Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One (12 page)

The hall was high but narrow, and nobles crowded back to make an aisle for Hisshah, the daughter of the goddess.

Hisshah stood, nervously waiting for her name to be called, controlling the impulse to flick her tongue over her fangs and thin narrow lips. The dry, musky scent of the packed nobles made her heart beat faster, but her face was calm. She did not think the ultimate punishment would be hers today. She was, after all, her mother’s only heir.

“Let Hisshah approach the Divinity!”

She walked carefully towards the throne, keeping her stride slow and long and the sway of her head and tail regular. All of the high Liskash of the court were gathered and she would not show weakness before them. Hard enough to do as she was shorn of all the jewels that marked her rank, save those embedded in the scales of her forehead in a sigil that marked her as her mother’s.

She’d been proud of the mark at five summers; now at twenty it infuriated her to be
claimed
, like a piss-pot or a rug.

Her mother wore no jewelry at all; instead her whole body glittered with tiny embedded gems, one to a scale, a privilege she reserved for herself alone. Ashala sat on her carved throne of ebony and gold still as a statue, her yellow eyes cold and the pupils narrowed to an S-slit.

At her mother’s orders it had been two weeks since Hisshah had fed or, more importantly, drunk. Only a people as strong as the Liskash could endure such deprivation. Now she was to be humiliated as the final, and to her, the worst, phase of her punishment. But she would not stumble, she would not weave drunkenly down the aisle; though her head was swimming. She would show herself to be a proper heir to the throne. Knowing that one day she would be sitting there meting out rewards…and punishments…made it possible to endure this.

* * *

Ashala watched her daughter’s slow but steady advance and grudgingly respected her for it.

The the weakest and last of my clutch and very disappointing since the moment she broke the shell, which she barely managed to do without dying of exhaustion. Still,
mine
, which is to judge by high standards
.

Hisshah could move small objects with her mind and perform some basic magic, but her powers were trifling and no training had been able to discover much more. The one thing she could do well was ward her mind. She’d gotten that from her father.

The impossibility of reading his mind was what had made Ashala kill him in the end. There was just no telling what he might be plotting. And unlike his last daughter his powers had been formidable.

It’s time I had another clutch,
she thought.
Try again for something better while time enough remains for the hatchlings to reach maturity while I can guard them
.

But she dreaded the negotiations, as well as the proximity of a powerful male and his entourage.

The last one’s minions had spied on everything and then they’d all refused to leave.

No wonder I killed him,
Ashala thought with satisfaction.

It had been cleverly done, too, if she did say so herself. They suspected, naturally, but they couldn’t prove anything, which meant less chance of a feud. Of course, those suspicions might make it difficult to find a new mate. But not impossible. Her domain was rich and she had much to offer in the way of favors. It was always a balance, of course; you wanted a strong heredity for your offspring, but not strong enough to make it likely they’d succeed in killing you, and not from a mate so strong that he’d succeed in doing so himself.

If anything her disappointing remaining offspring might be the sticking point. How her children had all managed to kill themselves or each other, except for Hisshah, was a source of amazement. Perhaps she’d erred on the side of recklessness when selecting the sire. Certainly
she
had always showed an adequate degree of patience.

Yes, she would set things in motion. It was her duty, and duty was not to be shirked.

At last Hisshah was crouched before her in the posture of submission.
It wouldn’t have taken any longer if she’d crawled,
Ashala thought in contempt.

She waited until she sensed the court getting restless. Her people were still by nature, but their eyes had begun to move, and nictitating membranes to flicker.

“Why, Daughter, do you make me punish you?” Ashala asked.

Hisshah went from crouching to completely prone, plastered to the floor from snout-tip to tail-tip in one long exclamation point of submission.

“I beg your forgiveness, great goddess, it was never my intention to insult you.”

“And yet, you did. By suggesting that I might bring food and drink to you and your cohorts as though I were a mere slave.”

“It was only meant to be a small joke, great one.” Hisshah writhed in humiliation. “No one could ever take such a thing seriously.”

“My dignity,” Ashala snapped, “and your loyalty should never be the subject of jokes! I am tempted to have you flogged for your insolent tongue!”

There were a few shocked, involuntary hisses at that. She would not, of course. Hisshah was, at the moment, her only heir. And there were some things that underlings did not forget; too much disgrace would make it impossible for the heir to reign securely. Again she waited, until the moment was almost too stretched.

“Tomorrow you may drink. The day after you may have food,” she said at last.

“The goddess is gracious,” Hissah said to the floor.

“Rise up!” Ashala snapped. She’d thought of a way to punish her daughter and perhaps help to thwart the danger that marched towards them.

When Hissah was on her knees once more she continued, “Perhaps you have time for jokes because you haven’t enough to do. I have decided that some of the Mrem require training as soldiers. I shall give that task to you.”

“Thank you, great one,” Hisshah said, her voice clear and firm.

Inside Hisshah’s third stomach had clenched. Make the Mrem slaves into soldiers… Clearly impossible!

If it were possible it would also be dangerous. What is my mother thinking?

She knew of nothing that could prompt such a mad idea. Her mother had soldiers enough to make any ambitious neighbor wary, and as much territory as could be dominated from a single holding. It must be a scheme to further humiliate her with an inevitable failure.

“You may return to your chamber,” her mother said. “My steward will attend you to answer any questions you may have concerning the Mrem and whatever weapons are available to arm them.” She waved her hand in dismissal.

Hisshah rose and bowed, then backed away for ten steps until she could turn and leave the hall. When she was gone it would be prepared for feasting as hers was the last business of the day.

Tomorrow I will drink. And the next day I will eat and I will eat well,
Hisshah promised herself.

A pleasant thought occurred to her. If she was to make Mrem into soldiers, she would have to discipline and punish them. Perhaps she could eat a few.

I always was partial to mammals,
she thought.

* * *

Two days later, Ranowr squatted in a circle of friends and fellow slaves, together in the dust outside the low opening of the barracks entrance. There was a sort of familial resemblance amongst most of them. Their short, downy fur was grey with darker grey stripes and most had white bellies and hands. Two were yellow with darker stripes and one was a solid grey.

There was nothing unusual in the circle; they often sat together so, gathered in front of the dormitory where the adult males slept. But tonight they waited for Tral to bring them word that old Sesh was gone, devoting the hours of sunset and night to him, as the heat faded out of the stone walls of the compound and the colored band of stars stretched itself across heaven. This time of the cycle was more natural to Mrem in any case.

The Liskash had decreed that he was too old, sick and feeble to be worth feeding and so should be allowed to starve. There wasn’t enough food to share with him, so Tral, their healer, had given him a sleeping draught from which he would not wake. The circle would mourn him, remember his life and honor his passing.

And so, they sat silently waiting.

That was where Hisshah and her small group of guards found them. The arrival of the Liskash made all of the Mrem crouch, eyes down and hands flat on the ground.

* * *

Hisshah, known as the lesser goddess to the Liskash and the young goddess to the Mrem, looked them over.

At least they’re reasonably well disciplined,
she thought.
But how can I turn creatures so cowed and worthless into soldiers? Mrem haul weights and scrub and carry.

“Which of you speaks for all?” she asked.

“I do, young goddess,” Ranowr said.

“Come here and kneel before me,” she commanded.

When he was before her she studied him. He was taller than most Liskash, and broad and sturdy like all of his kind. He looked healthy and strong, and probably wasn’t really tubby; that was the disgusting fuzz. The steward saw to the health of the slaves. And while it was true that a weak slave was a worthless slave, you didn’t want them too frisky.

Still, if they’re to be soldiers perhaps I should increase their rations,
she mused.
If anything goes wrong, I can tell my mother than it is all her fault.

That thought made her hiss slightly with laughter; blame flowed downward, gain upward; so the world was. She would ask the steward; he was the expert on Mrem. But for tonight, the first night she would be eating after her long fast, she had other plans.

“Which of your fellows can you spare?” she said, with a hiss of command.

She watched Ranowr carefully for any sign he might make, but he remained motionless. Some of the others were less controlled. One toward the back, with nicks in his ears and a grizzled face, looked sharply at Ranowr. It didn’t take a deep knowledge of Mrem to know that he was older than the others.

She pounced.

“That one!”

The guards moved forward and took him by the arms. Hisshah and her party began to move away.

“He’s a good worker,” Ranowr said, still kneeling, his eyes carefully down. “Skilled in the care of bundor and hamsticorns.”

Hisshah paused and turned to look at him in disbelief. “Are you asking me to show…what is it you call it…mercy?”

The word had a rather odd contour, as if it weren’t really suited to the Liskash throat.

“Please, young goddess,” Ranowr said, lowering his whole body.

“I didn’t think it possible, but you have amused me,” she said. “I am pleased. I shall send you some meat later.” Then she turned and continued on her way.

The Mrem captive gave his companions a long last look before the guards hustled him off.

Ranowr and the others, stunned, returned to their circle.

“Fesa was a good Mrem,” Ranowr said grimly.

It was the ritual phrase that opened the mourning circle. He glanced at the departing group of Liskash with Fesa in their midst.

If the gods created us, why do they treat us so cruelly? Why do they hate us so?

Because they did. They must. Yet it made no sense to create something and then to hate it.

And we hate them.

Just being near them made his skin crawl and pelt bristle and tail stiffen and bottle out, his ears flatten themselves as if for battle. But that could be because they had so much power.

“Fesa was a good worker,” said another, bringing Ranowr’s thoughts back to the mourning circle.

“He was good with the kits,” added Krar.

Truth be told they were all good to the kits. Where any one of them might be your own, treating them all well just made sense. Still some were better at it than others and Fesa had been one of those.

“They’ll be missing him,” Ranowr agreed.

Tral entered the circle.

“Sesh will not wake,” he announced. Looking around he asked, “Where’s Fesa, he should be here, he was Sesh’s oldest friend.”

“Fesa is no more,” Ranowr said. “The young goddess took him away.”

The words were bitter on his tongue. Fesa would die a hard death tonight. And the meat Hisshah would send, if she sent it, would be from his corpse. A calculated insult. But they would burn it to ashes and scatter them in the wind. The only freedom any Mrem could hope for.

Stunned, Tral took his place in the circle.

“Sesh was a good Mrem,” Ranowr intoned.

They spent the best part of the night remembering both of them.

* * *

The practice field was hot and silent; the guards on the outer walls moved to look occasionally, and there were bleatings and hootings from the stock pens, and a little twitch of wind flicking sand into eyes.

“Watch carefully,” Hisshah said, feeling loose and confident in the familiar exercise and the welcome heat. “Overhand down-cut, angled right to left.”

She tapped the mock sword on one part of the practice post, then mimed a downward slice that would have struck the neck of an opponent. The sound was muffled, for the training weapon was wrapped in tightly woven grass rope to lessen the jar to the wrists.

“Backhand cut, angled up, right to left.”

She hit the post on the other side, where the gap between the hip-bone and the lowest rib would be—a clear target into the meat, with organs and big veins beneath. Even if it didn’t penetrate, a powerful strike there might rupture something essential; certainly it would knock the wind out of your enemy, leaving them open for a killing blow.

“Then you tie them together with their mirror-image.”

She struck, down, up, down and up, into the space where the angle of the neck would be, letting the blade’s weight carry it down past the target to loop back and up and down at a slant again, like an X.

A muffled
clack
as padded wooden sword struck the hard pell, then
clack
and
clank
again.

She did it again and again, faster and faster until the mock sword seemed to blur and her body as well, weight shifting from one taloned foot to another. When she was finished with her demonstration she tossed it to Ranowr.