“Where?”
“Tell us more.”
So he did. In the plaza, he spoke of what he’d seen and survived, how he had learned to float in the hell-waters, and they stopped him.
“Liar!”
“From our earliest memories, we die in the wet. Always.”
Tcharr snarled at the crowd, but Szarok only waited for them to calm with the composure that Rzika had beaten into him. You must not rage. You are the vanguard. If the humans see your anger, they will fear you, and fear leads to violence. There will be no peace if you falter. When his people quieted, he explained the plan.
“When spring comes, we march to the river. There will be boats waiting.”
With imperturbable patience, he paused to allow the discussion that would be held, whether he willed it or not. Rzika lifted her chin, and though he had been free of her control for a while, her approval still warmed him. As consort, Tcharr was never required to learn tolerance, so she snapped her teeth at those still chattering.
Szarok had expected objections, and they came, fast and ferocious.
“It’s probably a trap. The humans will drown us.”
“Even if they don’t betray us, the water will kill us before we reach the promised land.”
That, too, ran its course. After a time, the People ran out of fear and excuses. The throng went silent, and Szarok praised them, as he had been taught.
“My thanks. But I know the People’s hearts, and you are all too brave to let fear keep you from such a bountiful home.”
He described the plenteous game and thick forests, clean water, and no human remains to taint the settlement. Szarok closed with, “There will only be what we build. We have said that we only seek a fresh start, where we can live in peace and grow as a people. I have found it.”
Instead of more cheers, the silence after his speech was broken by the slow scrape of claws rubbing together. Rroclaw sauntered to the front, offering a calculated insult with such obvious disdain. I am the vanguard. I may not repay discourtesy in kind. Yet Szarok wished hard for thirty seconds of freedom to teach this mud-tooth some manners.
Rroclaw growled, “How many of the People would you drown for a dream? These ruins are inhospitable, but there are better places nearby. We need only take them.”
“You would kill them in battle instead when we have signed treaties?”
“They traded on our ignorance of their ways. Don’t you think they knew how impossible we would find it to sustain life here? We committed to slow death by starvation.” Rroclaw lunged to back his words with force, but Tcharr checked him with claws at his throat.
The consort pressed, almost breaking skin. “Move. Breathe. And we’ll learn who speaks with proper reason.”
Physical challenges sometimes settled matters of truth, but Szarok couldn’t let this issue go to a contest, especially not like this. Before he could intervene, Rzika knocked Tcharr’s hand away. The oldest Uroch made an intimidating sound in the back of her throat.
“Enough. Come. There will be time to talk.”
But Rroclaw whirled and shoved through the crowd, ignoring the elder’s cautioning words. Watching him go, Szarok acknowledged the likelihood that there would be conflict before the rest accepted that the journey must be undertaken. Fear of the unknown might discourage some, but past winter’s end, he could teach others to swim.
It hurt him to see how his folk lived, curling up in ruined houses. They had no trades, apart from hunting; their repairs were basic and didn’t hold through heavy snow. Once, some Gulgur had come to teach certain crafts, but they fled after Rroclaw’s faction had harassed them. The other male had been considered as vanguard, but Rzika determined he lacked the necessary mental control, and Rroclaw had been angry ever since. He wanted to lead the People, but most understood that it would mean more war and possibly a return to atrocities they’d only begun to put behind them.
Szarok’s own resting place was no better: sagging walls, holes in the roof, ruined furniture, and bits of vegetation growing inside. Tcharr and Rzika accompanied him; the two females talked long into the night about the offer he’d received in Port-Mer. Eventually they offered him some meat, but as he ate, he ached over how thin the People had become. Hunting parties ranged farther and farther from Appleton, competing with humans for their game. It would be better in the northern wilds, and he thought the villagers should be willing to sell some herd animals that the People could keep as food reserve. Though he didn’t look forward to the journey, Szarok truly believed this to be the best solution, long term.
“I will support the exodus.” Rzika finally rose with an audible popping of her joints. “You must be weary?”
Szarok made a sound of assent.
Once the elder had departed, Tcharr tilted her head at him and he smelled the heat of her intentions. “Shall I stay?”
He should want that. The People required him to.
He didn’t.
The excuse flowed out before he could stop it. “I would disappoint you.”
“Soon then, vanguard.”
Alone at last, he curled into the nest of furs left from the last hunting season. Duty and obligation might choke him to death, for he felt the leather of the leash tightening on his throat. That night, Szarok slept poorly on his own; again and again he woke, reaching for a healer who wasn’t there. As the days went by, her smell faded, until there was only his own scent on his skin. Each night, he made a new excuse for Tcharr, who eventually stopped asking when he told her that he wished for their offspring to be born safely in the promised land.
Apologies, consort. I do not want our children to be born at all.
Some while after he returned, Rzika presented Szarok’s proposal to the assembled populace, but Rroclaw came with his own plan. Pure chaos. The debate raged on until deepest winter, but his proposal carried the day by a narrow margin. Rroclaw stormed off after the conclave ended, accepting defeat about as well as Szarok had expected.
Tcharr watched him go, her eyes narrowed. “We will probably need to kill him.”
Szarok agreed.
It was unthinkable to execute someone for crimes he might commit. So as the winter wore on and snow fell thick on the ground, they prepared for the journey as best they could. Meat was scarce, and they ate most of what they had cured. In the heart of the icy worst, two younglings froze to death without passing memories. The People mourned by raking their claws across their chests and bearing new scars in honor of the fallen. If they had first shared their collective experiences, there would be no need to grieve at all.
“You’re different.” Tcharr often came to him, and it wasn’t her fault that his heart had flown for someone else. So he tried not to show his silent yearning.
“Am I?”
“Not calm but sorrowing. Is it the ones we lost?”
“Yes,” he said, hating himself.
“Grieve less. When we reach the promised land, humans will help us build proper homes. There will be plenty of wood for warming and all the meat we want.”
“My thanks for believing. We need only endure a little more.”
When the snow melted at last, the People were lean and hungry. Szarok led several hunts as the sun brightened and the grass greened, stockpiling for the trek. More than once, he nearly collapsed under the weight of Uroch hope, all resting on his shoulders. Then he pictured his healer’s smile, her warm eyes, the sweetness of her sweat, and pushed on.
Rroclaw’s warriors struck on the way back to Appleton. Fifteen younglings, dying for no good cause. Snarling with rage, Tcharr raced toward Rroclaw while Szarok tried to speak reason.
“This changes nothing. If you fight us, you become exiles. No tribe, no home. Reconsider, kinsmen. Kneel if you would live.”
Six dropped to one knee, and Szarok shook with relief, even as he joined the hunters in battling Rroclaw’s rebel eight. Most were too raw to have seen real combat; Szarok keened silently in cutting them down. The People should never use weapons,
because they needed to remember how it felt to wet their claws with the blood of a kinsman. He lost one of his, but they prevailed, and then he rushed to Tcharr’s aid. Rroclaw had her pinned, and he sank his talons into her chest. Bearing the pain, she flipped him and went for his throat. Szarok kicked him in the head and then gripped with his toe claws, holding the traitor still so Tcharr could finish him.
“Your weakness will destroy the People,” Rroclaw gasped.
She ended him, and his blood gushed onto the ground. In counting, Szarok saw that they had fifteen left in total. He studied the six still kneeling.
“Will you follow me?”
“Yes,” they snarled.
“Then rise and gather the game. This is done.”
Tcharr refused his offer of support; she would probably bite a chunk out of him if he ever tried to carry her as he had his healer. With her palm pressed over the wound, she set the pace for their return to Appleton. Between his hunters and the rebels, they carried the meat back to the ruins to be prepared for travel. The news spread quickly about Rroclaw’s fall, and while there was still some resistance, excitement spread among the People, too. Ordinarily, Szarok paid little attention to time, apart from the change of seasons, but as the days lengthened, he marked them because it was important to reach the river before the ships.
At last the morning of the great exodus dawned. The People gathered all the supplies and set out. Szarok led them at a pace that wouldn’t weary the old or the young. Most human caravans gave them a wide berth, but he recognized one from their short acquaintance in the war. Trader Kelley surprised him by lifting a hand in greeting.
“Ho there, Uroch! Looks like your whole town’s on the move.”
Szarok nodded in the human way. Odd, he’d almost missed their strange speech. “We’re bound for the northern wilds.”
“A long journey, then. I’d offer to trade, but it looks like you’ve already got as much as you can carry.”
“I appreciate the thought.”
“Safe travels!”
“He seemed friendly enough,” Rzika growled, once their group walked on.
“They are, mostly. And you can smell when they aren’t.”
Tcharr acknowledged this with a grunt. She was moving slowly, and he wished Tegan could examine her wound. But the consort snapped at him any time he tried to check, not that he knew much about healing. The People tended to recover well or die, not much variance in between. So he pretended he didn’t notice Tcharr weakening; it only angered her.
Nine days after they left Appleton, the People arrived at the river. Since the weather was warm, they slept in the open, camped beneath the stars. The night after their arrival, the Gulgur who lived nearby investigated their fires, but once they learned the Uroch would be moving on, they didn’t linger. For the next week, Szarok gave swimming lessons, and his heart ached.
If you were here, my treasure, would this be easier?
But even without his healer, the People learned. Not all, of course, but enough. The ones who mastered his teachings joined him in instructing others. As their confidence grew, others dared to strive harder. Even if disaster strikes, we won’t all perish. That soothed much of the uncertainty, and he smiled to see the younglings splashing at the water’s edge without fear.
On the eighth day, the promised ships arrived.
His people gazed in wonder, as they had only ever used the small boats on Rosemere or shoddy rafts of their own design. These were finely built in Antecost and crewed by those Littleberry had entrusted with this mission. He recognized the captain who had brought him just before the big ice, and he lifted a hand to her.
“Ahoy, Szarok! I see you’re ready to travel. Have you explained what comes next?”
“They understand. I’ll remain onshore until the last have been ferried aboard.”
Amid much snarling excitement, the People went by rowing boat out to the larger ships. Rather than clog the river, they sailed off as they filled with passengers. The numbers on the riverbank dwindled, until only he, Rzika, and Tcharr remained. He escorted the females to the dinghy and climbed in last, relieved to be away. He’d feared that the mainlanders might take Uroch movement as a sign of impending hostility, but it appeared that the friendly Gulgur, along with John Kelley, had spread the word.
The first day on the water, his folk suffered, shivers and sickness. He’d warned them it would be bad, but the Uroch were fierce-hearted. By the time they reached Antecost, most had adapted. The People would never love the sea, but the drowning chains broke as they disembarked in Port-Mer.
Littleberry greeted him with a smiling face and an even more luxurious mustache. “There are more of you than I imagined. I had the men scout a site, six miles from here. If you agree it’s a good location, we’ll help you get started.”
“This is more than I expected. By now your conscience should be clear.”
The chief laughed. “The best way to rest easy is giving with a generous heart.”
For the first time since the war, humans and Uroch mingled freely. His people wandered in Port-Mer, examining wares in the market and practicing their human-speak. Initially Szarok couldn’t relax for fear of conflict, but since the villagers in Port-Mer had resolved to offer a warm welcome, many of them shared food and drink, not realizing his people wouldn’t want most of what they had.
“They’re so ugly,” Tcharr growled.
“Careful.” Rzika rapped the consort on the back of her head. “Some of them may understand us.”
Only one, he thought. And she is not with me.
She may never be again.
The pain surprised him, so ferocious that it seemed as if he had been skewered through the heart. He breathed through it.
“Delicious!” A youngling devoured a fresh fish straight out of a fisherman’s net, and Szarok growled in delight over his rare wonder.
For a bit longer he let them explore, but they needed to leave before the sun set. Finally he called, “You’ll be welcome here again, but we should move. We’re nearly there.”
Those nearby ran through town, helping him gather the tribe, and once he had everyone, he followed Littleberry’s scout. Since they were so close to the end of the journey, he walked quicker than he had on the mainland. His people had rested on the ships, and though some were still weak, they could manage a brisk pace for a short time, knowing what lay ahead.
“So beautiful,” Rzika marveled.
“Yes.”
The clean water and trees spoke to the People, and Szarok smelled the rising joy, tangible as a song. Younglings darted after prey, running back when they realized there was no urgency. The ground trembled with ripe scents, so much game. With every step, their delight rose to a crescendo that made him want to roar his triumph. At last the human stopped in a fine clearing, bounded by a fir grove, with sparkling water close by.
“This is a good place,” he told the man. “Convey my thanks to Littleberry.”
“Will do. I’ll send a crew out tomorrow, and we’ll get started on your village. Once you want us to step back, though, just say so. We only want to help.”
“Understood.”
When the human disappeared from sight, the People shouted their exultation, and then they set to exploring with confidence that grew with each step on this promised land.
I have done it, my treasure. We are home.
Bisected by equal measures of brightness and desire, Szarok listened for his love beneath the cheerful warble of birdsong. He remembered her scent and the softness of her hair, and then she whispered to him with each pump of his heart:
I am here.
The Sweetness of Home
Shock held Morrow still for a moment, and then the rightness of it cascaded over him like a sudden rain. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed Millie back with an intensity that surprised him. Her soft lips enticed him, and he sank into her with a heated shiver. One kiss turned into several small ones, and then a long, deep one. She hooked her to
ngue in a move that startled him every bit as much as it filled him with want.
Millie pulled back with a teasing look. “You didn’t think you’d be teaching me or something silly like that? Maybe there’s nothing worth staying for in Otterburn, but we found ways to entertain ourselves.”
He kissed her chin. “I truly am sorry about that.”
“It’s past now.”
Her quick forgiveness moved him. In his life, he’d only loved from a distance, so he understood exactly how she felt, and it made him ache that he’d bruised her heart that way. Settling her close to him, he breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. In retrospect, he had to shake his head at himself; he’d grown so accustomed to the idea of adoring Tegan from afar that he’d never even noticed when his feelings had shifted. But now he understood why he’d been so cross about Millie’s dwindling attention, possessive when he had no right to be.
“I don’t know what you see in me, unless you’re mesmerized by my stories.”
She laughed softly, settling her head against his chest. “Remember, I had no idea who you were the first time I saw you. So I didn’t see a famous writer or even a member of Company D. You were all just strangers in town.”
“It can be … tiresome,” he said quietly, wondering why he had never realized it before.
“What can?”
“When I arrive in a new place, if they’ve heard of me, they say, ‘Tell us a story,’ before any greetings or introductions. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve ceased to be a person, and I’m only a collection of words, or worse, just a source of entertainment.” Self-conscious, he avoided her gaze by firelight, knowing he sounded melancholic at best.
“Don’t worry about that anymore. You’re my man first, and so I’ll tell anyone who asks.” Nudging closer, she put her face next to his. “You are, aren’t you?”
Laughing, he pulled her into his lap. “I’m slow but not ridiculous. I do wish I’d known how lovely it is to have someone like you sooner.”