The grass waved again and Ratha heard footsteps. Fessran lunged with the torch as a shadow streaked out of the grass. A scent, made alien by a blast of acrid fear-smell, washed back over Ratha.
“Thakur!” she cried as Fessran froze where she was standing. Thakur crouched in the shadows, glaring at both of them.
“Put that torch down or I’ll take it away from you,” Ratha snarled at Fessran. “It would have made more sense to give the Red Tongue to a dappleback. Put it down!”
Fessran obeyed, driving the splintered branch end deep into the mud beside Ratha’s. Thakur crept into the circle of torchlight, his head lifted, his belly close to the ground. His ears flattened and his teeth flashed as he spoke.
“I feared you would find your creature again,” he said to Ratha. “Meoran comes and the clan is with him. When he heard the sky-fire strike and found Fessran gone, he knew.” He stopped, panting. “Run, both of you! Throw down your torches and flee! You escaped him once, you can again. Run!”
“No, Thakur. He will not be turned away as easily as he was the last time. He will hunt us until he has our blood,” Ratha said in a low voice.
Thakur almost threw himself at Ratha, his eyes shimmering with rage and agony. “How many will die in this madness? Shall this be the death of my people; the Named killing the Named? Have they earned such a death? If so, tell me how.”
Ratha’s belly twisted as she watched him.
“Enough, Thakur,” Fessran interrupted. “You have no stomach for this. Run away so that at least one will survive as the last of the Named.”
Thakur turned from Fessran to Ratha.
“Do as she bids you. Or pick up a torch and stand with us,” Ratha said softly.
He cast a look back over his shoulder. “He comes; I hear him now,” Thakur moaned. His voice rose to a hiss. “For the sake of your people, throw the cursed thing down and run!”
Ratha’s head turned at the sound of footsteps. Smoke hung beneath the trees, boiling along the ground. There were shadows behind the haze. Amber eyes stared out from a massive shape as gray as the rolling smoke. It became large and solid as Meoran approached.
“Wise words, Thakur Torn-Claw.” Meoran thrust his massive head through the haze. One bite from those jaws could crush the skull of a three-horn stag, Ratha knew. He was not one to provoke lightly.
For an instant the three of them stood still facing Meoran and the clan. Then, with a sudden shriek of rage, Fessran snatched up her torch and flung herself at Meoran. He reared, hauling his gray bulk into the air. He struck out with slashing foreclaws as Cherfan and the other young males rushed from behind to guard his flanks. Fessran tumbled away, bleeding. Her torch fell and guttered out.
“So this is the power of the Red Tongue.” He sneered and kicked the smoldering branch away from her groping forepaws.
“Meoran, wait!” cried Thakur. “You have destroyed Fessran’s creature. There is no need to take her life. Let me talk to her.”
Fessran lay on her side, her neck and chest red and ragged. She lifted her head and glared hate at Meoran.
“Talk will do nothing,” Meoran snarled. “Her eyes are like the eyes of the other, the she-cub.”
Ratha watched Fessran quivering on the ground. She raised her head and met the gray-coat’s stare. “The she-cub speaks,” she said quietly. “Leave Fessran. She is not the one you seek. I told you before; it is between you and me, Meoran.”
The clan leader took one heavy step forward. “Stay back,” Ratha heard him growl to Cherfan and the other young males who flanked him. “This one is my meat.”
He took another step and then jerked his head back in astonishment. Thakur stood in front of him, blocking his way to Ratha.
“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” she heard Thakur say. “Do you forget the old laws?”
“I make the laws for the clan, Thakur Torn-Claw. Move aside!” Meoran spat at Thakur and struck him in the face. He bowed his head and Ratha saw him lick blood from his nose.
“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” he said again, so softly that Ratha could barely hear him.
“I don’t bother with fangs for such as you. Claws do well enough.” Again Meoran lashed out at Thakur, laying the other’s cheek open to the bone. Ratha flinched as if she had been the one struck. Something inside her began beating against the walls of its prison. She wanted to shriek at Thakur to stand aside and let her face Meoran alone. She began to tremble, fighting her rage. She knew if Meoran struck Thakur again, that her rage would win.
The two stood apart, stiff-legged and bristling, Thakur still blocking Meoran’s way. The wild thing beating inside Ratha’s chest was as angry at Thakur as Meoran. What right had he to interfere? Had he not betrayed her the night the Red Tongue died? Meoran’s power would have fallen then. And what did he think he was doing now? Did he think that seeing him bleed would calm her? No! Blood would bring blood.
Meoran raised a paw. Thakur looked at him, his face blank, expressionless. The blow came, with all of Meoran’s weight behind it. Thakur reeled and his head snapped around spraying red onto Ratha’s coat. He sank down in front of the gray coat.
Fessran shrieked and the cry tore through Ratha. She wrenched her torch from the ground. Meoran was approaching Thakur slowly, almost leisurely, his jaws opening for the killing bite. Flame barred his way. Again he reared striking out with his forelegs to knock Ratha’s torch from her jaws as he had Fessran’s but Ratha was too quick. The brand scorched his chest and he skittered back, howling.
“Ratha, no!” cried a hoarse voice and she caught a blurred glimpse of Thakur staggering to his feet, his mouth open in pain as the gleaming blood ran from his eye and cheek, dripping along his jaw.
Ratha walked toward Meoran with the torch in her teeth. All those that had clustered around the clan leader melted away. And Meoran cowered, terrified, mouth gaping, sides heaving.
“Close your jaw or your tongue shall meet the Red Tongue,” Ratha snarled. He gulped and shut his mouth.
“On your side and offer your throat,” Ratha ordered lifting her head with the torch. “Look well, you of the clan. The Law of the Named is now the Law of the Red Tongue.”
They crouched together, their bellies to the ground. Cherfan, his mate, Srass’s young son and the others all stared helplessly at the scene before them.
In her pride, Ratha answered their gaze and took her eyes from Meoran.
He exploded up at her, fangs seeking her throat. With a violent twist of her head, she swung the torch in a vicious arc and drove it down into those gaping jaws. The impact almost jarred her teeth loose from the shaft. Then, with a strange tearing sound, it gave, throwing Ratha off-balance. The shaft was torn out of her mouth and she was knocked aside.
She had lost, she thought dizzily as she fought to keep her footing. She whirled, ready to meet Meoran in a final desperate attack with teeth and claws. For a moment, she stood, stupefied.
Meoran spun in a circle like a cub chasing its tail. He was a blur of gray with a dancing patch of orange. And he was screaming.
When he paused, exhausted and spent, Ratha could see him and her rage froze into horror. The shaft of the torch protruded from his mouth, jamming it open. The blackened end, streaked with red showed beneath his chin and the Red Tongue curled up around his lower jaw on both sides. With a shock, Ratha realized she had driven the jagged end of the firebrand through the bottom of his mouth. Blood and froth bubbled up around the shaft and sizzled in the flame.
Meoran cried again, a half-choked scream. He pawed at the hated thing, now so terribly embedded in his own flesh. The Red Tongue blazed up wrathfully and Meoran flung himself back and forth as it licked at his face, blistering his jowls.
From the corner of her eye, Ratha saw Thakur lurch through the swirling haze toward Meoran.