Ratha watched her friend stalk off. If Fessran was any indication, things were getting back to normal.
I hope the only problem I have after this is what to do about Bundi and Mishanti’s rumbler-beasts.
She did her patrol as she intended, checking in with everyone and hearing the latest reports. Fessran was right. New Singer’s band appeared to be fragmenting, its members dispersing, perhaps returning to their parent tribe. It was possible that the entire situation would resolve itself.
Ratha was glad she had used patience. She felt she was still young, for a clan leader, but growing more mature. She didn’t have to pounce on things so quickly; she could wait, watch, and think before choosing the best move.
Ratha lifted her head and felt the sun warm her face. A feeling of contentment washed through her, replacing the worry. She had done her best for all, even though it was difficult. No one, not even Thistle, could ask any more of her. She’d done it without harming the clan. That was the most important thing.
After a meal and a good pelt-licking session, she told Fessran where she would be and what to do if something did happen. Then, with Ratharee on her shoulder, she ambled over to the old oak and settled in the leaves from last season, smelling their aroma and letting herself drift luxuriously into a well-deserved snooze.
“Ratha!”
“Clan leader!”
“We’re being attacked!”
The calls came in two voices, startling Ratha. Feeling Ratharee grabbing her nape, she jerked her head up. She blinked. A moment ago she had been in a contented doze; now, if she believed what she was hearing …
No, it couldn’t be. Someone was trying a trick, or some half-grown litterling had gotten scared. The scents and voices told her that the pair was the yearling Mishanti and his older friend Bundi, sharpening her suspicions.
She felt Ratharee’s fingers tighten in her fur as she jumped up from the leaf litter. Yes, it was the terrible two again.
She eyed them both, the tip of her tail flicking irritably. “This is a bad time to try to fool me with …”
Her voice died. Both partners were shaking so hard they could barely stay on their feet. Their pupils had gone to slits, and their scent was acrid with fear.
“Not fooling,” quavered Mishanti, his faintly spotted fur bristling as Bundi panted, “Invaders, maybe hunters, maybe Un-Named. I don’t know.”
The sharp scent of Named blood made Ratha search beyond the two. Another form staggered toward her, head down and weaving. She had to look twice before she recognized Fessran’s older son Khushi under all the slashes and scratches. His usually amiable face looked exhausted and grim, and his ribs heaved. Bundi and Mishanti ran out and did their best to keep him on his feet as he lurched toward her.
“Surprised us,” he rasped. “Came from behind while we were scouting … ”
“Where’s your partner?” Ratha asked, her dry mouth making it hard to speak. She knew that Fessran had sent the scouts out in pairs.
“Dead. Throat-bite. I escaped and ran to warn you,
but . . . too late.”
“No, you did well, Khushi. Help him to the stream, you two,” Ratha told Bundi and Mishanti.
A commotion in the meadow drew her gaze. Fessran was galloping toward her, followed by other Firekeepers. She didn’t see Bira.
The flame-tenders had torches in their jaws. Fessran didn’t have a torch, but she looked furious.
A streak of ice shot down Ratha’s back, and her legs went stiff with shock. This was no cub-game.
She felt her treeling crouch low on her back, readying herself. Even Ratharee knew. The only one to be caught napping was the clan leader.
An attack? How could that be, a part of her argued, even while she ran to meet the Firekeepers. For several days she had been hearing, not just from Fessran but from others as well, that New Singer’s rogue band was coming apart—that they were in no shape to attack either the Red Tongue or clan herds.
Could it be True-of-voice again? How could he, after she had worked so hard to overcome the first mistakes? Yes, Thakur said that the Named didn’t understand how the hunter leader thought, but surely True-of-voice wouldn’t destroy the fragile alliance the clan had started to build.
Or was this a sudden assault from the previously quiet Un-Named? Ratha tumbled the possibilities around in her mind as her feet flashed over the meadow grass. She didn’t have time to curse herself for being taken by surprise. That would have to come later.
“It’s New Singer, may worms eat his eyes,” Fessran panted. “He fooled both of us and we believed him. Fooled us like we were cubs! I thought his gang of belly-biters was breaking up, but—”
“Fess, yowl about it later,” Ratha snapped. “Defend the fire-den and the guard flames. We can’t lose the Red Tongue.”
“It’s not just the Red Tongue they’re after,” Fessran snarled. “They’re attacking the herders. I saw Thakur, Mondir, and Cherfan leading the fight. I ran to get the Firekeepers.” She broke off, looking toward the stumbling figure between the two smaller ones. “My son Khushi. Thank the Red Tongue that he made it back.”
“The other scout didn’t,” Ratha said. “Go to Khushi. I’ll lead the Firekeepers.”
With a grateful look, Fessran sprang away after her wounded son. Ratha took her place and leaped into a gallop, hearing the thunder of feet and the rush of fire behind her. There was no torch between her teeth for she needed her jaws free to command.
Gathering her hindquarters beneath her, she sprinted ahead, ears straining for the sounds of battle, nose flaring for the scents of fighting. The tang of savage desperation on her tongue made Ratha stretch her run until she felt as though she were flying. Ratharee was huddled between her shoulders, arms halfway embracing her neck, legs straddling her spine, toes and fingers wound tightly in her fur.
Ratha knew she should stop and hide the treeling, but she couldn’t. The herders’ lives might depend on her speed and the Firekeepers’ torches.
Guard-fires, defending the perimeter of clan ground, still flamed and blazed high in the wind made by the Firekeepers’ passing.
Now she could hear the fight—the wailing snarls, the wild, spitting yowls and screeches. A tangle of low brush lay ahead with dust boiling up beyond it. In the haze, she saw backs heaving, twisting, heads striking like snakes, teeth reddened.
Not pausing in her stride, she cleared the brush, the Firekeepers following in a river of angry fur and fire. They spread out to either side of her, charging into the enemy, swinging their firebrands. As Ratha reared and pivoted, howling orders, she caught sight of New Singer’s white-and-dark gray pelt amid the swirling mass of the fight.
Ratha saw instantly that the herder Cherfan was New Singer’s main opponent. The rogue hunter leader leaped, snarling, at the big herder. Cherfan reared to meet him, teeth and claws flashing white against the heavy brown of his coat, black-tipped ruff bristling like a mane.
Even the sight of the Firekeepers attacking the enemy with their torches quailed against the majestic battle between New Singer and Cherfan.
Over the deep roaring, Ratha heard the smack of flesh as the two powerful males collided. This was no sparring or paw-boxing. On hind legs, they raked and bit one another in a devastating flurry, then fell apart only to rear and clash again. Fur and blood spray flew with the dust kicked up by combat.
Cherfan was heavier, New Singer quicker; but both moved at a speed that blurred them before Ratha‘s eyes. Claws and teeth struck, and she heard the rip of fur-covered skin. Now one seized the other’s throat but was hurled away to land with a thud, only to streak in again. Now one dealt the other a massive blow with a forepaw to send him dancing back, reeling, tail lashing for balance. Again and again the hunter and the herder threw themselves together, rebounding off one another with heavy grunts and quivering flesh.