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…”
“You don’t have time to wash yourself off before he gets here.” Ratha pawed Fessran’s face, leaving a smear along her jaw. She jumped back at Fessran’s strike. The eyes were blazing.
“Get away from here before I make it real!” Fessran snarled.
Ratha ducked her head and scuttled away. She paused, lifted her head and looked back. “May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den, Fessran,” she said softly. “You are of the clan. You cannot leave them. I am the one whose way lies apart from the rest.”
The other’s eyes cooled. The tail gave one last twitch. “May the trail you run lead you back to us.”
“See to Thakur,” Ratha said.
“I will. Go now.” Fessran’s whiskers drew back. “I don’t want you to see me fawning on Meoran.”
Ratha leaped up the bank, leaving her behind. The howls of the clan sounded not far across the creek. Ratha trotted downstream for a short distance and angled off into the brush. Making sure that she was downwind from the stream bank, Ratha crouched in a thicket, listening. Her heartbeat threatened to choke her. Would her plan work? Would the clan leader believe Fessran’s story and spare her? They needed good herders too badly to kill one needlessly.
If Fessran dies, Ratha thought, kneading the earth beneath her forepaws, I will go and bare my throat to Meoran.
The howling swelled, then fell silent. Voices spoke. Ratha was too far away to hear the words, but she caught tones. Meoran’s deep growl, Srass’s whine. Fessran’s voice, rising and falling. Then, silence. Ratha tensed, grinding her teeth together, waiting for the outcry from the pack that would signal Fessran’s death. Nothing.
She lifted her chin, swiveling her ears all the way forward, hardly daring to think that such a simple trick had saved her companion. She peered through the interwoven branches. The moon was silver on the stream bank. Forms paced up and down on the far side. Fessran was seated, speaking to Meoran. She extended a paw. Meoran leaned forward to sniff it while the clan gathered about them. Fessran got up, joined the others, and Ratha lost her among them.
She dropped down behind her thicket, dizzy with relief and weariness. She laid her chin on the damp ground and felt her heart gradually slow. The ache in her belly came back and the cuts on her pads began to throb. There was mud in the wounds, but she didn’t have time to clean them. The wind might soon shift, carrying her scent to the clan and revealing her hiding place. Exhausted and hungry as she was, she had far to run before she would be beyond the clan’s reach.
She yawned. This would be a good place to sleep, she thought, pushing herself up on her front paws. If I did, Meoran would soon be standing over me, ready to give the killing bite. She coaxed her reluctant hindquarters up and peered out of the thicket. The voices were silent. The clan folk had gone. Fessran was probably sending them on all sorts of false trails, looking for her.
She stepped out of the thicket and looked up at the stars. The trees here were fewer and she could see a greater stretch of sky. So many stars, she thought. Each seemed to burn like a tiny piece of her lost creature. The night wind touched her wet coat, making her prickle and shiver.
She was clanless; outcast and outlaw. Her training as a herder was worthless now, for she had no beasts to keep. There would be no more gatherings; no sharing of the clan kill. From now on she would have to provide for herself, and that no one had taught her.
Miserably, she crept away. She stayed in shadow beneath brush and trees, avoiding open ground where newly sprouting grass was bathed in moonlight beside the charred lengths of fallen pines. For a while, she chose stealth over speed, but at last her desperation drove her from cover. She ran from an enemy neither seen nor smelled, whose dark presence loomed up in every tree shadow, sending her fleeing from the path. She ran like a cub on her first night trail, fearful of anything that moved.
The wind grew bitter, hissing and rattling branches. The new ache in Ratha’s chest did not distract her from the old ache in her belly, and she endured them both, until the hunger pain became a weakness that seeped into her legs. She stumbled from tree to tree, resting against them until she gained breath to go on. The trail faded away, or she lost it, for now she fought her way through thorns and ropy vines. She panted harder. Her pads grew slippery with sweat, stinging the gravel cuts. She was almost grateful for the pain; it kept her alive and angry when she was tempted to fall and lie amid the brambles that snared her. It was the anger that made her tear loose from them and stagger on, leaving tufts of fur behind.
The earth itself seemed to betray her, for it grew mushy underfoot and she sank at every step. The soft ground sucked at her feet, dragging her down, while the tangle thorns chewed at her ruff and flanks. She was caught and held by spikes growing from the vines, and struggle as she would, she could not break free. For a while she was still, regaining her strength. With a final effort, she wrenched herself loose, the thorns scoring her sides.
She overbalanced, toppled and started to roll down a steep grade. Limp and exhausted, she let herself go, dragging a claw now and then to slow her descent. She landed against something, heard a soft crunch and smelled the odor of woody decay. She tried to rise, but could only lift her head; the rest of her body was too weary to obey.