Ratha wasn’t listening. “Bira, hold the branches aside so I can see her wound,” she told the young Firekeeper and the shadows slid back. She peered closer and swallowed to keep herself from gagging at the stench that rose from torn and ulcerated flesh. Shongshar’s fangs had struck into Fessran’s upper foreleg at the shoulder, driving through the leg itself and into her chest. Having her leg in the way was the only thing that saved her from an immediately fatal wound, but that death might have been better, Ratha thought, looking at Fessran’s shrunken flanks and pain-wracked face.
Yet there was something in that face that told her Fessran wasn’t ready to die, that if she had a chance, she would fight for her life with the same ferocity that had saved Ratha’s. The wound itself wasn’t that bad. What had weakened her was infection and starvation. If they could get her back to Thakur, his knowledge of healing might save her.
She knew that her friend read her intent, for Fessran shook her head slowly. “No, Ratha. Leave me here for the carrion birds. You have yourself and Bira to care for.”
Ratha only laid back her ears at these words. “Ptahh! You were the one who said clan herders were hard to kill.” She bent her head, seized Fessran’s other forepaw, and dragged her out from beneath the bush. The flies swarmed about her in an angry cloud. “Crouch down, Bira,” Ratha said before Fessran could pull away.
Trembling with pity, the little Firekeeper flattened herself near Fessran. Ratha gave the paw another tug.
“Ratha, you can’t. I’m too heavy for her,” Fessran protested as Bira wiggled herself underneath.
“You, Firekeeper leader?” Bira said over her shoulder and grinned at Ratha. “You’re no heavier than the sticks I carry in my mouth or the fleas in my coat.”
When Ratha had Fessran arranged so that she would not fall off, Bira stood up. Fessran gasped and hissed softly in pain. “All right?” Bira asked.
“No, but it’s better than lying there with flies all over me,” Fessran retorted.
Weakened as Fessran was, Ratha could see she seemed more herself than she had when they first discovered her. She felt a surge of hope that her friend would live.
Bira took a few cautious steps while Ratha walked beside her and steadied Fessran. When it became evident that Bira could carry her burden at a reasonable pace, she set off, with Ratha beside her. Fessran laid her head along Bira’s neck and closed her eyes, letting her legs and tail dangle.
The journey was more painful for her than she would admit and, by the time they reached the redwood grove, she was moaning aloud and rolling her head back and forth. Blood and fluid from her wound trickled down Bira’s side and seeped into the young Firekeeper’s coat.
They put Fessran in Thakur’s den beneath the redwoods and Ratha stayed with her while Bira ran to get Thakur. His astonishment at seeing her was only slightly less than his shock at seeing the ugliness of her wound. Immediately he set about gathering medicinal leaves, which Bira shredded and soaked in the stream before laying on the wound. He also took Aree with him to look for a type of fruit with a thick skin that had gone rotten and fuzzy. When he returned with these, he removed the skin. To Ratha’s astonishment, he forced Fessran to swallow some of the moldy fuzz while he mixed the rest into the shredded poultice.
While he tended the wound, Ratha fed her friend with meat that she had chewed until it was almost liquid. Bira brought damp leaves from the stream to drip water onto Fessran’s dry tongue.
For several days, she lay in the den like a lifeless thing, barely able to swallow or open her eyes. The food and water they gave her only seemed to be prolonging her end, and Ratha felt her hope slipping into desperation. The wound stank and oozed despite Thakur’s poultices, and fever melted her away until she was little more than a skeleton.
Night after night, Ratha stayed beside Fessran, struggling not to fall into a doze for fear she would wake to look into her eyes and find the stare of death. With a fierce devotion, she fed her friend, even though the food often came back up.
And, finally, as they were at the point of giving up, Fessran began to rally. The swelling in the wound went down. It ceased oozing and crusted over. She was able to keep down the food that Ratha gave her and could suck on a wet leaf placed in her mouth.
She no longer lay limply on her side, but was able to roll onto her front, although she often grimaced with pain. She soon was able to take bits of meat and, with Ratha’s aid, could stagger to the nearby stream to lap water.
As Fessran improved, Ratha was able to leave her and resume her task of hunting for the group. She continued teaching Bira her skill and before long the young female was making small kills of her own. Bira also accompanied Ratha on forays to the spying tree, where they would hide and watch what went on in the meadow.
The clan culled more herdbeasts, but few of these were left to the herders. Most of the meat was taken by the Firekeepers and often dragged up the trail out of sight. Ratha strained for the sight or smell of Shongshar, but he never appeared in the meadow, even when the guard-fires were lit at dusk. She itched to know what was going on in the cave, and her anger conjured up images of him lolling before the Red Tongue, bloated with meat taken from the herders. Such thoughts made her growl between her teeth and shred the bark on the branch where she crouched.
Summer wore into autumn and the leaves began to turn and fall. One afternoon, after Ratha had helped Fessran back from the stream, the Firekeeper stretched herself out in the den and carefully licked the fur around the edge of her wound.
“Not too many of the Named have taken a bite like that and survived,” Ratha observed.
“It was worth the pain. You and Thakur got away.” Fessran fell silent for a while. “When I saw Shongshar about to kill you, I realized what he was. Before then, I lived in a daze. He used my fear of the fire-creature to lead me like a dappleback. He was so clever! Everything he said sounded right and even everything he did, until he bared his fangs to take your life.”
“And almost took yours instead. I wanted to go back and rip Shongshar’s throat out, but Thakur persuaded me not to try. Sometimes I think Thakur is the only one of us that has any sense.”
“Yes,” Fessran agreed and added, “Thank goodness.”
They lolled their tongues at each other, and Ratha felt warmed by the quiet joy of renewed friendship. Yet not all of what Fessran had to say was pleasant. When Ratha asked her for her story, her eyes darkened and she told of the Firekeepers’ arrogance, Shongshar’s increasing gluttony and the fevered dances about the cave-fire. Already, she said, Shongshar had begun to use the terror of fire to expand clan holdings. More cubs were being trained as Firekeepers and the herders were being worked hard to provide enough meat for those who feasted in the Red Tongue’s den.
As Ratha listened, her rage grew and she racked her mind for a way to wrest her power back from Shongshar. She knew that she was the one responsible for this change in her people. She had brought the gift of fire to the Named and with it had not only slain the old leader but ended the old laws and traditions that had governed the clan. Her rule had led them to triumph against the Un-Named, but she had failed to provide for the spiritual wants of her people, a hunger that grew and fostered Shongshar’s rise.
Fessran began to speak of banding together to kill Shongshar. Once, Ratha would have been eager for such fierce talk, but time alone to think had shown her the truth of Thakur’s words.
“No,” she answered as Fessran stared at her with puzzled eyes. “Killing him would do no good. The Named want to crouch down before the Red Tongue and serve a leader who bears that power. If he were to die, his way would not end, for they would find another like him to rule in his place.”