The big silver-coat glared at Bonechewer and then around the circle, seeking support. Many of the eyes on Bonechewer were hostile.
“You gray idiot! Do you think I care anything for those who cast me out, who would have slain me as a cub?”
He lunged at the silver-coat as he spoke and the other shrank away. Bonechewer stood, letting his fur flatten as he turned to the others.
“Take from the herds, yes. Let the hated ones work for you. I say nothing against that. But I hear voices that speak of turning this into a vengeance hunt, of slaughtering the herds and those who keep them.” He stopped and gazed around the cavern. “You will be pulling the fur from your own tails if you do that. The clan keeps us alive. Not many of you great hunters will admit that, but it is raiding and scavenging that feeds us during this season.”
“Ptahh! We should kill the hated ones and take their ground. Game is richer there than in our territories. That will keep us. Spare them?” The silver-coat curled his lip, showing heavy fangs. “No!”
Ratha could see from the circle of eyes that Bonechewer had little sympathy in the group.
The only one who didn’t look openly hostile was the black female, but the sight of her only disgusted Ratha.
He’s right, she thought frantically as Bonechewer returned to his place. He’s right. Why won’t they listen?
“Very well,” Bonechewer said. “I see that few of you share my concern. I can say no more. If you wish to keep me on this council, I will serve as you ask. Let me say only that I have warned you.”
There was silence, broken by the echoes of water dripping in the recesses of the cavern. The group began talking among themselves again in low voices and Ratha could no longer hear what they said. She didn’t care. She had heard enough.
She eased herself up, shaking as much from fear as from cold. Her legs, stiff and numb, moved awkwardly. As she turned, she kicked a piece of broken stone. It clicked as it bounced and the echo reverberated across the cavern.
Ratha froze. She glanced back at the group. All of them were on their feet, ears pricked, hackles raised. She gave a soft moan of despair. They would find her, tear her, and fling her remains down the rockface.
“Wait, all of you,” she heard Bonechewer’s voice say. “Stay here. I know who that is.”
Ratha gave a start and felt her stomach sink even further. She could not bear to let him find her. She turned tail and fled out of the cavern, across a flooded gallery and into the tunnel she had come in by. In the tunnel she paused for a moment, the pulsebeat in her throat almost choking her. She heard the sound of splashing and leaped into a gallop. He was after her. What he would do when he caught her, she didn’t know.
Now she was running in total darkness, trusting only her whiskers to keep her away from the rock walls.
“Ratha!” Bonechewer’s voice came from behind her, hollow and hissing. “Ratha!”
Cold fresh air tickled her nose, and as she ran, she breathed great gulps of it. She was almost out, she thought, scrabbling up a graveled incline. She thrust her head out and glanced around. No one was here. She was free! Soon she would be racing down the mountainside, leaving the Un-Named far behind. She would go back to the clan and warn them. Someone there would listen even if Meoran didn’t. Her excitement almost choked her. At last, at last, she would be going home.
She was barely out of the hole when she felt jaws clamp on her tail. Something jerked her back, snapping her head and knocking the wind out of her. She struggled, but Bonechewer kept a tight grip on her tail. She pulled until it was raw, then collapsed in a heap, worn out and terrified.
She felt the jaws loosen and peered along her flank. Bonechewer’s eyes glowed back at her. She shut hers tight again, waiting for his teeth.
“Sit up, Ratha.” He cuffed her, but the blow was mild. She only went into a tighter huddle. “I’m not going to hurt you. Sit up and listen.”
Gradually Ratha uncurled and looked up at him doubtfully.
Bonechewer grinned; not a friendly expression. The moonlight gleamed on his teeth, and Ratha remembered how, long ago, she had fought him in the meadow.
“You’re no danger to us, despite your heroics,” he said. “Go and warn the clan. What good will it do them? How many of the clan are there? How many of the Un-Named? Think about that for a while.”
Ratha sat, feeling the cold seep back inside her. “They would be ready to fight,” she said, but her words sounded uncertain, even to herself.
“Do you think that would make any difference?” Bonechewer leaned over her. “The marsh-shrew is ready to fight, but it is I who eat the marsh-shrew. Your warning might prolong the fight a little and cause a few more of the Un-Named to die, but it won’t make any difference.”
“No …” Ratha faltered, feeling despair creeping back along with the cold.
“You can’t change it, Ratha. I can’t either. You heard me try.”
Ratha got up, feeling the night wind cut through her. The stars overhead were hard, with a steely glitter. “The clan has lived with Un-Named raids,” she said in a low voice, turning her back on the wind and Bonechewer. “They will survive. They always have.”
He walked around and faced her. “You must have heard enough in the cavern to know the Un-Named will no longer kill just for food.”
“Why?” Ratha asked, and hated the pleading sound of her voice. “Why have things changed?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because Meoran grazes his flocks on territory once held by the Un-Named. Perhaps because the winter has been hard and hunger listens readily to hate. Or because there are so many of us now that our land can no longer feed us.”
Ratha shut her eyes, but blocking out sight could not block out truth. His voice went on.
“I saw this starting to happen the season before last,” he said. “That is why I stayed away. I nearly starved, but I knew that without me, they would fail in their plan to kill the herders and take the beasts. They did fail.” Bonechewer paused. “Do you remember how frequent and fierce the raids were that season? There were quite a few of the Un-Named who sought to destroy the clan. Now, most of them agree with the silver-coat.”
Ratha looked at him scornfully. “They failed because you didn’t come with them? Hah! One more set of teeth wouldn’t have helped them.”
“One more mind would have. I am clan-born, Ratha. I lived long enough among our people to know how they think and what they will do. The raiders needed that knowledge.”
Our people, Ratha thought, staring at Bonechewer. He calls them our people …
She whirled on Bonechewer, her misery turning her savage. “Why do you care?” she hissed.
“I don’t.” His gaze was cool. “I have no love for the clan. To me, they exist to feed us and that alone is my reason. If they die, we die. That is the truth, but the other Un-Named are too stupid to see it.” His eyes narrowed. “You are the one who cares, Ratha. Too bad Meoran threw away his one chance when he drove you out.”
“What do you mean?” Ratha demanded.
“I’ll let you find the answer to that.”
Ratha flattened her ears and bowed her head. Her heart jumped as she heard cries far up the slope. They’re looking for us, she thought. Bonechewer touched her, making her flinch. “Ratha,” he said and she turned fierce eyes on him. “The clan won’t survive. Nothing you can do will change that, so stop thinking about it. You will survive.”
“How? By turning raider and helping to slay herdfolk I once knew?”
Bonechewer waited for Ratha to calm herself before he went on. “You can’t afford to think about them, Ratha. Think only of yourself. Life with the Un-Named is not pleasant, but you keep your belly full.”