Catherine crawled to his side.
“Cyril,” she sobbed. “CYRIL!” Stay with me! She nestled close to him, stroking his bloodied face through her tears. She reached for his hand and held it to her lips. His fingers were warm but lifeless. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, she would have thought him dead.
Kallik addressed the guards. “Throw him in the dungeon with the old man. Then take her to Rogard’s chapel and lock her inside. And tell the cooks to prepare dinner. My appetite has been whetted.” Kallik licked Cyril’s blood from the claws of his fingers. Two guards grabbed Cyril by the arms and legs and hauled him away. Another soldier yanked Catherine to her feet and began to pull her down the stairs.
“KALLIK!” she screamed, clawing at her captor, her eyes wild. “LISTEN TO ME, YOU MONSTER!” Kallik turned and regarded her impassively.
The guard held her fast. “I will see to it that you pay for this, and your other crimes. I’ll see you HANG!” Catherine lunged at him. “DO YOU HEAR ME, TRAITOR?” Her words echoed eerily along the tower walls as more of Kallik’s men dragged her away.
* * *
Sebastian stood before Kallik, eagerly awaiting his reward. The only sound left on the ramparts was the fluttering and snapping of Candlewax banners in the wind.
“Impressive.” Kallik’s eyes were riveted to the now empty stairs, a peculiar expression on his face. “Reminds me of another Catherine, a girl I knew from long ago.” He laughed.
“And what of the dark-haired girl?” asked Sebastian.
“She may be of use. Keep her away from Princess Catherine. Lock her in one of the other rooms.”
Sebastian shifted and spoke again, hesitantly. “And sire, what of my reward?” He kept his eyes respectfully downcast.
“You have done well, Sebastian. You deserve something for delivering the princess and King Cyril.” Kallik reached into a pouch he wore on his leather belt and pulled out a black velvet bag. This he tossed to Sebastian.
“But sire...” Sebastian bounced the bag in his hand, unhappy with the weight of it.
“Do not whine, Sebastian. It doesn’t suit you. The Candlewax Kingdom will only be mine when Cyril’s Guard is destroyed. You’ll have to wait for your full recompense until they are beaten.” He smiled. “I expect that any day now they will come running back to the castle. When that happens, we will surprise them. Trodliks on one side and we on the other. How amusing.”
Sebastian cleared his throat. “What shall we do about the trodliks, sire?”
A look of terrible comprehension crossed Kallik’s face. His eyes flashed yellow.
“YOU DIDN’T CAPTURE SPELOPOKOS? I thought I told you to subdue the beast with those nets! FOOL!” he shouted into Sebastian’s face. Sebastian flinched and withdrew as far away as he could, until his back touched the rampart wall.
“She didn’t bring him back! We don’t know where he is, sire. He must still be in Cinna,” sputtered Sebastian. Kallik lowered his head and growled. Sebastian made himself as small as possible. Then Kallik clicked his teeth together several times and turned away. He looked past Sebastian toward the Cinna gate, his eyes searching the forest.
“Sly cat, that one. How could he have known?” he murmured to himself. Suddenly he pounded the palm of his hand with his fist and Sebastian jumped. “We must force her to bring back Spelopokos and the other cats or there will be no Lackanay to rule.” Kallik paced upon the parapet in deep agitation, the fairrier cat skin swirling through the air as he turned.
“Yes, sire.”
Kallik bared all of his teeth in what passed for a smile. “If you succeed in this, Sebastian, you may keep our fascinating princess for yourself. Oh yes,” he continued, noting the sudden gleam in Sebastian’s eyes. “I saw the way you looked at her. Trust me, your hatred can be assuaged by brutal conquest.”
“I will succeed, my lord.” Sebastian bowed.
“You’d better. It will make our victory over Cyril all the sweeter.” Kallik gestured for Sebastian to join him at the edge of the parapet and looked out again upon the long line of flame and smoke that now formed a great semi-circle around them. The cold, vast mountains of Cinna rose up behind the castle on the other side.
Despite the crystals in his hand, Sebastian shivered with foreboding.
“Where are you, Spelopokos?” Kallik hissed.
Norman looked up at the night sky, every muscle aching. It had been a backbreaking day. He pulled his fairrier cat fur hat down around his ears, secretly hoping it would keep him safe as he slept in his airborne canvas hammock. All around him he could hear the men settling in for the night.
Quor’s voice carried through All Souls Ravine. “Tomorrow we will reach Lackanay. Our mission is secret. There are those who would kill Spelopokos. Even now there may be spies searching the land for him.”
Somebody grumbled anonymously, “I’d rather skin the beast than die for him! I’d rather let him fall into the Ravine than to find myself at the end of a rope!” Other men cried out in agreement.
“No one touches the cat unless I say so!” snapped the voice of Captain Spat. The silence of their discontent hung thickly in the air.
Quor spoke to the many ears listening intently in the black void of the Ravine. “Kill that cat, and you will be killing Lackanay. Without the fairrier cats, we are all doomed. Even now, trodliks might be marching toward your homes and families. Do not think that the sea will stop them—the trodliks will find a way to Alliana, perhaps on one of your own ships—and when they do, there will be nothing left.”
“Bilge water if you ask me. You don’t expect us to believe that old wives’ tale!” said someone to Norman’s left. It sounded like Shem.
“Are you so sure?” asked Quor. No one answered right away. A few grumbling whispers wafted on the cold night breeze. Quor continued, “Have you never heard of the prophecy? It is possible that even now the white plague creeps forth with a hunger for destruction. Will the Allianans be remembered for bringing on the downfall of Lackanay? Or will you be remembered for bringing salvation?”
His question, asked quietly, nevertheless thundered through the darkness. “Spelopokos and the other fairrier cats must live or the trodliks will come. When they do, you will witness an evil unleashed such as Lackanay has never seen.” Quor’s voice turned almost tender. “You are so close. Without the fairrier cats there will be no return to loved ones, no home at all.”
Norman waited for someone to say something else. All was quiet. One word rang loudly in his ears, as if Quor had shouted it instead of saying it as matter-of-factly as he had. Home. Home. As he whispered it to himself, he fell instantly asleep.
Dawn brought sharp, unpredictable gusts of wind. Norman opened his eyes to a ravine glowing with soft, yellow light. Cinnans manned the ropes at all of the key anchors for Spelopokos, and Quor himself supervised the teamwork of Norman and the other men.
To lift Spelopokos’s litter straight up the cliff, the Cinnans and the Allianans used their own weight, jumping out from the rock face and raising him as they descended. Then they would anchor the cat and climb back up and do it again. When one of the Cinnans had burned his hand on the ropes, Norman had volunteered to take his place.
Norman noticed that Quor’s face was tenser than usual. He kept a close eye on Shem, who was working next to him. Shem ignored Norman’s attempt to bring him into conversation throughout the morning, preferring to stare sullenly at Spelopokos’s hanging bed.
Norman gazed at Pokos’s bundled form. It was completely still, and he tried to remember if Quor had given him water. Heat radiated off the sun-baked walls of the cliff. Norman double-checked his knots and anchors, afraid of making a simple mistake.
Strangely, the idea of falling to the bottom of the ravine no longer terrified him. He had contemplated falling to death so much that it was almost as if the shock of it had worn off. They had settled into a rhythm of climbing and jumping that blocked out any reality beyond the rock walls of the canyon.
“I see trees!” Shem yelled. Indeed, way, way up, was a fringe of green at the top of the cliff. Shouts of joy and the laughter of relief rang out. Norman looked up, squinting, and tried to focus. His vision was blurry.
Hours later, the trees were bigger. Captain Spat started to hum a soft Allianan folk song. The sad, sweet melody made Norman want to cry, but no tears came. He hadn’t heard that tune in twelve years.
“Just a bit farther lads,” encouraged Spat. “We are almost at the top!”
The fragrance of pine trees seeped down into the ravine. “Pay heed to what you are doing!” ordered Spat in his most commanding voice. Norman blinked his dry eyes, trying to free them of dust and grit. The Cinnans scrambled over the lip and he could see them no more.
Norman grit his teeth and jumped again with the others, feeling their weight pulling Spelopokos toward the top of the ravine. He set to work climbing up yet again. His hands shook. He watched as they pulled the great fairrier cat out of the ravine.
“Get your arse up here, Norman!” shouted Spat from above. Norman looked around. He was surprised to see that he was the last of three still climbing up the cliff.
“Why don’t you yell at them, Spat?” he grumbled under his breath. Finally, muscles quivering with exhaustion, Norman pulled himself over the top. Several hands grabbed him and helped him away from the edge.
Spat yanked Norman to his feet. Grasping him by his shoulders, Spat looked as if he were going to strike, and Norman flinched and turned his head. But to his great amazement, he was drawn instead into a tight embrace.
“Ya made it, lad. I always hoped I would see this day.” Spat held him at arm’s length, his eyes full of tears. Finally he nodded and let Norman go, his face once more a mask of stern disapproval. All around them Allianans were celebrating. Some were kissing the soil and others were doing jigs.
Norman took a long, grateful look at the landscape. Although there was little difference between this and the other side, he knew they were now in Lackanay. He slipped away from the chaos, his eyes searching for a soft patch of earth in the rocky soil.
He found a large, sharp rock and began to dig. For the first few minutes no one noticed. Then the sound of the rock thudding into the soil got their attention. One by one, the Allianans nudged each other in apprehension, as if concerned that Norman had lost his mind.
At last, when Norman had scraped out enough soil to make a deep hole, he solemnly placed his fairrier cat hat at the bottom. Quor stared at him, his eyes radiating warmth. The other Allianans gawked.
Shem moved to snatch the hat from the hole, but Norman grabbed his arm firmly and shook his head. He shoved the earth back into the hole and began to bury the hat, while Shem shook his head in bewilderment and, muttering, walked back into the silent crowd. The other Allianans looked at their own fairrier cat garments—the belts, vests, and hats—and stared blankly at Norman. The hat Norman buried was worth a fortune.
Norman felt strong. “Let’s get this cat to water,” he said. Without asking, he stood at the end of one of the poles supporting Spelopokos and waited while Cinnans and Allianans took spots at the other supports. Together, they hoisted Pokos into the air.
At last they reached a stream. The men guzzled while Spelopokos drank water from the skin Quor had filled. Bear claw marks scored the beechnut trees and Norman marveled at the brown backs of trout gliding in the stream’s pools.
Through the trees the awed Allianans stared, some weeping at the sight of a whole herd of deer grazing in a grassy meadow. That evening they fashioned fishing spears and caught as many fish as they could eat.
Quor stood over Norman and gestured. “He wants some fish, Norman. I said that you would feed him.” There was no doubt in Norman’s mind that the “he” Quor was referring to was Spelopokos. He rose to his feet and brought one of the cooked fish over to the fairrier cat.
Spelopokos’s eyes opened to slits at Norman’s approach. Norman knelt at his side. The sudden silence made the pounding of his heart seem all the louder. He tore off a flaky chunk of fish and pushed it into Pokos’s mouth. The cat swallowed, grimaced, and then opened his mouth again. When the fish was gone, Norman felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked around and was surprised to see Captain Spat handing him another fish. Spat nodded brusquely. Norman murmured his thanks and continued to feed the cat until he would eat no more.
“Water,” the cat breathed out hoarsely. It was the first word he had spoken aloud since he had been shot. Quor quickly handed Norman a water skin. He lifted the cat’s head up on his knee as he had seen Quor do and squeezed water into the cat’s mouth, just fast enough so the cat could swallow it.
Spelopokos rolled off of Norman’s knee and closed his eyes again.
“Will Lackanay be okay now?” asked Norman. “Now that Spelopokos is back?”
Quor’s face darkened. “Pokos fears our future is not yet certain. We must get him to his birth cave. He thanks you, Norman. And you too, Captain Spat—both you and your men—for helping him.”
Captain Spat looked down, embarrassed, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth from heel to toe. After a long moment the captain strode over to the blazing fire they had built, took off his fairrier cat vest, and tossed it on the flame. The men gasped.
“Don’t trust myself to bury it like you did, Norman. Too scared I might go back and dig it up later.” Spat laughed ruefully and watched the skin catch fire. He grabbed a startled Norman by the elbow and spun him around singing,
“O we are home in Lackanay, Lackanay, Lackanay.
O we are home in Lackanay, ne’er to go astray.”
One by one the Allianans shed their fairrier cat furs and tossed them on the fire, ending with Shem, who closed his eyes when he did it. Crouched beside Spelopokos, Quor watched in silence, stroking his fur.
Conrad sat on the floor with his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped tightly around them, his head bowed deep in thought. It was bone-chillingly cold and nearly pitch dark in the dungeon. Twelve men—loyal Candlewax guards who had fought Kallik’s infiltrators—had died in the night from their wounds and no one had yet bothered to cart them away for burial. As it was, the sixty remaining prisoners had piled the corpses to one side of the dungeon at Conrad’s orders. Being a member of the King’s Guard, Conrad was the highest-ranking soldier among them.
The grinding of rusty iron gears screeched in his ears. The outer door opened and even its faint light pierced Conrad’s eyes. Two of Kallik’s men dragged an unconscious man down the hallway toward the inner door, a cross hatching of iron strips set in a huge iron frame. A bearded man with a bulging belly took a key from his belt and unlocked it. Three other guards shoved the door open and strode into the large, common dungeon with their swords drawn. Conrad squinted at the two soldiers who dragged the limp man forward, pitched him face down on the rock floor, and left. The man didn’t move.
Conrad waited for his eyes to adjust again to the gloom and rose to his feet slowly, fatigue, cold, and hunger having taken their toll. The wound on his cheek hurt all the time. It had not been properly sewn up. Conrad hobbled over to the man, his legs stiff from sitting so long.
He peered at the man’s strange, white coat. He had never seen one like it. Something had torn through the thick linen fabric and padding into the man’s back, leaving three, six-inch-long bloody gouges and scratches.
The man groaned. Conrad leaned over to look closely at the man’s face.
“King Cyril!” he cried out. He jumped back, terrified at the sight of his king so grievously wounded. His face was covered in bruises and cuts. There was a large bump on his temple. The other prisoners looked over at them, concerned. Conrad recovered and returned to Cyril, rolling him gently on his side.
“Can you hear me, King Cyril? It’s me, Conrad,” he whispered. The king’s eyelids fluttered. He moaned and opened one eye. The other was swollen shut. His lips formed a breathless word.
“What’s that? What did you say?” Conrad leaned clo
ser.
“Catherine. Is she all right?”
“I don’t know, my king.”
“You. You’re still with me, Conrad?” The king’s one good eye suddenly bore into his and his hand grasped at his shoulder fiercely. Conrad saw the pain and doubt there and flinched, but did not look away.
“Why, of course, sire! I would give my life for you.”
“Sebastian...” Cyril coughed and moaned in agony. A crowd of prisoners surrounded them, shocked into silence at his appearance.
“I know. He has betrayed us,” said Conrad.
“He said... you were going to fight... for him.” Cyril struggled to get out the words.
“He’s wrong about that, sire. I will never pull a blade in his service nor obey a single order. He has befouled the King’s Guard with his treachery. Candlewax soil will spit out his blood.” Cyril clenched Conrad’s hand and smiled, looking for just a moment like the king Conrad recognized.
“Good. Thinking you had betrayed me was worse than Kallik’s scratches,” said Cyril.
Conrad’s face flushed. “Kallik did this to you, sire?” His voice quavered with fury.
“Aye. And Sebastian.”
The men around them grumbled and whispered. “I shall avenge you, sire,” said Conrad.
“I am not dead, Conrad,” said Cyril. He smiled again. “You and I will both avenge Candlewax together.” Then Cyril was quiet. There was now not a single sound in the whole foul-smelling dungeon, except for the dripping of water somewhere in the blackness. “We will use Sebastian’s pride against him. Now, tell me everything you know.”
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