Soon, she knew, she would be gone. There was nothing holding her to this place and its pain. She would run free across new plains and valleys; see beasts that even Bonechewer had never showed her, and if she ran far and fast enough, she might even escape her memories.
One morning Ratha returned from a night’s prowl to find someone waiting at her den. Thakur.
Ratha’s throat tightened. She had been longing to see him, but now that he was here and looking into her eyes, there was nothing for her to say.
Thakur lowered his head and nudged something on the ground near his foot. His nose had a smudge of red as he lifted his muzzle. Ratha sniffed and almost drowned in her own saliva, for her hunt had been unsuccessful. He had brought half a liver, fresh enough so that it was still dripping. Ratha dared not ask how much it cost him to take it.
“Meoran will know,” he said in response to her look. “I may pay for it later, but that is my choice, yearling.”
Ratha ate rapidly, shearing the juicy flesh between her teeth.
“I cannot stay long. Cherfan has taken my place; he does that much for me,” Thakur’s voice said beside her. “I will come and see you when I can, for as long as you stay near clan ground.”
Ratha eyed what was left of the liver, wondering whether to eat it all or save some for later. Something made her glance at Thakur. His eyes and his smell told her he was hungry. There was not much food for the clan these days, yet he shared what there was with her.
“My belly is full,” she said, nosing him toward the meat. “Eat.”
He snapped at the liver. She listened to him chew and tear the food. When he was finished, she said, “I won’t stay past this season.”
Thakur’s whiskers drooped. “I know, yearling. There is nothing for you here. I was wondering when your paws would seek a new trail now that this one is done.”
“This one is done,” said Ratha softly. She lifted her eyes to his. “And you, Thakur. Do your paws seek a new trail?”
She could see him retreat before her hopefulness.
“No, yearling. I am where I must be. If you and I were the only ones left, I would run beside you. If there were more of us to herd dapplebacks and fight off raiders, then too I would come. For our people, for Cherfan’s cubs, I must stay.”
Ratha licked him gently, above the scars on his neck where Meoran had torn him. “I will be here a little longer. Go to the ones who need you. Will you bring Fessran the next time?”
She felt him stiffen and he looked at the ground. Ratha clamped her teeth together, angry at herself for being so stupid.
“She is bitter enough toward Meoran,” Thakur said. “I am afraid for her. If she sees you again it may feed her anger.”
“And you do not want her to take the same path as I did,” Ratha finished for him.
“Yearling, it is bad enough that you must be apart from us.”
“Then hide the way to my den and scuff out my tracks in the mud so she may not find them,” Ratha said wryly. “And tell her when I go.”
“I will.”
Thakur lifted his tail and trotted away along the stream bank.
As summer passed into fall, Ratha stayed by herself, alone except for Thakur’s visits. Each time he would bring something, and she was grateful even for small rancid scraps, for her catches would not always fill her belly. He would bring news of the clan and how they were faring against the Un-Named. At first Ratha grunted and turned away when he spoke of the others, but she began to listen. She was lonely, and her hatred could not keep her as isolated as she wished.
She knew that Thakur was worried. The Un-Named pressed the herdfolk hard. Many days and nights the clan spent fighting. She also knew that winter would make the raiders hungrier and fiercer. Ratha could see in Thakur’s eyes a gnawing fear that his little group, the last of the Named, might not survive.
With fall came winds that lashed the pines and swirled dust and leaves into the air. It ruffled Ratha’s coat as if it wanted to seize her and fling her into the sky with the dust and dried leaves. Its moan in her ear made her wild, and the tug at her fur made her want to run until her paws blistered and her breath tore her throat.
She stayed still, watching the clouds build over the mountains. Everything told her it was time to go, yet she stayed, held by an old memory and a forbidden hope.
Thakur continued his visits, glad that she was staying, although puzzled as to why. The news he brought was sometimes joyful and often sad. Another female in the clan had given birth late in the year and the cubs were healthy. But one of Cherfan’s youngsters had died trying to help his father defend the herd.
Ratha listened and mourned with Thakur over the loss. But his voice turned into a drone in her ear and her gaze strayed up between the swaying branches to the sky. Why did she even dare to hope that the Red Tongue might return?
Ratha’s last hunt had worn her out. She didn’t hear the first few droplets pattering down or the thunder’s faraway rumble. She slept, nestled deep in her den.
She woke to a flash of light so brilliant she saw it through closed eyes. The noise was more a shock than a sound. The earth seemed to shiver beneath her feet and she flung herself to the rear of the den. Another flash from outside turned the brown soil white and left spots dancing in front of her eyes. There came another sound, a loud cracking and splintering, the sound of a great tree falling.
Ratha crept to the den mouth and peered out. She saw orange flame dive to earth, riding the crown of the toppling giant. The burning tree crashed among its neighbors, setting their branches afire. Smoke boiled up, meeting the rain.
She peered down. The stream below her ran black and glistening.
Ratha crouched at the mouth of her den, her heartbeat rocking her. The fire’s fury made her want to run, yet a deeper longing drew her toward it. The line of trees was soon a wall of flame. Ratha could see shadows bounding and leaping; other creatures fleeing the fire.
The Red Tongue, she thought, looking at it. The Red Tongue has come again.
She saw deer running, silhouetted against the flames. Small creatures scampered past her, almost between her legs, their fear of the wildfire so great, they took no notice of her. A small snake slithered by, the firelight jeweling its scales. The rain had stopped, and Ratha could hear the crackle and sputter of the fire.
She heard something else and jerked her head around in fright. Coming toward her along the stream bank was a slender shadow.
“Thakur?” Ratha whispered, but her voice stuck in her throat. The stranger’s gait told her it wasn’t Thakur. Ratha huddled at the entrance, her head low, her ears back. Who else had found her den?
The smoke-blurred form halted. “Ratha?” The voice was Fessran’s.
For a moment Ratha was silent, remembering why Thakur had not brought Fessran to see her.
“Ratha!” The voice came again, husky, and trembling. “I followed Thakur the last time he came. I waited until tonight.”
“Why did you come, herder?” Ratha heard her own voice say. Fessran was suddenly before her, blocking out the shadowed orange light, replacing it with two burning eyes.
She paced before Ratha, lashing her tail. “A cub has died,” she said.
“Thakur told me Cherfan’s son was killed by raiders,” Ratha said, looking up.
“By Meoran’s stupidity! To ask a cub that young to guard the herd, without training! Meoran said there was no time for training. Ptahh! I saw the young one pulled down. Meoran was too late to save him. Now Cherfan’s son lies with maggots crawling across his bones.” Fessran’s voice was low and harsh. “All of us will die, one by one. There is no hope for the Named as long as Meoran leads us.” She turned and stared at the fire.
Ratha waited, knowing and dreading what Fessran would say next.