By Tooth and Claw - eARC Read online

  Table of Contents

  Bury My Heart

  A Clan’s Foundation

  Sanctuary

  Feeding a Fever

  By Tooth and Claw - eARC

  Clan of the Claw

  Book Two

  Mercedes Lackey & Cody Martin

  S.M. Stirling

  Eric Flint

  Jody Lynn Nye

  Advance Reader Copy

  Unproofed

  Baen

  New York Times best-selling authors S.M. Stirling, Mercedes Lackey, Eric Flint, and Jody Lynn Nye return with four novellas. The cat-like Mrem, our heroes, battle the deep reptilian intelligence of humanoid dinosaurs in a Bronze Age world. After the extinction asteroid does notstrike Earth, the dinosaurs keep evolving–but so do the mammals. We mammals have achieved humanlike shapes, but now it’s cold-blooded, magic-using reptiles against the hot-blooded, hot-tempered descendants of cats.

  By Tooth and Claw: Clan of the Claw Book Two

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Bill Fawcett & Associates

  “Bury My Heart” Copyright © 2015 by Mercedes Lackey and Cody Martin

  “A Clan’s Foundation” Copyright © 2015 by S.M. Stirling

  “Sanctuary” Copyright © 2015 by Eric Flint

  “Feeding a Fever” Copyright © 2015 by Jody Lynn Nye

  ISBN: 978-1-4767-8040-5

  Cover art by Stephen Hickman

  First printing, April 2015

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  t/k

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Song of Petru

  XVII

  Sword

  They fled the sea

  Torn by the storm

  The way was lost

  But He spoke and

  Sartas begat Mreiss

  And the Lawgiver

  Danced the Way

  Bury My Heart

  Mercedes Lackey and Cody Martin

  The encampment of the Clan of the Long Fang was not in disarray, but the practiced eye would have seen that there were many things wrong with it. Where were the tents of the Dancers? And there did not seem to be nearly enough tents for all of the Mrem in the camp; Mrem liked their space, except in the deep cold when it was good to pile together and share warmth, but from the look of things here, the Mrem in this clan were crowding as many bodies into each tent as could physically fit there. They were also missing many of the amenities of even the poorest warband; no mills or ovens, only a few baskets or pots were arrayed outside the tent-flaps or hanging from the posts, almost no carts or wagons, and barely any herd beasts for a clan of this size.

  The Clan of the Long Fang was destitute. Destitute, but alive. This is how the coming of the New Water had left them. They had been the clan nearest the break-through point—or at least, they had been the clan nearest the point where the water had come rushing in that had actually had any members survive. The waters had taken all of the Dancers that had been with the clan, and it was little short of a miracle that many the elderly, the females and the young had been on a gathering expedition and had managed to climb trees to escape the first of the flood. Many had not been so fortunate, swept away by rushing water mere feet away from their loved ones. It had been another miracle that the hunting males had been able to get to them and get them out as conditions worsened. But the Dancers had all been in camp, on the flat dancing-space where they practiced, and had perished. What hope could there be for a clan without Dancers to pray for Assirra’s entreaty to her husband?

  Sartas Rewl was not going to lie down and wail in the face of such misfortune. As the talonmaster for his clan, he was now all that stood between them and annihilation. If there were no Dancers, well, then Aedonnis would have to notice their bravery by Himself. He and Reshia, his mate, had herded the bedraggled survivors together with claw and soft words as needed. Reshia had scolded them into scavenging what was left of their tents and supplies from the waters…or, let it be said, scavenging what was left of…someone’s tents and supplies. There were hides with markings no one recognized, and eventually, bodies no one recognized among the debris. Soon it was obvious that their plight could have been worse. He had cuffed and cajoled the males into a massive hunt at a moment when all they wanted to do was sit down and howl their grief into the sky. Reshia had done the same with any of the females, the children, and the elderly who could still manage any sort of task—patching tents, hastily smoking the meat that the males brought in, putting together an encampment that would allow them all to survive in the critical days after the initial disaster. Oh, and bullying them into pulling up and moving the camp every day, as the waters rose, and rose, and rose. It seemed like there was no end to all of the water, as it washed away everything the Clan of the Long Fang had fought and worked for for over a generation. “Sing the Mourning Songs,” Reshia said sternly. “But sing them while your hands are working. Those who have gone will not be better honored if all of the clan dies.”

  Reshia was not a priestess; fortunately not a Dancer, as fate would have it, though she had aspired to be one when she was younger. Despite that, she had a granite will to her that commanded almost as much respect as her mate’s leadership.

  It was not only the hunting males that brought in meat. Some of the elders, whose nerves and stomachs were strongest, scavenged among the wreckage and, at least in the first few days before the bodies began to rot, hauled in the carcasses of those animals that had perished and were good to eat. Kits helped, too, catching the many smerps that had fled the rising waters. What little food they had would not keep indefinitely, and with the devastation from the valley flooding, it was uncertain how much more the clan would be able to procure. The meat they gathered needed to be cured as soon as possible; a complication, but not one they could shirk if they wanted a steady food supply. Hunting was not always to be depended on…and with the New Water continuing to rise, could become uncertain. The smoke from the curing fires rose thick; for lack of carry-baskets, the females packed the slabs of blackened meat in layers of leaves and bound them together in bundles, wrapping those in turn in more leaves. More luck, such as it was; the riding and burden-beasts had survived, snapping their tethers and fleeing before the flood. So eventually they came back, or were found, and could be loaded with these provisions as they were created. There was little else that could be done for sustenance; the waters had seen to that.

  It was cold comfort to see the Liskash bodies were far more numerous than those of the Mrem in some places. There were always more Liskash, no matter how many drowned or were cut down. Most were the simpler cousins of the Liskash sorcerers; a few, however, bore signs of the cold intellect of the most hated sort of Liskash. It was too much to hope that they had all died in the flood, however. Even if the ones that had held territory in the hot valley, now underwater, were all gone, those in the lands outside would see this as a chance to expand that should not be allowed to slip away. The Liskash hated each other almost as much as they hated the Mrem, and were constantly fighting one another; one small thing to thank the gods for.

  And…as Sartas had known would happen, the Liskash came for them. There was no shelter or safety from the Liskash, now. They were on the lizard’s territory, and the Liskash would not abide free or living M
rem on their lands. Slavery or death were what the Liskash brought with them for any that stood against them.

  * * *

  By the time one of the roving groups of Liskash had found them , the clan had managed to survive two full moons, always in retreat from the waters, never quite sure what they were fleeing to. But a few stragglers from other clans had come through, with a rumor. The Clan of the Claw, always a strong clan, had survived the flooding intact. And they were gathering together any that would come to their banner. They were far to the south, however, across uncertain lands; it would be a perilous journey for the Clan of the Long Fang, even if they were still fully equipped.

  So now Sartas’ ragged band of survivors had a destination: rally to the Clan of the Claw. And a goal. Survive the journey.

  * * *

  The Clan of the Long Fang had been trekking slowly for the last few weeks. They were slowed by sickness, by lack of food, by the weak and injured, and the elders. More wagons would have helped—but the few wagons they had were needed to carry the tents. With so few arx, all but those that could not move on their own had to walk. They were also slowed by the kits—not that the kits couldn’t keep up, but because no opportunity to forage along the way could be wasted. A handful of berries, a few roots, even an armful of edible shoots could mean the difference between “enough to go on” and having another person too weak to keep up.

  No matter what Sartas seemed to do, however, his people kept dying. He was walking beside his mount when the news came; the few warriors that still had mounts (no chariots were left) saved them for scouting or for fighting. Everything that was left was precious to the clan, now. The heavily wooded lands that they had favored had suited them well when they had only needed to move to keep hunting grounds fresh…now they had to fight their way through those same woods, and progress was achingly slow. “We need to move faster. We’re covered by the trees, but it is only a matter of time before we are found at this rate.” Sartas scratched behind his ear in annoyance, the only nervous habit he ever exhibited. Tall and lean, Sartas was very much like the rest of his clan while being so very different at the same time. Unlike some other clans, who boasted members of wildly different coat colors and length, Long Fangers were fairly uniform in color and appearance; dense, sandy-gray fur, shading to cream on the face and underbelly. And they had two very distinct characteristics; tuft-tipped ears, and naturally bobbed tails, both very useful in woodlands. Long Fangers, if tall, also tended to be heavy; it was the short cats that were lean. Sartas was tall and lean, and very, very quick. It was a combination that had made him more than usually deadly against the Liskash.

  Sartas heard the outriders approach; those at the back of the clan’s line stirred at their sighting. The rearmost guards were led by Arschus Mroa and Miarrius Srell, two seasoned warriors. Sartas hoped that there had been no trouble, but he also knew it was probably a vain hope. Both warriors were riding behind by the clan’s lead scout, Ssenna Errol. A rare female warrior, Sartas sometimes wondered if she was part lizard; she was almost as cold and as calculating as a Liskash. That trait was what made her perfect for her role, however. Her face betrayed no emotion as she and the other two warriors pulled their mounts up to him, jumping from their saddles to lead the krelpreps beside their talonmaster.

  Ssenna was the first to speak. “We encountered another patrol of roving Liskash. Survivors from the flooding, no doubt. These ones were a mixed bunch, with one of the bigger lizards leading them. We dispatched them before any could escape.” Sartas could see some of the blood matted into each of their pelts; none of them looked injured, so it followed that it could only be Liskash blood.

  Arschus Mroa was the next to speak. He was by far the largest Mrem that any in the clan had ever seen in recent memory, fully two heads taller than most, and a head taller than Sartas himself, with a slightly darker shade of fur than the rest of his clansmates. “We lost two while fighting them. Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara. The first fell to a flight of arrows at the start, and we sent the second off at his request after he was laid low with a stinking gut wound.” Arschus Mroa hung his head; it was easy to forget how sensitive the warrior could be sometimes, given his immense size and strength.

  Miarrius Srell was not nearly as gentle with his words. “Better than bleeding out or having dung-eating Liskash at you while you’re down. He went out well, and we’d all best choose that way if it comes to it.” Miarrius was the oldest warrior left in the band, and had been even before the flood. His disposition never seemed to change; he was consistently dour and had a scowl that never seemed to leave his face. His fur had long ago started to go gray. He was further distinguished by his missing left ear and the mass of scars that ran down that side of his face, trophies for living through a hard battle long ago. “The Liskash that got those two didn’t have such a good end.” A smirk curled his lips ever so slightly, remembering exactly the end the Liskash they encountered had come to.

  Sartas nodded. “Any other injuries? Signs of more Liskash?” Two more warriors gone…it was two too many. The clan’s scouts were already stretched thin, trying to find safe passage in the now seemingly crowded woods; the floods had driven out everything into the forest, with much of the traffic concentrated near the new—and ever-encroaching—shore. They would miss Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara in the coming days, and miss their spears.

  “Nothing significant. Those that are hurt are being tended to, Sartas Rewl.” Ssenna nodded once. “I’ll take another group of riders out to see if there’s more to find, however.”

  “Rotate your compliment to the front; send those already at the front to the rear,” he ordered. “If you head out again, borrow a fresh mount from someone.”

  “No need,” said Miarrius, “when we have Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara’s. We dismounted to fight, the beasts didn’t get much of a workout.” Arschus winced ever slightly at the harshness of his friend’s words, but said nothing.

  “Make it so. We need to find an appropriate place to make camp, somewhere that we’ll at least have some cover from prying eyes. Get some drink and then get to it.”

  The two led their mounts up into the van of the group. Reshia must have seen them and spoken to them, for it was not that long after they left that she made her way back to him.

  “I have a little good news to add to your bad,” she said, and cheek-rubbed him for comfort. “The kits have been lucky, and we have added much more to eat, enough so that some of our weak have regained the strength to take to their own feet again.” She made a face. “At least we do not lack for water. Even if the New Water is salt, there is plenty of fresh water streaming towards it.”

  “I’ve never wished for a desert so fervently as I do now. Rather that we had lived in one.” He shook his head. “We’ll need to keep close watch on the kits, maybe even let them forage once camp has been made; but never on their own. We’re not alone in these woods. We lost two more. Sirroc Prell and Nischan Royara. Another group of stranded Liskash.”

  “We have been lucky. So far we have only encountered those Liskash whose homes were also destroyed. Eventually—”

  “I do not think we will continue to be so lucky. At this rate, losing so many so fast…” Sartas laughed bitterly to himself. “At this rate, I’m going to turn into another Miarrius.”

  “Do, and I shall beat you into good nature again myself,” she half-threatened. “Not that such a thing is likely. You are far too handsome to become another Miarrius.” This time Sartas laughed honestly.

  “We still have far to go, love. We’ll see what the forest brings; hopefully, Aedonnis isn’t in too bad of a mood.”

  “You have done what few talonmasters could have, beloved.” This time she briefly caressed his ear. “You took a shattered clan with no Dancers, herded it into unity again, and got it moving. If you had asked me before the flood if such a thing was even possible, I would have told you that not even the heroes of an epic could have done it.”

  Her eyes darkene
d with too-recent memory; Sartas fell briefly into the same dark place himself.

  * * *

  Sartas thought back. Had it only been a few hands of days? It had all begun with something that only the gods could have caused. Strangely, it had been a fine day. Cool, by the standards of this tropical forest, and the Dancers had elected to take advantage of the weather to make an entire day of practice and prayer. That was fine; Clan of the Long Fang had more than enough hunters that they could afford to do so. Sartas himself had led one of the two hunting-parties upland, driving the dangerous root-diggers before them, away from the camp and into a funneling trap. Reshia had taken the kits out to learn foraging techniques, from her wealth of experience in what was edible, what was medicinal, and what was dangerous.

  She had been a little concerned that the weather was too good, and had been keeping half an ear cocked for the sound of distant thunder. Nothing was harder to deal with than a mob of wet, miserable kits. She saw two playing with each other in the distance, throwing handfuls of grass at each other. A boy and a girl, running and pouncing without a care in the world. It brought joy to her heart, and reminded her of her own upbringing.

  It had been during a season when the clan was changing grounds, and had been a great trek. She and Sartas were of an age together, with him only being slightly older. They were like brother and sister as they grew up, inseparable most of the time, twins in mischief. He hadn’t been nearly as tall then, of course, but was certainly was on the smaller side compared to the other kits. It colored his demeanor; he always had to prove to others that he was just as good, just as strong and fast. In those days, she was the one that defended him. As time passed, he grew from a boy into manhood; no longer was he teased for his size, since he was taller than almost any other male in the clan, with the speed and reflexes of a seasoned warrior instead of the awkwardness of adolescence. He also had a clarity of vision and purpose that few seemed to possess; when Sartas set his will to a task, nothing could sway him.