The shrew tried again for its burrow. It flung itself onto the packed earth and dug in a wild frenzy. By the time Ratha reached the den, the shrew had bored halfway in. She skidded to a stop; scooped the shrew out of its hole. It nipped her pad and she dropped it, squalling in pain. Squeaking shrilly, the animal reared up on its hind paws and showed its teeth. Ratha circled the shrew as it squealed and danced. She lifted one paw and slapped down hard, trying to squash the shrew into the mud. It bounced high into the air and shot off in a different direction. Ratha whirled and caught a glimpse of another tunnel opening in a mudbank beneath a tangle of swamp grass roots. The shrew was heading straight for it.
With a yowl of rage, Ratha scrambled after her prey. Despair gave her speed, but her shaky legs failed to stop her in time. The shrew reached the second tunnel before she did. She made one last snap at the vanishing hindquarters before she overshot and plowed headfirst into the bank.
The impact ground her teeth against gravel and filled her mouth and nose with mud.
Ratha recoiled, rearing back and clawing the air. The ooze clung inside her mouth, blocked her nose and she fell on her back, retching, trying to push the vile-tasting muck out with frantic thrusts of her tongue. Her maltreated stomach cramped and convulsed, sending its meager contents up her throat. She stretched her mouth wide, letting the bitter fluid stream over her tongue and through her nose, turning the ooze to sizzling froth that dripped from her jaws. Her stomach was empty, but the spasms continued, wrenching her belly and thrusting her hind legs out stiff until they quivered and cramped.
For a moment she thought she was going to heave her insides up onto the marsh mud, but the sickness soon subsided, leaving her a limp and panting heap of fur, drooling brown saliva.
She wished then that she could die and that the clan could know how she died. Meoran would howl until he farted if he knew that the proud bearer of the Red Tongue had choked on swamp mud trying to catch a wretched shrew! She squeezed her eyes shut and felt fluid run from them to join the stuff dribbling from her eyes and nose. The Red Tongue? Why think of that now? It was gone. Finding the fire once was a fluke. She would never find it again. This was the life she would have to lead, if she could.
Slowly Ratha rolled from her side onto her stomach and dragged herself through a clump of rushes to the shore on the other side. Her belly ached; her nose and throat burned. Her lips and tongue were raw. Her fangs had lost their usual smooth slickness against her tongue and felt etched and gritty.
Scum edged the bank and clung to the half-drowned rushes. A rainbow film on the water’s surface shimmered in translucent colors. Ratha closed her eyes and put out her tongue to drink.
A paw slid under her neck, shoving her muzzle away from the water. Ratha gave a weak cry and pushed stupidly against it, feeling a strong foreleg against her jaw. She opened her eyes. At seeing her companion’s tinted reflection, she cried again and turned her head away, hating the taste of bile in her mouth and hating the intruder for not letting her drink. Again she tried and again he thrust her back. She lay panting, her chin in the mud. He walked in front of her, flicking a ragged ear.
“Clan cat, doesn’t your nose tell you this is bad water?”
“I’m thirsty. My mouth burns. Let me drink.” Ratha whimpered.
“I know. I saw you being sick. You’ll be much sicker if you drink here. There’s a stream further up. You’ll be able to find it.”
“Bone-chewer, keep to your own trail! I’ll decide for myself where to drink.” She glared at him with all the hate she could muster. She narrowed her eyes, feeling them go to slits. “Why do you care if I get sick? You took my prey; you want me to starve. Go away.” Ratha rolled away from him onto her side and curled into a ball. She heard his footsteps squelch on the marshy ground. They stopped. She cracked one eyelid, hoping the silence meant he was gone. No. He was still there, sitting a short distance away, watching her with yellow eyes. Yellow eyes, in a face that seemed strangely familiar, as if it echoed the face of another.
Ratha groaned and slid her chin across her forepaws, as she looked up at him. “Bone-chewer, why do you stay?”
“I’m full. I have nothing else to do. And you are interesting. I’ve never seen such a poor hunter in my life.”
“Leave me alone!” Ratha snarled weakly. “Why should I hunt if you take everything I catch?”
“You flatter yourself, clan cat. You have yet to catch anything.”
Ratha jerked her head up and glared at him again, wishing she had the strength left to tear him into small scraps. Her head shook with anger and weariness. “I caught you, raider. Let your ear and your broken fang remind you of that.”
She let her head sink back to her forepaws. The weeds rustled and she felt feet pad beside her. She stiffened. “What are you going to do now, raider? Kill and eat me?”
From somewhere above her head came a low rumble that sounded more amused than threatening. “No. There’s not enough flesh on you to be worth the killing.” He cocked his head at her. His coat gleamed with red-gold highlights in the hazy afternoon sun. “Despite what you may have been told about the Un-Named, we do not eat our own kind.”
Ratha hitched herself away from him, but his tail still brushed her ribs as he curled it across his feet. “You are not of my kind, bone-chewer,” she growled.
“There are differences,” he agreed. “I am not nearly as foolish. Now that we know each other, clan cat, shall I show you where the stream lies?”
Ratha only grunted and ignored him. Her thirst was fading, along with everything else. All she wanted now was sleep. There was something still stirring in her mind, though, that would not leave her alone.
I fought the raider in the meadow but that’s not why I know his smell and his face. It is as if I know him, and yet I don’t. Why?
She opened one eye and peered past the brush of her tail at him. Her eyelid felt heavy. She let it fall shut, blotting him out. His smell grew stronger and teeth seized her ruff. Ratha’s eyes flew open as he hauled her up off the mud, shoving her forepaws underneath her with one swipe of his foot. When he let her go, she sagged, her legs buckled and she flopped down.
He backed off and gave her a puzzled look, faintly tinged with sadness. “Are you of the clan so weak that you can only lie down and die when you meet hardship? I thought you had more spirit when you mauled me in the meadow.”
“Fine words from one who stole my prey!” Ratha hissed bitterly. “Had I eaten, I could follow you.”
He circled her, his tail twitching.
“Too late, bone-chewer,” she said hoarsely.
“Lie with your whiskers in the mud, then, clan cat” he said scornfully, his own bristling. Ratha closed her eyes and buried her nose in her forepaws. When she opened them again he was gone. She listened to the wind threshing the swamp grass and the cries of birds high overhead.
Who is he? she wondered, but then, as she drifted off to sleep, decided that now it really didn’t matter.
A smell woke her. Musky, rich, intoxicating, the odor filled her nose and her whole hungry being. It lured her back out of a sleep that was letting her slip closer and closer to death. She plunged her fangs into the furry body lying beside her. Not until she felt the warm flesh between her jaws did she realize she was awake. She sank her teeth in to their full depth but she was too weak to manage a shearing bite. She squeezed the meat between her jaws, sucking the salty juices. Her stomach jumped in astonishment and began to churn greedily.