Clan Ground (The Second Book of the Named) (3 page)

“Good. I’ve nearly stripped my old one bare.”

Something small and active jumped from the Un-Named One’s pelt and landed near Ratha’s foot. She hopped away as he scratched himself.

“I suggest, Thakur, that you make him roll in the fleabane before you do anything else, or we’ll all be scratching.”

During the next few days, curiosity nagged at Ratha despite her trust in the herding teacher. It was too soon to tell how Orange-Eyes would take to life among the Named. Thakur did say that his strength was coming back and he displayed a sharp interest in the teaching sessions, but as the days went by, she itched to see for herself.

Meetings with the Firekeepers and minor disputes over whose den was dug too close to whose kept Ratha busy. This morning she decided to creep away before anyone else could find her.

The day was bright and hot. Sun and shade dappled the trail through the broken forest to the meadow. Birds flew from oak to scrub thorn, dipping so low over the trail they nearly brushed her back. When she reached the meadow, she made her way through the dry grass, craning her neck to peer above the waving stems and spot the herd. There it was; a small flock of three-horns and dapplebacks that the herding teacher had taken from the larger herd in order to exercise his students.

Thakur and the yearling cubs stood together on one side of the flock. The youngsters gathered around him, their ears cocked, their spotted rumps squashed together, their short tails lifted. He was explaining something; she could hear the rise and fall of his voice, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. The cubs seemed attentive. No. Wait. Wasn’t one missing? Where was Drani’s son Bundi?

Ratha scanned the meadow for a glimpse of spotted fur. There he was, the foolish litterling! Making feints at a three-horn fawn while he should have been listening to his teacher.

And who was that lying in the shade of a scrub oak? The Un-Named One, watching Bundi through slitted eyes. Ratha saw him tense and scramble to his feet.

His motion thrust her gaze back to the misbehaving cub, but she could only see a cloud of dust where he had been. She leaped up, straining to catch sight of the cub. A three-horn doe marched out of the rolling haze, her nose-horn lowered and ready.

Ratha’s tail and whiskers went stiff as she sought for a trace of the youngster, fearing she would see him down in the grass with a smashed foreleg or jaw. His shrill squeal drew her gaze to the cub, now flattened in the dirt. He backed away from the deer, his nape bristling, his ears flat.

She drew back her lips and caught the sour taste of fear-scent in the wind. Her hindquarters bunched and she launched herself through fibrous grass, feeling it rake her on legs and chest.

 
No, Bundi!
she thought, remembering her own training.
Never show the animals you are afraid ...

The deer stalked after Bundi, her head low, fawns bleating at her sides. Even as Ratha begged her body for more speed, she felt she was too far away to help.

Had he been one of the other students, he might have escaped without her aid. She knew Bundi couldn’t. He had neither the speed nor agility to evade the three-horn.
Never again will I give Thakur a weakling cub to train!

She saw the herding teacher stop talking to his students and stare intently at the far edge of the herd, his ears straining forward. Cubs scattered in all directions as he plunged through their midst and dashed toward his threatened student.

The three-horn gathered herself for the savage rush that would leave Bundi writhing in the dirt ... before Thakur could reach him.

I won’t reach him either,
Ratha thought with sudden despair. She filled her lungs and roared, “Use your eyes, Bundi! Stare her down! Use your eyes!”

The cub only cowered, too frightened to obey. The grass rippled between the young herder and the deer. A silver-gray head popped up, ears and whiskers back, orange eyes intense. The deer halted and tossed her head, trying to avoid the interloper’s gaze. Then, with a whistling snort, the three-horn charged.

Ratha saw only a gray blur as the Un-Named One streaked toward the deer. He threw himself high in the air before the three-horn, his paws spread and his tail flared. The deer skidded and fell back on her haunches. She reared, striking out with cloven forefeet and bellowing her anger. One foot grazed the Un-Named One as he landed. He yowled and scurried a short distance away.

Ratha sprinted toward Bundi. In an instant his terrified squall met her ears and his spotted pelt appeared before her in the rolling dust. Without breaking stride, she snatched him up by the scruff and galloped away with him bouncing in her jaws. He was too heavy to carry any distance, so she dropped him when they were out of range of the three-horn’s charge. She looked back for the Un-Named One.

No new wounds showed on his coat although his ribs were still painfully evident and his flanks drawn. The three-horn swung around, now intent on him. He planted his feet wide apart and stared at the deer, forcing her to meet his gaze. She pawed the ground, trying to start a new charge. Now the orange eyes had trapped her. No matter how the herdbeast might throw her head about, she couldn’t escape that fiery gaze.

The Un-Named One took one deliberate step toward the deer. Ratha watched carefully. An animal who learned it could defy the herders was too dangerous to keep. If the three-horn doe charged again, she would be clan meat that day. If the Un-Named One could stare her down and break her will, she would live to nurse her fawns.

She saw Thakur come to a halt. He, too, was watching. The deer lifted a hind leg and placed it nervously behind the other. The Un-Named One took another step. The three-horn’s defiance broke and she backed away.

“Enough,” Thakur said, nudging the silvercoat aside. He took over and soon had the deer in full retreat. With a disgusted bray, the three-horn wheeled and galloped back into the herd. The fawns followed on spindly legs.

Ratha let out her breath. She heard a smaller sound beside her. Bundi flinched when she looked down on him, and she imagined how he must be feeling. Not only had his foolishness gotten him in danger; he had to be rescued by the clan leader.
No, not really,
Ratha thought.
I wasn’t the one who stopped the deer in mid-charge.

“Thakur will chew your ears for your foolishness,” she said roughly to the cub, “but at least you’re alive.”

The herding teacher had taken the Un-Named into a patch of shade. Ratha trotted across to Thakur with Bundi trailing behind. “Is the Un-Named One hurt?” she asked.

“No, just tired.” He turned to Bundi. “Cub, you know what you did. Go over to the side of the meadow and think about it. I’ll speak to you later.”

Chapter Three

A fitful wind blew against Thakur’s whiskers. He caught a scent he hadn’t smelled all summer: the scent of rain. It was only midday, but the sky above the meadow had started to darken. Thakur lifted his muzzle to the clouds and saw other herders raising their heads.

The herders circled the restless deer and dapplebacks. Thakur joined them in driving the animals together. Dust rose from beneath many trotting hooves and caught in his throat. There was dust in his eyes, between his toes and on his whiskers. His pelt felt dirty and gritty right down to the roots of his hairs. He had given up trying to lick all of it out, for the taste of it on his tongue made him gag and the next day’s work would only add more. Everyone in the clan was beginning to look the same dusty color. Even the Un-Named One’s silver fur had turned mousy, giving his fire-colored eyes a startling brightness.

The dapplebacks whinnied and bucked as the herders drove them under the old oak, but Thakur knew that, if the storm brought thunder, they would be less likely to bolt if they were sheltered. The three-horns spread out under other scattered trees, whose few dried leaves offered them little of either food or shelter.

Pale sunlight faded as clouds massed overhead. The herders and their animals lost their shadows and the sky’s gray deepened. More torchbearers appeared at the trailhead, carrying the Red Tongue and wood to feed it. Thakur saw the Un-Named One trailing behind them, carrying a small bundle of twigs in his jaws. Although Ratha hadn’t yet assigned him a task, he had chosen to help the Firekeepers.

The Un-Named One, who was still called Orange-Eyes for lack of a clan name, delivered his mouthful of wood to the nearest Firekeeper who needed it and joined Thakur near the oak.

“They bring the Red Tongue today early,” Orange-Eyes said in answer to Thakur’s glance. “Fessran said the herders see bristlemanes and there may be attack before dark.” He still spoke awkwardly, but his mastery of clan speech had improved in a surprisingly short time.

They watched the Firekeepers build small piles of kindling at equal intervals around the edge of the herd and set them alight. The torchbearers tried to locate the guard-fires beneath overhanging pine boughs or thorn-bushes that were high enough not to catch and would give some shelter, but several had to be built out in the open.

Soon a wide ring of small flames, each guarded by a Firekeeper, surrounded the deer and dapplebacks. The sharp scent of woodsmoke mixed with the blowing dust and the smell of the coming storm.

Something struck the ground at Thakur’s feet, kicking up a puff of dust. A drop hit his nose. Thunder grumbled and the three-horns bleated. A gust of wind came, tearing at the grass and whipping the guard-fires. Firekeepers pawed at the ground around each flame, scraping away the dried weeds and litter so the fire-creature couldn’t escape.
They know how hungry the Red Tongue can be,
he thought.

Again he lifted his nose to the sky. It was a smoky gray, with streaks and ripples that moved like the water in a wide, slow river. Rain would be a welcome gift after the parching heat that had lasted past the summer season, but a downpour might kill some of the fire-creatures, opening up a vulnerable place in the ring of defense around the herd. Thakur felt more heavy drops on his head and his ears. This would be no light shower.

The rain fell faster, beating on his pelt. He didn’t usually enjoy getting wet but the rain was warm enough to be pleasant and he was dirty enough to welcome a bath. He stretched himself and fluffed his fur letting the rain trickle through to his skin.

Thakur found himself watching the streaks made by the rain on his companion’s dusty flank. Orange-Eyes had recovered rapidly from his bout with starvation. His wounds had healed and his mange was receding, leaving a few sparse areas that already bore the fuzz of new fur.

Thakur noticed other things about him as well. The silvercoat’s chest was deeper and his forelegs longer than those of the clan, giving his back a slight slope downwards to his tail. His forequarters looked more powerful than those of the Named; his shoulders and neck more heavily muscled. Even the shape of his head was subtly different. He had an odd arch in his skull that began at the crown of his head and flowed down through his broad nose to meet and blend with the backward curve of his fangs.

It was clear to Thakur that part of the stranger’s parentage was neither that of the clan nor that of the Un-Named, but a line unknown. Yet, at least one of his parents had given him the gift of self-knowledge that lit his eyes. Would he be able to pass it on to his young?

The rain grew heavier, soaking their coats and turning the dust to mud. Thakur saw several Firekeepers gathered about one of the guard-fires in the open. Some ducked beneath the sheltering pine bough and breathed on the Red Tongue while others piled kindling.

“Have to go bring more wood,” the silvercoat said and loped away. He had barely gone when Thakur heard a strange howl. He turned his whiskers outward from the herd in the direction of the sound. At first the cry was faint and lost in the constant beat of the rain, but it continued rising, gaining strength until it filled the meadow. The eerie, wavering howl broke into barks and yips that seemed to taunt the herders and the Firekeepers as they worked to protect their animals.

The howl faded, leaving only the hiss of the rain. Thakur retreated beneath the boughs of the old oak, water streaming from his tail and ears. The air under the tree was dank and heavy with the noise and smell of wet dapplebacks. In a while Orange-Eyes reappeared at the trailhead into the meadow, delivered his mouthful of sticks and joined Thakur. Many of the other herders also sought shelter from the downpour, although some aided the Firekeepers in trying to protect the guard-fires.

“Dung-eating bristlemanes!” growled the herder Cherfan, spraying his companions as he shook his heavy pelt. “It’s not the rain that makes me shiver; it’s those howls.”

“How many of them did you see?” asked Thakur.

“A pair, but I smelled more. There may be a whole pack. How I hate the stink of those belly-biters!”

As if the enemy had heard Cherfan’s words, the howls started again. They were louder this time and wilder, breaking into bursts of short, frantic cries that were unlike any other sound made by animals the Named knew. To Thakur, they had the sound of madness. He felt as though he could no longer stand and listen. “I’m going to help the Firekeepers,” he told Orange-Eyes, and dashed out from beneath the oak.

He narrowed his eyes against the sheeting rain and headed for the farthest guard-fire, which had begun to gutter and smoke beneath the canopy of branches held over it by the Firekeepers. He saw Fessran there, fighting to keep the flame alight. She started and shivered as another burst of wild howling broke across the meadow.