“So you have,” Demm Etter said: acknowledgment rather than agreement, if Enni Chennitats was any judge. The plump male’s problem was that his view of what was best for the Clan of the Claw often revolved around what was best for him. This time, those two things truly had matched. Staying alive and keeping a swarm of Liskash from overrunning the wagons was in Zhanns Bostofa’s best interest as well as the clan’s. Too bad only a desperate emergency created the match.
“And now we can go on,” Zhanns Bostofa said grandly. “Since that is the talonmaster’s decision, I will not stand in the way.”
Until the next time you do, Enni Chennitats thought. The black-and-white male would soon forget his humility. He would go back to being himself. And he could no more help acting obstreperous than hamsticorns could help shedding their long pelts in the springtime.
One of these days, he would go too far. Or he might actually turn out to be right, in which case it would be hard to keep him from becoming the clan’s new talonmaster. And what would become of the Mrem then? Enni Chennitats didn’t want to think about that.
And she didn’t have to, because a sentry shouted that he saw Rantan Taggah and Ramm Passk’t coming back from the south. All the Mrem started yowling joyously at the top of their lungs. Enni Chennitats didn’t hold back. Killing a Liskash noble and getting away with it was worth celebrating any day of the month.
Rantan Taggah had never dreamt he might get tired of males making much of him. He’d really never dreamt he might get tired of females making much of him. Ramm Passk’t hadn’t got tired, except perhaps in the most literal and happy way. Rantan Taggah wouldn’t have been surprised if half of next year’s kits had sandy fur and uncommonly broad shoulders.
After Sassin’s death, the Liskash in what had been his domain stayed away from the Clan of the Claw. Maybe the unexpected triumph of the Mrem intimidated them, at least for the time being. Maybe they realized the clan would soon be gone, and then they wouldn’t have to worry about their hated enemies for a long time. And maybe they were so busy plotting among themselves about what would become of Sassin’s lands that a detail like the Mrem hardly seemed important. Chances were every one of those things held some truth.
Which held the most, Rantan Taggah neither knew nor cared. He rode at the head of the Clan of the Claw, in a chariot Zhanns Bostofa gave him to replace the one he’d lost in battle. He felt uneasy accepting the other male’s gift, which was putting it mildly, but saw no graceful way to refuse. Zhanns Bostofa tried to give him a team of krelprep, too. Those he did decline. He used krelprep from his own herds, and would train them up to the standard of the the pair that had died on the battlefield.
He checked the territory ahead with the same care he would have used to check under flat rocks for scorpions and centipedes before laying his blanket on the ground. The Scaly Ones had a sting worse than any from some crawling thing with too many legs.
The clan was nearing what Rantan Taggah thought to be the western edge of what had been Sassin’s land when Enni Chennitats walked up to him as the Mrem were setting up camp for the night. “Will all the other Liskash nobles fight us the way Sassin did?” she asked.
“By Aedonniss, I hope not!” Rantan Taggah burst out. “I hope they’ll leave us alone. If I’m by myself, without a bow or a sling, I’ll leave a somo alone unless it decides not to leave me alone. I hope the way we served Sassin will make the rest of the Scaly Ones think three times.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Enni Chennitats persisted.
“Then we keep fighting them and keep beating them till they get the idea,” the talonmaster said. “Or they beat us. In that case, you can stand beside Zhanns Bostofa and say, ‘I told you so.’ ”
“I don’t want to stand beside him. Just being near him makes my fur want to twitch,” Enni Chennitats said. She set a hand on his arm. “I’d rather stand beside you.”
Far and away the biggest reason Rantan Taggah hadn’t cut a swath like Ramm Passk’t’s through the clan’s females was that he’d hoped to hear something like that from her-or to work up the nerve to say something like that to her. He hadn’t. Sometimes-often-it was easier to risk his life than rejection from someone he cared about.
“Well,” he said, and then “Well” again. He tried once more: “Where do we go from here?” That was better, but not, he feared, very much.
“West, of course,” Enni Chennitats answered, which startled a laugh out of him. It wasn’t that she was wrong-she was right. “But wherever we go from now on, we go together.”
“Yes,” Rantan Taggah said, and he’d never felt so clever in all his life.
A Little Power
S.M. STIRLING
And so Rantan Taggah spoke and the way was open. But he walked in blood and wept. “Why,” he demanded, “have you abandoned us in this forsaken land?” But there was no answer and the call to arms came again. There was no rest for three days and three nights. Then when the demons had been cast asunder, the Dancer Enni Chennitats told Rantan Taggah to sleep and he did. In his dream Assirra appeared. She stood tall with golden fur and eyes that glowed with the green of Spring. Around her the earth sang and stirred, bringing forth an unending vista of great fields of grass and grain in which countless herds grazed. “Lead our people home,” She commanded. “Go West and take them to the promised lands. Lead them and they will be free.” And Rantan Taggah knew that there was not greater need than to be free. So he sharpened his claws and regained his faith. On the next day he told the clan of his vision and Enni Chennitats Danced it until all understood and agreed. And so the people began to be free. – The Book of Mrem, verse forty-two
PROLOGUE
T he plains baked under the sun, and the long yellow grass hissed like the ghosts of angry warriors as the herds grazed under watchful eyes or paused beneath gnarled, thorny trees. The hills stood blue with forest in the distance, and tendrils of their green followed the watercourses; in season the wings of the birds filled the sky. From time-weathered citadels of stone the magician lords of the Liskash folk waged their wars with swords and spells and poison and knives in the dark, rising and falling in a cycle that changed little but the names.
So it was; so it had always been.
But the wild Mrem were coming, and nothing would be the same. Nothing, ever again.
The great hall of the goddess Ashala had walls of sandstone colored like pale gold, with specks of mica that glittered in the hot sunlight of these lands; it rose to the height of three tall Liskash standing on one another’s shoulders. The timbers that bore the roof were of a hard dark wood that had been hauled laboriously from the far mountains and each one was richly carved in images that told of her power and the legends of her ancestors. The air smelled of fear and ancient death.
The wall behind the throne was stuccoed and inlaid with colored tiles in a design of the rayed sun in splendor, Ashala’s personal symbol. Before the tall-backed throne of wrought night-black wood and beaten gold the stones of the floor had been blackened by fire.
That was where the goddess staged her executions. She could burn anything to ash with her mind and frequently did so, especially those who had displeased her. Sometimes it was a limb or an eye, sometimes the whole of them, depending on the depth of her displeasure.
