Clan Ground (The Second Book of the Named) (5 page)

Orange-Eyes hesitated, looking after the disappearing glow of the torches. He muttered something to himself that the herding teacher couldn’t hear.

“Are you going to help me track those dapplebacks or not?” Thakur felt his patience going. Orange-Eyes started and swung around, the strange expression still in his eyes. It was half resentment and half something else ... Thakur didn’t know what. A hunger, perhaps. A hunger that would not be sated by meat.

Chapter Four

Ratha halted the pursuit at the far end of the meadow. She slowed, panting, the cries of the escaping bristlemanes still in her ears. Behind her, the torchbearers’ growls mingled with the angry snap of the Red Tongue. She shared their fever; the urge to hunt the enemy down with fang and fire.

Terror had given the bristlemanes the speed to outrun the Firekeepers. Their pack-mates lay dead in the meadow and Ratha knew that those who lived bore scars on their memories as well as their hides that would forbid them from again setting foot on clan ground.

She heard a muffled snarl and the sound of a body being dragged and shaken. She turned to see one of the Firekeepers mauling another dead bristlemane. The long tongue hung out of the stiff black jaws and flopped around with each angry jerk he gave the body.

Ratha watched, letting the sight feed her hunger for vengeance. “Enough!” she cried suddenly. The Firekeeper released the corpse and backed away. She waited, studying the eyes that shone back at her with reflected torchlight, their glow softened only by a fine mist of rain. “Enough,” she said again in a low voice. “The herd is safe and the enemy gone. Firekeepers, return with me and rekindle the dead fires.”

The torchbearers did as she bid them and soon new flames were burning in the ashes of the old. But they too were small and uncertain. Ratha knew that if the rain fell harder it would quench them as easily as it had the others.

“Give the creature more wood,” she told the fire-tenders as she paced from one outlying guard-flame to the next. “Make it strong and fierce.”

She stopped, watching two Firekeepers struggling to comply. One brought more wood while the other fed the flame. He crouched a safe distance away from the fire’s nest, tossing in twigs with a quick turn of his head. The fire flared briefly as it consumed each twig and then died down.

“No,” Ratha said impatiently. “Use larger pieces and place them; don’t throw them.”

With an uneasy glance at her, the Firekeeper seized a thick branch in his jaws, approached the flame as close as he dared and flipped the wood in. It crashed into the fire, destroying the nest of carefully laid kindling and sending up a shower of sparks.

Ratha shouldered the Firekeeper aside and dragged the branch out. Carefully she coaxed the flattened remains of her creature back to life and, once it was burning steadily on fresh kindling, she gave it thicker wood.

Each time she placed a branch in its nest, the fire-creature’s breath blasted her face and stung her eyes with heat and cinders. It roared its rage in her ears, licked at her jowls and threatened to consume her whiskers. She had to force herself to lay the wood in position, however much her jowls hurt or her instincts screamed at her to leap away.

When she finished, she backed away thankfully and rubbed her sooty muzzle against her foreleg. The two torchbearers were watching her with mingled awe and resentment. “That is how it must be done,” she said. “If you are quick and sure, you will keep your whiskers.”

The Firekeeper who had nearly destroyed the Red Tongue’s nest stalked over to the leaping flame with more wood in his jaws. He faced the fire-creature, hesitated and lunged forward. He dropped the branch in and scrambled back, his belly white with wet ash, his eyes frightened and defiant.

“Feeding your creature is not easy when it grows so large and wild,” he said with a shudder.

“If you seek to tame the Red Tongue by keeping it small, it will die in the rain,” Ratha said, trying to be patient.

“When it is fierce, it eats my whiskers,” retorted the Firekeeper. “Look how short they are. I can no longer find my way in the dark.”

“If you are thinking only of your whiskers and not of your duty, you will burn yourself. Try doing it the way I have showed you.”

“I will, clan leader,” he said, but Ratha could see in his eyes and his barely controlled trembling that his wish to obey had to fight his terror of the fire. This fear was not an easy thing to put aside as Ratha knew well.
 

“The more you practice, the better you will become and then you need not be afraid,” she said, trying to smooth the harshness from her voice. The Firekeeper looked back at her as if he knew her words were half a lie, but he said only, “Yes, clan leader.”

Ratha jogged away from his guard-fire and went past others, stopping to see how other torchbearers were faring. What she saw was nothing new, but it still filled her with dismay. Despite their training and experience, many of the fire-tenders were timid, approaching their fire with tightly shut eyes and flattened ears. They poked wood into the flame with tentative thrusts and snatched their paws back. The torchbearers’ smells told Ratha, in a way that their appearance could not, how little they trusted the capricious creature they had to guard.

The moon shone through a break in the clouds, glimmering on the wet grass in front of Ratha. Ahead, under the oak, the Red Tongue danced and crackled, offering its warmth to several of the Named who had gathered around it. She crept in under the tree, shook herself and found a place near the fire. The lop-eared herder Shoman was there, along with Cherfan and some other weary clan members. Fessran basked on the far side of the fire. Ratha looked for Thakur and Orange-Eyes, but found neither. She settled herself and listened to the conversation between Fessran and Shoman.

“Killing those bristlemanes may save us from having to cull a dappleback,” Shoman was saying.

Fessran drew back her whiskers. “You may be able to eat bristlemane meat. If so, you may have it.”

“You’re too fussy. Meat is meat,” Cherfan said and yawned, showing the ribbed roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue.

“To you, perhaps.” Fessran lolled her tongue at him. “You can eat anything, you big shambleclaw.”

Ratha stretched out her pads to the fire’s warmth and let the banter flow over her. This wasn’t the first time Fessran had teased Cherfan about his indiscriminate appetite. He seemed to take her teasing with patient humor, as he did everything else.

“Have you seen Thakur and Orange-Eyes?” Ratha asked.

“They’re on their way,” Cherfan answered. “Thakur said he’d find the mare so I could go and get warm.”

“He may be awhile. That old mare has more spirit than I thought. Maybe you shouldn’t cull her, Cherfan,” Fessran remarked and began washing a muddy paw.

“Ptahh! You only want younger meat, Firekeeper,” Cherfan teased in return. “She’d be as tough as a bristlemane and you know it.”

Shoman looked sourly at Fessran. “You think you deserve better meat than bristlemane, don’t you, torchbearer. Well, I don’t. You and the other singed-whiskers let too many of the guard-fires die. That’s why the bristlemanes got through.”

“Bury it, Shoman,” Cherfan growled as the Firekeeper stiffened and glared. “You’re about as helpful as a tick in the skin. Don’t pay any attention to him, Fessran. His tail’s been in a kink ever since Orange-Eyes came.”

Ratha twitched her ears at the mention of the Un-Named One. She lifted her muzzle from her forepaws and said, “You seem to think well of him now, herder.”

“I’ll admit I had my doubts about him, but he’s a hard worker and not easily frightened. He chewed up several of those belly-biters. I wish I’d seen that!” Cherfan looked at Ratha directly. “I think you made a good decision when you decided not to kill him at the dance-hunt, clan leader.”

“I don’t—” Shoman began, but he was interrupted by a swat from Cherfan that knocked him over. “Oh, go fill your belly, flop-ears. Maybe your temper will improve.”

Shoman retreated, his fur and his dignity visibly ruffled. Ratha heard him pad away and felt herself relaxing. Fessran, however, was sitting up, looking solemn. Presently Cherfan got up and stretched. “One last look at the herdbeasts and I’m off to my den. Too wet a night to sleep out. Remind flop-ears that he has the next watch.”

Some of the herders left with him; others went back out to the meadow. One by one the Firekeepers also left until Ratha and Fessran were alone by the fire.

“Firekeeper, if Shoman’s words are troubling you, don’t worry,” Ratha said. “I never listen to him.”

“Maybe you should.” Fessran’s voice was flat.

Ratha looked at her sharply. “What else could you have taught the fire-tenders? The Red Tongue is not an easy creature to care for. I don’t want to punish any Firekeeper for failing.”

“Punishment would be useless,” said Fessran. “I scold them if they forget their training, but punishment is no cure for fear.”

“I can see how difficult it is for them. The Red Tongue is often a vengeful creature.”

“There is a difference between being careful and being timid. Your creature demands much from us who tend it.” Fessran gazed at the flame. “Sometimes I think it has senses, like ours, and it knows when someone is afraid of it. That is when it jumps out and burns our whiskers.”

In the flickering light, Ratha could see the white scars on Fessran’s muzzle. There were more on the Firekeeper’s front pads. She bore a few scars herself and she knew that the Red Tongue’s lessons were taught harshly.

“Clan leader,” Fessran said and Ratha lifted her gaze from the Firekeeper’s scarred forepaws to her face. “I know you have given me as many as can be spared from the duties of herding to train as torchbearers. But the fires died in the rain tonight and they will continue to die if they are kept by those who treat them timidly. I can teach knowledge, but courage is something a cub is born with.”

“So you want more of the stronger cubs to train as Firekeepers.”

“Yes, and not just cubs. There are those who are grown who have the strength of will the Red Tongue demands,” said Fessran softly.

The tone of her voice made Ratha’s eyes narrow slightly, although she wasn’t sure why.

“Who among the Named would you choose?” she asked.

“Besides you and me, there are few. Thakur is one, but he has chosen not to serve the Red Tongue and I understand his reasons.” Fessran paused, and Ratha felt herself being studied. “I would choose the young orange-eyed one whose strength and bravery have shown me that he is well fit for the task. He proved himself a worthy opponent when he stood his ground in the dance-hunt. He has proved it again tonight by the bodies of two bristlemanes that lie in the meadow.”

Ratha paused. “He is not of the Named, Fessran.”

The Firekeeper’s amber eyes widened. “I thought you were going to accept him.”

“Not before I call a clan gathering. I want to hear from others before I decide.”

“Everyone knows who killed those bristlemanes,” said Fessran. “If you called us all together tomorrow, you’d have any agreement you need.”

And I haven’t forgotten that it was he who stopped a charging three-horn to save a clan cub’s life,
Ratha thought, but she didn’t want to say anything that would encourage Fessran to press her further.

The Firekeeper eyed her. “You know that he has already begun to carry wood for us.”

“I don’t mind that; it keeps him busy. But I don’t want you to teach him anything more until I have made my decision. And tomorrow is too early to call another gathering,” she added pointedly.

“The mating season will be here soon,” said Fessran. “If you wait too long, I won’t be good for doing anything except waving my tail at him. And you won’t be in much better shape.”

Ratha had to grin at Fessran’s succinct appraisal of her own behavior during the period of heat. Her tension eased a little as she retorted, “He’s probably too young for courting, you randy queen! All the same, you’re right. I will make my decision soon.”

Fessran curled a paw up to her muzzle and began washing it. She halted, swiveled her ears forward and got up to feed more wood to the fire. Ratha turned her face outward into the cool of the night to catch the scents of whoever was approaching.

Thakur and Orange-Eyes padded under the oak and settled themselves wearily in the Red Tongue’s glow. “That mare must have led you a chase,” said Fessran as Thakur licked his paw and scrubbed at the mud on his face. “Cherfan could have gone after her. You both have done your work for tonight.”

“And you have too, Fessran,” Thakur said, with a brief glance at Orange-Eyes. Ratha detected a faint trace of anxiety in his smell and wondered if it were only the mare that had delayed him. “You dug me out of that pile of bristlemanes.”

“And Orange-Eyes!” Fessran burst out. “Ratha, you should have seen what he did to those belly-biters. They thought they had me, and I thought so too, but when he charged in and sank his teeth into that one ...”

Orange-Eyes shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Firekeeper, Thakur was with me ”

“Both of you have earned my praise and more,” Ratha answered. “When we cull a herdbeast tomorrow, you, Thakur, will eat after me and then Orange-Eyes will fill his belly. Fessran, you will follow.”