Клэр Белл - The Named - The Complete Series

He had tied innumerable knots around Named paws with various different sizes of vines. Thakur, in addition to caring for Quiet Hunter, had doubled as paw donor, for his feet were probably the closest in size to True-of-voice’s. He had to put up not only with having loops tied around his feet but with having the vines yanked on, since Biaree had been taught to test knots as well as make them.

Now the Named were about to see if all their preparation was enough.

Thistle watched as Ratha arranged everyone for the climb up the trail and the first confrontation with the hunters who were still keeping vigil for True-of-voice. She felt herself fidgeting with impatience as Ratha trotted from one to the other, assigning them their roles in the rescue attempt. She had sought True-of-voice’s song and could not find it. The leader might already be dead, or close to it. Any more delay and.

Even so, Thistle could see that what her mother was doing made sense. Ratha had put herself, Khushi, and Bira in the lead. Bira carried fire embers, nestled in a sand-filled basket that had a carrying loop. She and her treeling had made it together. Khushi had a mouthful of dry pine branches that would light quickly, if needed. It was a compromise — Ratha had originally wanted Bira to carry a lighted torch to repel any attack. It was not Thistle’s objection that had changed the clan leader’s mind, but Quiet Hunter’s soft plea that the Red Tongue not be used against his people unless there was no other way.

Thistle herself was next, with Biaree on her shoulders. Behind her came Thakur, with loops and coils of heavy vines tied onto his back and flanks. He also had a few packets of food and chunks of melon, so that the hunger and thirst that threatened True-of-voice might be fended off long enough to get the trapped leader down. Beside Thakur walked Quiet Hunter, carrying some of the lighter coils of vine ropes.

“All right, Thistle,” Ratha announced. “We’re ready.”

Ratha and Bira set the upward pace — a ground-eating jog-trot. Even so, Thistle had to keep herself from forcing her way forward or crowding the three before her. She also fought to control her fear that True-of-voice might be beyond help. She needed to keep calm in order to avoid alarming Biaree. So far the partnership had worked out astonishingly well, but she knew how quickly it had been formed and how easily it might be destroyed.

It was hard going, especially the last section of the trail, which led to the top, where the hunters were still gathered. Thistle felt herself sweating so heavily through her pads that dust seemed to turn to slippery mud beneath her feet. Would the hunters attack? Would they rush the party as soon as she and the Named appeared? If she were attacked, what would Biaree do? Could they keep the treeling safe from the hunters?

Can’t lose Biaree. Without him, have no hope of rescuing True-of-voice.

Thistle watched Khushi, trotting ahead of her, clench his teeth on the unlit firebrands as the party emerged from the trail to the cliff top.

“Slow,” came Ratha’s voice from in front, and everyone eased to a cautious pace. Thistle could feel Biaree crouch down low on her neck. She gave a low purr to reassure him, the way Bira had taught her.

Now she could see the hunters. They were still gathered at the cliff edge. Some were sprawled out the way Quiet Hunter had been until she sang to him. Some were staggering back and forth, their bleeding paws mute witness that they had been pacing like this for days. Some were circling endlessly, their heads hanging low.

None had groomed or eaten, despite the presence of meat from the kill lying in rotting, fly-ridden piles. Their coats were dusty, matted. Some of the hunters had bare, raw patches where they had obsessively licked themselves or pulled out hair. Ribs showed and stomachs were shrunken. Drool hung from half-open mouths.

Thistle felt her own belly clench at the sight.Thought I was exaggerating about them dying. But they are.

She hoped that the hunters might be too weak or crazed to offer the Named any resistance, but her hope faded as the mourning howls turned to snarls, heads were lowered, and teeth showed.

In front, she saw Ratha narrow her eyes, take an unlit firebrand from Khushi, and hold it, ready to dip the end in Bira’s embers. There was suddenly a flurry behind her as Quiet Hunter staggered forward as fast as his shaky legs would carry him. Past the Firekeeper, past the clan leader, out to his own people, even though they had expelled him, threatened to kill him.

Looking at the torture in their eyes, Thistle knew that loss and pain were demanding blood, and they did not care whose. And looking at her mother’s face and the jaws gripping the torch, she knew that Ratha was ready to defend her own group — and Quiet Hunter — with the equal savagery of the Red Tongue.

Hoping that Biaree would stay quiet, Thistle also left her place, moving toward her mother. She heard Quiet Hunter speaking, trying to fend off the threatened attack with gentle words. He knew their pain, he said. He, too, was dying from it. But the ones with him intended to help. They had not come to prey but to heal.

The hunters would not believe. They were too deeply in pain to believe. The sight and smell of the strangers and the hint of their weapon, even though hidden in the basket of sand and embers, was too much to accept. Thistle knew that things would break down — were already breaking down, even though Quiet Hunter was desperately trying to get through to the rest.

“Quiet Hunter offers himself,” she heard him saying. “If anger must take life, then Quiet Hunter is ready. If the pain of losing the song is eased by killing, then Quiet Hunter is willing to be killed.”

His words sent a charge of fear through Thistle, so strongly that she felt the treeling react, too — hunching and stiffening. It was all she could do not to leap to Quiet Hunter’s side with teeth bared and claws ready. But she knew that if she did, both he and she would die, and the treeling as well. Even scaring Biaree might destroy any chance of saving True-of-voice.

As she purred to quiet the treeling, she saw Ratha turn her head, the torch-stick in her mouth moving to the source that birthed the Red Tongue.

If the flame-creature took life at the end of the branch, Quiet Hunter would not die, but any chance of reaching the hunters would. Though Thistle’s whole being cried out in agony at the choice, she made it.

With a quick nudge, Thistle sent Biaree to temporary safety with Bira.

Moving more quickly and quietly than she thought she could, she reached Ratha. Her teeth met around the unlit torch in Ratha’s mouth. As her eyes met those of her mother, she felt Ratha resist, and the branch was held between them in an abrupt tugging contest.

Ratha flicked her gaze toward Quiet Hunter, who stood with head lowered, accepting the claw swipes that were already opening wounds on his sides and flanks. His refusal to defend or guard himself was making the attackers hesitate, but it wouldn’t keep them off for long.

“For him,” Thistle heard her mother hiss through her teeth.

For an instant they were locked together, braced against each other. Thistle knew that her mother was stronger. Ratha could jerk the firebrand away from her easily. Yet something seemed to be happening deep in her green eyes. Ratha’s jaws loosened on the unlit firebrand, and Thistle heard the whisper of her mother’s voice. “For you, Thistle.”

The stick was in her own mouth and her heart was pounding wildly. She threw it aside. It was not the weapon to defend Quiet Hunter. But what was?

And then she heard it — the distant, slender echo in her mind. The song. And it said,This One knows what Thistle-chaser is trying to do. If only the people would understand.