Ratha’s Creature

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The storm moved on, leaving the trees burning. Ratha and Fessran stood together on the far side of the stream, sensing that water would check the wildfire’s advance. Ratha stuck her torch into the soft mudbank. Fessran still held hers between her jaws. The crackle of their two torches echoed the groaning roar of the wildfire. A touch of gray showed beyond the sparks shooting into the sky.

Ratha gathered a pile of branches, for she knew the torches would soon burn low. Fessran snapped her head around as the wet grass seemed to move in the firelight. Ratha nudged her friend, feeling Fessran shiver. She felt curiously calm.

“Meoran will not come,” Fessran hissed. “We will have to seek him out. I grow weary of waiting here and the Red Tongue in the trees burns too close.”

“He will be here, herder,” Ratha answered. “Once he knows you have come seeking me, he will be on your track.”

“I wish him speed,” Fessran snarled, her teeth clenched on the torch shaft.

The grass waved again and Ratha heard footsteps. Fessran lunged with the torch as a shadow streaked out of the grass. A scent, made alien by a blast of acrid fear-smell, washed back over Ratha.

“Thakur!” she cried as Fessran froze where she was standing. Thakur crouched in the shadows, glaring at both of them.

“Put that torch down or I’ll take it away from you,” Ratha snarled at Fessran. “It would have made more sense to give the Red Tongue to a dappleback. Put it down!”

Fessran obeyed, driving the splintered branch end deep into the mud beside Ratha’s. Thakur crept into the circle of torchlight, his head lifted, his belly close to the ground. His ears flattened and his teeth flashed as he spoke.

“I feared you would find your creature again,” he said to Ratha. “Meoran comes and the clan is with him. When he heard the sky-fire strike and found Fessran gone, he knew.” He stopped, panting. “Run, both of you! Throw down your torches and flee! You escaped him once, you can again. Run!”

“No, Thakur. He will not be turned away as easily as he was the last time. He will hunt us until he has our blood,” Ratha said in a low voice.

Thakur almost threw himself at Ratha, his eyes shimmering with rage and agony. “How many will die in this madness? Shall this be the death of my people; the Named killing the Named? Have they earned such a death? If so, tell me how.”

Ratha’s belly twisted as she watched him.

“Enough, Thakur,” Fessran interrupted. “You have no stomach for this. Run away so that at least one will survive as the last of the Named.”

Thakur turned from Fessran to Ratha.

“Do as she bids you. Or pick up a torch and stand with us,” Ratha said softly.

He cast a look back over his shoulder. “He comes; I hear him now,” Thakur moaned. His voice rose to a hiss. “For the sake of your people, throw the cursed thing down and run!”

Ratha’s head turned at the sound of footsteps. Smoke hung beneath the trees, boiling along the ground. There were shadows behind the haze. Amber eyes stared out from a massive shape as gray as the rolling smoke. It became large and solid as Meoran approached.

“Wise words, Thakur Torn-Claw.” Meoran thrust his massive head through the haze. One bite from those jaws could crush the skull of a three-horn stag, Ratha knew. He was not one to provoke lightly.

For an instant the three of them stood still facing Meoran and the clan. Then, with a sudden shriek of rage, Fessran snatched up her torch and flung herself at Meoran. He reared, hauling his gray bulk into the air. He struck out with slashing foreclaws as Cherfan and the other young males rushed from behind to guard his flanks. Fessran tumbled away, bleeding. Her torch fell and guttered out.

“So this is the power of the Red Tongue.” He sneered and kicked the smoldering branch away from her groping forepaws.

“Meoran, wait!” cried Thakur. “You have destroyed Fessran’s creature. There is no need to take her life. Let me talk to her.”

Fessran lay on her side, her neck and chest red and ragged. She lifted her head and glared hate at Meoran.

“Talk will do nothing,” Meoran snarled. “Her eyes are like the eyes of the other, the she-cub.”

Ratha watched Fessran quivering on the ground. She raised her head and met the gray-coat’s stare. “The she-cub speaks,” she said quietly. “Leave Fessran. She is not the one you seek. I told you before; it is between you and me, Meoran.”

The clan leader took one heavy step forward. “Stay back,” Ratha heard him growl to Cherfan and the other young males who flanked him. “This one is my meat.”

He took another step and then jerked his head back in astonishment. Thakur stood in front of him, blocking his way to Ratha.

“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” she heard Thakur say. “Do you forget the old laws?”

“I make the laws for the clan, Thakur Torn-Claw. Move aside!” Meoran spat at Thakur and struck him in the face. He bowed his head and Ratha saw him lick blood from his nose.

“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” he said again, so softly that Ratha could barely hear him.

“I don’t bother with fangs for such as you. Claws do well enough.” Again Meoran lashed out at Thakur, laying the other’s cheek open to the bone. Ratha flinched as if she had been the one struck. Something inside her began beating against the walls of its prison. She wanted to shriek at Thakur to stand aside and let her face Meoran alone. She began to tremble, fighting her rage. She knew if Meoran struck Thakur again, that her rage would win.

The two stood apart, stiff-legged and bristling, Thakur still blocking Meoran’s way. The wild thing beating inside Ratha’s chest was as angry at Thakur as Meoran. What right had he to interfere? Had he not betrayed her the night the Red Tongue died? Meoran’s power would have fallen then. And what did he think he was doing now? Did he think that seeing him bleed would calm her? No! Blood would bring blood.

Meoran raised a paw. Thakur looked at him, his face blank, expressionless. The blow came, with all of Meoran’s weight behind it. Thakur reeled and his head snapped around spraying red onto Ratha’s coat. He sank down in front of the gray coat.

Fessran shrieked and the cry tore through Ratha. She wrenched her torch from the ground. Meoran was approaching Thakur slowly, almost leisurely, his jaws opening for the killing bite. Flame barred his way. Again he reared striking out with his forelegs to knock Ratha’s torch from her jaws as he had Fessran’s but Ratha was too quick. The brand scorched his chest and he skittered back, howling.

“Ratha, no!” cried a hoarse voice and she caught a blurred glimpse of Thakur staggering to his feet, his mouth open in pain as the gleaming blood ran from his eye and cheek, dripping along his jaw.

Ratha walked toward Meoran with the torch in her teeth. All those that had clustered around the clan leader melted away. And Meoran cowered, terrified, mouth gaping, sides heaving.

“Close your jaw or your tongue shall meet the Red Tongue,” Ratha snarled. He gulped and shut his mouth.

“On your side and offer your throat,” Ratha ordered lifting her head with the torch. “Look well, you of the clan. The Law of the Named is now the Law of the Red Tongue.”

They crouched together, their bellies to the ground. Cherfan, his mate, Srass’s young son and the others all stared helplessly at the scene before them.

In her pride, Ratha answered their gaze and took her eyes from Meoran.

He exploded up at her, fangs seeking her throat. With a violent twist of her head, she swung the torch in a vicious arc and drove it down into those gaping jaws. The impact almost jarred her teeth loose from the shaft. Then, with a strange tearing sound, it gave, throwing Ratha off-balance. The shaft was torn out of her mouth and she was knocked aside.

She had lost, she thought dizzily as she fought to keep her footing. She whirled, ready to meet Meoran in a final desperate attack with teeth and claws. For a moment, she stood, stupefied.

Meoran spun in a circle like a cub chasing its tail. He was a blur of gray with a dancing patch of orange. And he was screaming.

When he paused, exhausted and spent, Ratha could see him and her rage froze into horror. The shaft of the torch protruded from his mouth, jamming it open. The blackened end, streaked with red showed beneath his chin and the Red Tongue curled up around his lower jaw on both sides. With a shock, Ratha realized she had driven the jagged end of the firebrand through the bottom of his mouth. Blood and froth bubbled up around the shaft and sizzled in the flame.

Meoran cried again, a half-choked scream. He pawed at the hated thing, now so terribly embedded in his own flesh. The Red Tongue blazed up wrathfully and Meoran flung himself back and forth as it licked at his face, blistering his jowls.

From the corner of her eye, Ratha saw Thakur lurch through the swirling haze toward Meoran.

“The stream!” he cried. “It dies in water! Seek the stream.”

Ratha stood frozen as Meoran staggered toward the creek. She did nothing to help or to hinder him. She no longer wished to be the one to decide how he would die.

Meoran shrieked and reeled back from the bank. Fessran leaped at him from the rushes, blood-spattered, vengeance-hunger hot in her eyes. She struck at the torch shaft penetrating his lower jaw, using the pain to drive him back from the water.

“Eat well, night creature,” she crooned to the flame. “He is a feast worthy of your hunger. Dance on his bones, sear his entrails and make him sing as he dies!”

Each time Meoran tried to gain the stream, Fessran was before him, singing a soft song to the flame and striking at Meoran’s face. The fur was black on his muzzle and ruff. The skin beneath was starting to swell.

Ratha leaped toward Fessran, but Thakur reached Fessran first. He caught her by the hindquarters and rolled away, dragging her with him. Meoran plunged past Ratha, the fire wreathing his head and neck. He did not reach the stream. He fell, writhing, into the grass. The wind whipped the Red Tongue.

Ratha saw Thakur approach, but the spreading fire drove him back. With a last spasm, Meoran’s body became still and started burning.

Thakur stood before the gray-coat’s pyre, Fessran’s limp form at his feet. Ratha could see him shuddering.

He turned and walked to the pile of branches she had gathered. He took one in his mouth and lit the end in the fire engulfing Meoran.

Ratha waited, trembling, as he approached her. She could see only one of his eyes and she feared the light there was the glow of madness. The fire was before her now, speaking with a savage voice. She stared into it. She would burn with Meoran.

“Ratha!” came Thakur’s voice and she looked into the ravaged face. “Are you ready?”

“To die by the Red Tongue? Yes. It is right. I am glad you will do it.” She lifted her chin, baring her throat. She closed her eyes.

“No! Not to die,” Thakur hissed. “To live as you told us. By the Law of the Red Tongue.”

Her eyes flew open. He was extending the torch shaft to her. “Take it, Giver of the New Law,” he said between his teeth.

Ratha bowed her head. “May my teeth rot if I ever take it into my mouth again! Fling it away, Thakur. The way of the Red Tongue is madness.”

“Madness it may be,” said Thakur, “but it is also life. Look to your people, Giver of the New Law.”

Ratha looked past him to the others of the Named who still crouched before her. She saw Cherfan huddling beside his mate, his eyes bright with terror. As Ratha’s gaze met his, he lifted his throat and bared it to her. His mate, crouching beside him, did the same.

“No!” Ratha whispered. “I never wished to rule. Meoran!”

“He lies burning in the grass. He will soon be ash and bones. His law is ended. The New Law must rule.”

“Then you or Fessran....” Ratha faltered.

“They do not bare their throats to me or to Fessran,” Thakur said. “Take the torch and lead your people.”

Again Ratha searched the eyes of those crouching before her. More chins were lifted. More throats bared. There were still those with eyes that waited and doubted.

Slowly she opened her jaws and felt Thakur place the branch between her teeth. His grip loosened and she felt the weight in her mouth and saw the Red Tongue dancing before her face. She watched Thakur back away, half of his face crusted and swollen. He too crouched and lifted his chin. She looked to the clan and saw that all throats were bared. She still had a choice. She could fling down the torch and throw herself into Meoran’s pyre. Or she could seek the trail that ran back to the mountains, abandoning her people to the ravages of the clanless ones.

The Red Tongue is madness. Thakur’s words came back to her again. It is also life. He had left one thing unspoken.

Now it is the only life we have.

She seized the branch, tasting the bitter bark. The wildfire still ate the trees and Meoran’s pyre was spreading through the grass.

“This is my creature,” Ratha said, holding the flame aloft. “It shall be yours as well. I will teach you to keep it and feed it, for it must never be allowed to die. You shall be called the Named no longer. Now you are the People of the Red Tongue.

She swung the torch around. “Follow me to the dens!” she cried. “Tonight we will give the raiders something new to taste. Do you hear me?”

The answer came back in a roar that deafened her. Her heart beating wildly, she sprang ahead, carrying the Red Tongue, and heard the sound of her people following.