Many of the females of the clan were near to their time. By all rights they should be making up nests for themselves in a comfortable corner of their homes, laying in special treats and nourishing foods to see them through their confinements. Mrem females liked to give birth in private. The custom, admittedly, was a throwback to their uncivilized days, when males hoping to force females back into estrus would kill kittens who did not bear their scent, but Cleotra simply didn’t care for an audience when she was on her side, straining to produce her baby. No one would dare to watch her in that undignified time! She cherished her son and daughter, but was glad that no siblings for them were in the offing.
Everyone had had to fight their natural urges to beget more young, at least until they were safely on their way to rejoin the clan on the north side of the new water. It wasn’t easy when so many of the males were attractive and virile, and the tantalizing spice of spring was in the air. It would be the most natural thing in the world to choose this year’s mate from among the ebony-coated warriors and tear the night apart with longing cries and wails of satisfaction. Look at that foolish child, Ysella, making eyes at the lieutenant of the guard. She had not even had her first estrus yet! Luckily, Scaro Ullenh’s gaze was wandering among the mature Dancers, as if he had a hope of mating with one of them! It wasn’t for want of trying; that was sure. There wasn’t a female of bearing age he had not propositioned, many times, over the course of the last months, including herself. Handsome he was, to be certain, with a deep chest, a narrow waist, and strong, springy thighs, but what an ego!
Nature was against them. Cleotra believed-she must believe-that Aedonniss had not turned his face away from his children.
On one side of the ridge lay the verdant valley ruled over by the odious Liskash. On the other was the desert through which the Mrem had lately come. Personally, she liked the heat, though it was making her luxurious fur come out in handfuls. She refused to think the shedding was the result of a lack of decent food. Rations had become distressingly thin. They usually were at this time of year, just before the first planting of spring, but she and her fellow Dancers had sworn to make do on what scanty supplies were left, along with the results of hunting. The local wildlife, mostly lizards and other mindless Liskash-kin, fled on their approach. Cleotra was sick of chameleon stew, fried iguana and roasted flitter-when the hunters were lucky enough to get sufficient food for all the tribe.
She missed meat, red meat. Once when she woke from a dream of eating a thick, juicy haunch of venison, she almost cried. When she got over the disappointment, common sense had returned. Oh, she could have pulled rank and demanded a piece from a herd beast that died on the road. Those carcasses were a rare treat, and there were plenty who needed it more than she did. What easily-digested and most nutritious food they had must be saved for the very young, the sick, the elderly, and the warriors. None of the herd beasts could be spared. They were being used to haul wagons at the moment, but they would form the kernel of new herds when they reached the safe haven where the rest of the Clan awaited them. Out in the desert, there were few palatable sources of meat, almost all Liskash-kin. The sea, which had flanked them on their right all the way from their drowned home, was too perilous for all but line fishing, an unreliable and slow process. The rest of the Mrem could, and did make do on what was left, dried meats, pulses, insect-ridden grains and the disgusting small prey they could snare or shellfish they could dig out of the sand. Sometimes Cleotra hated being so responsible.
She could almost have borne a further trek through the desert better than what lay before them. From the hollow on the ridge she could not only see the valley of the Liskash, but she could smell it. The black earth, fresh and smelling of rain, had been freshly turned for planting, and lay in neat squares awaiting seed. The sour-sweet odor of composted manure did not sicken her, except possibly to make her homesick. Her mother’s household should have been planting now. All those farmers, swept out to sea! She lifted her hands to the sky and swayed them in a pattern of prayer to Assirra. May their souls be at rest. For a while when the Lailah had started traveling to the west, Cleotra had felt their presence, but only as far as the borders of their land. The dead had stayed behind. Cleotra missed the comforting sensation. In its place, she felt the imposition of the Liskash’s magic. And the stench.
Who would have thought that magic had an odor and a sound of its own? Since childhood, when she had joined the corps of Dancers, the magic of the Mrem’s prayers had been a part of her life, her coming and going, her lying down and rising up, the food she ate, the air she breathed and the people she loved. Though she had Danced many a ritual for protection from them, she hadn’t had to interact with Liskash nobles, until one month into their journey the Lailah had to fight against one who had suddenly noticed that the tribe was cut off from its kin and vulnerable for the first time. He had tried to take over their minds. Only Cassa’s swift realization that something was wrong had saved them. She had whipped the Dancers out of bed and made them dance for their lives. Their talonmaster at the time, Mowar Echirr, had driven back the Liskash’s forces. Cleotra had never forgotten the unbelievable smell of decay that had permeated the camp, and the off-tone of everyone’s voices, birdsong and frogsong. When the Liskash noble fell, everything returned to normal.
She was aware of it now. Lord Tae felt at them with his mind. He was powerful and dangerous. How she hated being at his mercy!
So did her kin. They muttered and yowled among themselves, speculating as to the news. Bau strode into their midst, attracting more gossip. He had buckled on his war harness and donned his bronze clawed gauntlets. The bronze gorget that protected his throat was buried deep in his black and white fur ruff. Instead of the flint-toothed spear he might carry into battle, he held the staff of leadership, a wrist-thick pole carved down its length as a braid. The teeth of enemies studded the turns and folds of wood. From the top dangled strands of hide on which were strung faceted crystals that twinkled and danced. It was used by the designated speaker of the moment because no Mrem could keep his or her eyes off the swaying strings.
Bau snarled and bashed the staff on the ground. Gradually, everyone turned to look and fell silent. Bau fixed his lamplike golden eyes on each of them in turn. When they met Cleotra’s, she shivered. He spoke.
“We are now entrusted by Rantan Taggah to open the way for the rest of the Mrem and find a path to safety. We are now the tip of the talon for the Clan of the Claw. Two weeks ago, we passed what has survived of brother Rau’s Three Fangs. They were supposed to lead next, but you saw in what poor condition they were after their battles.
“The Clan and our herds are hungry and tired. It is up to us to find a way west. We have found it, we hope, but as our scouts report, there’s a hopeless bottleneck. A fortress greater then any we have seen before. Greater than that of the Liskash Rau defeated. The alternative is not an attractive one, and a sand desert in which many would die.”
Some of the gathered Mrem stirred nervously. The hot sands were a friend to the Liskash and doubly dangerous. The leader raised his voice to regain their full attention.