Authors: Clare Bell
“No, Mother!” Thistle shrieked as another of the males pulled her down by the hindquarters. “Not fight. They’ll take you. Run!”
Ratha scarcely heard her daughter’s cry or felt the blood welling from two claw-stripes down her shoulder. Red rage turned her into a whirling, spitting, slashing streak of claws and teeth. Blood and fur sprayed as the males went back on their haunches under the fury of her attack. At the corner of her blurred vision, Ratha saw Thistle-chaser struggling, biting the massive forelimbs that held her, fighting to wriggle free.
Ratha aimed her next bared-claw blow at her daughter’s captor, but before she could complete the strike, two of the rogue males body-slammed her off center on both sides, spinning her in midair and flipping her into the base of the tree. Aching and dizzy as she was, Ratha threw herself at them again, biting, raking, tearing. She wasn’t sure whose blood smeared her by the time the two males swatted her down and sat on her. It was small gratification to her to hear them panting. It was the only sound they had made during the attack.
Hoping that Thistle had somehow managed to escape, she craned her head around beneath the males’ paws and bellies, seeking her daughter. Another spurt of rage sent her into a desperate flurry when she saw Thistle hoisted high by her scruff by her captor, squalling and clawing air. She actually managed to lift one of the males, but they both squashed her down again.
As exhaustion drained her rage, Ratha found herself wondering if New Singer had been so devilishly clever as to use Thistle as bait to capture her. No, the scattered twigs on the ground told the true story. Thistle had been allowed out to gather wood for the fire, guarded by the three males. It was just chance that Ratha spotted her daughter and been drawn into the sudden trap.
She yowled and spat, screaming all the insults she could remember, perhaps even inventing a few. She included herself as a target for her abuse, for once again she had let her impulses rule her.
How could I have held back? a part of her cried. She is my cub, my own, my daughter.
The males were eerily patient, letting her howl until her throat was raw.
“All right,” she gasped, “you’re suffocating me. Let me up.”
With a last emphatic trounce, the two rogues got off Ratha. She climbed stiffly and shakily to her feet, feeling the sting of the crusted wounds on her shoulder and the pull of fur matted by dirt, leaf litter, and dried blood. Her ribs ached from the crushing weight of the two males and she thought one rib might be cracked.
As she stood, getting her breath back, her two assailants flanked her tightly on either side, giving her no chance to escape. Thistle’s tormentor dumped her back on her feet, releasing her scruff but holding her with his claws while his teeth seized the base of her tail. Ratha was terrified that the male would bite the tail right off, but instead he used his hold to control Thistle, clamping down each time she tried to struggle until the pain made her stop.
A stinging swat at the back of her hind legs made Ratha lurch ahead and the two rogues beside her forced her to keep staggering.
Behind Ratha, the one who had struck her pushed Thistle along, his grip on her tail forcing her to walk crabwise, and sometimes on just her front feet when he jerked her hindquarters up in the air.
“Don’t do that!” Ratha growled. “Her front leg can’t take it.”
Trying one more time, she jammed her elbow into the side of one escort, making him hiss sharply. In retaliation, he swung his hips hard against hers, threatening to break her pelvis.
She hung her head and let herself be shoved along, trying not to hear Thistle’s cries of protest as she was pushed and dragged.
Glancing to one side, Ratha saw that she was being taken to the fire-den. She might be a captive, but at least she had found her daughter and would soon be rejoining the other Named females.
Chapter Twenty
Ratha fell into a daze, stumbling between her two captors. When they halted, she gazed blearily around. In the waning light of evening, she saw New Singer and his gang lying in a loose circle around the entrance to the fire-den. Within the circle burned a small campfire. Against its glow, Ratha could see a lanky shape crouch down to drop sticks into the flame. Fessran!
The shape turned, phosphor-green eyes lighting momentarily, sandy coat looking almost white against the shadows. That huddled shape close by must be Bira, and the hazel eyes peering over Bira’s back have to be Drani’s. Ratha caught the fire-shine from other Named eyes. All the clan females were now here.
At the edge of the circle, the male holding Thistle-chaser by the tail yanked her forward and threw her into the center with a toss of his head. She tried to catch herself on her forepaws, but one leg folded. She went down, grimacing in pain. Fessran sprang and stood over Thistle, fangs bared and gleaming.
“Touch her again and I’ll rip you from throat to balls, carrion-eater,” she hissed. Then she nosed Thistle up. It hurt Ratha to see her daughter limp, the nearly healed forelimb again drawn up.
She worked so hard to be able to use that leg, and you sons of belly-biters just ruined it again. Well, see how you like this.
Ratha snaked her head down and sank her fangs into the one captor’s muscled shoulder. He howled and wheeled, dragging her around and finally flinging her into the enclosure, ripping her teeth out of his skin. She tumbled, spat out the foul-tasting wad of flesh and fur, and came to rest near Fessran.
“Nice entrance,” said the Firekeeper, looking down at her. “You took a chunk out of that belly-biter. Did you break any teeth?”
Ratha sat up, her head hanging, her ears flattened. “No,” she said, though the roots of her fangs throbbed from the wrench they’d been given. She gave up trying to take account of her injuries. Everything hurt.
Her head wobbled when she tried to lift it, and she collapsed over on her side. Her cheek and whiskers fell on fur, and a tongue licked the top of her forehead. Thistle-chaser.
“Your leg,” Ratha managed. “I saw them throw you.”
“Twisted it. Sprain, maybe. Doesn’t matter. You’re hurt, too.”
“Your comfort helps. Can you help me roll onto my front?” Gently, Thistle pushed her onto her chest. Ratha fought to hold her head up.
“Welcome to our little gathering, clan leader,” Fessran’s voice was ironic, but a slight tremor in her tone made Ratha struggle to focus so that she could study her friend.
She read the story of Fessran’s resistance against New Singer and his minions in the battered face, torn ears, and scored sides.
“Not all the red on my teeth is mine,” Fessran hissed, grimacing. “I’ve been collecting it from all of them. Good to smell you again, clan leader.”
“Fess, listen. Thakur and the other clan males survived. They’ve got some of your cubs. Bira’s and Drani’s, too. The cubs are hidden, safe with their fathers. We only lost a few.”
Something lit in Fessran’s eyes, making her look less beaten. “How many of mine?”
“Two. We tried to save—”
“Say no more, clan leader. Two alive is better than I hoped for. I thought I’d lost them all.”
“I had to reach you, Fess. To tell you and the others—”
“Well, tell Bira. She’s been moping ever since we got shoved in here. Bira, get your thorn-tangled tail over here,” Fessran yowled. “Ratha’s here with some news.”
“Oh no, clan leader, they caught you, too,” Bira breathed.
“I just couldn’t stay away from you,” Ratha sat up, bracing herself with her forelegs against a fit of shaking. As the rest of the Named females gathered around her with exclamations of surprise, delight, and dismay, Ratha repeated her message.
Hearing that one of her offspring had survived seemed to hearten Bira and snap her out of her lethargy. “I’d given up ever seeing any of them again,” she said softly. “Or Cherfan, or you. Even though I’m sorry you’ve been captured, I’m glad you’re with us, Ratha.”
She bent to groom herself, something she had been neglecting, judging by the state of her fur.
The others expressed their feelings by rubbing against Ratha, flopping tails over her, and licking her face. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of friendship comfort her. For an instant she could forget that all around her lay New Singer and his cohorts, each waiting to have a turn with the imprisoned Named females.
Ratha crouched beside Fessran and Bira as the two tended the campfire. Her wounds were better, but her heat was growing, just like the fire rising over the wood. The sensations were hard to ignore. From the changes in the other females’ scents, the same was happening to them, even Bira, despite her recent litter. Ratha tried to distract herself by watching the Firekeepers work.
This time, Bira had been the one allowed out to gather wood. She leaned toward Ratha.
“I found some pine branches that are big enough for torches,” she hissed. “They’re at the bottom of the woodpile, and they’ve got enough pine tar to stay lit.”
“Fess?” Ratha turned her head to her friend.
“I’m ready for another scrap.”
A deep growl from the encircling males made Bira jump and Fessran pull back.
“They don’t like us talking together,” Fessran snarled. “They’re too stupid to understand us.”
I’m not sure about that, Ratha thought, glancing at New Singer. Maybe the others are, but he isn’t.
She pivoted away from the fire, ears cocking at the sound of footsteps beyond the Red Tongue’s glow and something dragging on the ground. Then a carcass was flung to the females.
“They’re feeding us. It’s carrion, but it’s meat.” Fessran stooped to nose the food.
Ratha spat out her first bite. It was pretty rancid, but not bad enough to disguise the animal it came from. “This is a three-horn. One of our herdbeasts!”
Her wrath and her gorge rose together at the outrage. She swallowed hard, flattening her ears. She knew that New Singer’s males had been feasting from the Named herds, but to be presented with the stinking evidence . . .
“This is pretty awful,” said Bira through her mouthful.
“At least it isn’t wormy,” Fessran answered philosophically. Beside her, Bira and Drani shuddered.
“Well, the rogues won’t get any more of this,” Ratha said angrily. “Thakur and the others rescued the herd.”
“Stole them right from under New Singer’s whiskers? Arr! That’s what all the fuss was about. I would have liked to see that.”
Ratha turned aside from the carcass, but Fessran stopped her. “Eat, clan leader. You’re going to need it.”
Ratha managed to eat enough to fill her and make it stay down.
The sky was now darkening into evening, making the Red Tongue seem brighter. Ratha rested on her side with the other clan females. They faced the fire or one another so that they would not have to see the gleam of eyes surrounding them.
“Let the fire burn low so that you need help to feed it,” Ratha told Fessran. “Then those rogues won’t suspect anything. . . .
“Until we cram the Red Tongue down their gullets. Good idea, clan leader.”
Ratha felt suddenly sick at Fessran’s words. Would the images from the canyon fire always be with her, crippling her ability to take action?
Though shaky, she got up and yawned, trying to convince the watching males she was too weary to try anything. Her body told her that was the truth. She could barely sustain the meandering pace she took over to Thistle. It took only a few words to tell her daughter the plan. In the same way, Bira and Fessran alerted the others.
As she waited for the campfire to burn down, she thought, New Singer can’t be that smart, keeping us near the fire. He deserves what he gets.
The moment came. Fessran went to tend the fire, called Ratha and Bira to help. Bira got the pine branches, laid them with their ends in the flame. She and Fessran stood sideways, blocking the sight of her activities from the males.
“Now!” Ratha hissed, and dove for the end of the lighted pine bough, yanking it from the fire. In less than a tail-flick, other females, even Drani and Thistle, seized the firebrands and Ratha sprang ahead, leading the charge.
Once again she felt filled with power and triumph as her creature roared from the torch in her jaws. Now the males would retreat, mewling like cubs.
Shoulder to shoulder with Fessran, she ran at New Singer, expecting him to duck, cower and run. But the rogue hunter leader held his ground, his eyes cold and intense. He crouched, but it was to spring at Fessran. New Singer aimed his blow not at the Firekeeper herself, but at her firebrand, swatting it out of her jaws and sending it rolling along the ground to lie and burn uselessly.
How New Singer had learned this defense, Ratha didn’t know, but when the enemy leader swept his eyes over the circle of males, each one quickly learned the same tactic. The power of the song. Again.
Ratha reared, trying to keep the torch away from striking paws. At the edge of her vision, she saw Bira trying to do the same, but a rogue pounced on the young Firekeeper from behind, yanked her down, and another male next to him sent the firebrand flying.
Even though the enemy feared the Red Tongue and howled with pain when a torch seared or struck, the power of the song coming from their leader forced them to face it and fight back. Whenever one, through intent or accident, found a maneuver that worked against the firebearers, that knowledge quickly spread to all.
Fessran, scrabbling for her torch, was surrounded and subdued. Bira, Drani, and the others were the next to go down. Then Thistle, and finally Ratha herself.
New Singer’s minions picked up the torches and threw them back in the fire.
The enemy leader stood, looking at the defeated Named females, triumph in his yellow-green eyes. He had them thrown back into their prison where the bars were shadows and the shine of waiting eyes.
Ratha expected a reprisal and she braced herself for a beating, but when New Singer and the males only tightened their circle, she was almost disappointed. Their captors had even put them back near the campfire, so that the females could mount another attack if they had the heart to try.