That wasn’t the usual Liskash way. Night was friendlier to the Mrem, whose eyes adjusted to it better. But Rantan Taggah took nothing for granted now, not when Sassin had just beaten him.
He got his wounds salved and bandaged. Nothing seemed bad, or likely to fester. He was luckier than quite a few warriors. All the same, the sting from cuts and ache from bruises left his temper even shorter than it would have been otherwise.
All that meant he went after Zhanns Bostofa as if he were stalking a wild bundor. The only difference was, he would have gone after a wild bundor with more respect than he felt for the plump male. When the talonmaster had trouble finding him, he hoped the Liskash had killed him. That, at least, would have left the other male with some scraps of his honor intact.
But no. There stood Zhanns Bostofa, not far from a fire, with fewer wounds than Rantan Taggah bore himself. The black-and-white male flinched when Rantan Taggah came up to him, but didn’t try to flee. He might have understood how hopeless that was. Seeming to shrink in on himself, he said, “Do what you will to me. You would anyhow.”
“Why shouldn’t I tear your worthless carcass to bloody rags and scatter them around the camp to warn the others?” Rantan Taggah snarled. “You broke. You ran. You came as near as that ”-he slashed his claws through the air, a whisker’s breadth in front of Zhanns Bostofa’s nose-“to dooming the whole clan. Was that what you had in mind? Would it have made you happy?”
“No,” Zhanns Bostofa said. “I can’t stand you-as if that’s any secret. But I’m loyal to the clan.”
In a way, the talonmaster believed him. A Mrem might betray his clan to another. He would have his reasons for that, whether they smelled good or bad to an outsider. But, in all the tale of years since the beginning, had any Mrem, no matter how wicked, ever chosen the Liskash over his own kind? Rantan Taggah couldn’t make himself believe it.
“Are you?” he challenged, furious still. “You pick odd ways to show it.”
“Maybe I do.” Zhanns Bostofa hung his head. “The fear struck-and I ran. I couldn’t help myself. None of us could help ourselves. It was…It was Liskash magic. I see that now. I didn’t then. The only thing I could think of then was getting away to somewhere safe as fast as I could.”
“What about later?” Rantan Taggah said. “Even the Dancers picked up javelins and threw them at the Scaly Ones. How about you? Were you hiding under the blankets in a wagon?”
“I-I came out,” Zhanns Bostofa said. Rantan Taggah’s sneer proved even shrewder than he’d guessed. The plump male held out his arm to show off a cut. “I did fight. By Aedonnis, I did! That’s how I got this.”
“A hero,” Rantan Taggah gibed. “Why don’t you go brag to Ramm Passk’t? I’m sure he’d be impressed, too. All he did was slaughter a spear-carrying Scaly One with his teeth and claws.”
“Curse it, you posted my followers and me where you did because you didn’t think we’d fight so well. Why are you so surprised when we didn’t rip the Liskash to pieces?”
That had enough teeth to bring Rantan Taggah up short for a moment. “If you could fight the way you talk, you would be the greatest talonmaster this clan has ever known,” he said wearily. “But you’ll fight the next time- see if you don’t. I’ll put you where I can keep an eye on you. And if the Liskash don’t wound you from the front, I’ll make sure our warriors finish you from behind.”
“I suppose I’ve earned that,” Zhanns Bostofa said. “However you please. I won’t let the clan down.”
Rantan Taggah had to hope he meant even so much. Sassin had certainly known just where the Clan of the Claw’s weak point lay. Yet again, the talonmaster wished Enni Chennitats hadn’t made him think about the dark god, the Liskash god, who might or might not exist. That vision was liable to bother him for years. Only too easy to imagine that god reaching a scaly hand out toward the clan…and closing it on Zhanns Bostofa.
That thought sparked another. Of their own accord, his claws shot out. Seeing them, Zhanns Bostofa fell back half a step. He had to be wondering whether Rantan Taggah aimed to kill him on the spot, the way the mighty Ramm Passk’t had slain the Scaly One.
But Rantan Taggah had forgotten all about him. No, not quite: he was thinking of the plump male in a new and different way. “Maybe,” he said, much more to himself than to Zhanns Bostofa, “just maybe, mind you, I deserve to lead the clan in war after all. I can hope so, anyhow.”
“What do you mean?” Zhanns Bostofa asked.
And Rantan Taggah told him…some of what was in his mind, anyhow.
Enni Chennitats slept hardly at all through a night that seemed a thousand years long. The priestesses were the clan’s healers as well as Dancers. None of them got much sleep. Their talents and their knowledge were too much in demand. She cleaned and stitched and bandaged till she started to hate the stink of blood.
The hale males in the clan weren’t idle in the darkness, either. They butchered and skinned as many of the herdbeasts the Liskash had killed as they could. They wouldn’t be able to smoke or salt or sun-dry all the meat they cut up; some of the hides would go bad before they could be tanned. But the clan was doing what it could to survive and go on. And males and females and kits all stuffed themselves to the bursting point. Somehow, trouble seemed easier to face if you could meet it with a full belly.
Ahead of the sun, the brilliant star called Assirra’s Tear climbed into the sky. Sometimes it shone in the morning before sunrise, sometimes in the evening after sunset. It never strayed very far from Aedonniss’ sun. Before long, morning twilight turned black to gray in the east.
“Priestesses to the wagons,” Demm Etter called in tones that brooked no argument. “We have to rest. The clan will need us again-and all too soon.”
How Enni Chennitats wished she could quarrel with that! But when she opened her mouth to protest, what came out was an enormous yawn. Demm Etter had a way of being right.
Some of the teams drawing the wagons were makeshifts. Everything was going to be makeshift for a while. That was the least of Enni Chennitats’s worries. Off to the south, carrion birds and scavenging leatherwings glided down from the sky to squabble with four-legged prowlers over the feast on the battlefield. The Scaly Ones didn’t care what happened to their bodies once they were done with them; they were even less likely to care about Mrem corpses. They held the field, so there would be no proper rites for the dead. One more thing to grieve over, Enni Chennitats thought sorrowfully.
Rantan Taggah deployed his remaining chariots to the south of the wagons and herds. He might have been telling Sassin, Well, if you want to go on with the fight, we’re ready for you. He might have been, but he wasn’t. Another battle right then would have torn the Clan of the Claw to pieces.
The only consolation was that Sassin didn’t seem ready to start fighting again right away, either. The males who’d got back from the main battle bragged about how many Liskash they’d slain. For once, their brags must have held some truth.
Yawning again, Enni Chennitats climbed into a wagon and curled up into a ball. What if they need magic? What if they need us to Dance? she wondered. Sleep smote her before she found an answer.
Sassin was coldly furious. By any standards, he’d won a smashing victory over the furry vermin. They should have run back to their old grazing grounds or stayed where they were to try to recover from the thrashing he’d given them. Instead, they headed west, across his lands, as if they’d triumphed in the fighting.
Lorssett had been rude enough to suggest Sassin didn’t know what to do with a victory. Sassin hissed softly; he’d given his aide what he deserved for his presumption. But the Mrem, plainly, didn’t know what to do after a defeat.
Because they didn’t, Sassin would have to beat them all over again. He wondered whether Lorssett had been right even if rude. Doing it when the hairy, yowling pests were all topsy-turvy might have been easier than taking them on now that they’d pulled themselves together.
But, whether Lorssett had been right or not, Sassin knew he had been, too: even in triumph, his fighters had taken a fearful drubbing. His magic might have made them advance against the Mrem in spite of that. It might have, yes, but he’d also wearied himself yesterday. He needed time to recover his strength. And he always needed to look at his fellow Liskash nobles. As he’d told Lorssett, if they sensed weakness in him they would be quick to
