Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One (13 page)

“Now you try.”

Ranowr took the practice sword and carefully assumed the stance that Hisshah had taken. Then he swung the sword. He tried going faster and faster as she had until he struck the post square on and knocked the practice sword out of his hand, unconsciously flexing his wrist against the sting. The curved length went end-over-end into the watching group of his fellow Mrem. They dodged aside, and then one caught it and brought it.

“Pick it up,” Hisshah said, “Do it again. Control the location of the strike. You should be able to put it between one scale and the next, as hard and as fast as you can strike. Precision first, then speed, then force. Look into your enemy’s eyes, not at where your sword will strike. See that with your hands.”

The Mrem actually wasn’t bad. She’d done that much sooner during her first try at the post. But then she’d been much younger.

They were working on the small practice field between the outer and inner walls. It held two rows of ten practice posts in a field of clean raked sand and was longer than it was wide; spear and arrow-targets stood at each end. The whole was fenced with rails and it was within smell of the stables.

Hisshah walked back and forth as she watched her first student. She hated being this close to them. Their smell made her sick; a heavy, meaty scent that was suffocating. And the sight of their furred skin was loathsome unless you were hungry. Her mother couldn’t have found a more subtle punishment if she’d tried for seven rainy seasons and a day.

Still, they were strong and supple and reasonably quick, it was just possible that they might be trainable as soldiers. That is if you were looking for troops that were utterly expendable. They’d never have any finesse, being mere brutes, but they might have some utility.

I hope we won’t regret this,
she thought.
We might regret it more if they
do
learn than if they don’t.

Weapons in the hands of slaves struck her as risky at best. Even if your own soldiers were infinitely better than the Mrem would ever be.

Speaking of which, there was Captain Thress leaning against the fence observing their progress, dangling his helmet by the strap in one claw and enjoying the hard dry heat. His other hand rested on the stone pommel of his war-sword, and his long narrow head moved slightly as he followed the action.

“All right,” Hisshah snapped, “all of you pick up a sword and begin. If you drop the sword, pick it up and keep going. Watch this one.”

As the Mrem hurried to follow her instructions she walked over to the captain.

“They’re not as bad as I expected,” he observed. “For absolute beginners.”

Which is exactly what I thought,
she noted with some pride.

“What are you doing here, Captain?”

“I came to see Mrem learn to fight,” he said. “Thought I might learn something.”

“Mrem know how to fight,” Hisshah said. “Not all of their scars come from whippings.”

He made a wry gesture with his mouth, showing a line of conical fangs.

“True,” he agreed. “Truth is, it is always a…interesting to see what you are up to, lesser goddess.”

She stared at him. He had been going to say amusing, she knew it. One day he would regret his insistence on emphasizing her lacks every chance he got.

“Have you no duties, Captain?”

He slowly blinked, letting the lids sweep in from either side in an insolent gesture.

“I would have come in curiosity at some point. The great goddess’s notion is so unique.”

He glanced at the Mrem. “I think one of them grows weary of your exercise.”

Hisshah’s head whipped around on her long flexible neck. One of the slaves was pausing between strokes. She started towards him, picking up a practice sword from the pile. Maybe she should demonstrate the strokes on a Mrem.

* * *

Ranowr sat in his place before the dormitory barracks, feeling aches in muscles he hadn’t known he had. The young goddess had instructed them for hours, demanding more and more speed. He thought they’d done well for their first day.

And Mrem are as fast as they, or are so after the first few strokes. Faster if the weather is not hot, though we do not remind them of that. Most of us are larger and stronger, too.

But if he felt this bad now he dreaded the morning.

The young goddess was training ten of them, including Krar, who was something of a rival. Hisshah had told them that they would be responsible for training other Mrem to fight with sword and spear. He wondered if they’d learn to use the bow.

Or will they keep that weapon for themselves?

That wouldn’t surprise him. What surprised him was that the Liskash were training them at all. It was a mystery like much of what they did and said; as if they walked on the ceiling rather than the floor, or walked backwards.

He suddenly smiled to himself. While the males ate their dinner he’d seen the beautiful Prenna in the distance. The only pure white-pelt Mrem amongst them all, with pink kittenish skin around her eyes and lips and a warm sweet scent. She’d seen him as well, and in the way she’d stood had told him that she was pregnant with his kit.

Ranowr grinned with his whiskers forward, feeling a warmth within at the thought. He would know which kit was his, especially if it was as white as its mother. He sighed in happiness. He’d never heard of anyone knowing their own kit. But he and Prenna, in their brief moments in the mating shed had formed a forbidden bond.

They’d been chosen at random to mate, the way the Mrem always were when the Liskash decided they’d need more slaves in the future. When he’d been thrust into the shed he’d been struck by her beauty. White fur, slanted green eyes and a delicacy of form that surely even the oblivious Liskash must appreciate. When he had gently embraced her, he whispered his name in her ear. She’d met his eyes and answered softly:

“I am Prenna.”

“No talking!” the Liskash guard had snarled.

“He hurt me,” Prenna had gasped.

“You animals are disgusting,” the guard had said. “Don’t hurt her,” he added to Ranowr. “I hate this duty.”

Then he’d turned his back and Ranowr and Prenna had made love.

That’s what it was,
Ranowr thought
. Making love. Not rutting like beasts.

He did love her and now she was bearing his kit. He wanted to tell someone, but who could he trust? Any such relationship was strictly forbidden.

So it will be our secret,
he thought, wondering if they’d ever be together again.

A bitter thought, that someone else might lie with her when the Liskash again decided she should breed. It was like a hot coal in his heart. But there was nothing that could be done about it. He sighed, lonely for her and sad at both their fates.

For a moment he imagined them running away together, living in freedom, just them and their kits.

He shook his head ruefully. It could never be; the Liskash owned the whole world. If they escaped the goddess Ashala they’d be swept up by some other Liskash god or goddess, one who very possibly would be even more cruel.

We’d probably be killed outright.

The way the Liskash seemed to hate Mrem made it almost a certainty; they killed even when it wasn’t in their interest. Here at least they got enough to eat. Not as much as they wanted, but enough. In any case, he’d never put Prenna in such danger.

In his youth two slaves had broken the rule and been found out. The female became pregnant and was tortured until she gave up her lover’s name. They were bound together and the young Mrem were made to bury them alive. He’d never forget their struggles as they tried to keep their heads above the dirt; the terror in their eyes.

Afterwards all the females from the oldest to the youngest were whipped to remind them that their bodies belonged to the Liskash. Now you never saw a female alone. Ranowr sighed and rubbed a sore muscle. He heard a sniffling and looked over at a group of kits. One had his arm around the shoulders of another who shuddered with sobs. He rose and went to them, kneeling on one knee before them.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

The one who had been weeping wiped his eyes and straightened up with a sniff.

“No, sir,” he said in a surprisingly steady voice.

Ranowr smiled. “Good. I thought something must be wrong.” He waited a moment. “Is something wrong?”

The little face crumpled at the sound of a sympathetic voice. “I miss my mother,” he choked out.

“Of course you do,” Ranowr said laying his hand on the kit’s head. “We all do. All I can tell you is that it gets easier with time.”

The kit rubbed his eyes, he must be seven summers old; that was when the Liskash separated the male kits from their mothers.

“Why can’t we all stay together?” the kit asked.

“What’s your name?” Ranowr asked.

“Fesa.”

A cold chill touched the back of the leader’s neck at the name. He thought again of Fesa being led away to his death and took a deep breath.

“Well, Fesa, you’re well grown now and have to learn how to be an adult. Since you’re a male you must learn that from males. The Liskash have decided that males and females should live separately. And so we do. If you ask me why that is, all I can tell you is that is the way things are.”

“But why?” the youngster whined.

“Because that is the way the Liskash want things to be. They are as gods to us Mrem and so we must do as they say or they will destroy us and we will not live at all.”

He stroked Fesa’s head. “Better to be sad and sore than dead, don’t you agree?”

Fesa and the other kits nodded, their eyes big.

“It is something we all must learn,” Ranowr said patiently. “Just as we all must lose our mothers and sisters. You must be strong and learn to find friendships with these your agemates. Do you understand?”

They nodded again, obviously dissatisfied, but knowing they weren’t going to get a better answer.

Ranowr smiled and nodded to them, moving back to his place among the older Mrem.

Such is the path to adulthood,
he thought.
Full of half explained realities, revealed one layer at a time.

* * *

Four weeks later Hisshah snapped:

“Like this!”

She drew the battle sword at her side; it moved like a living thing compared to the clumsy padded practice weapons, glittering as if scaled. Then she demonstrated the complicated move she was trying to teach the idiot Mrem. Its tongue dangled out, and it dripped.

They were so disgustingly
damp
.

“The spearhead is coming at you. There is
force
behind it, enough to split your breastbone. But that means the attacker is committed to the line of his attack. His weight is moving forward and he cannot alter that quickly.
Strike
so and it will go over your shoulder, and the force will carry him forward so that he cannot withdraw the point and strike again at once. Then turn your wrists and body and cut down the shaft at the hands.
So
and
so
. Two movements like one. Do it right this time or I’ll flog the skin off you!”

The Mrem slowly imitated the move and got it right.

“If you took that long to do it to the enemy you’d be dead!” Hisshah shouted. “Unless he stops to laugh and hisses the tongue out of his jaws! Do it faster, you fool!”

The Mrem tried and failed. Before he was halfway through the maneuver Hisshah kicked, her taloned foot thudding in the Mrem’s leather-clad middle. The cheap armor took most of the impact, but he wavered breathless, then fell to the ground as she sheathed her sword and reached for the whip slung at her belt.

“Young goddess,” Ranowr said, greatly daring, “I do not think we can do it the way a Liskash could. We are made differently. Our arms and shoulders do not bend in the same ways.”

Hisshah halted with her whip raised and stared at him. Instantly she saw that he was right. They did move differently. Instead of the short, sharp, efficient motions of her people, the Mrem seemed to…to
ooze
from place to place. They had speed, but it was of a different quality.

We are wind. They are water,
she thought with satisfaction.
Perhaps I am concentrating too much on form, and not enough simply on what works. Still, I can’t afford to lose face.

She gave the unfortunate Mrem before her one hard stroke with the lash.

“Interesting,” she said smoothly, coiling her whip.

She poked her victim with the whip handle. “Go and practice that maneuver.”

Then she gestured Ranowr over to her. “What is your name again?”

“Ranowr, young goddess.”

He kept his eyes carefully down, but his heart thundered. Who knew what she might do to him for his boldness?

Hisshah stared at him. “Ah, yes,” she said at last. “You are making a habit of asking me for mercy.” She sniggered. “If you are trying to teach it to me you’re wasting your time. I will not learn it, I do not wish to learn it. Look at me.”

Cautiously he raised his eyes and stared into her golden ones. She did not blink, but he did, twice before she spoke again, with the disconcerting up-and-down motion of the eyelids that made the Mrem gaze so alien.

“But it is possible that you may have something to teach,” she said at last. “You are the best of your fellows at following my instructions. Even so, I’ve noticed that you do not imitate me perfectly. Perhaps you are right, perhaps your kind cannot faithfully follow our movements. But I think you can be taught to fight. I shall concentrate on training you. And you and I will amend any moves that you feel are too…sophisticated for your rough form. Then it shall be your task to train your fellows.”

She nodded. This could work. “Now,” she stepped back, “show me how you would perform the move I’ve been trying to teach.”

They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, while the other Mrem practiced their maneuvers unwatched. But Ranowr could feel his people watching him and the young goddess. There would be questions asked this night.

He still found it hard to be around her, but he also felt they were making progress; finding ways to wield the practice sword that matched his limbs and allowed him to gain the speed she wanted.