cuts on her pads began to throb. There was mud in the wounds, but she didn’t have time to clean them. The wind might soon shift, carrying her scent to the clan and revealing her hiding place. Exhausted and hungry as she was, she had far to run before she would be beyond the clan’s reach.

She yawned. This would be a good place to sleep, she thought, pushing herself up on her front paws. If I did, Meoran would soon be standing over me, ready to give the killing bite. She coaxed her reluctant hindquarters up and peered out of the thicket. The voices were silent. The clan folk had gone. Fessran was probably sending them on all sorts of false trails, looking for her.

She stepped out of the thicket and looked up at the stars. The trees here were fewer and she could see a greater stretch of sky. So many stars, she thought. Each seemed to burn like a tiny piece of her lost creature. The night wind touched her wet coat, making her prickle and shiver.

She was clanless; outcast and outlaw. Her training as a herder was worthless now, for she had no beasts to keep. There would be no more gatherings; no sharing of the clan kill. From now on she would have to provide for herself, and that no one had taught her.

Miserably, she crept away. She stayed in shadow beneath brush and trees, avoiding open ground where newly sprouting grass was bathed in moonlight beside the charred lengths of fallen pines. For a while, she chose stealth over speed, but at last her desperation drove her from cover. She ran from an enemy neither seen nor smelled, whose dark presence loomed up in every tree shadow, sending her fleeing from the path. She ran like a cub on her first night trail, fearful of anything that moved.

The wind grew bitter, hissing and rattling branches. The new ache in Ratha’s chest did not distract her from the old ache in her belly, and she endured them both, until the hunger pain became a weakness that seeped into her legs. She stumbled from tree to tree, resting against them until she gained breath to go on. The trail faded away, or she lost it, for now she fought her way through thorns and ropy vines. She panted harder. Her pads grew slippery with sweat, stinging the gravel cuts. She was almost grateful for the pain; it kept her alive and angry when she was tempted to fall and lie amid the brambles that snared her. It was the anger that made her tear loose from them and stagger on, leaving tufts of fur behind.

The earth itself seemed to betray her, for it grew mushy underfoot and she sank at every step. The soft ground sucked at her feet, dragging her down, while the tangle thorns chewed at her ruff and flanks. She was caught and held by spikes growing from the vines, and struggle as she would, she could not break free. For a while she was still, regaining her strength. With a final effort, she wrenched herself loose, the thorns scoring her sides.

She overbalanced, toppled and started to roll down a steep grade. Limp and exhausted, she let herself go, dragging a claw now and then to slow her descent. She landed against something, heard a soft crunch and smelled the odor of woody decay. She tried to rise, but could only lift her head; the rest of her body was too weary to obey.

Ratha let her head loll, feeling damp moss against her cheek. Was this to be her deathplace? Would the clan find her here, a rotting lump of fur beside an equally rotten log?

No! She ground her teeth; she would not lie still, not yet. If Meoran and the others came she would meet them on her feet, with fangs bared.

If only she could have a little time to rest. That would be all she needed. Just time enough for the strength to flow back into her limbs and the ache in her chest to lessen. Then she would be able to fight if she had to, or to journey on, seeking water to soothe her throat and something to fill her belly.

The ground seemed to rock beneath her when she closed her eyes, letting her rise and fall as though she were a cub crawling on her mother’s ribs. She opened one eye at the shadowed ferns hanging above her. The leaves were still, and she knew that it was not the ground that rocked her, but the depths of her own weariness. She let the imagined motion lull her into a daze, then into sleep.

Ratha woke abruptly, itching all over. Had all her fleas gone mad? They were all dancing beneath her coat, tickling her skin until the urge to be rid of them overcame her exhaustion. She twitched a paw and saw something white and wriggling fall on the ground. Whatever was crawling through her fur, it wasn’t fleas.

With one bound she was on her feet, shaking hard until she thought she would jerk her pelt loose. Some of the invaders fell on the ground beneath her, but others remained as moving lumps in her underfur. Her tail bristled with horror. Was she so close to death that worms were seeking her body? She remembered seeing the carcass of a dappleback mare felled by sickness. The clan would not touch the tainted meat and the body was left for other scavengers. She remembered the sound that welled up from the carcass; a soft humming and whispering. It was the song of the death-eaters; the sound of dissolution. It was the sound of millions of tiny jaws chewing through cold flesh. Ratha remembered the song and shuddered. She shook herself again. She saw pale carapaces and waving legs on the moonlit ground beside her paws. Some of her horror faded into curiosity. These weren’t worms, she thought, pawing at one scuttling insect.

She looked back to where she had lain against the fallen log. The leathery wood was crushed inward, revealing a channeled interior. More pale termites swarmed and milled within the hollow, spilling out like a thick liquid around the edges.

She had landed right in a nest of them. No wonder she had awakened with the creatures in her fur! She nosed her back and trapped one moving lump between her fangs. She pulled it loose from her coat, feeling the hair thread between her teeth. The flailing legs touched her tongue and made her gag. She bit down on the insect and felt the carapace break.

She spat the mangled thing out, but not before a trace of its flavor escaped onto her tongue. She had been prepared for a bitter or nauseating taste, but instead found it bland and sweet, reminding her of the river-crawlers she had eaten with Thakur. Her hunger came back in a rush. She let saliva wash over her tongue, testing the flavor again. Not as good as river-crawlers, but definitely palatable.

She licked up several termites that were crawling by her feet, crunched and swallowed them.

Ha, eaters of death, she thought. I will eat you!

She cleaned up the others that had fallen from her fur and began grooming herself, eating the ones she found in her pelt. Not satisfied with those, she pawed at the nest, breaking more of the rotten wood. A seething mass poured out on the ground. She stepped on them and then ate them.

By dawn she was almost full. Daylight chased the termites into the depths of their battered nest, but Ratha no longer cared. With the cramp in her belly eased, she was ready to journey on.

For several days, Ratha traveled through thick woods of broadleaf and pine. Here the fire’s touch had not been felt and the air beneath the trees was cool and dim, reminding her of her own forest before the Red Tongue’s coming. She thought, as she prowled on needles, that she could make a new home among these silent trees. There were plenty of rotting logs that would yield their inhabitants to her claws, at least until she found some other source of food. Even as she thought about staying, her feet carried her on until the forest thinned and gave way to scrub and tangle. Only when she was clear of the trees did she stop to look back. The forest beckoned to her from within its gray-green depths, promising her quiet and safety. The horizon also beckoned, promising her nothing except challenge.

She turned from the forest and galloped toward the horizon.