Catfantastic II

by Andre Norton

  Lord Davan leaned forward. “Just what threatens my land.”

  “Baltaz’s doom.” Myatin looked at each of them in turn. “Pierdon are immortal. We are a living form of pure magic. Baltaz wanted this for herself. When she could not get it, she set this trap. The power in the woman, the Pierdon, and that which Baltaz bound into the spell, will bleed into the shadows until they take on life themselves. Soon it will reach a saturation point and they will break free of their hosts. These shadow entities will not have the ability to reason, they will experience only one thing, hunger. And to live they must feed. Their food is the life energy given off by all creatures. Even the earth itself will be stripped. There is no known power that can defeat them once they are free.”

  “How can Pacer and I stop this?”

  “I am sorry, Belldancer, I do not know. But if you can bring the woman to us, whole, I think we can return to them their own shadows. In the process we hope to dissipate Baltaz’s spell causing the life force exchange happening between them.”

  Jariel knelt down before Nytira, Pacer sat so close to his side he could feel her side rise and fall with her breathing. It was even, strong, just the opposite of the spellbound Pierdon’s. The velvet skin around the creature’s mouth was turning gray. Jariel leaned forward and spoke softly. “May I touch the shadow?” then he nearly wept when he heard the Pierdon’s broken whisper in reply. The beauty was destroyed, he was sure, by screaming.

  “Yes. It is safe at this moment.”

  Jariel gently laid his hand on the woman’s shadow. It felt sticky, and icy-hot, both at the same time. The fine hairs on his body rose in response. Pacer?

  No use waiting. Let’s go. No one stopped them.

  This time it did not take so long to reach the orange cave. Jariel paused, Pacer, I’ll wager anything you want that Baltaz bespelled the plinth. The moment I pull the woman off, poof! goes Baltaz’s Doom.

  What are you going to put in her place?

  If I thought I could get away with using a rock I’d do it. There’s too much at stake to make the wrong choice and Baltaz loved traps. It’ll have to be flesh-mine.

  The silence between them was filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings. Finally Pacer said,

  So, it is to be the Warrior’s dance.

  In answer Jariel loosened his hair, pulled a bone comb and a leather thong from his belt pouch. He combed bis hair, making sure each strand was free of tangles, then bent over. The silky mass nearly swept the floor. Deftly he smoothed it from nape to ends. He gathered it up, twisting it into a warrior’s knot, tying it off with the thong. Friend. Teacher. Be with me in my mind as I prepare.

  I am here, Pacer reassured.

  Jariel moved through the phases of the dance. The disciplined action merged into grim joy as fatigue gave way and strength sang along tendons, bones, and muscles. He shook from his fingers the anger he felt for Nytira’s broken voice, the woman’s pain, the need to save his world.

  He felt Pacer’s love, her total acceptance of him and all. But he could not give up the thought of the real possibility his own blackened flesh might adorn the plinth. He cried out.

  Help me. I can’t let go of my fear!

  Minddancer, give it to me. Let me carry it for awhile.

  With a sob he let go, felt her draw his imprisoning emotion into herself. He danced lighter, faster. Jariel had no idea what a heavy burden his fear had been until he gave it away. Then, with a last movement, he flicked even that relief away. The Warrior state settled deep into his mind. Purpose and calm assurance and clarity of mind filled him. Jariel whirled on into the orange cave, now his battleground.

  Though he kept close to the inner wall he was careful to let no part of his body touch it. You keep an eye on the body ashes. I have an idea I want to check out. He touched the shadow. It felt the same as the one weighing down Nytira. He pulled out his comb and lightly touched the orange wall. When nothing happened, he pressed harder.

  What are you doing? Pacer demanded. Trying to get snarls out of stone?

  Are you asking ME questions? He reached down and scratched behind her ears, knowing she spoke as she did to hide the fear she felt for him. You know the fruit jerky the cooks make at harvest time?

  Now’s a fine time to be talking about food. She glanced up at him. Wait. Isn’t that the stuff you peel off oiled paper? Jariel, you can’t mean to…

  He nodded, slowly sliding the comb beneath the thickened shadow. Are the ashes moving?

  No.

  Good. He continued to move the comb under the shadow until he reached its highest point; the antlers. He lifted the comb. The shadow peeled away from the wall, curling down upon itself.

  His hands were shaking so much his knuckles had almost touched the wall. Frightened that an inadvertent action would trigger Baltaz’s Doom, Jariel minddanced until thinking and body responses were again calm. Pretending the shadow was nothing more than a large piece of fruit jerky, he pulled the last remnants of Nytira’s shadow from the wall. Pacer stayed close by his side as he rolled it toward the plinth. Two feet away he stopped.

  Do you think you and the woman can drag it out of the cave?

  Pacer nudged it with her nose. It did not budge. We will just have to. She reared up, putting her paws on his shoulders, Minddancer. Look at the flames. There are spaces between them. When you dance, think of them as bells that must not chime. Then she did something she had never done before. With the tip of her tongue, she kissed him.

  Moved, he grabbed her ears and rested his head against hers before he stepped back. Without another word Pacer touched the plinth. From the walls came the hum and orange sparks flaked away, reforming above the now spinning body ashes.

  Jariel crouched, ready to leap. He watched flesh encase the woman’s bones. When the last of the ashes drifted down over her, he grabbed her hand and jerked. He leapt as she passed him. He heard her cry out when she slammed onto the stone floor. As the white petals of fire curled up to surround him, Jariel yelled, “Grab your shadow and run.”

  Pacer’s voice came to him as if from a great distance. We have the shadow. Remember… bells…

  The flames were like ice. So cold they burned. Jariel danced. Flowed in a counter movement to the magic. A touch, akin to boiling ice, skimmed his back. He wanted to scream but contained the cry and thrust the pain out through the soles of his feet. Nothing must break the Warrior state of mind.

  In the corner of his mind he heard a single bell chime when the flame touched him again. No! There will be no more! I am Duval’s Belldancer. Baltaz’s wizardry will not take that from me. I dance and no bells chime.

  Jariel reached within himself, called up the memory of Pacer leading him through the barrier. He had followed her. What if he followed the flames?

  With renewed determination he slowed the dance to observe the flames. Sanja had taught him that all magic, high or low, had to have a pattern or it did not work. Then he saw it. Every fourth flame moved widdershins, the two in between arched outward, then in a one count of his breathing, they moved inward, but with a drift to the left.

  Keeping the pattern fixed in his mind, Jariel danced. Danced till the sweat so burned his eyes that he closed them only to discover the same pattern in his mind, but clearer. In between the flames were gaps, ragged about their edges. Instinctively he knew it was caused by the fraying of a spell two hundred years old. He wondered if he could widen the gaps. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, concentrating only on the image in his mind, Jariel danced into a gap.

  Pain lashed him. He pulled back, stifling a moan. Then he wanted to shout in joy. There, the space where he danced was now wider, more frayed. For a moment he faltered, knowing full well when he danced into each gap, the flames would reach him. By the One, he did not want to die like the woman.

  Pacer, he cried out, but there was no reply. For the first time in their relationship she was not there, a secure presence in his mind. But just the thought of her calmed him. He remembered who he was and who he
represented. He was a Belldancer in the service of the people of Duval. Committed to them and to the land, he accepted that he must face this danger alone.

  He danced. Ice-fire etched his body. Still Jariel Belldancer moved in a rhythm counter to the magic, turning pain into power.

  In and out of the spaces between the flames he dipped, turned, retreated only to repeat the dance in a new place. The gaps widened. Beneath his feet the plinth trembled as if shaken by a giant fist. Heartened, he increased speed. The flames were shoulder high, then waist high. They whipped about his legs and feet and his clothing burst into flame, then whirled into ashes. Jariel danced, though he could no longer rise above the pain. The leather soles of his shoes began to smolder when the plinth violently shook, knocking him to his knees. The icy flames grew smaller, flickering like a candle flame in a draft, then died. Huge cracks formed in the plinth. Jariel rolled off, only to be struck on the head. He looked up. Fissures were forming in the ceiling and walls of the cave as parts of the stone fell. He had to get out of here!

  Jariel struggled to stand, caught a glimpse of his legs, and was sickened. In places he could see bone. The ground shook. He fell. Agony. A wall of blackness threatened to engulf him. At the last moment he cried out.

  Pacer! She answered with her body as well as her mind voice. He tried to speak as she ran toward him.

  Hush. Be still. She nuzzled him. All is well.

  He felt her mental touch course over his mind, then press hard. Pain faded-was gone. Over her head he saw Sanja and Duval.

  There, she said with satisfaction, that should hold you until we get you to the healers.

  Lord Davan crouched down, covering him with his cape. “It’s over, Belldancer. No. Don’t try to talk. The woman and Nytira are recovering. The shadows are bound. More can wait. I want to get you out of here.” Jariel knew better than to argue when his lord spoke in that tone of voice. Carefully Davan and Sanja rolled him over, then lifted him by the edges of the cape.

  Sanja grasped the improvised Utter at Jariel’s shoulders. “Next time,” he leaned down to half-whisper, “let me have some of the fun.”

  Jariel answered from the very edge of consciousness, “Your nose isn’t long enough.”

  The Execution by A. R. Major

  Having recently come across the archives of one of catdom’s noblest kings, it has become my rare privilege to share with the public one of the written records of none other than Greywhiskers IV. It is not generally known that this royal representative of the feline race was one of the first in catdom to make use of the mechanical devices of the inferior humans to assist us where strict brute force is needed. All through recorded history our race has used the inferior humans by the simple device of offering them our limited love, and the poor, love-starved beings have been putty in our paws. But we must admit, this royal king found another way to make humans work for us!

  This, then, is the tale as translated from Greywhisker’s Chronicles.

  It came to pass on a certain day at two in the morning, human time, that Greywhiskers IV was holding court. He chose this time as it was when most of the bothersome humans were asleep. His courtroom was situated in the alley known as Fish Head Lane, right behind the local shop where the humans printed their device called “newspapers.”

  From the top of the empty oil drum that served His Highness as the throne of his kingdom of Catasia; Greywhiskers ruled a kingdom of definite borders. On the north was the catdom of the Blue-eyes. The south ended at the local waterfront. It extended east to west from Fifty-third to Sixty-first Streets. In this area of Catasia, Greywhiskers’ word was absolute, final, divine-right-of-kings-law, and he was constantly coming up with new ways to prove this truth.

  He closed his eyes to almost slits in that disconcerting way of his as he observed the faces of the three visiting Blue-eyes in front of him. How long, he mused, had it been since that certain Siamese Tom had left his Park Avenue home to establish the catdom in the north, one based on the distinct citizenship of having blue eyes? Probably during the reign of Greywhiskers II.

  Those visitors in front of him were glancing around his court nervously, in spite of being offered diplomatic immunity. Well, let the visitors sweat a little, it would keep them properly humble!

  The cats that made up his royal court that night, in contrast to the visitors, were sitting around in a loose circle in a completely relaxed atmosphere. They sat on boxes or crates the careless humans had cast aside. The fence behind Greywhiskers was reserved for his five loyal advisors.

  “And how is my brother ruler, Blue-eyes II’s health these days?” inquired his majesty, after first permitting himself the luxury of a wide yawn.

  “Excellent, Your Grace,” intoned the guard standing to the right of the frightened female that he and another tomcat guard had escorted to the courtyard between them.

  “That delights me exceedingly,” replied the king of Catasia, wrinkling his ruff in displeasure at the harsh Siamese note in the visitor’s voice. Then studying his visitor shrewdly, his exalted majesty added, “And how may we be of service to one of the Blue-eyes’ citizens?”

  Taking this question as an invitation, the young female in her crouching position eased a little forward and said, “A boon, O mighty King. I crave revenge for my poor, dead kitten.”

  Humph, mused Greywhiskers, does she really want revenge or is this just a clever trick by her king to test my power and ability to rule? Is Blue-eyes II planning a territorial expansion, and are these really three clever spies? He must be certain that whatever report they took back to their king would bring honor to himself as king of Catasia! Long experience in intercat diplomacy had taught him to look beneath the surface of appearances to locate hidden meanings. He brought his right hind leg to the front, examined it critically, gave it a few licks of grooming, then permitted himself a soft purr of consolation.

  “My heart goes out to a mother in her moment of sorrow,” the king replied in a manner completely devoid of emotion. “And, now, feel free to give us the sad details. Then, if it so pleases us, we will pass judgment.”

  “It was one of your territory’s citizens,” interrupted one of the visiting bodyguard cats. “A certain boxer dog named Flintface killed the Lady Fluffa’s child, your majesty!”

  The king’s reply was a rumbling yowl of displeasure. This was followed by a moment of tense silence, broken by the large cat on the king’s right who spoke tersely.

  “The king was speaking to her, not you! Be advised that in this court you will speak only when spoken to, or when you ask permission. Since you are apparently untaught in court procedure, this infraction will be overlooked this time, but if it occurs again, it could get your tail cut off… right behind your ears!”

  There was another impressive silence, then the offending cat bobbed his head and said, “Permission to speak.” After receiving the king’s nod, he continued, “I wish to apologize for the interruption. No offense was intended.”

  “Apology accepted. Flintface, you say? Harump! I seem to remember something very recent and unpleasant concerning that name. Refresh our memory, Lady Scribe.”

  Of course he remembered every detail of the Flintface episode, but he would not miss a chance to demonstrate to these upstart strangers how excellent were the records this court kept.

  A small striped female moved to the king’s right, carefully licked an immaculate paw and intoned: “One moon and three nights ago, it was brought to our noble lord’s attention that the organ grinder’s monkey, one Peppo by name, had been chased away from his place of honest employment by a member of the canine tribe, one Flintface by name. It was further noted that this canine was only living here by your majesty’s tolerance. It was this court’s judgment to give said canine one fair warning, to wit: such conduct would not be tolerated in your majesty’s catdom. Said warning was given the following day by the king’s own knights, Sir Strongheart and Sir Fairhowl. End of record.”

  King Greywhiskers put on a show of
feline fury aimed at impressing his foreign visitors. He succeeded admirably; never would they forget the picture of flattened ear anger that was frightful to behold. His voice became a sibilant hiss of rage, forgotten were his courtly manners.

  “Sssso! That rebel thinks he can avoid my edict by going to a friendly neighborhood to commit his catacide, does he? He refuses to show remorse for his gangsterlike behavior, does he? Why, that obscenity on the face of this earth deserves to be cut up and used as fishbait! I swear by my royal kingship, that the only answer is his death! How votes the council?”

  By this time the king had left his throne and was pacing back and forth in an angry crouch before the five royal advisors, his tail flicking back and forth in rage.

  One by one the five cats on the fence nodded to their king, each giving a murderous yowl of assent and exposing the claws in the right forepaw like flashing sabers. The affirming vote was unanimous! Flintface was as good as dead!

  The Royal Chamberlain, the cat who had corrected the visiting bodyguard’s bad court manners, now placed himself between the Lady Fluffa and Greywhiskers’ royal throne. He paused to impress his visitors with the seriousness of the moment, then gravely he spoke in measured tones.

  “Be it noted by our visitors from the land of the Blue-eyes: King Greywhiskers the Fourth has heard and passed judgment on your request. We have condemned the gangster Flintface and will carry out his execution in such time as the Royal Executioner chooses.”

  Then, feeling the puzzled response of the visitors to the courtly language his king insisted upon using on formal occasions, he lowered his voice until only the visitors could hear and added, “Relax doll-face. You put the finger on the mutt, now the boys will be happy to bump him off!”

  Resuming his courtly dignity, the Lord Chamberlain yowled, “Will the Royal Executioner come forth and face his king?”

  The circle of court cats moved aside to allow a wide lane for the king’s chosen to enter. Even the visitors found themselves slinking backward to place as much distance as possible between themselves and that terrifying presence. Greywhiskers never batted an eyelash but thought gleefully to himself that he bet they did not have anything like that in their kingdom!