Ratha's Courage (21 page)

I don’t want this to stop me from reaching out,
Ratha thought as she watched her clan go about their tasks. I also don’t want to undermine my own people.

I have to stop chasing my tail about this. What I’ve done is right, and I don’t need Thakur or Fessran to agree, although I’m glad they do.

I’ve done what the Named have been afraid to do before; I’ve thought beyond just the needs of our clan and extended help to others. Even if we have to pull back temporarily, reaching out to True-of-voice and his people is right. Perhaps someday we can extend such friendship to the Un-Named.

Chapter Fifteen

Each day that passed without a fight breaking out was a victory for Ratha. Although she kept a tight watch on New Singer and his all-male group, she saw no indication that the fledgling tribe wanted conflict with the Named. This was the fifth day after she had given the alert and she thought she might send Thistle-chaser and an escort to attempt to speak with New Singer.

This may all be worry over nothing, she told herself as she lay in a half-sphinx on the sunning rock, watching the morning sun rise. What is happening between True-of-voice’s tribe and New Singer’s renegades probably has nothing to do with us.

Ratharee stirred in the warm fur on Ratha’s belly.

“What do you think?” she asked her treeling. The creature gave what Ratha thought was an enormous yawn for a small animal. “Have I managed to walk this tricky path, with True-of-voice on one side and New Singer on the other? Have I helped others without harming the clan?”

It was beginning to appear that she had. The day looked beautiful, promising. Warmth began to bathe the sunning rock as Ratharee jumped up to Ratha’s nape, settled herself, and began grooming.

“Have you managed to convince your friend and second in command that you’re getting mushy-brained, talking to a treeling? Yes, you have.”

Ratha snapped her head around. Fessran was sauntering toward the base of the sunning rock.

“Ho, singe-whiskers,” Ratha teased back. “How stand things on clan ground?”

“Well, my leader, things stand the same as they did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Not a move or a peep out of any of our strange neighbors. To rudely interrupt the . . . ahh . . . conversation you were having with your treeling, I’d say yes, you have once again managed to tiptoe a path through the crocodiles.”

Ratha couldn’t help a cat-grin. Fessran was certainly in good form this morning.

“Well, I’m looking forward to getting a bit more sleep when you relax things a bit,” said the Firekeeper, in response to Ratha’s query.

“I’ll ease off after I’ve settled things with New Singer. Thistle and I should be able to go over there tomorrow and talk to them. We’ll also recover Quiet Hunter. Then I’ll approach True-of-voice.”

“In the mean time, Thakur, Cherfan, you, and I will keep on as we have. I assume that guarding the Red Tongue and the herdbeasts are the most important tasks?”

“They are,” Ratha replied, trying to inject a note of somberness into her voice, but the brilliant, playful freshness of the day made it difficult. And she was feeling relieved and rewarded at having made it over another barrier in the path of the Named. . . .

After she had patrolled, she would reward herself with a good meal, a thorough grooming, and a nap in the shade of the old live oak.

“I think that New Singer’s group is already falling apart,” Fessran observed. “They’re scattering; he doesn’t have as many as he did at first.”

“All right, but keep a close watch,” Ratha said.

With an elegant wave of her ash-streaked tail, Fessran pivoted around to leave.

“Just wait until you get a treeling,” Ratha yowled.

“I don’t need one of those flea-pickers,” Fessran retorted. “Unlike some people, I don’t have any fleas.”

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.

Other fights had erupted around the two, but it was the two heavyweights that stole Ratha’s attention even as she howled orders to the Firekeepers.

She squashed her impulse to leap between the two huge males, knowing that she had no place in this fight. Either one could swat her aside like a cub.

With a thundering roar, Cherfan belted New Singer away from him so hard that the other cartwheeled over and fell on his side. The force of the big herder’s blow overbalanced him, too, and he went down on his chest. Both scrambled to their feet, shoulders hunched, facing one another, muzzles crumpled by snarls that showed the full length of teeth.

At this pause in the battle, another hunter tore away from his opponent to fling himself onto Cherfan’s hindquarters, clawing his way up the herder’s spine while New Singer tried again for Cherfan’s throat. Arching his back, twisting, clawing, Cherfan threw them both off. Another hunter dashed into the fight. Three opponents now covered Cherfan. Their strikes were swift, deadly. With another chilling shock, Ratha saw that the enemy wasn’t trying to get the clan males out of the way so that they could prey on the herd. Their intent was not to injure or to put to flight, but to drag down and kill.

With a roar almost as impressive as Cherfan’s, the herder Mondir launched himself at New Singer, banging him aside. Light brown fur joined the cloud of darker brown and brindled gray. Mondir was no older than Ratha, but he had the Named male’s heavier bones and more powerful shoulders, and he had matured to his full strength in the last season. He was nearly as formidable as Cherfan, had the lightning quickness of youth, and used it savagely against New Singer, tearing the hunter leader’s shoulder open.

More renegades came to their leader’s side and now the fight was fierce, fast, and wild, frantic with the hunters’ intent to kill.

Fessran arrived, seized a firebrand and plunged in, eyes and torch blazing. Behind her came a wet, pink-stained Khushi with Bundi and Mishanti. Though wounded, the young scout waded into the battle and added his weight and muscle to Cherfan’s defense.

Thakur, Ratha saw, was wise enough not to tangle directly with New Singer’s bigger rogues. After flashing in for several precise strikes at the hunters, he turned to rally the younger clan males who were being forced back by their opponents.

“Ashon, Bundi, Mishanti, to me!” Thakur called, rounding them up. “They aren’t trying to kill you, just drive you away!” Ratha saw him duck and dive, wrenching a scrabbling Mishanti away from a hopelessly larger opponent and tossing him to Bundi, who poked him up a tree.