Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One by Michael Z. Williamson, John Ringo Jody Lynn Nye Harry Turtledove S.M. Stirling
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into the zargan’s belly. It went on thrashing even after that; Scaly Ones were notoriously tenacious of life.
“One more beast we won’t have to kill later,” Munkus Drap remarked.
“True enough, and killing it now cost us nothing,” Rantan Taggah said. “That’s all to the good. We haven’t got the time or the males to go hunting Liskash if they don’t hunt us.”
“We ought to kill them all,” the driver said.
“That would be fine, if only we could. Right now, we can’t.” Rantan Taggah’s head swung toward the right. There was the New Water, holding them away from their own kind. How far west past where they were now did it stretch? Many, many days’ travel. The talonmaster was only too sure of that. Many, many days’ unhindered travel. If they had to stop and fight whenever they entered some new Liskash noble’s domain…
He almost repented of his choice. Maybe it would have been better after all to do as Zhanns Bostofa said, to stay where they were as long as they could. How long would they take to find the place where the Hollow Lands ended, where there was a free way north to others of their own kind? How many of them would be left when they did?
Any?
But if they stayed on their old grazing grounds, the Liskash would converge on them from west and east and south. Even with the survivors who’d come up out of the flooded lowlands, there weren’t enough Mrem to hold them off. That had seemed obvious to Rantan Taggah. It still did. What suddenly seemed less clear, as he set out on this great trek, was whether there were enough Mrem to complete it.
His hand closed on the hilt of his sword. If you were going to fail regardless, better to fail doing something, trying your hardest. Waiting in glum resignation for death to come to you was more the Liskash way, not that of his own folk.
And they might win through in spite of everything.
He’d made a face when he caught the frillhorns’ scent. The shifting breeze also took the smells from the Clan of the Claw to the grazing Liskash. They cared for the odors of the Mrem no more than he’d liked theirs. One by one, their heads came up in alarm. They had big, horny beaks and bony crests edged with the spikes that gave them their name. One of the biggest creatures lumbered off toward the south. The rest ambled after it, showing the Mrem their tails.
That did not necessarily mean fear. A swipe from a tail like that could knock a male off his feet and leave him broken and bloody on the ground. Even the biggest hunting Liskash—which dwarfed both their own more clever cousins and the Mrem—approached frillhorns with as much respect as their tiny minds would hold.
“Well, if the Scaly Ones didn’t already know we were on the move, that herd heading off for no reason would give them the news,” Munkus Drap said.
“Don’t worry,” Rantan Taggah said. “They knew.”
* * *
As far as Sassin was concerned, all Mrem looked alike. To him, all hairy creatures seemed pretty much the same. They differed mainly in size. In stink, and in nuisance value, they were all variations on a single nasty theme.
His own kind, by contrast, were individuals to him. They varied in size, in pattern, in color, in length of snout and shape of eye, in whether they had a scaly crest over each eye socket, in how tall the crest was if it was there at all, in the shape and thickness of their throat wattles, in…in all the details that made them individuals rather than hairy—things.
Here and now, they also varied in weaponry and protection. Some had bows, some javelins, some slings. Their leather shields were mostly small. A few wore caps with the fur still on them. Those Liskash had spirit: if the Mrem caught them, they would die right away—or maybe slowly, if the miserable mammals were sufficiently provoked. Others had helmets and breastplates of leather like that of most fighters’ shields. Still others, the captains and commanders, wore bronze in place of
“One more beast we won’t have to kill later,” Munkus Drap remarked.
“True enough, and killing it now cost us nothing,” Rantan Taggah said. “That’s all to the good. We haven’t got the time or the males to go hunting Liskash if they don’t hunt us.”
“We ought to kill them all,” the driver said.
“That would be fine, if only we could. Right now, we can’t.” Rantan Taggah’s head swung toward the right. There was the New Water, holding them away from their own kind. How far west past where they were now did it stretch? Many, many days’ travel. The talonmaster was only too sure of that. Many, many days’ unhindered travel. If they had to stop and fight whenever they entered some new Liskash noble’s domain…
He almost repented of his choice. Maybe it would have been better after all to do as Zhanns Bostofa said, to stay where they were as long as they could. How long would they take to find the place where the Hollow Lands ended, where there was a free way north to others of their own kind? How many of them would be left when they did?
Any?
But if they stayed on their old grazing grounds, the Liskash would converge on them from west and east and south. Even with the survivors who’d come up out of the flooded lowlands, there weren’t enough Mrem to hold them off. That had seemed obvious to Rantan Taggah. It still did. What suddenly seemed less clear, as he set out on this great trek, was whether there were enough Mrem to complete it.
His hand closed on the hilt of his sword. If you were going to fail regardless, better to fail doing something, trying your hardest. Waiting in glum resignation for death to come to you was more the Liskash way, not that of his own folk.
And they might win through in spite of everything.
He’d made a face when he caught the frillhorns’ scent. The shifting breeze also took the smells from the Clan of the Claw to the grazing Liskash. They cared for the odors of the Mrem no more than he’d liked theirs. One by one, their heads came up in alarm. They had big, horny beaks and bony crests edged with the spikes that gave them their name. One of the biggest creatures lumbered off toward the south. The rest ambled after it, showing the Mrem their tails.
That did not necessarily mean fear. A swipe from a tail like that could knock a male off his feet and leave him broken and bloody on the ground. Even the biggest hunting Liskash—which dwarfed both their own more clever cousins and the Mrem—approached frillhorns with as much respect as their tiny minds would hold.
“Well, if the Scaly Ones didn’t already know we were on the move, that herd heading off for no reason would give them the news,” Munkus Drap said.
“Don’t worry,” Rantan Taggah said. “They knew.”
* * *
As far as Sassin was concerned, all Mrem looked alike. To him, all hairy creatures seemed pretty much the same. They differed mainly in size. In stink, and in nuisance value, they were all variations on a single nasty theme.
His own kind, by contrast, were individuals to him. They varied in size, in pattern, in color, in length of snout and shape of eye, in whether they had a scaly crest over each eye socket, in how tall the crest was if it was there at all, in the shape and thickness of their throat wattles, in…in all the details that made them individuals rather than hairy—things.
Here and now, they also varied in weaponry and protection. Some had bows, some javelins, some slings. Their leather shields were mostly small. A few wore caps with the fur still on them. Those Liskash had spirit: if the Mrem caught them, they would die right away—or maybe slowly, if the miserable mammals were sufficiently provoked. Others had helmets and breastplates of leather like that of most fighters’ shields. Still others, the captains and commanders, wore bronze in place of
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