Oglut was pleased. Some of his hatchlings would die. Those who survived would have lands of their own that would take them many seasons to secure. They would have no time to turn on him and try to claim their inheritance early. And by the time they were strong, he would be much stronger.
“By the end of this season you will all be lords of your own lands,” the Liskash finished.
No need to offer them his already stable holding. He hadn’t lived this long through trust. They could create their own. Their triumphs would reinforce his own borders and set them up as shields for his realm.
If the Mrem and their beasts showed up after things were secure, they’d just make useful slaves.
The massive hide tent that served as both the residence and command center for the clan was nearly full. None could twitch their tail without hitting another. There was a strong scent off the moist fur of the nervous Mrem as those Nrao Aveldt had summoned stood and sat inside, sheltered from a light rain. The two dozen Mrem waiting were of every size, color, and type. They seemed to have nothing in common; none carried himself like a warrior. But then that was the idea. Most appeared to wear the tools of merchants or tinkers. In reality they were the eyes and ears of the clan.
All were strangers to each other. Nrao Aveldt had never before called in so many of his scouts and spies at one time. Ears and tails twitched as the normally solitary and cautious Mrem watched each other with calculating eyes. None were armed, but all labored to keep their claws sheathed.
The clan’s spies usually sent messages in code, or brought reports back after a tour of merchanting or as envoy. Rarely did they report in person and always in private. Just being known to the other put them at risk. Nrao Aveldt had ordered them all in quickly when the full extent of the water’s rise became apparent, sending replacements with the call. Those Mrem were not as experienced as the existing spies, but this was how they learned. Those who survived. Nrao Aveldt and the clan needed every fact now, but still had to keep up their guard, even at a cost.
Also, Hress Rscil’s scouts were on a steady rotation, to map the New Sea and watch for migrations. Nothing but Liskash had lived in the very bottom of the Hot Depths, but the river courses were lush and fertile, to the point where they evaporated. With the flood, a few tribes had moved north, more south, an unknown number west, where they would be massively outnumbered by the Liskash.
Every eightday, he met with Hress Rscil and the incoming scouts personally, and received updates from his advisors. He would not move until he knew conditions were right, but then he’d strike like lightning to exploit the opportunity.
Today, he had both a spy from Afis’s domain to the west, north of the Liskash, and the scouts from the coast. He waited on Seer Ingo, while Nef sprawled on his bench and stropped his claws. Annoyed, Nrao reached out one of his own claws and dug it into the post between the boy’s. Nef flared his ears back, nodded and sat up.
“That is better,” Nrao Aveldt said. “Now, pour wine for the guests.”
“Yes, Father,” Nef Esnrao said. He might be young, but the trappings of courtesy came easily to him. He should make a good leader one day.
Refreshments and a casual atmosphere, Nrao Aveldt found, made information more forthcoming. Some rulers demanded strict formality and adherence to rank. He was first among them, and deserving of respect, without the need to be ego-fluffed. When all were served, he sat among them, his pupils spread wide to show friendliness and interest.
Sicht, the spy, wore well-made harness, as befitted his position as one of the trade ministers to Afis’s holding. He was comfortable enough with Mrem of status, and politely took a drink and a sweetened meat chew, pounded with honey and dried frusk. They were unhealthy, but delicious.
The two scouts were politely subordinate, but their smell and the proud set of their ears said they knew they were trusted to report honestly. Hril Aris and Flirsh Arst brought out their notes, and stood to consult with Seer Ingo. The old male unrolled his larger map, cut from the whole hide of a draft-bred arosh stretched out, and the three gathered to mark it. Nrao sat back enough to let them work, while watching.
Shortly, Ingo glanced up at him. “The flooding of the warm lands is causing more rains, and dampening the hills. They are green with growth. It has drowned many Liskash and those Mrem who were passing through.”
No Mrem chose to stay in what had been stale and hot lowlands. But through that desert had been the shortest route to the rich, open lands in the south. Nrao’s father had led the clan through, though not without losses to the heat-loving Liskash that thrived there.
The scout’s tail flipped with concern, flapping against two startled spies behind him. He seemed to not notice. “The water has come quickly enough that that great lords there are broken, but thousands of Liskash fled ahead of it. They can only reinforce those who were already trying to destroy us.”
Nrao Aveldt let the tip of his tail lash as well. “Obviously we must stop that before it commences.”
Hril, as senior scout, said, “The rise is measured in handspans a day, but it has spread over a huge area, and periodically inundates a depression with great force. Everywhere as it rises and the rains come the land is thick with muck because nothing has time to grow where once there was desert. The water slows, but still claims more land every day. Some days the waters are calm, then it suddenly rises quickly and pushes deeper inland, only to pull away again. But each time it remains over more land.”
The scout’s concern was obvious as he finished. “We searched every direction and route. Deep water blocks every path back to the lands of our ancestors. It would have taken days to run at the narrowest point. But there is no crossing the swirling sea that covers those routes now. To sleep near the water’s edge is dangerous. One scout who ventured too far out into what we thought were shallows was pulled away by powerful, hidden currents. No more clans will come to reinforce us: no one can cross. Those of us south of this new sea are alone.”
Nrao Aveldt had never seen a sea. He would have to correct that. He did understand there were plants that grew submerged, vicious reptiles in the depths, and even primitive animal-like things, fast but edible, near the shore. That was something else to explore. If they lived long enough to explore anything, the clan leader reminded himself, stroking a whisker.
Hress Rscil traced roads and paths on the broad parchment with the tip of a claw. Two disappeared into the new coastline. Three others were very close. All those routes north were broken. That particular bay would have a lot of shore traffic, if they could secure the area. If there were some way to cross it on water…but it was far too broad and stormy.
“Seer Ingo, what about crossing the water at some later time? Can boats be made larger?”
The sage tilted his head in assent. “With heavier timber, yes. We have none now. That might come from the hills as thicker forests grow.”
“I am not worried about it now, but after this campaign, I think it a worthy pursuit for our artificers to ponder.”
“Noted.”
Nef Esnrao, leaning over their shoulders, suddenly pricked up his ears eagerly.
“Father, what of caravans? Should we have more warriors along that route, against conflicts or bandits?”
Nrao was proud of that. “A good question, Nef Esnrao. Most insightful for your age. Hress Rscil?”
The talonmaster nodded and raised his ears. “The caravans can support each other in proximity, and I don’t foresee them fighting, although water could be an issue. But it’s not a bad idea to reinforce the garrison on Steep Slope. They can conduct escorts and patrols. Outpost Master Shlom is one I well trust.”