Ratha caught glimpses of the pack, standing together behind Meoran. None of them moved to help him. They watched and waited to see who would be the victor.
“Run, Ratha!” Thakur called as Meoran threw him from side to side.
“Let him go, Meoran!” she snarled and lunged with the torch. Meoran jerked Thakur up so that he hung like a cub from the leader’s jaws, rear legs dragging on the ground, front legs stiff and splayed apart. Ratha skittered to a stop before she drove the torch into Thakur’s chest. She recoiled and staggered back. Thakur averted his face, shut his eyes and went rigid, his body tight and trembling.
“Why, Thakur?” Ratha cried and felt her insides churning in agony. “Why did you tell them?”
“It was not hatred, Ratha,” Thakur answered as he sagged in Meoran’s jaws. He grunted in pain as the clan leader gave him another savage jerk.
“If I run, he will kill you,” Ratha said. “If I free you, will you come with me?”
Slowly Thakur opened his eyes. “I can’t go with you. He won’t kill me. He needs what I know.”
Ratha stood paralyzed, staring at him, trying to find an answer in his eyes. Once he had been a teacher, a friend—and even something more. What had he become now?
She raised her head and met Meoran’s slitted gaze. Beyond him, the pack eyed her. Her power was waning as the Red Tongue crept down its branch. There was still enough to hold them from her throat, but soon they would sweep forward and engulf her.
“Go, yearling,” Thakur said again, his voice thin.
She felt Fessran give her a quick nudge. She turned, starting in fright at the shadows that seemed to jump from the trees as the flame’s light passed across them. She broke into a trot and heard Fessran following.
Several paces down the trail she stopped, lifted the torch aloft and looked back. Meoran and the pack were still there, black forms against the night. Ratha turned and galloped away, the fire lighting the trail before her. They weren’t following ... yet.
She plunged ahead, ignoring her shaking legs and the gnawing aching pain in her belly. The worst pain she could not ignore. It came from her own words that hammered in her brain as her heart hammered behind her breastbone.
Thakur ... why?
Ratha sprinted uphill toward the knoll and the old oak. Orange light gleamed on its leaves and an owl, startled from its perch, hooted mournfully and floated away.
“They come, Ratha,” Fessran panted beside her. “I hear branches breaking on the trail behind us.”
Ratha glanced to the side and saw a spare fire-lit form running alongside. Her breath hissed between teeth tightly clamped on the torch shaft. “Thakur ... Fessran, what will happen to Thakur?”
“What he knows about the Red Tongue may save him from Meoran’s teeth. It will not save him from mine if you are caught and killed.”
“No!” Ratha nearly stumbled. She lost ground, falling behind Fessran. “He did not do it out of hate. Take no revenge on him; promise me that.”
Fessran slowed, letting Ratha catch up. “My promise means nothing. Meoran will have my blood too, if he catches us. We will talk later, across the creek. Run!”
Ratha’s torch still flamed, but half of the wood was charred. The brand was nearly exhausted, although the wind whipped it and forced it to burn brightly, devouring the branch.
We can break branches from the trees on the far side of the creek, Ratha thought. If we reach them. If Meoran catches us before then, my creature will have no strength left to keep him from our throats.
Ratha and Fessran topped the hill and ran down the other side. Ratha gained speed from the long downslope and the Red Tongue burned fiercely near her whiskers. Somewhere ahead was the creek. Beyond that, clan ground ended.
Shadowed grass flew by beneath Ratha’s feet, and she stretched her body into the run. She saw only the swath of light the torch threw ahead of her, letting everything else slip by in a blur. She passed Fessran and left her far behind. Her speed and the rush of the Red Tongue gave her a wild exhilaration, as if she, not the clan, had been the victor.
She was too far ahead of Fessran to hear the other’s warning cry.
The grass beneath her paws changed to mud and she was skidding, unable to stop. Whirling her tail, she back-pedalled, trying to keep her hindquarters beneath her. Mud piled up between her toes. Pebbles raked her pads. The bank became steeper and dropped away. She gave one despairing kick that shot her out over the water. She lost control and tumbled. The torch sailed out into the darkness. For an instant, she saw two fires flash; one above the surface; one below. They met and died as the torch fell and sank.
Ratha hit the water and came up flailing wildly. She dug her feet into the stream bed and reared up, beating at the water with her paws. The fire was gone.
The stream rippled in cold moonlight as she searched for her creature. She splashed in the stream; sweeping her forepaw through the water; clawing at the bottom; even plunging her head beneath the water to search with her whiskers. Nothing.
She felt something bump her flank. She whirled and seized it. A familiar taste and charred smell told her it was her torch, but now, with the Red Tongue gone, worthless as any other stick. She let it drift away.
Ratha threw back her head and screamed in rage and terror. Now nothing could hold Meoran from her throat. And it had all been for nothing. The Red Tongue was gone.
She reared up again, slashing and tearing at the stream, as if it had flesh and could yield some retribution for killing her creature. She heard footsteps on the bank above her. A splash beside her nearly knocked her over. Sharp teeth fastened in her nape.
“Ratha!” Fessran’s voice hissed behind her head. Fessran’s breath was hot and moist on her skin beneath the fur.
“My creature! My creature is dead!” Ratha howled, her throat raw from her cry.
“The clan comes,” Fessran said between her fangs. “Your noise will guide them to us. Be still!”
“They seek me. Run, Fessran. If they find me, they won’t follow you.”
“Speak again and I’ll push your nose beneath the water. I too held the Red Tongue between my jaws and Meoran will not forget that.”
The teeth fastened on Ratha’s nape again and she was hauled through the water, dragged out and pushed ashore. She shook so badly she could hardly stay on her feet and the wind on her wet pelt made her feel as though she had no fur at all.
Fessran’s slick coat gleamed faintly as she passed Ratha and moved up the far bank.
“Wait.”
Fessran looked back, her eyes phosphorescent. “Clan ground ends here,” she said, “but the clan’s wrath doesn’t.”
“We can’t outrun them. It has been too long since we’ve eaten,” Ratha said.
Fessran lowered her muzzle and hunched her shoulders.
“Fessran, there is no hope they will spare me. But you may be able to turn their hatred away from you.”
“How?” The eyes narrowed.
“The Red Tongue is dead. Meoran need not know that it was my foolishness that killed it. It was you, Fessran. You killed it and drove me off. He must have heard my cry.”
“Yarr ... and I hear him,” Fessran muttered. “Quickly, Ratha.”
“He’ll believe it. Here,” Ratha said, swiping at her belly and extending her fur-covered claws to Fessran. “A tuft of fur. Put it between your teeth.” She lifted a paw and smeared Fessran’s coat with the blood and dirt from her cut pads before Fessran could stop her. “There. I turned on you with the Red Tongue, but you struck it down and killed it. Can he doubt my blood on your fur? And the stick has come ashore downstream. Show him that when he arrives.”
“Enough!” Fessran hissed. “He will never...”