Beneath the fear was anger. Thakur had deliberately startled the young herder and then scuttled aside, letting her be the one to face the attack. He knew there would be no real danger once the torchbearer recognized her.
The young face was one she knew well; even too well. The torchbearer was the son of Srass, the old herder she had seen killed in the meadow. She remembered the old herder’s face at the last moment of his life; as the gray-coat ripped flesh from his quivering flank and the silver’s teeth crushed his skull. Pain and rage distorted the ugly muzzle but it was still Srass’s face until he died. Now she looked at the herder who was Srass’s son and saw nothing she knew. The red light that shone from the torchbearer’s eyes came from a fire that burned within as well as without. It was a new kind of wildness and a new kind of savagery she had never seen in those who used only teeth and claws.
She would have whimpered and backed away, but pride and anger held her where she stood. The torchbearer lowered his brand and his face became again the face of Srass’s son with all its lop-eared homeliness. But Ratha knew she would never be able to look at him again without remembering the change the fire had cast over him.
Is this how I looked when I stood before the clan with the Red Tongue in my jaws?
“Keep your guard, herder,” she said at last. “We should not have startled you.”
At the corner of her eye, she saw Thakur rise from his crouch and shake dry grass from his fur. Howls echoed across the meadow from the forest, and she saw the young herder turn to challenge the hidden enemy, the fire’s glow leaping in his eyes.
“Come, Giver of the New Law,” said a voice very near her. “I am still without a torch.”
Ratha’s fury rose and spilled over. “Thakur, I could feed you the Red Tongue as I did Meoran or have you gutted like a herdbeast!”
He looked back at her and the green of his eyes seemed to swallow her. “You could, Giver of the New Law. You may.”
The reply enraged her further, but she could do nothing except fume and bristle. She knew she could not strike him. “Why do you show me this?” she burst out at last. “You know as well as I that we must keep the Red Tongue if we are to live.”
“Look inside yourself for the answer,” he said. He paused. “I see you are angry, so I know you have found it.” He trotted back toward the fire she had left burning at the center of the meadow.
She ground her teeth together as if she were slicing meat. He knew as well as she that they could not turn aside from this new trail. What was he trying to do then?
One must know the path one runs even if the ground underfoot is not as one chooses, she thought and the answer almost came in Thakur’s voice. Her ears flattened. She was not grateful. Sometimes it was easier to take a path not knowing what lay underfoot or ahead.
The cries from the forest rose in pitch and intensity. Soon the Un-Named would begin their attack. The hair rose on Ratha’s neck, letting the cold of the night onto her skin. Would the Red Tongue save her people? They were still few and the Un-Named many. Only when morning came would she know, if she herself were still alive.
Another thought rose from beneath her anger and it too seemed to speak in Thakur’s voice. Even if the Red Tongue saved her people, they would never be the same. Once they were the Named, under Baire and then Meoran. Now they would be what she called them, a new name given without realizing what it truly meant. The People of the Red Tongue. And now she had seen the first of her new breed and now she knew.
As she returned to her fire, she passed other herdfolk. She approached them openly, letting herself be seen and smelled. Perhaps what she had seen in the young herder’s eyes was only anger at being startled. Perhaps it was only the brief intensity of fear that changed him and not the stamp of the Red Tongue. It was a new hope, but it did not live long enough to grow. Each of the torchbearers, even though unprovoked, held traces of the same look she had seen in the face of Srass’s son. Violent and gentle alike were all transformed by the blazing power they held between their jaws.
This is what we are, Ratha thought as she went from one to the other. This is what we are now.
Thakur was standing beside the fire when she returned. She lit a branch for him and gave it to him without words, feeling as though she were kicking mud into a clear pool even though she must drink from it later. He lowered his brand and trotted away, becoming one more of the flickering orange dots scattered about the meadow.
Again the raider’s cries swelled from the meadow. Ratha lifted her muzzle, her ears quivering. She saw the circle of herders about her tighten, bunching their beasts in the center. The torches swung outward.
She seized a branch of her own, lit it and left the fire to burn in its dirt clearing. As she reached the outer edge of the circle, the attack began.
She had hoped that the Red Tongue in the forest would have frightened the raiders away, but she knew that hate and hunger were as strong as fear. Her worries were confirmed when a scout reported that the Un-Named were circling around the areas that were still burning. He had spotted one group of the raiders making their way along a stream bank, making her suspect that there was at least one among the Un-Named who had some knowledge of the Red Tongue. She did not admit to herself that she knew who that one might be.
Shadows that had been as still as rocks or bushes against the trees crept swiftly into the meadow. They streamed from the forest, eyes and teeth glinting as they emerged into the open.
Ratha planted her torch and looked about her in all directions. There are too many, she thought, feeling her heartbeat shake her. Even with the Red Tongue, we are too few. The herders about her seemed to share her dismay, for she heard whimpers and saw bodies huddling together. And the raiders seemed to sense it too. They came faster, their hissing grew more vicious. And then they were no longer creeping but charging; black forms bore down on the herders from all sides. Ratha seized her torch again and thrust it outward with the rest. The attack gathered speed. The torchbearers waited.
Trembling, Ratha tried to peer beyond the circle of orange light. The raiders were still coming but the attack was faltering, its edges growing ragged as many of the Un-Named hesitated before the firelight. Ratha could hear individual voices rise above the yowling as the Un-Named leaders tried to drive their packs to fight. There was fear in those cries as well as rage. Fights began in the Un-Named ranks. Those who sought to flee the new power battled with those who forced them to attack. The mass of the enemy became a churning moonlit sea, turning in on itself.
It quieted. The howls of those who had fled faded into the forest. The torchbearer’s brands shone into fewer eyes, but in those faces hate ruled over fear. The first attack had failed. The second was about to begin.
The herders faced the Un-Named across an open swath of meadow. With a howl that rose to a shriek, a shape flew from the Un-Named ranks. Firelight flashed on a silvery pelt and Ratha recognized the jaws that had crushed Srass’s skull. The silvercoat drew the others after him and the Un-Named surged forward to meet the herders.
Torches fluttered and roared. Bared fangs were met with fire. The attackers reeled back howling from the touch of the flames and some carried the terrible creature away with them, smoldering as hot coals and ash in their fur ate into their flesh. Some went mad with fear and lay thrashing and frothing while their companions trampled them.