Petru took each around the neck with one huge hand and slammed them into one another until they sagged in his grasp.
Emoro lay covered with blood, his eyes open and sightless. Petru threw the Liskash aside and went to pick him up. He felt pressure and scented the stink from the lizard god, but was in no mood to pay attention to it.
“Emoro, are you alive?” he asked. “If you are dead, I will never forgive you.”
He was not the only thing that Lord Tae controlled. Gray-scaled soldiers in their appalling armor sprang up around him like weeds. One of them dared to reach for his arm.
Petru shook it off in horror, disgusted by its scaly fingers. “Don’t you dare touch me!” Others moved in to grab him. Petru backed away. “I said, don’t you dare. Touch. Me!”
The nearest Liskash chopped at him with a sword. As neatly as a Dancer, Petru swiped a leg upward under the creature’s guard and knocked his head sideways. Before the slow lizard could recover, Petru ducked and grabbed him by the ankles. The Liskash’s helmet flew off. His skull bounced against the floor. Green blood spattered his fur. It clashed with the golden dust he was wearing. Petru was revulsed and offended.
The other lizards rushed him. Petru picked up the Liskash by his feet and swung him like a bat, back and forth. Lizards went flying in all directions.
Slow, deliberate applause reached his ears. He turned to see Lord Tae watching him with amusement.
“Oh, you find me entertaining, do you?” Petru asked, angry beyond any time he could ever recall.
“Very diverting,” the Liskash said. “Very.”
All Petru could think to do was wipe the smile off the skinny lizard’s face. He strode deliberately toward him, flexing and flexing his claws. Lord Tae watched him come, mild curiosity on his face. A Mrem grappling with a Liskash passed between them. Petru kept his eyes on the noble, but he should have looked down.
By the time his foot hit the patch of blood on the floor, it was too late. Petru slid forward his entire length and hit the ground with a thunderous BOOM! The view of the blue sky faded to black.
Petru’s fall opened up the field between Cleotra and Lord Tae for the first time since the Lailah had descended into the courtyard. Her energetic leaps and whirls did not weaken her voice. Her ties to her distant sisters were far too strong, now. Their love and warmth bolstered her. Lord Tae’s thrusts into her mind were mere pinpricks.
“You are not going to want to be here when he awakens,” Cleotra said, in amusement, with a glance at the bulk of her beloved valet stretched at full length on his back.
“Why not?” Lord Tae asked. “A servant knocking himself out?”
“Because having him knock himself out won’t have been his fault. It will be yours. He didn’t just slip.”
“You give me too much credit, Dancer,” the Liskash said.
“Not credit, blame. But you will not be able to respond to his accusations. Because you will be dead.”
Lord Tae’s brow ridge went up. He felt for his servants, and discovered to his horror that the vast room was nearly empty. His Mrem slaves wavered, undecided which force ruled their minds. His control had been weakened by the presence of the Dancer. No matter; he still had Liskash soldiers.
Those still standing hobbled or staggered to range themselves between him and Cleotra. There were only seven. It would be enough. It must be enough.
“You are alone, Dancer,” Lord Tae said. “You have nothing left.”
“I have everything,” Cleotra said, her eyes glittering like emeralds.
He opened his mind to her, commanding her to spin. Her body swayed in a hypnotic pattern, her arms and legs moving in rhythm. She spun, a look of annoyance on her face. He smiled.
“Then dance for me,” Lord Tae said, sitting back on his throne. “Power raising is so primitive. I will have no trouble conquering the rest of your people. I know how vulnerable you are. In the meantime, you will be my puppet and entertain me with your art.”
Cleotra stopped. He attempted to make her begin again. She did not. Instead, she undulated toward him, cracking her knuckles and stretching her limbs as she came. Lord Tae watched her in growing horror.
“You should have watched me, Lord Tae Shanissi,” she said. “What most outsiders don’t know is that this art form, as you scornfully call it, is also a fighting form.”
Cleotra enjoyed the look on the Liskash noble’s gray face as she gathered herself and sprang, her claws reaching for his eyes.
The Dancer lounged in the cushions on the stone throne as Sherril kicked Lord Tae’s head around the courtyard. The funny thing was that its expression had not changed from the horror it wore when he died. Sherril glanced up at Cleotra in annoyance. He should have been the one on the throne, but he could persuade no one else to this point of view. Still, his efforts had been acclaimed heroic, and his name would also go down in the sagas, along with that of his illustrious ancestor. He was reasonably satisfied.
Petru, his fur brushed to feathery perfection, was dining daintily but heartily on a whole roast arosh brought to him by the grateful Mrem, the former servants of the noble.
“As soon as possible, we are going to redecorate this entire keep,” Petru said. “Those tapestries are going on the fire tonight. I cannot stand them another moment.”
Emoro lay on a heap of pillows nearby. Petru fussed over him and fed him soft tidbits, the best of the meat. It was difficult for Emoro to chew. His impact with the pillar had knocked out his lower right canine. The rest of the warriors were being cared for, their wounds cleaned and bound.
“…Well, I know a way you can show your gratitude,” Scaro was saying to a female Mrem with dusty orange fur. He fingered the corner of her jaw. To Sherril’s amusement, the female looked interested in the offer. Ysella no longer looked jealous of his attentions to other Mrem. She sat on the bottom steps of the throne with Gilas, making adolescent small talk.
Word had spread swiftly among the Mrem of the city of Tae’s death. They had been arriving in groups, casting themselves at Cleotra’s feet, to beg to be taken in by the Lailah. Cleotra had accepted their homage as her due. To be fair, she had killed the Liskash noble. That did count for something, Sherril thought grudgingly.
“We will wait here for the rest of the Clan of the Claw,” Sherril said, booting the Liskash’s skull between two pillars and according himself a goal. “I will dispatch messengers to Bau Dibsea and Cassa Fisook. They should send runners. The rest of the Clan should arrive within weeks. We can assemble here, gather the supplies that we need, and move on to the west as soon as we can.”
“Why?” asked Cleotra, gesturing with a graceful hand. “This is a pleasant place. We need food. What we really need is a chance to catch up with ourselves. It is spring. The growing season is upon us. This godhold now belongs to us. Why do we not stay here a season, raise food and fatten our animals? Scattered Mrem will hear of us and join. There will be time enough to set out.”
Sherril, as usual, hated any idea that wasn’t his, but it was a sound one. It all depended upon how he worded the message-without any mention that it came from the Dancer. It would please him to pick out a chamber in the horrible little noble’s keep all for his own. It would remind him of better days, and better yet to come.
“It shall be so, Your Sinuousness,” he said.
