Harry Turtledove - Clan of the Claw

The closer they got to the keep, the more he could feel an oppressive sensation around his head. Lord Tae was trying to influence his mind. He ground his sharp molars together.

None shall pass! he thought. He hoped the others could withstand it. Cleotra must have felt it, for she began to chant quietly to herself. After a startled squeak that told Emoro the girl had to be nudged for inattention, Ysella joined in.

“Aedonniss, how this place smells!” growled Neer, one of his seasoned warriors, two steps back and two to the left of him. “Reminds me of that hole in the wall up near the south border we cleaned out, Clawmaster, remember…?” His voice died away. That border was gone, along with all the towns to the north of it. No doubt the Liskash had lost plenty of their kind when the water began to flood the Hot Lands, but Emoro didn’t care about that. Everyone he knew was missing friends or relatives who had been caught by surprise.

“Aedonniss decided He needed another body of water close to us, Neer,” Emoro said stoically. “We don’t question the gods. We just take orders. Right?”

“Right, sir,” Neer said thoughtfully.

The warriors felt naked without their arms. At that moment, Emoro was certain his best war-claws were mounted on the wall of the gatehouse-keeper’s hovel. He understood how little choice they had in approaching this lizard-lord as supplicants. His warriors could defend such a small group with no trouble. They were well-schooled in hand-to-hand fighting. Aedonniss grant they wouldn’t have to use any in the next few days. All he had to do was get a fat counselor and a couple of spoiled Dancers back and forth to their camp. That was all. Hah! All!

With all the fanfare, their small procession gathered quite a crowd of onlookers in the short walk between the walls of the lower tower and the main keep. This building, unlike the two smaller ones flanking it, was surrounded by guards. Emoro studied their placements. Not bad, but too much space between sentries in the dark. On the other hand, an enemy would have to fly-and get past the leatherwings circling overhead-to pose much threat to Lord Tae, and this was the cork in the bottleneck blocking the Mrem from passing safely to the west. They were only the first of the tribes that would come this way. Others were no more than weeks behind them. This mission must succeed, so Emoro could not indulge his deep-seated wish.

As the smaller keeps were built, so was the larger one. There was no gate. At a ladder, carved and pegged from an exotic wood and polished smooth with wax, the Liskash urged them forward with spears lowered. Emoro counted guards on duty, how far away they were, and how well armed. He might need this knowledge later; he might not.

He sent Scaro up the ladder first with four warriors. They swarmed up and stood waiting on the first stage. Scaro sent him a hand-signal to say that the walkway was wider than on the smaller building. He nodded.

“Up you go, Priestess,” he said, holding out a hand to Cleotra. She scorned him, like the fancy bitch she was, and clambered up without help. Petru passed within a hair’s-breadth of him, grinning under his whiskers. He put his hand into Emoro’s and stepped up onto the rung after his mistress.

Emoro brought up the rear of the party, behind the last warrior. It was a long way up to the smooth metal lip hammered onto the stone around the top, and a long way down. He took a good look at the courtyard before he made the descent.

The building was deceptive in its size. From the outside, it looked much smaller than it was within. The pylon-walls contained a courtyard that could hold a thousand people. The black and white checked floors were made of fitted and polished squares of stone that felt pleasantly cool under the foot, but were no doubt slippery as river eels when wet. The evening dew was falling. Emoro watched his steps cautiously so as not to slide.

“This is horrible,” Petru said, just audible to his fellow Mrem. “I think, yes, that I may be sick. Could this have been worse designed?”

Emoro had to concur. The colors of the Lord Tae’s home clashed on the eyeballs, even by torchlight. Against the walls, which were painted, as far as Emoro could tell, in bright blues and greens from copper minerals, hung vast tapestries of red, orange, purple and brown. They had orange-and-purple checked borders that matched cushions on the couches that had been arranged before these hideous works of art, if a blind Mrem was led up to feel them and told that’s what they were, obviously so people could study them at their leisure. Emoro would rather have gone on maneuvers over shards of volcanic glass with a double-weight backpack.

Two lines of heavyset guards in metal-studded leather armor stood in the very center of the courtyard. Emoro did a quick count and got four eights in each. Three officers commanded each line. They wore bronze plates sewn to their leather tunics and had crested helmets with low snout-pieces. The chief commander, discernable because he had a white Mrem tail depending from his helmet, curse him to the depths of the sea, marched out before the Mrem got within ten paces of the line and shouted.

“Halt there!” he ordered.

Sherril undulated out of the group, elbowing Emoro aside. He made an elaborate obeisance. “Greetings, Commander. We are to meet with the Lord Tae.”

The commander pointed a leather-gloved finger at a pair of doors with a pointed arch behind him.

“There is where you will have your audience. Stay back behind our lines and do not attempt to cross them. Anyone to approach the throne too closely will die! This is the order of His Godliness, Lord Tae Shanissi. State your names.”

Sherril bowed low. “Then we heed the order. We are the representatives of the Mrem of the Lailah tribe. I was here only four days ago. I am Sherril Rangawo. I present the Dancer Cleotra Mreem and her apprentice Ysella Ehe.” That self-aggrandizing heap of fur was going to ignore them! Emoro growled low in his throat. Sherril glanced over his shoulder with a haughty sneer, but he turned back to Tae. “And the senior warriors who have escorted us to your presence, Clawmaster Emoro Awr and Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh.”

Petru cleared his throat meaningfully, but Sherril did not speak again. Emoro stifled a grin.

“Welcome to you, and welcome back, Sherril and your companions.”

A reedy voice echoed forth. Emoro blinked. Through the wide doorway he saw a thin, very short Liskash with pale blue skin the color of a winter sky seated on a stone chair on a platform eight feet or more above the floor. His black eyes bulged in his narrow face. His skull was rounded except for a narrow ridge of scales that ran from just above his eyes over and down the back of his head to his collar. His raiment was bright orange with narrow black lines. Bronze ornaments jingled on his sleeves, and tall, vividly colored feathers stuck up around the collar like a picket fence. Statues of the Liskash lord in various outfits and painted garishly to match stood on plinths all around the room. The costume he wore that night was depicted on the third figure to the right of the doorway. Lord Tae could behold his own image whenever he chose.

“I shall be ill,” Petru said, feelingly.

“That is hideous,” Scaro said, in a rare moment of concord with the valet.

Sherril bowed again. “Greetings, Lord Tae. Thank you for this audience.”

The Liskash beckoned with one skinny finger. “Come forward.”

The first line of dinos formed a square around the Mrem, spears pointed in. Emoro wished again for his battle claws, or one little stabbing spear. The commander gestured them to move. Sherril glanced back imperiously and strode forward, following the double-line of Liskash into the throne room.