Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One (22 page)

He realized that as the sea continued to rise, this whole plain to the mountains could flood. It would become impassable, and make a great strategic barrier against attack.

It was even possible some of these foothills would become islands.

“Let us go,” Hril Aris said with a faint smile. “We have seen what we need.”

If they could move the clan across it soon, they would have a sea to protect their rear.

* * *

It certainly was lush, Buloth thought. The rains greened things up tremendously. They also cooled it down somewhat. Hopefully, that would change once the New Sea was full. For now, he kept a wrap over his shoulders, and ate nuts for the fat. Tonight he’d have another warm fire and tasty meat. He had to eat almost as much as a mammal did in this climate.

The soarers said there were Mrem to the east, and moving west. That was serious. It was his territory, not even mapped yet, and the vermin were moving in. He praised the flying beasts, bid them wait their time, and find out more. There were also Mrem in the south, trying to move into this territory.

Buloth enjoyed the campaign. He could feel his mindpower increasing with practice, and he was grateful to his father for this opportunity. As they advanced, he drew in more animals, a few stray workbeasts, and even the population of a small village by a stream, all to add to his army. At times, he could even feel insects and snakes drawing to him. He rewarded his fighters by causing many rodents and digging lizards to stand up and wait to be harvested. He’d learned that well-fed slaves were happy slaves. He attributed his gains in power in part to that. His father was frugal to the point of stinginess, and kept them hungry. Distractions like hunger, though, weakened the grip on their mind. There was a positive side of that as well, though. He had no desire to be mind-linked to a slave upon its death.

Later that day he did feel the ugly touch of Mrem to the east, scrabbling through the hills. They were refugees from the river valley into the Bottomlands, distressed, tired, sore and hungry. That would make them hard to manage. However…

Yes, they’d eat well on the rats he’d just suggested present themselves. That would settle them down in a camp for a time. He determined where to the east they were, and maneuvered the army that direction. Their camp would make a convenient place for his army to rest, after he incorporated them.

The trunklegs turned in that direction, and he decided to take a nap in the swaying carriage, atop the fluffy mammal-hide mattress he’d brought.

* * *

Nrao Aveldt received the scouts in his home, and made sure they were offered good refreshments, of grer brew, honeyed mottlecoat livers, and less rich, overbearing fare, like the delicate graygull stewed in arosh marrow and water.

They sat at his bidding, drank copious amounts of brew in guzzle rather than lap, followed by even more herbed drink. He didn’t mind. They needed water and energy and salts. Formal manners were for formal occasions. This was about information. He let them make a start on replenishing their withered hides while he called for Ingo and Tckins.

The scouts were eager to report, but did so between mouthfuls of soup and meat.

Hril Aris pointed at the spot on the map with his spoon and said, “The water rises, slower, but steadily. It occurs to me that as the ground flattens and widens, the rise will be slower, but it doesn’t mean the far flooding is less.”

As he limped in the door, Ingo said, “That is correct. I am awaiting an architect with measuring sticks to return from the coast near the Great Flood. That will tell us more.”

The other scout, Flirsh Arst, added, “All is chaos. The sea also comes and goes.” He indicated the movement with his hands.

Ingo said, “That is the tide. As the moon circles overhead, it draws water up toward it. It should be a footlength or so different, but that can matter in the marshes. Perhaps being a new sea the tides are stronger?”

Tckins Mestri said, “It is more than that in the narrow valley here,” he pointed at the map. “This used to be Cracked Mountain Pass. Now it is a stream, as Hril Aris has said, and water beats against the rise twice a day.”

Ingo said, “Yes, with nowhere to go to spread out, the water must splash high, much like in a bathing tub.”

Tckins Mestri agreed, “Any advance will have to work around it, higher up the mountains or around, or time the approach carefully. It’s like a flash flood in the desert hollows, twice each day.”

Nrao Aveldt tapped his chin with a claw. “This interests me greatly. It’s a predictable barricade we can hide behind and sally from, that can’t be removed. It’s intermittent, but impenetrable during that time.”
And more than that,
he thought.

“We will find more,” Hril Aris said eagerly. He and Flirsh Arst were justifiably proud of the information that they had brought home. Nrao Aveldt nodded.

“Please. An accurate schedule is most desirable,” Nrao Aveldt added.

“At once,” the Mrem scouts agreed.

They drew on the map and told of their observations, then Nrao Aveldt gave them leave to go rest.

“You serve well,” he said, placing a hand on the shoulders of each of them. “We will all be grateful to you.”

Once the scouts departed, the clan leader grinned to himself, and scratched his ear in thought. He sent a messenger for Talonmaster Rscil. It was time. Aedonniss had given them the tools they needed.

He turned to his son, Nef, watching from his favorite bench.

“Do you see what I do, young one?”

Nef was maturing quickly. He’d sat still for most of the council.

“Father, the water has power. If it moves rocks, can be harnessed to move rocks for us, or to cut more ground.”

Leader of the Three Fangs Clan Nrao Aveldt was proud of his son’s insight. “Yes, cutting ground is what I have in mind for now, and moving rocks later.”

Then, with no one around for the moment, he grabbed the boy in a tussle. They laughed and snarled and sweated until the day’s scribe rumbled a reminder. They sat back and recovered their breathing.

“Scribe, you may take a break for an eighth. I thank you.”

“Thank you, Clan Leader. I will return.” The Mrem bowed slightly and walked out.

Hress Rscil arrived, dusty from training. Yet another reason less formality was good. There was no delay while his talonmaster cleaned and put on a polished harness. He took Rscil and led him to a bench in the corner of the enclosure.

“Hress Rscil, this is in private, because I have a most exciting strategy in mind…”

* * *

Talonmaster Hress Rscil was pleased with how the long march was going, given that they were leaving the Veldt forever. He was not a sentimental Mrem, but he had felt a pang turning his back on their home for the last time. From that moment forward, they would be strangers anywhere they went.

They were far north and west, well into the foothills. Drizzling rain and cool temperatures prevailed, which wasn’t particularly comfortable, but was much better than dust and heat.

The first three days involved a lot of wagons interspersed with walking, and some minor coordination problems with replacement wagons. The station masters simply hadn’t believed the numbers involved and had assumed error. Rscil’s presence had been all the motivation they needed to sort it out quickly. They furnished what they could, and soberly accepted the orders that they’d move out with Nrao Aveldt’s large caravan.

They’d passed through the territory of Rantan Taggah and Jask the Long, who were gone leaving ghostly camps and empty keeps. The spies reported their progress as somewhat successful, but desperate and harried. The Three Fangs clan would not be so scattered. Rscil’s warriors would be followed by Nrao Aveldt’s, also heavily supplied and prepared for a long journey. They gathered and hunted to improve their rations, not simply to survive.

Their people numbered fifteen thousand and more, a staggering count. Two thousand of the clan’s best fighters and Dancers were with Rscil, entrusted to break trail for the families, young and elderly. It was good, he thought, that warriors weren’t permitted to mate until older. It was one less distraction. Of course, that was the reason they found the Dancers interesting, even out of season.

Once past the road shift caused by the bight in the New Sea, they’d turned north, dismounted and walked. Days passed eating dried meat and berries, a little honey, supplemented with stew of wild game and chopped tubers. It was nutritious enough, though not satisfying.

The Dancers managed well enough. The warriors bore it stoically. The drovers and others in support made no protest. Each day’s march, though, was a struggle, with some shorter than others to allow recuperation.

Water was the main thing. When it rained, all the wagons opened to let cones gather it into barrels. They filled at every stream and pond. It rained on the third night while they bivouacked, and broad leather sheets became catchments for every container possible. The water would hold.

Which only left how they’d work and fight.

While it was easier to hide in low areas, dispersed, a good high ground was stronger and more defensible. This land was rolling and hummocky, but there were a few viable positions.

Talonmaster Rscil considered the location of his battle stronghold carefully. His force was limited and casualties had to be minimized. That was necessary for Nrao Aveldt’s wishes, and his own survival. He would not waste his Mrem.

He chose a broad hill, not very high, but with steeper sides. It would be hard to approach, hard to attack, except by the accursed leatherwings. Spears would do for those. To counter ground troops, they would construct a fortress, but one with many surprises for the enemy.

Under his direction, the warriors, drivers, haulers and the stronger females went to work. The drillmasters snarled in friendly fashion, indicating placement. Everyone dug, making a low rampart around the hill, surrounded by a now much steeper approach. There were two entrance ramps, one facing the territory ahead, one back toward their holding.

The younger warriors used the large bronze tube hammer to set their stakes into the rampart, and the fist leaders followed along, each with their rope and thong, lashing them into a solid defense. The wagons, their wheels blocked, made a defensive inner circle. A large, frontal assault might still overwhelm the post, especially if the attacker was willing to trample his own warriors, but it would give enough time to mount and depart, or at least flee on foot. The wagons were left packed, and items only withdrawn as they became essential.

It was tough, panting work, and might have to be done several times, but it would leave them with a trail of defensible positions. All Nrao Aveldt’s group would have to do to augment it was drive their own stakes in the existing rampart.

That done, watches were set, well-hidden firepits dug for food, and latrines cut to drain downslope, rendering those areas even less approachable. If there was time, more earthworks and stakes might go in. It was not nearly as good as a stone castle, but stronger than the natural terrain.

Once done with that, they rested a day. Progress would be slow. Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt’s neighbors would laugh at this, as they had at many of his practices in the past. They’d prefer to rush headlong. Nrao and Rscil preferred to minimize risks. Those left in camp would be charged with reinforcing it daily until no longer needed, starting with more earth, then adding any rocks or timbers they found.

* * *

Buloth took great delight in the acquisition, or near-acquisition, of more slaves for his army. He was somewhat nervous, and fought not to let it show in front of his senior servants. Ahead were the Mrem escaping from the Hollow Lands, numbering some two hundred. He cautioned his lead slaves to restrain themselves, and they simply trudged over the landscape, like the mindless beasts all non-Liskash were. He prodded his drivers and beasts to move ahead, to give him range. He sat back in his padded seat aboard the trunklegs and patted his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

One hundred and ninety was his improved estimate. A little closer.

It was exciting. He could feel their minds, feel them becoming distinct entities, and knew they were unaware of him. They were beyond that next ridge. Some suggested they were on watch, but they were not atop it yet. He knew of them, they not of him. He grinned.

Suddenly it clarified in his mind, like melted sandglass. One hundred and eighty-eight exactly. Three of them approached the crest of the ridge. He continued to approach but focused on them. They were near the peak, he could feel their unease and then…he had them. He felt for the symbols, but could make nothing of their harsh, unorganized language. He pushed what he needed, though, and one of them turned and signaled below. Then they began back down.

A little while later, he felt the minds of the others in his circle. He stretched out, felt a mass shriek of panic and fear, then a huge swell as their minds fell under his. It was almost sexual, the warm flood of power and anguish, and then they were his. They could not withstand him. They must see their new master!

His beasts topped the ridge, he looked down on his new vassals. The dull eyes of the Mrem refugees stared up at him. It was not the welcome he would have liked, but he loved the sensation that all the creatures he could see belonged to him. With a casual hand, he suggested his army build its camp for the night around his new charges.

To drive home the point, he set the filthy furbags to work digging cesspits.

Buloth could feel his power growing day by day. It was a combination of practice and distance from his father. That made sense and also proved the need to set his own godhold a safe remove from Oglut’s domain. They could be allies. They could not be cohabitants. The weaker Liskash didn’t matter; he could control them if he wished, or ignore them to their peace. Only a few were worthy of godhood, though, and while they must mate to keep the lines pure, otherwise, distance was needed.

He’d been directed northerly, and there were allegedly Mrem that way. He wasn’t keen on north. North was cold, and hard on people. However, it was now a lot more moderate, and humid, than the previous time he’d been here with his father. It seemed to be true the weather was changing with the New Sea. He’d have to make sure to see it, after he secured a godhold. He’d have to go to it to assuage his curiosity, he thought wryly. Creatures would take his orders. The sea would not.