Ratha's Courage (31 page)

Again Ratha wanted to leap up and swipe her. “If you mate with them and have dull-eyed young, blame me. This all started when I decided to save True-of-voice and let his people use the Red Tongue. Fess, I’m so sorry.”

For an instant the Firekeeper’s eyes focused as she looked at Ratha, and the clan leader saw the fear and desperation hidden far behind the veil of lazy nonchalance.

Fessran shuddered and dipped her head as if in pain. “Can’t hurt me,” Ratha heard her say between clenched teeth. “Too hard, too mean.”

“Maybe you are to others, Fess, but I know better. I promised Thistle, and I’ll promise you—we will get through this.”

She felt Fessran lick her cheek. The Firekeeper’s tongue was trembling. She whirled away from Ratha, then stood with her neck arched, her nose down. “Stop smelling so good, you dung-eating son of a belly-biter!”

Ratha felt her body sliding away from her control. She could no longer feel Thistle’s scratches at the back of her leg. It was not her will that pivoted her slowly, slid her paws out, no longer feeling Thistle crouching underneath her. It was not her wish that bowed her back, raised her tail, and moaned in longing.

She yanked herself back long enough to spit, “I can’t fight this any more, Thistle. Get away! Run!”

“No place to run,” Thistle hissed. “Stay with me. Help me. Scared.”

Ratha turned to the circle of eyes, seeking New Singer.

“Please,” she howled at him. “Let Thistle-chaser go. She’s too young. You can have me, but let my daughter go.”

There was no sign that New Singer or any of the others had heard her plea. Their eyes were intent on the females in the circle, their faces in the grimace that was half-grin, half-snarl.

The heat took Ratha in a flaming rush, pulling her away from her daughter, turning her to the intense eyes and the shadowed form. The circle, the other females, even Thistle, no longer existed for her. There was only a glowing halo and him, at the center.

She breathed his scent, finding, or perhaps imagining, an echo of Thakur’s.

He rose and came to her, looking slender and strong in the backlight of the halo. Yes, his scent and shape were like Thakur’s, but he reminded her of someone else that a part of her, long hidden, wanted even more.

Bone-chewer.

No. It can’t be. Bone-chewer’s dead. She clawed at the last rags of thought, burning to cinders in her heat.

The male moved closer, his scent wafting ahead of him, enveloping Ratha.

Those eyes are as bright as Bone-chewer’s.

In her eyes, the shape seemed to shimmer with a dark copper sheen, and the eyes took on a fiery amber. Even the mouth, with its broken fang, was the same.

A part of her fought against the miracle that had somehow given her lost mate back to her. Most of her didn’t question. His movements were slow, silken, fluid. She found herself gliding to meet him, panting for his scent as she would pant for the air that kept life in her body.

The nose-touch was the same, the rub, the tail-flop, and oh the strong, delicious smell of him. It didn’t matter that she had once raged at him for giving her animal-eyed cubs—she was wrong about Thistle. She would cherish any cub he gave her, especially one like Thistle. It didn’t matter either that he didn’t speak; this time was not for speaking, only for rolling in waves of joy, feeling her fur and skin against one who was so beloved. . . .

Now he was behind her. Her body moved, leaving all else behind. Her back bowed, her front paws slid out, her tail lifted and she sang out her longing and her love.

A cry so sharp that it punched through the enrapturing veil made Ratha lift her head. She knew it instantly. Thistle.

Abruptly, her beloved left her side, leaping and snarling, driving off another male who lunged at Thistle. Both combatants rose on their rear paws, but this was no sparring contest. Yes, this male was Bone-chewer, for he defended his daughter with a powerful flurry of teeth and claws that sent his opponent reeling back, breast and face streaked with blood. Teeth bared, her beloved followed up the attack, moving swiftly and fiercely. His opponent stumbled and squalled, scrambling crabwise through the circle, creating a gap.

“Thistle, go!” Ratha shrieked. Near her, another, deeper voice hissed the same word. Before the warning ended, Thistle streaked for freedom, evading the males who pounced at her.

With a last flash of black, rust, and tan, Thistle was gone. None of the males tried to follow her. They were too intent on the other Named females.

Ratha’s surge of gratitude toward her beloved turned into a rush of desire. He loved his daughter, he had freed her, and now that she was away safely, Ratha was drawn back into the halo-filled shell that held only the two of them.

She rubbed herself in ecstasy along the powerful slenderness of his body, bathing in not only his scent, but also his entire presence. A distant part of her begged him to speak to her, caress her in words, but another part whispered that words had no part in this molten upheaval of sense and emotion that tumbled her into him.

Now she lay on her back. The face hovering over her, yes, it was his. The eyes, so deep, without ending, and so was the power of the light shining from those depths.

It was that light to which Ratha gave herself, even as she felt the male roll her over, sweep her quivering tail aside, position himself atop her, and seize her nape gently between his teeth.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Thakur found it a bit awkward to climb a tree with two treelings aboard and Mondir close behind him, carrying a torch. Aree didn’t like it either, for she turned around and hissed at the torchbearer. Biaree only clung harder, small fists wrapped in fur. Thakur heard Mondir grumble around the branch in his mouth.

“Now I’ve done everything,” the younger male growled. “I thought feeding cubs was the end, but climbing up a tree with the Red Tongue . . .”

Thakur turned back briefly. “I need the light to make sure Bundi and Mishanti are lashed to their animals. I can see well enough in the dark for everything else, but I must make sure the knots are tight. If they aren’t, Biaree can retie them.”

He climbed higher, and then gazed out from his perch. Mondir’s torch lit a long expanse of gray-skinned neck. The head was still high above.

“Bundi, Mishanti, get the rumblers to lower their heads,” he called, panting.

Two huge hornless muzzles slid through the fire-lit leaves, carrying their riders. One purple-gray tongue curled out and tried to lick Thakur. Bundi tapped Belch between the ears and the tongue retreated.

“All right. Bundi, you first.” Thakur leaned far out of the tree while the two treelings briefly abandoned him for the branches. Clinging with three sets of claws, he used those on one forepaw to pull at the knots while inspecting them closely.

“They’ll hold,” he announced. “Mishanti, bring Grunt here. Hurry. My toes are aching.”

Thakur did another close inspection of the vine cords that held Mishanti to Grunt’s head.

“Tied me so tight, can barely breathe,” the youngster protested.

“We don’t want either of you falling off. If these loosen or break, jump for the nearest tree. Can you still reach Grunt’s ears? Good. Are you ready?”

Bundi gave a nervous yes with his whiskers.

“Ready,” Mishanti quavered.

Thakur swung himself back to a more secure perch. He didn’t like climbing. He was more of a runner. Retrieving both treelings, he started backing down. Below him, Mondir, who was a better tree-climber, even with the torch in his mouth, turned himself around and went headfirst.

When Thakur reached the bottom, he found himself in a muffled pandemonium. Cherfan and the other Named males were arranging the herd. Face-tails run-walked past, trunks swinging. Mondir dropped down to help Cherfan bully several young tuskers into place at the heels of the two rumblers. Khushi and Ashon brought the stripers and dapplebacks, the horses tossing their heads, stamping and snorting. The three-horn deer were next, does in the center, stags on the outside. Last came a few more face-tails, the larger ones, so that New Singer’s renegades would have a hard time attacking the herd from the rear.

As Cherfan passed Thakur, chivying a stray three-horn into place, the herding teacher heard him snarl, “This must be the craziest thing we’ve ever done. By the Red Tongue’s flame, I hope it works.”

The Red Tongue would also be part of the attack. Male Firekeepers joined Mondir, positioning themselves at the back of the herd, on either side. Their moment would come when the herdbeasts crashed through the raiders’ defense, opening a path to the captive females.

I hope Bundi and Mishanti remember to split the herd as they pass the fire-den.

Thakur waited, muscles tensed. Cherfan, as interim leader, would give the start signal. Aree was on Thakur’s nape. He had tried to hide her, but she wouldn’t be parted from him. None of the treelings would abandon their partners, as if they sensed the importance of the coming battle. Cherfan now carried a determined Cherfaree, and Quiet Hunter had Ratharee and Thistle-chaser’s Biaree, who had demonstrated a new ability to throw rocks. The two others were starting to copy him. And getting good at it, Thakur thought, as a yowl from Khushi betrayed the fact that he had been made a practice target.

Cherfan’s deep bellow cut across the stamping and scuffling of the herd. “As my dear Fessran would say,” he yowled, reaching high with a paw, “let’s get those belly-biters!”

At the sharp downstroke of his paw, lit by torches, the rumblers lurched ahead, their riders shoving their mounts’ ears forward. The first group of face-tails followed as the herd started to move. The Named plunged at their animals, starting to drive them through the night. Face-tail trumpeting mixed with dappleback squealing and three-horn bawling. Fire shone on clouds of dust that boiled up behind the moving mass of animals.

Cherfan is right, thought Thakur as he broke into a trot alongside the stripers, Aree bouncing on his nape. This is the craziest thing we’ve ever done. But if it works . . .

“Faster,” Cherfan howled lunging at a lagging striper. “Yearow! Get on there, you grass-eating piece of . . .” The rising thunder of the herd drowned him out. Ahead, Thakur heard bushes crunching and boughs snapping as Grunt and Belch ploughed their way through the forest. The pair Ratha had called the terrible two, Bundi and Mishanti, urged their mounts toward the border of clan ground. The two who had been the most useless to the clan were now the most critical. If they slipped, or lost control, it could be disastrous.

Thakur lengthened his stride from a trot to a canter. Beside him loped Quiet Hunter with the two treelings on his back.

“This one will take Aree,” said Quiet Hunter, as if he sensed what Thakur intended. As they cantered flank to flank, the herding teacher nudged Aree from his back to Quiet Hunter’s. The treeling gave him a questioning look and hesitated, but when he nudged her again, she hopped over to Quiet Hunter. “This one will keep her safe,” the dun male called. With three treelings lined up from nape to tailbase, Quiet Hunter dropped back.

Thakur spurred himself into a gallop. Now they were on clan ground, in the forest before the meadow. Ahead of him, Grunt and Belch moved like two gliding mountains covering ground quickly with their long strides.

Now the herd was in the meadow, gathering speed and pouring across the creek, churning the water into a muddy mess that stuck to Thakur’s feet. He couldn’t stop to shake his paws, but instead ran the muck off, sending it flying from his legs.

Now noise no longer mattered; in fact, the more the better. Thakur opened his jaws in a battle cry. Above the smells of dust, herdbeasts, and the other Named males, another mix of odors wafted to Thakur: the scents of the courting circle. Though he had never experienced it, images formed in his mind, of females prowling, rolling, calling, and posturing. Of males fighting, blood and fur filling the air while others sneaked past to grab a female by the nape, pull her down and climb hungrily onto her. . . .

Thakur ran faster, the aromas of the courting circle filling his nose and mind. Now he could catch the group scent of New Singer’s raiders and the scents of the females in heat. The sharp acridity of aroused males stung his nose.

Searching for one special smell, he found it. Ratha. Mingled with the odor of another male.

Thakur’s growl became into a roar, coming from deep in his chest, funneling through his throat, and surprising even him by its power. He flattened his ears, stretched his gallop to a fast run, intoxicated and enraged by the roiling scents pouring from the raiders’ courting circle.

Now he was no longer a herder managing a controlled stampede, but a determined challenger, charging in to defend his chosen mate. Now he was on clan ground, his own ground, and he felt strong and sure. None of those rogues would take Ratha. She was his.

A yowled, “Herding teacher, what are you doing?” sounded only dimly in his ears as he passed the run-walking face-tails and then the smooth-striding rumblers. He paid no heed, feeling only the burning of rage and longing and the pull and tense of his muscles as he flung himself ahead in huge bounds. His back bowed and arched, his hind feet swung so far forward that they nearly touched his ears, his forelegs reached and ate ground at a fantastic rate as he ran faster than he ever had before.

He was there, the astonished hunter males turning in his blurred sight, the campfire leaping, the shadows of single females and couples, the gleam of a tawny gold coat and a black pelt that shifted and sparkled.

Thakur was going far too fast to stop, even if he wished. He turned his last bound into a leap that carried him far above the heads of New Singer’s renegades. He sailed into the ring, baring teeth and claws, hurtling directly for Ratha and the night-coated rival that had dared to take her.

Whipping his tail, he crashed into the pair. He saw Ratha’s head come up, the eyes startled. Everything spun in a tumble of fur and claws as the three rolled. He kick-raked with his rear feet at the black coat as he flung his forearms around the tawny gold.