Ratha’s Creature (The First Book of The Named) Page 8

  “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 hu
ngry 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.